Recording Archive (2016-2020)
I began recording about ten years ago,
to keep something that was mine.
Everyone leaves with something.
You give yourself away.
I wanted something to carry away too.
I learned very young that power was rarely mine.
I learned what could be taken.
I learned how to keep what was forgotten.
I watched the white disappear beneath the black paint.
Felt the bristles of the brush against my skin.
So I picked up the chips of white paint from the floor
and held on to them.
With every small piece of identity shed,
I refused to leave empty-handed.
So I kept traces of sound.
I was teaching myself to listen.
To hear the life I had built.
To find familiarity in the screams.
To hear the smallest adjustments in rhythm.
The breath before the yell.
The hesitation beneath the loudest moans.
The moments that disappear before they can be remembered.
I didn't know they were becoming the room.
Years later,
I heard something else inside them.
I couldn't return to the person I had been.
But I could return to the sound of becoming.
Recording Archive (2020-2026)
Eventually it became predictable.
I got bored.
I stopped recording.
Seven months passed.
When I picked up the recorder again, I was listening to something else.
The shifting sounds.
The movement of bodies through the room.
I wanted to understand what made them move.
The choreography.
Again, the little things.
The silence after someone walked away.
The warmth that remained.
The hesitation before someone returned.
The hesitation before they decided to leave.
How long could a room hold someone after the stimulation had ended?
Could I hold you there long enough to learn what waiting does to a body?
What if I keep my eyes open?
What if I never look away?
When do you stop watching me and begin seeing yourself?
What if I whisper?
What if I shut up?
What if it’s so quiet all you hear is the beating in your chest?
What if you aren't sure whether I'm still here?
What if I slow down?
What if I slow down so much it’s painful?
So I started playing a game.
A game with time.
And space.
Close a door.
Leave one open.
Open a window.
See what the wind moves.
Move objects while they’re gone.
Invert the room the walls of the room.
Wait until they notice.
Watch how long it takes.
Watch what happens when they notice something changed but aren’t sure what.
Move the pillows to one side of the bed.
See where the center goes.
Tilt a painting.
Become irritated by the asymmetry.
Let it be.
Move a chair.
See where attention moves.
Where does appetite turn?
Where will you stand?
Where will you sit?
Where will you hesitate?
Where will you touch?
Where will you choose to fuck?
What happens if I bring objects of my own?
A kitchen knife.
Candy.
A stethoscope.
What happens when you hear your own heartbeat?
What changes when you know someone else is listening too?
Where will air loosen?
Where will congestion move?
It started as a playful, slightly mischievous cure for boredom and eventually became a kind of fencing with the senses.
When I listened back through the archive to begin editing, I could hear the change.
The focus shifted.
From noise.
From the extremes of loud and quiet.
To why and how.
I now see that these were the participants I had access to.
The first tools I knew how to use.
The only rooms I had keys to.
It wasn’t until recently that I realized I might want keys to a larger room.