Die durchsichtigen Hände: Erzählungen (German Edition)
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For the realization of his compositions, let alone any kind of recording, Maurizio had to rely on voluntary aid of sympathetic friends and supportive relatives who would partake despite their weakened health. Pucci used wax cylinders to prerecord certain sounds in order to be able to play them back when needed. He experimented with the different properties of space too and was an assiduous visitor of churches and caves. But thirdly and foremost it is a recording that incorporates the very vulnerability and timeliness of our existence.
Research, restauration and digitalisation of sound material: Sisukas Poronainen. Department of musical anthropology, Tami University of Finland. January Neighbourhoods, networks and radio — the thing that they all have in common is that the fine threads of their connections are only visible as temporary events: in celebrations and festivals, in exchange and support.
They are organic by nature; they can expand, contract, divide, they need care and pathways… similar to a garden, whose inhabitants make contact above, as well as underneath, the ground.
Between molehills and mobile radios, deck chairs offer visitors the opportunity to make themselves comfortable and listen in to selected shows transmitted from the archive. Radio Gardening in Madrid: The residency involved research and documentation work on local urban gardens as well as the realisation of a Madrid Datscha Radio off-shoot. A publication with Medialab Prado is in preparation. Streaming support: Udo Noll, aporee. Series of poetic street performances.
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I am a stranger in Bangalore. There are many shades to the concept of a stranger; the visitor, the intruder, the guest, the immigrant, the ex-pat, the traveller, and more. Strangeness is a fruit with many tastes, shapes and colours. From bitter to sweet. From carcass to cake. From black or brown to white or yellow… or orange for that instance.
I am nobody. And who are you? I am nobody too. The second was the omnipresent earpiercing sound of car horns in the roads, and the third thing that struck me as very unfamiliar were the piles of waste sitting patiently, trodden on, kicked over, picked at and awaiting further processing in any corner of any corner. After that: the great number of very peaceful dogs and cows. In Germany we know that the cow is considered sacred in India… yet it is the mix of sacredness and indifference that gives these apparitions their strangely surprising presence. Being a traveller, identity is no great issue to contemplate.
Being a traveller one knows about distance and difference.
Radio & Sound Art | Poetics | Performance
It is what our eyes, minds and souls feed on and it is totally relative. Stripped naked in a foreign country, who would know who you are? They are interchangeable. Then again, identity can be a burden. Where I am safe for the night. Yet here in Bangalore, there are things I dearly miss. Most of it being the perfume of first autumn days in Middle Europe, a mixture of hoar frosted… rotting… leaves and sweet apples. It has flaws, Missing bits, embedded particles that reflect the sun like fools gold.
Identity is sometimes rained on, especially in the monsoon season. In death it is accomplished… but probably not before. And this pair of eyes behind the looking glass: Maybe we should take the mirrors down. Maybe we should take the mirrors down. A five-day festival celebrates the future s of the garden and broadcasts directly from an allotment garden in the Berlin north. Aligned with the length of the festival, the radio makers, artists and guests focused on five subject areas:.
Streaming support came from Udo Noll, aporee. Complete documentation available here. Press articles can be viewed here. Handkerchief For An Eternity. The compositions explore the musicality of sneezes within the field of New Music. Born in as a girl in a Tuscan village, she ran away and decided to take on the identity of a man. Fate sees her falling in love with New York composer Charles Griffe who later died of influenza.
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Stereo installation for 2 mono speakers in 2 birdhouses. Curated by Madelynne Cornish and Philipp Sarmartzis. In November I started first interviews with former inhabitants of Bogong Village, among them Anita Martin who spent almost her entire childhood there. Further conversation partners were a former engineer as well as the current landscape gardener. Old and new recordings are collaged on-site and combined into a story in three chapters. Each chapter is linked to a specific location. Total length of the story scape: Minutes.
Analogue to the ancient concept of the Dreaming, the multiple identities of Bogong become only accessible by taking a walk that bridges past and present.airtec.gr/images/espiar-un/3911-localizador-de-celulares.php
Excerpt: Any documentarist must either be mad or go mad while pursuing her work. It might be very well to embark on a journey, but carrying along technical devices for the purpose of documentation is sometimes presumptuous and can lead you into the quagmire of self-humiliation, too. Not that it would be a question of falsehood, which is inevitably attached to any object of objectivity. With regards to the total inadequacy of human perception, the question arises as to whether or not the obsessive pursuit of a particular goal must automatically leads to insanity.
But a documentarist must turn mad just at the moment he or she realizes that something wonderful is happening… the videotape is at its end, the pencil broken, the aperture wrongly adjusted or simply the battery is dead.
Triëdere : Zeitschrift für Theorie, Literatur und Kunst
It has happened to many, but few have put it in writing: The failure of the ethnographer right in the middle of things. Compared to the total triumph that results from having captured something absolutely unique; something precious; the authentic copy of a stretch of time. The DNA of reality, a sequence of real-time.
Holy real-time, mantra of the field-recordists.
Much more than documents.
Technical Failure 1: The Handsome Young Man The minidisk recorder failed for the first time on a Sunday morning, 7th of July, on the occasion of a bus trip into a neighbouring village which had been organized for journalists and interested individuals by the festival board. The bus stopped in front of a vestry equipped with a wooden stage and rows of chairs. The backdrop of the stage was adorned with a Finnish landscape painting in sparkling green and blue; cloudlets in the sky and a little brook.
We were introduced to: the village choir, the music teacher being prominently seated next to the piano , some little nippers with violin and accordion at a tender age ranging from five to seven years, and a handful of young talents from the vicinity. Now there was an exception, a boy of maybe 16 years who, when you just looked at him, caused something in your heart to tremble. This, as far as I could see, was due to the delicate features and lines around his mouth which was straight but still the most mobile part of his face.
His accordion-playing was without question first class, and consisted of only two short pieces. Each single tone, each note appeared as an innermost expression in his face and only after that were they emitted as sound from the instrument. Naturally, such an instance happens much too fast to perceive and name it consciously — only by memory can one slow it down and retrieve it in fragments. I had put the broken machine aside and was totally absorbed in this much too short contemplation.
His face remained, while he played, perfectly naked and sensitive, but so deeply immersed as to be unreachable. Deleted No. Well, now my head is again veiled by a dark cloud, quite similar to a mosquito-cloud and I am being heavily pestered by the vile, derisive hum of failure in my ears. Beform my inner eye: visualizations of finger tips on wrong buttons, the fall of technical devices from tables and rocks, malfunctions of in- and outputs, and in between, the gaping black gorge of forgetfulness.