Proximity as the starting point—a framing device—not only closer, but almost united, a unified organism, working as one. From closeness grows playfulness, offering a new tool: togetherness as a method. We create space through proximity and distance, our relationship to them. Moving away from each other, we change the space, our relations. We become sparse, distant, spatial density relating to the sonic. The distance pulls us back into our own awareness, away from the unity. The room resonates with our movements. We share the space, the objects within, and become intertwined with the space, with ourselves.
Changing textures, changing sounds, a timer painting us into a corner. An attempt at matching whatever material we are producing at the moment of change to the ensuing soundscape—striving toward sonic unity. The discursive elements struggle the most. They require an open horizon; the limitations are too disruptive, but still beneficial. Sometimes the body just has to do something for us to realize what is going on. We become conscious of our own actions, our surroundings, and we come to learn that we can always adapt. Textures on textures, micro-nuances that require adjustments, shifting hierarchies.
Second working period (Frankfurt, 15. – 17.11.2022)
As the end point of the project included a large ensemble of improvising musicians, Christian and I decided that in our next working period, we should test the waters by introducing one exogenous element. The system and all of its intertwining connections were already complex enough, and exposing it to another element would allow us to observe both how we adapt to the changing environment and how the practice itself enacts its influence on an unsuspecting victim of verbal onslaught. To smooth out this transition, the person we chose was my co-conspirator from the Performing Reflection 1.0 project—the drummer and percussionist Bojan Krhlanko.
The first session, an introduction, a handshake rather than a hug, hinting at what is coming. An immediate abandonment of the usual spatial arrangements, the body as an initiator for new experiments. An innocent look from the uninitiated, the practice gleaned, internally encapsulated, and accepted. A new level of density, of interaction, of sound and gesture, the lack of space creating space, forming the organism, a unification of function-specific cells allowing for a shared breath—just a metaphor, tangible for its lack of meaning.
In the first practice session, we addressed the density of our initial performance, restricting our output to only a few sounds and gestures. Only one small thing, but it is never really only one thing. By using the initial thing, it loses its oneness. It is placed into relation with something else, which produces a new instance. It lives by its relation. It is one by its distinction, but it is always a part of the other. An attempt at restriction can inspire creativity or induce boredom. Without the momentum of the music, of density, the situation requires a heightened level of awareness to keep structures afloat. Boredom as a response to a demanding situation. Once overcome, we can truly enjoy the ensuing fragility.
An attempt at reflecting on the situation, narrating the proceedings. An imaginary sportscaster following play-by-play. We use our instruments not as they are meant to be used—a grave misplay. The players made self-conscious by the commentator, but at the same time realizing that they have more power over him than usual. To escape judgment, the players push further and further, hoping to do something that is indescribable. The narrator at their heels, naming each action. The players attempt to confuse, reach over into the other’s domain. A small word, “exchanging”, is taken over in the physical domain, translated literally, the one becoming the other. A quick distraction, and the match goes on. The narrator, finally exasperated, joins the players and brings the match to its conclusion.
Whom do we address with our performance? At whom do we direct our sounds, our words? Is it only for ourselves, for the group, or for an audience? And how does it differ? Do we play differently for ourselves than we do for an audience? Does it affect how we sound, our attitude? In one sense, the difference is undeniable. Yet in another, it doesn't matter at all. There is always an audience—whether virtual, imaginary, or simply ourselves. No performance exists without a witness.
How do we deal with somebody else painting us into a corner? Watch as a person struggles with an attempt to experiment with dynamics as a parameter. Watch him search for the utopia in which the discourse and its dynamics are corresponding with what the others are doing. Watch him abandon all of his plans. Watch him lose his composure. Watch us all lose it. Watch it become the general principle. We have to get lost to discover something new.
Can we define the intuitive? Can we circumvent the purely mechanical? In this short fragment, we attempt to do so, to avoid bringing forth sounds which are part of our intuitive responses. As a result of this attempt, we trap ourselves in a loop of self-doubt. By rejecting the first impulse, we move on to the next. But isn't the next also a part of our immediate reactions?
The process of practicing becomes more complicated. Elements upon elements test the limits of our awareness and point at the processes that are becoming redundant. We form a circle—solo to duo to solo to duo—exchanging information, attempting to contrast the idea that we are joining, and at the same time avoiding the first impulse. Through this, we approach a sweet spot; the practice becomes engaging—it brings us forward. Too simple, and we become bored; too overwhelming, and we get frustrated. Just enough, and we extend our limits, catching ourselves before we fall.
A forced hierarchy, the leader determined by the clock. What does it mean to accompany? How do we position ourselves toward the supposed leader? Where is our awareness? And how do we interpret our assumed leadership? You have two minutes to be in charge, so use them well. How does it make you feel? We set a moment in the future where it ends, where it shifts, our needs subservient to the other.
A removal of limitations, to observe the results of the work. Learning to speak all over again, this time a private and collective form of expression. Addressed to ourselves, you, them, all of it, our sounds and gestures start to take shape. We repeat them, doing the same again, doing it differently every time, until we get it right—same but different—until it takes on some meaning, until it has no meaning at all. It has some meaning to us: repeating it, doing it differently, working on it—there is benefit to it. We reflect, and through it we grow. We repeat, and through it we grow.
A public offering with a slow beginning. A slow breath by the organism as a whole. The ensemble as an entity, organized, structured, not made up of parts, but a part of the space, air in a container. We breathe in our own sound, integrate it, send it outwards. We receive the past—remembered, remodeled, reconstructed—accessed through our memory, pulled out of storage, and brought to the present moment, expelled, put into a new context. Is preparation just a way of storage? We discover things, discuss them, reflect on them, and through this process we retrace our steps until the pathways are well formed, slowly turning into roads, illuminated for easier retrieval. Preparation is also a process of aligning polarities, allowing for a homogeneous mixture. The ensemble becomes a blend of miscible substances, mixing in all proportions, all dimensions, from the sonic to the gestural. Preparation develops contact zones between the practices, the practitioners, the words themselves, within the space, with the audience, acoustically, visually, ideationally. Eventually, the sounds and gestures come in contact with all the individual spaces of association, changing, shifting, and finding new meaning.
Real and imaginary responses to a post-concert Q&A session 2
How much and what did you prepare?
The performance itself, in conjunction with all the practice sessions, hints at an answer, not only to this question but to the nature of the process of preparation itself. One can observe a sense of continuity reaching back to the beginning of the project and projecting itself into the performance. This continuity reaches even further back, out of the scope of our observations or even our abilities to reconstruct. The performance itself bears traces of all the previous encounters, discussions, reflections, starts and stops, successes and failures. Topics, sounds, and gestures become embedded into the collective practice, engendering something more than just three individuals interacting. The process of preparation creates a new entity—a shared language. In that sense, we prepared everything and were prepared for everything.
Where did the structure emerge from?
The process of preparation gives the improvisation its structure. The process of improvisation gives the improvisation its structure. The beginning and end of the improvisation give the improvisation its structure. The space gives the improvisation its structure. The contact zone of all the elements involved gives the improvisation its structure. The perceived structure gives the improvisation its structures.
What does it mean to rehearse?
To rehearse means to impose limitations. Through limitations, we observe specific situations. We come to realize that there is a whole universe dancing on the point of a needle.
How does the playing influence the thinking (the saying)? How difficult is it to relate to the playing?
I am always performing on two levels. One is on the level of sound, with all the articulation, dynamics, and other musical parameters that I have in common with the other two. The other level is the discursive side of producing meaning. On this first level, it is very clear that I am reacting to what they are doing, and it is not difficult at all. On the other level, it is very difficult. Sometimes it is difficult to separate the two, and sometimes it is difficult to put them together. The train of thought just goes on, and dynamically something completely different happens. At the end of the performance, I was just doing my thing. I thought, “Now I am just going to go off on this trajectory, and I am just going to do it.” That was a train of thought that was influenced by what I did and by getting closer to the musicians and stepping away from them, more the spatial than the sonic.
With the initial experiment a success, we decided to reduce the scope of our interaction—to engage in deliberate practice (Anders Ericsson 2008). We wished to explore certain listening and playing postures, to work toward the large ensemble practice, to see what benefits or drawbacks the exercises could have for the final outcome.