Field recordings of storms at an abandoned beach are understood through tape loops, piano, and cello. Like her contemporary Ulla Straus, Lisa Lerkenfeldt communicates (with the) world beyond surfaces, on the airy plane of perception.
In this composition, humans are but distant memories to the probe that explores the structures we’ve left. It’s good we’re gone. The wind still blows. Every gap has been filled. Wet grains of sand stick to a camera’s cracked lens; paste themselves onto magnetic tape fluttering from an old wire fence along the shore; rattle themselves dry in a cello’s deep, slowly disintegrating belly as Lerkenfeldt imperceptibly talks to the strings, and they talk back in deep breaths.
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