If not quite to silk, it’s dust.
Sound that opens a hair-line crack in time through which the listener, in astonishment, slips through.
Membranes of a headspace created: dreams, histories, myths, dialogues with the dead.
In a far-off away, in an exoplanet, in a downpour of visible distinctions, in a groundbreaking room, in a lung, in the air from a throat pushed through a breathing fabric by a tongue like unctuous silk, like a metabolic process, like chunks of social matter in the flow of a socio-linguistic sphere of abstraction, like oil saturating sound, like the brain punctuating the body, like the vibration of being untangled, like something coming along that you can’t grasp.
Formlessness covered in a varnish; beauty in the form of a void.
A ghostly sax that mimics the ghostly nature of participation in this society — the ghostly nature of capitalism.
A sax as if expelled from a sphere of immanence.
A sax as if fallen from its grace.
Social like a field of war: a space where solidarity and empathy might be dangerous.
In this dream, there are gods.
Wind that turns into a stream, rushing toward the inner light.
A robot’s alienated reflexivity as it reaches for its alto sax.
Aesthetic negligence: no histories, only reinforcements of an idea.
Microtones that have no representation — until now.
Sound as an anti-capitalist anti-symbol; sound not as a thunderbolt, but more like an unfolding, or an unveiling.
The concrete world of experience turns into a mirage; we are only halfway there.
It is in its existence a miasma: stark surfaces, contingent material spaces, a hyena’s steps as it approaches a camel’s fresh carcass.
The mirage fades, the magic aura retreats, the nimbus of transcendence gone.
More about: Lea Bertucci
