It’s a nice idea, but all Matilde Meireles manages to present is boring, interminable drones and humming sounds, occasionally punctuated with voices, traffic, and other ambient city sounds. It doesn’t convey much about the truth of Belfast, or any urban environment, or indicate what parts of it she wishes us to pay attention to; it’s as though she got so caught up in the sweeps of her own contact mics and ambisonic devices, that every capture seemed to be equally important to her. I’m finding the same lack of engagement and boredom as we heard on her Life of a Potato cassette, noted in 2022. (15/10/2024)

On today’s record Truba (FUTURA RESISTENZA RESLP030), there was indeed an installation, and you can see photos of this unlikely erection on the covers of the LP. From what I can make out, it was a gigantic rotating device fitted with pipes. On the platform of this roundabout-like machine sat two trumpet players, Alex Kranabetter and Martin Eberie; as they slowly rotated on this uncanny fairground ride of artistic imagination, their sounds might pass through openings and thence be conveyed to an audience through the long pipes. This took place in 2020 in the Kleiner Wasserspeicher in Berlin, but what’s ended up on the record is from a 2022 recording made in Vienna at the Zacherlfabrik, possibly an edited version of what was presented to the audience.

The writer Hans-Jürgen Hauptmann was won over 100%: he regards all of this as an advanced form of audio-sculpture, and suggests the machine was a scaled-up version of a record player, leading him to muse on the nature of what’s actually happening when we drop the needle on a favourite disc. “Resulting fluctuations in air pressure create pockets of turbulence in space-time,” is his proposal, of which one outcome is “portals into different dimensions”. Truba doesn’t quite live up to this fanciful account, but it’s a reasonably interesting work of process art; despite presence of trumpets, it’s nothing to do with jazz, and might not even have anything to do with music. Andreas Trobollowitsch, who is credited with the concept and the installation – and even the composition of the pieces, which do bear traces of some pre-planned shapes, or designs – deserves credit for thinking big, yet the finished result doesn’t convey any sense of scale, is not sufficiently integrated with the environment, nor does it reveal any major surprises about the nature of acoustics and sounds travelling down pipes, the latter a fruitful line of enquiry for American minimalists who had read the theories of Helmholtz.

Still, I do like the black-and-white photo on the back cover, which suggested to my cruel mind a device which might have existed in a Victorian prison yard or workhouse – similar to the treadmill or other such banned instruments of punishment. Of course the record sounds nothing like that! (09/05/2024)

He’s been experimenting with the plan since about 2002, and there have been numerous manifestations of it across the world – one of them might have involved a video component too. The bit that intrigues me is that Migone is admitting the entire experiment has pretty much been a failure, but he’s owning up to the errors and ploughing on regardless anyway. What we hear accumulated here on today’s release might be a pile-up of these errors – along with the successful bits – thrown together without many clues, apart from some sketchy information about the set-up, a few unhelpful photographs, and lists of participants in the whole macaroni – many of whom appear to have been personal friends of his. There’s a chunk of verbiage and conceptual hoo-hah to digest, and buried somewhere in this cranial bran and mulch resides the notion of realising a sound-art piece that isn’t even intended to be heard by anyone – some kind of update on Fluxus or Cage, supposedly. Or perhaps planting the suggestion that we’re simply listening to the reprocessed sound of other people listening, and the highly reflexive nature of this proposition is meant to tell us something.

As to what the piece actually comprises in terms of audio, or what the focus of our attention ought to be, I’m still not really sure – leakage from headphones, or the sound of relaxed participants getting mellow on free wine (which was provided). It’s confusing and unsatisfying, and the process isn’t as significant as its creator thinks it is, but on another level I sort-of enjoy the open-ended nature of Auditorium, and it’s worth waiting for the “payoff” of the final chaotic track, 15 minutes where everything supposedly went wrong. Finally we get some juicy noise – why did he hold it back for so long? As to piling errors on top of errors, apparently this is exactly how most computer programmers and software developers work; rather than fix code or repair a mistake, they just add more code to the file. Maybe Christof Migone has a comparable attitude to his own work. (22/04/2024)

Title of Chamber Music might (for a couple of seconds) lead one to expect classical compositions for a small ensemble, but in fact this is all process art; it comes down to recordings he made in empty rooms, which have then been reprocessed – mostly using filters, I think – to allow him to focus on “room tone”, that most elusive of qualities. To get there he has to isolate the “resonant frequencies” of the room, and enlarge them to the extent that we can begin to notice them. These projects were recorded over a number of years, from about 2007 to 2013, and all of them were replayed in the rooms where the sounds were captured. They’ve all got evocative names and they were mostly manifested as audio installation pieces in art galleries or suitably sympathetic spaces, such as a library or a chapel. Some of them had visual components too, and I suppose the entirety of the such pieces can be understood as a form of collaboration with Rick Araluce, Mary Welch, Scott Sherk, Jasmine Valandani et al., who investigate subtleties in form and space that exist on the margins and have been overlooked by many. Through that playback action, often using random play and endless repeat actions, Steve Peters aims to achieve a potentially infinite number of combinations, and a degree of unpredictability happening right there in the room.

Well, we don’t quite get the full magoo on this CD, which has been prepared as a “studio approximation” of the real thing, but you can dig where his mind is at and whence his spirit is emanating. It’s clearly intended as something very benign; when Carl Michael von Hausswolff did the “playback” thing with his source tapes replayed in certain cities, his intentions were very far from benign, some might say downright hostile. While Chamber Music is very refined, subtle, and a soothing listen, there’s also something profoundly empty about it; it may have begun life in a real, physical space, but the finished product is so disembodied that it has no audible connection to that space that we can discern. Most of the time all we can hear are the actions of the filters work, with all their digital artefacts. Full marks for attempting to bottle “room tone”, which seems as daunting a project as when Howard Hughes attempted to prove his identity by sending a jar of his breath to the insurance company. (This never happened – it’s from Mad Magazine – but it’s a great joke). From 20 September 2023.

Faring better, me, with Two Rooms (PRESSES PRECAIRES), which on one level is a very imaginative take on the “music made by shifting furniture around an interior space” genre, which is arguably a real thing if you consider La Monte Young’s formal experiments in that area. Two Chinese creators here, Mengting Zhuo and Li Song. Mengting comes from a performance art and installation art background, and she’s one of those daring to pose awkward questions about society, the human body, and our perceptions of noise. Li Song, lui, does what he does from the safety of his laptop, joining the ranks of those who use their mouse and keyboard to improvise with digital, processed sounds. On A side it’s a concert – that’s right – performed in London and working to a score, which may seem a tad surprising, but if you listen I think every step they take around the performance space has been carefully orchestrated and mapped out in advance. ‘Room with Air Conditioning’ is thus 15 minutes of abstract noisy delight made with a mix of furniture and speakers / mics (so perhaps a little feedback hum bleeding in). And electric fans. Use of fish line makes me wish I’d been there to witness how they deployed this piece of angling equipment.

No less fabboo is ‘Room with wooden floors’ on the B-side. Also a live concert, also scored, also using much the same minimal array of non-musical objects, this time including a clock and fabrics and a snare drum, probably for its resonant frequencies on the goat hide. Again, footsteps on the wooden floor are much in evidence. It’s as much a dance / performance piece as a good hunk of noisery. Citizens of Waterloo area in London were invigorated by amazing featherweight drone for 16 mins, occasionally flowering forth into an angry red rose of edible feedback. But this description doesn’t convey the genius of these Chinese players, whose gift is for focus, clarity of intention, engagement with physical objects in the space of one specific venue and, through this gateway, a deeper engagement with society at large. Excellent.

The story of it is that their apartment house in Berlin underwent renovation in 2012. For two years, they suffered the agony of building works which I’m sure are familiar to many readers; the artists say “we were forced to inhabit this estranged place that used to be our apartment”. During this time, their lives changed – they couldn’t look out of the window or sit on the balcony, dust fell on their heads, bricks fell on their possessions and broke them, and above all there was the continual noise of drilling, hammering, and sawing. “A hostile but fascinating atmosphere,” is how they describe it. It’s this experience they have now made into art. Needless to say, they recorded all the sounds they could as they sat tightly shuttered inside their rooms, and started to perceive these sounds as some form of infernal life going on around them.

Those on-site recordings are now presented here on the vinyl record, although they’ve been I think condensed, mixed, and arranged in some way; at any rate it’s combined with any sounds produced by the installation artwork which they subsequently made, and exhibited in Ausland in Berlin in 2018. For that, they gathered a huge number of old window sashes which they picked up off the streets of Prenzlauer Berg, and assembled them into a sculpture piece, along with angle brackets and lampshades. This was equipped with speakers, amplifiers, “sound exciters”, and waveplayers, so presumably visitors to the installation would provide additional sounds as they entered its rather unusual and disorienting space (which at first glance seems to me like a compacted version of the demonic house in the movie 13 Ghosts). Numerous photos are provided with the release, in the form of full-colour art prints, so you can get the general idea.

As you may have guessed by now, there’s a critical dimension to the work; it’s not just complaining about their own treatment at the hands of their landlord and his “shifty” lawyer, but observing a general trend across Berlin, i.e. greedy real estate developers buying up properties, and renovating them in order to generate more income streams, exploiting our general need for a place to live. Our artistic duo evidently regret the loss and wastage of “vintage construction materials” within this unstoppable process, which is why they’re singled out these charming window sash constructions and building ornaments, now artefacts from a lost time when perhaps builders took a certain pride in their work and affordable quality housing was once a basic standard. All of this could be taken as a critique of one aspect of late capitalism; it’s a monster that is capable of devouring and destroying the past, even as it replaces everything with products of inferior quality, and causes much disruption in the process. It all resonates with me, as all of 2023 has seen me suffering through a similar disruptive and unwanted “renovation” to my own property, carried out with the sole purpose of bringing in more rent money for the landlord.

Besides the underlying “message” to the work, which to their credit the creators don’t belabour or overstate, this is a very rich and rewarding piece in the genre of site-specific field recording, greatly enhanced by the decision to condense it into a very listenable and fascinating record. It’s full of events, to put it mildly; besides the drilling and hammering, the handy shopping-list printed here indicates there were also blow-torches, gas-heaters, falling plaster, wind, the plastic scaffolding cover, general tremors…and, with some relief, the final dismantling of the scaffolding. As you listen you’ll find yourself pulled into a semi-impossible space, where time has been compressed and events layered on top of each other. It’s not just documentary sound; you get the feeling the creators have poured their entire two-year experience (unpleasant as it must have been) into the work, and managed to sublimate it very successfully.

With lacquer cut by Kassian Troyer and mastering at D&M, this is a beautifully presented and fully-integrated work of art. Recommended. From 6th April 2022.

Marta is a violin player, but on ‘LED and Love Sounds’ (first realised in 2015), she confesses she might be in the middle of a “slow transition” away from conventional playing. A video is available showing the set-up of this piece in a Berlin gallery, and the instrument is simply hanging there on a stand while she operates her laptop and multiple effects pedals; the main sound however is still the violin, only created I think from looped samples. That is my interpretation of “frozen and processed violin sounds”, as she describes it. There are also light-emitting diode lighting strips as part of the performance / installation, and it might be that signals from these LEDs feed into the work. The audience sound in the gallery, although barely audible on the record, is also reckoned to be part of the overall piece. Serene, calming, minimal drones float into space, with barely any interventions from the composer necessary; beautiful music, and it has a centre of stillness that is near-spiritual in its effects. I like the way that her bold swoops and pitch-changes appear to be executed in an intuitive manner, and it doesn’t follow a strict compositional grid.

The second piece ‘Weave And Dream’ likewise makes use of LED lighting as a part of its realisation and compositional process. There is “pulsation and upwards-going movement” produced by these LEDs, as Marta Forsberg discovered when she first hung them up in the concert hall in her former music college. The music was almost secondary; in this case produced by a synthesizer, its tones and rhythms reflecting the pulses from the lights. In its realisation, she evidently wants to create quite a dramatic and moving light-show, making use of remote controls and black curtains for maximal effect. On this particular recording of ‘Weave And Dream’, Greek droner Nikos Veliotis did the mix, though she has done it in the past with the help of Sylvain Devaux. The title ‘TKAC’ translates from Polish as “weave”, and is very descriptive of the powerful layering process that she is achieving here. From 24th March 2021.

Swedish composer David Granström has produced Empty Room (HALLOW GROUND HG2102), a powerful set of drones produced by synthesis of electric guitar music. It also seems to have depended to some extent on the disused iron ore mine where it was performed and recorded. This fellow has a degree from the Royal College of Music in Stockholm and has since been pursuing some very forward-thinking ideas about digital / electronic music and synthesis, sometimes doing it at the famed EMS studio.

Some of these ideas, which I don’t begin to understand, are represented on today’s very dense and deep recordings – temporality, spatialisation, Just Intonation, and the use of “cyclical and isometric patterns”; he’s interested in finding new ways to work “algorithmically”, which I assume involves some sort of programming skill, and it seems he has developed his own scripts to run in the framework of the SuperCollider system. This might not all be applicable to the Empty Room recordings. For one thing, there’s a bit more real-time guitar action going down here, and he explains in some detail the reasons for including “actual recordings of the guitar”. This goes against the grain for Granström, who likes to produce compositions through working with blocks of synthesised sounds. On this occasion, the act of playing inside the Bergslagen iron ore mine has also produced extra resonances and echoes which pleased him, and there has evidently been a labour-intensive and elaborate means of feeding back and layering all the sounds together. There’s a lot of grandeur and epic sweep in these artificial guitar orchestrations, even when barely recognisable as a guitar, and the listener certainly won’t feel short-changed by the sheer volume of the sound and the depth of the content that’s on offer.

At the same time, Empty Room just feels a bit precious and fragile, lacking in emotional responses, suggesting that perhaps Granström is a little too involved with his processes, timbres, and very precise tunings that are required for these compositions. Marta Forsberg (above) has a much lighter touch, and uses her intuitive skills more readily; Granström is in danger of being pulled into the vortex of his own technology. From 24th March 2021.

First track is ‘De La Dilatation Du Paysage’, a 2006 collaboration with the painter and ceramicist Michaële-Andréa Schatt. It’s set in an art gallery (the Isabelle Gounod gallery), with speakers mounted on the walls playing back lists of words to the onlookers. An elaborate installation; the idea is that the words somehow create a “dialogue” with the paintings of Michaële-Andréa Schatt. The creators invest a lot of weight in these word-lists, intending them to carry meanings of history, theory, poetry, and technical design, to further the artistic contemplation of space, landscape, and garden. Schatt’s paintings don’t feature too heavily in the booklet; now that I look at her website, I find her landscapes and garden paintings are certainly colourful and lively, but also rather prosaic. There’s a slight tension between the loose sketchy paintings and the very precise word-art that’s going on here, but there’s also a certain poetry in the combined sound-effects (the use of rainfall is especially nice). The word-lists also have a certain resonance, even when translated from French into English; e.g. “Rustling Tessitura Linking Folding Creasing Beating”.

Secondly, we have ‘Double Exposition’, a work dated 2010 in which La Casa teams up with Seijiro Murayama. Famed Japanese drummer and improviser, Murayama’s work has appeared numerous times in these pages, I think most recently on Yan Jun’s elegant Postcards cassette. I see these two collaborated before on Supersedure for the Hibari Music label. This is another piece that’s very tied to the location where it’s made, in this case the Musee Zadkine in Paris; and once again the garden has an important role to play, The creators feel the garden space of this locale has been somewhat overlooked, a passageway on the way to other parts of the museum; so the plan is to emphasize the centrality of this space. In this way they hope to build a sonic replica of the entire museum, and confound the differences between inside and outside. It’s realised with a combination of instruments, percussion, voices, and microphones, and includes comments from visitors and onlookers woven into the very discreet mix. The editing has been executed with La Casa’s typical craft and attention to detail, with an ear very attuned to timbral differences. Fans of Murayama’s percussion work may feel slightly short-changed by these minimal beats and metallic scrapes, but let me tell you when he does play, he sure hits the right note.

Track three is the most sonically rich set on the disc and certainly delivers when it comes to drama and tension, almost a mini radio-drama in 19:59 mins. It also has the most elaborate title, ‘Tentative d’Épuisement (Sonore) d’Un Lieu’. Dating from 2016, the partner here is Arnau Horta, a fellow based at the Universitat Autónoma de Barcelona. He is involved with sound art, but mostly from an analytical standpoint; his credentials place him as a teacher, critic, curator, and philosopher. The duo have set themselves a challenging task, an attempt to recreate the spirit of George Perec, who published a book in 1975 which recollected a catalogue of not-especially-interesting events around a small part of that famed city (Place Saint-Sulpice). I have never read a word of Perec, but admire the idea of someone prepared to document all these fleeting impressions of the quotidien in such exhaustive detail. It strikes me as sitting somewhere between Proust and Guy Debord. Naturally, great French intellectual that he was, he came up with a special word for it – “infraordinary“. La Casa and Horta both have their own sets of reasons for executing this work, and in their brief notes they also mention some of the challenges; “is that even possible?” exclaims the Spaniard, in a moment of exasperation. Possible or not, they have elected to try it, and the results are just fabulous. I love the kaleidoscopic effect of all this aural information colliding in unexpected ways, and compared to the other gallery-based pieces it’s a more all-encompassing vision, bordering on something as impossible as an M.C. Escher engraving. Without question, we can also align it with La Casa’s Paris Quotidien project, released in 2017.

Lastly we have ‘Surface-témoin’ with Jean-Luc Guionnet, dated 2005. I had no idea these two have a history of working together, but they have been making collaborative records since 2002 and would seem to be ideally suited for each other. Guionnet’s recent very bold pieces have been very exciting in the way they make use of unusual interior spaces, sometimes for music performance as well as field recordings. This particular piece has been carried out with the rigour of a research project, and there’s even a protocole de création printed here which details the four steps in its realisation. A particular location is involved, and the work involved interviewing people to answer written questions about the building; their voices have ended up on the record. From here the investigation into the building grows more precise and exploratory, concerned with such things as dimensions, numbers, dates, and other measurable quantities. Then the materials – including both the building and the voices of the people themselves – are subjected to a scientific analysis, by an architect, a sound engineer, and a linguist. Finally, this accumulated data is used to build the compositional work, all founded on the basis of a sine wave tone with a harmonic structure (evidently it’s possible to express this in numbers) which exactly corresponds to the width of the building’s entrance. What’s relevant here, I think, is that we have a composition / installation that is very precisely aligned with its subject matter / location, and the means of its realisation; through it, La Casa and Guionnet hope to arrive at an integrated statement that brings together their interests in space, architecture, and sound art, while asking questions about the “meaning” of an entrance. They also like the idea of a threshold, a place that is half-inside, half-outside, a passage to something else; indeed that particular theme is answered and echoed by the other tracks on this compilation. 21:22 mins of layered and complex sound is the result, surprisingly approachable and transparent considering the multiple ideas and intensive hours of effort involved in its creation; if I’m reading it right, it’s about three days of on-site effort compressed into a single work of sound art.

From 2nd January 2020.

The first item to be held by six-foot welder’s tongs is called Strychnina (ZOHARUM ZOHAR 207-2), and was originally realised and released in 2005. The title of this one made me assume it was something to do with strychnine, that highly toxic alkaloid used as a pesticide and celebrated in song by garage band The Sonics, who in 1965 claimed to enjoy drinking it. I’m totally wrong, of course – Strychnina is a word that derives from the Polish word “strych” meaning attic, which is where Twardawa performed and recorded these two suites of some two-and-twenty minutes. Notable because it’s all acoustic; all the sounds are made with objects (mostly metal objects), and the photos on this six-panel digipak depict an exciting array of metal rods, springs, and coils, although there may be some plastic hoses in here as well, and even a violin. Tomasz Twardawa described this as an environment, an installation; what we hear on the record is short recordings of sounds from all this debris, along with voice elements, assembled into a lurching, sprawling non-musical episode. The creator is proud that there were “no electronic manipulations”, though he admits to using a loop effect, perhaps for echo purposes.

While earlier records showed an interest in rhythmic patterns, this one does nothing of the sort, and works hard to depict an inchoate jumble of chaos. I’m assuming that these are taped fragments spliced together after the fact, though I could be completely wrong; I’m just trying to account for the disjunctive nature of today’s spin, where nothing seems connected and the odd, eccentric sounds just trundle forward with little apparent logic or shape. One is tempted to draw parallels with the famous “garden shed” junkyard approach of early records by The New Blockaders, but Strychnina is far more considered (if not especially structured) and emerges as positively artistic compared with the nihilistic Rupenus groans and chunters. The other vibe I’m getting from today’s twirl is a very physical sense of object-ness; weight, density, solidity and mass. You can almost feel the tangible objects in this disordered environment, a zone which is not without a sense of dread and fear. Maybe Genetic Transmission was trying to make some lasting statement about the condition of the world, or mankind’s disordered soul, and just finding another analogue for his own inner chaos.

At all events, he gets a lot of mileage from this acoustic approach; the use of metal places it not too far away from his previous works, especially Dedicated To Luigi Russolo from 2004.

The second record is called Lullabies (ZOHARUM ZOHAR 208-2), a five-part work also released in 2005 originally, and issued in a disquieting cover black and white cover; the starkness of that image has been updated for the reissue (by designer Wojciech Zieba) to include many images plucked from nightmares, ranging from the disturbing and the uncanny to the outright horrific. I am fairly confident in saying that the use of such imagery has been a staple of industrial-type music for a long time, but I’ll cut Twardawa two feet of slack on account of his rich (through twisted) imagination. It seems he used much the same instrumental set-up as on Strychnina above, except he added field recordings, voices, and shocking effects to arrive at that coveted horror-movie soundtrack vibe. The material feels that shade more processed, too; more layers, more tape manipulation, more “rawness”, and more denatured sounds, in brief any device or nostrum that can overturn and divert our normal listening expectations.

Wild mood swings and conflicting emotional states are evoked very strongly by his powerful edits, his sharp contrasts; oddly enough, it emerges as something that shade more cohesive than the free-fall jumble of Strychnina, almost as if these tracks were five chapters in a story. Only Simon Balestrazzi has come as close as this to summoning a truly deep sense of the occult, except that in the case of Genetic Transmission we are hearing truly malevolent forces at work, uncontrolled and unpredictable. This record has quite a remorseless undertone, and it gets us to an unpleasant place by sheer persistence and imaginative juxtapositions, rather than by sheer blankets of nasty noise. Some Lullabies; personally, I shan’t sleep ever again.

Both the above from 10th September 2020.

Good to see that Chris Watson is still producing quality work with his powerful microphones, and that he continues to work on BBC wildlife and nature broadcasts. We’ve liked his work since his very earliest releases for Touch. For me Watson set a very high standard for phonographers to follow, not just with his meticulous documentation of locations, but his appreciation and sympathy towards nature, animal life, oceans, the weather, and indeed the entire environment, and his imaginative interpretation of same. He’s here with ‘Notes From The Forest Floor’, which dates from 2015. It’s actually an art installation requiring a multi-channel set-up, and has been reconfigured somewhat (with new recordings and added developments from Watson) for this stereo version. Interestingly, the work was part of a much larger exhibition about the Italian modernist Scelsi, who’s another personal favourite of these old lugs; I love his music’s severity, its dryness and concision, and its aura of deep mystery (rarely does he deign to “explain” his work to anyone). Watson used insect recordings and other environmental captures from a tropical rain forest, explicitly aiming to generate microtonal sounds that a listener could align with the music of Giacinto Scelsi. One thing that Adrian Corker points out, and is evidently enthused by, is the way that Watson works with tremendous precision, yet produces music-sound that is very diffuse, hazy, and atmospheric. The work builds beautifully, somehow bringing you gradually into a semi-magical state of dreaminess without you noticing how it happens, and at 16:15 it is somehow just the “right” length.

Georgia Rodgers studied at Edinburgh and is an award-winning composer who makes instrumental and electronic music. Her ‘Line Of Parts’ was first heard in 2019 at the Huddersfield festival for Contemporary Music, where it so happens the organisers had a special programme to showcase the work of female composers. She too has a gift for detail, and has drawn praise for her “painstaking spectral dissection”. On ‘Line Of Parts’, we hear recordings of rainfall, insects, and geese, but also electronic sine waves, and voice parts; the voices arrive at the end, creating a ghostly impression of an angelic choir that almost forms a major chord. The triumph here has been to not simply to edit and overlay these diverse parts together, but to get them to inter-react and affect each other, in a process that is accurately labelled as “interference patterns”. I’m assuming it tales a highly-trained ear and mind to conceive of such things, let alone devise a means to being them about; and of course the technical skills required, in which department she was aided by the hardware available at Huddersfield – the immersive sound system which has 48 channels and 66 speakers, a dream piece of kit for any acousmatic-leaning composer. An intense, deep piece is the result, which compellingly draws the listener into the middle of a vivid world of sound; especially praise-worthy is Georgia Rodgers’ light touch, her acute sensibilities in gently coaxing her sources to work together in harmonious manner. There is nothing abrupt or violent going on here, the work is profoundly moving, and she may share with Chris Watson something of the same sympathetic understanding of our environment, the same imaginative perception of it. Beautiful. From 20th July 2020.