Playing in Tongues

Possible dialogues between Odissi dance and experimental electronic music

How can dance and music, an art rich of history and a recent practice, the living body and digital immateriality communicate with each other?

Introduction

La lingua dell’aria (The language/tongue of the air) is a project that explores these questions through a live electronics performance in interaction with Odissi dance, one of the eight classical Indian dance forms. The performance combines fixed and improvised elements, fostering a dynamic interplay where music sometimes leads the dance and at other times responds to it.

The sound material is created using SuperCollider, a code-based music synthesis platform. Algorithmic processes govern parameters such as duration, pitch, and amplitude, while real-time interventions are performed via a MIDI controller, enabling a fluid and reactive sonic environment.

Several collaborative experiments inform the project’s development. Conducted both remotely and in-person, they involved exchanging musical sketches and choreographic responses, fostering a conceptual understanding of each other’s creative processes, and enabled immediate feedback and improvisatory interaction, revealing how abstract sound gestures are interpreted by the dancer as vivid metaphors of natural phenomena through the expressive language of mudra.

This project embraces the idea that meaning in performance does not pre-exist but rather emerges through the interweaving of gesture, sound, attention, and relational space. Rather than seeking fixed correspondences between music and dance, the collaboration foregrounds the instability and fluidity of sense-making as a shared experiential process. Movement and sound co-construct each other in the moment, guided by intuition, somatic listening, and a continuous negotiation of presence. In this light, the work becomes less about illustrating pre-defined narratives and more about cultivating a living texture of interaction—an evolving field where different temporalities, traditions, and sensitivities resonate and transform one another.

Informed by Andrée Grau’s insights in Intercultural Research in the Performing Arts (1992), this project also approaches collaboration not as a neutral meeting ground but as a space charged with cultural histories and asymmetries of knowledge. Grau urges us to move beyond celebratory notions of “fusion” and to critically examine how traditions are represented, adapted, and negotiated in performance. In this light, the work does not seek to erase difference but to hold it in tension, encouraging a space where both artists remain grounded in their respective practices while allowing mutual transformation to occur. Rather than simplifying or assimilating Odissi into a Western framework, the collaboration is framed as an encounter—sometimes smooth, sometimes resistant—that reflects the complex, evolving nature of intercultural exchange. Here, meaning is not given but co-constructed through attention, respect, and a willingness to remain in the discomfort of not fully understanding.

If, for Frank Zappa, talking about music was like dancing about architecture, here we will attempt the even more daunting task of talking about dance as well (architecting about dance?), or perhaps it is precisely by placing side by side two disciplines that have been intimately connected since the dawn of humanity that we may overcome the frequent difficulties we encounter when trying to articulate in words what we see and hear—experiences that, precisely when they reach their highest level, whether as spectators or performers, are defined as ineffable.

Furthermore, in the course of presenting the experiments I carried out together with Janhavi Dhamankar, Odissi dancer and scholar, I will extensively describe all the strategies and attempts to build bridges and metaphors between the abstract and the figurative—both in dance and in music—and between the cultural backgrounds of our practices, which started from very distant places but, as we shall see, hold great potential for mutual exchange.

Background and Artistic Lineage

My artistic practice often resembles an avalanche: it begins with a great accumulation of stimuli, data, and inspirations, reaching a critical mass where barriers break and the real creative flow—the practical part—begins. Typically, my process involves immersing myself in extensive listening and watching sessions of masterful works, extracting key concepts and structuring them into small diagrams or keyword lists. I explore different scores, download samples, read articles and books that might be relevant to my research. This phase is essential but also overwhelming; it often results in a sensory and information overload, from which I must sculpt the final form of the piece, carefully separating the inessential from the essential. My compositional process is, therefore, subtractive rather than additive—akin to sculpture, where material is carved away to reveal the desired form.

Neo Kyoto-3, a multimedia interactive performance, marked my first close collaboration with a dancer. In this case, the contemporary dancer improvised freely in response to the music and visuals.
In_ Three Interlude_—a series of short pieces for baritone saxophone and double bass—the choreography, performed by an entire dance ensemble, was developed independently from the music.

In La lingua dell’aria, instead this methodology required a new layer of attentiveness — one that was not merely formal, but deeply relational. Dance, particularly one as codified and symbolically rich as Odissi, carries not only movement vocabulary but also spiritual and poetic charge. Every gesture has a lineage, every stance a cosmology. Janhavi’s background in interpreting sacred texts through gesture — particularly the mudra system — meant that our collaboration could not simply be about “syncing” beats or reacting to rhythm. It demanded a rethinking of temporality, attention, and reciprocity.

As a composer, I had to learn to listen not only to sound, but to posture, to silence, to weight. A sharp gesture, a moment of stillness, a sidelong glance — these became interpretive acts, translating abstraction into image, sound into implication.

Andrée Grau’s call for a critical interculturalism — one that acknowledges power imbalances and historical asymmetries — provided an ethical compass throughout the project. Grau warns against both uncritical celebration of “fusion” and rigid protectionism; she advocates instead for collaborative spaces where difference is held, negotiated, and transformed through care. Her insistence on the political dimensions of embodiment — particularly in contexts where one tradition has been historically marginalized or romanticized — helped me stay aware of the dynamics at play in our exchange. Janhavi was not “adding dance” to my music; she was speaking through a system that precedes us both. I had to meet that system not with appropriation, but with attentiveness.

Before diving into the living matter of the performance, a note on the title. *La lingua dell’aria (The Tongue of the Air) — is the title that emerged from reflecting on the invisible thread connecting two expressive forms: music and dance. Both are ephemeral, fleeting gestures that leave no trace on the surface of the world — and yet, they resonate deeply. What do music and dance have in common, at their core? They move air.

Sound is vibrating air. Movement, too, displaces air, carves space, breathes. In this piece, I found it beautiful and meaningful to think of our practices — the musician’s and the dancer’s — as two parallel ways of shaping the same material. This shared material becomes our common language.

The ambiguity in the title — between tongue as organ and tongue as language — is deliberate. It suggests that sound and movement are not only abstract signs, but also deeply corporeal acts, rooted in breath, skin, muscles, resonance.

But there is also another layer to this title — a quiet defiance. In a world that often measures value in terms of productivity, utility, or visible results, artistic work is frequently dismissed as “useless.” After all, we “only” move air. We “only” make sounds or shapes that vanish the moment they appear.

Yet that “uselessness” is precisely where the power lies. Art does not exploit, consume, or conquer. It listens. It offers presence. It gives form to feeling. The fact that it is intangible, immaterial, ungraspable — that it moves only air — makes it a radically peaceful and profoundly ecological gesture.

This piece, then, is both a celebration and a provocation. A celebration of the fragile, essential act of moving air with intention — and a provocation to those who see no value in what leaves no mark. Because in truth, what could be more vital than air?

Structure of the musical part

This composition is structured as a hybrid work, combining fixed musical elements with sections of guided improvisation. Throughout the piece, the dynamic between music and dance remains fluid: at times the music leads and the dancer responds; at others, the dancer’s movements initiate shifts in the sonic environment. The full performance lasts approximately ten minutes and is articulated in four distinct section:

1. Invocation / Mangalacharan – a meditative introduction;
2. Action / Pallavi – pure movement and pure sound in collision/convergence;
3. Narration / Abhinaya – quiet rhythmical layers accompany the dancer’s story-telling;
4. Liberation / Moksha – ascension, final release of tension.

This four-part structure draws directly from a traditional performance arc in Odissi dance, which I adopted as a way to anchor my musical exploration within a coherent form. For me, this framework offered a fertile structure that could guide the development of musical material while remaining intuitively meaningful for the dancer.

Invocation

The work opens with a slow, meditative introduction in which the fundamental materials of the entire piece are presented. Breath, silence, and subtle gestures prepare the space for what is to come. Here, both dancer and musician enter into a shared listening state, as if tuning themselves and the space to a common frequency. It is an act of grounding, of calling in attention—both their own and that of the audience. Here follows an in-depth analysis of Invocation, an occasion to glance rapidly at the compositional work-flow adopted for the whole piece.

The section is built around a drone in G, with all other pitches derived as pure harmonics of the drone. Using a single bansuri and sitar tone processed through granular synthesis I generated slowly shifting harmonic masses. This is the code generating the high-pitched material starting from the sitar sample (the definition of the granular synthesizers is not showed in order to not divert the attention on what is musically going on). This is the pattern inside SuperCollider:

I’ll analyze the code step by step:

1. Pattern Definition:

•Pdef creates a named pattern definition called \high

•Ppar is a pattern that runs multiple patterns in parallel

2. Parallel Pattern Selection:

•Randomly chooses a number between 1 and 4

•This determines how many parallel patterns will be created

3. Individual Pattern Definition:

•Each parallel pattern is a Pbind that binds different parameters

4. Granulator Parameters:

•Uses a \grain type synthesizer (granulator)

•Loads an audio buffer from b[\singles][1], i.e. a folder filled with samples

•sync is set to 1 for synchronization - If sync = 0: uses Dust.ar(dens)

•If sync = 1: uses Impulse.ar(dens)

The difference between the two is significant:

•Dust.ar generates random impulses with a specified average density

•Impulse.ar generates regular impulses synchronized with the system clock

Therefore:

•With sync = 0: grains will be triggered randomly, creating a more chaotic and natural effect

•With sync = 1: grains will be triggered regularly and synchronized, creating a more rhythmic and precise effect

In the pattern we saw earlier, sync was set to 1, which means the grains were triggered in a regular and synchronized manner with the system clock, creating a more rhythmic and controlled effect.

•dens controls grain density (2.4 grains per second)

5. Playback Parameters:

•rate: playback speed, modified by a random factor

•grainDur: duration of each grain (1 second)

•pos: initial position in the buffer (0.1)

6. Movement Parameters:

•posSpeed is set to 0, so the buffer position remains fixed

7. Amplification and Envelope Parameters:

•amp: amplitude with exponential distribution between 0.5 and 0.9

•Very short envelope (0.1 seconds for attack, sustain, and release)

8. Output and Duration:

•Output through a reverb bus, giving more depth and space to the sounds

•Duration of each event is 0.1 seconds

9. Execution:

•The pattern is executed using the play method

This pattern creates a complex sonic texture with:

•1 to 4 layers of sound grains in parallel

•Each layer has a fixed density of 2.4 grains per second

•The grains are very short (0.1 seconds)

•Playback speeds vary according to a series of musical ratios

•Amplitude varies exponentially to create dynamics

•Everything is processed through a reverb

The result is a granular sonic fabric that creates a complex and layered texture, with both rhythmic and timbral characteristics.

Now the code of the chord-tides:

What is essentially different here is the far more lower number of the harmonics chosen and grain density, the slower ADSR and duration of the grains. Besides, the starting sample for the processing is not from the sitar, but from the bansuri.

Right after this massive element, another similar one arises with the same code, except for a small variation:

The harmonics are not generated from a starting G, but from C#, because with 6.midiratio we are transposing the fundamental pitch up by six semitones, i.e. a tritone. In this way every sound generated from this new fundamental will interact in a complex way with the older series more and more rising up with the highest harmonics.

Action

In the second section, pure movement and pure sound erupt into a playful collision. There is no story, no metaphor—only the tactile pleasure of form unfolding. This is the most kinetic and abstract moment of the piece, in which muscular contractions and expansive gestures are mirrored by shifting textures, rhythmic pulses, and evolving harmonic colors. The body becomes landscape, the music becomes anatomy. Both unfold in vibrant, ever-changing forms, referring only to themselves—like a dance of energy without destination.

A striking contrast will emerges in comparison to the third movement. Here, the percussive timbres will become markedly more aggressive and metallic. While the Narration/Abhinaya will revolve around a dense lattice of regular impulses interwoven in a polyrhythmic relationship, this part introduces an entirely different percussive logic—one that feels disjointed, even chaotic at first glance. The rhythmic engine is a seemingly “broken” drum machine whose lopsided patterns, composed of kick, hi-hat, and snare, give the illusion of mechanical failure. Yet beneath this irregular surface lies a meticulously programmed algorithmic system built on the interplay of three independent temporal trajectories—one for each sound element.

The hi-hat is derived from a digitally manipulated mridanga, while the snare originates from a processed kartal sample. Each of the three layers operates within its own loop, with durations varying between 1 and 2 seconds—including tenths of a second—creating subtle mismatches and asymmetries. Crucially, the mridanga and kartal lines are not triggered simultaneously: the former begins 0.35 seconds after the kick, the latter follows after 0.5 seconds. This staggered onset initiates a phase-shifting interplay, where the rhythmic mesh continuously evolves in a state of perceptual drift.

The resulting texture recalls the sensibility of certain free jazz drummers—those whose improvisations stretch and compress the underlying beat, producing an elastic sense of time. Here too, the beat behaves less like a fixed grid and more like a living organism: it contracts, expands, recoils, and lunges forward, as if breathing. It feels almost sentient, as if each strike is guided by an internal will rather than mechanical repetition. The listener never quite knows where the next kick will fall, and yet it is always perceived as the downbeat—until the next iteration reshapes it. It is rhythm as morphing presence: unpredictable, unstable, and alive.

The sonic world of Arca—particularly in albums like Mutant —offered a vital reference. Arca’s music operates in a terrain of fragmentation, excess, and constant becoming. Her soundscapes are marked by abrupt transitions, glitched textures, and a hyper-saturated emotionality that resists stable form. Yet within this flux, there is an unmistakable sense of embodiment: the music feels lived-in, physical, haunted by a presence that is at once intimate and unstable. Arca doesn’t shy away from discomfort or rupture—instead, she aestheticizes them, making vulnerability and volatility central to her sonic identity. Her work became a touchstone for imagining how electronic sound could express not only control and precision, but also dissolution, mutation, and affective intensity.

Narration

The energy turns inward. The music becomes more intricate, with multiple rhythmic layers emerging and folding into one another without ever bursting into virtuosic display. Similarly, the dancer begins to suggest fragments of narrative through hand gestures and facial expressions, drawing from the expressive language of abhinaya. Yet even here, the storytelling remains elliptical—half-symbolic, half-sensory. Meaning arises gradually, almost reluctantly, through suggestion rather than direct exposition. The atmosphere thickens, inviting reflection, intimacy, and perhaps even memory.

A version of Narration

Liberation

All previously accumulated energy is released in this final, culminating section. If the earlier parts were about building, layering, and containing, this is the moment of release of breath, of tension. The music gathers intensity, rising in frequency and amplitude, while the dancer’s movements stretch toward expansiveness, weightlessness. It is as if both are attempting to transcend their medium—sound yearning to escape the algorithm, the body longing to dissolve into rhythm. It is an exhalation, a gesture that spills beyond the frame.

Structure and Methodology of Experiments

Our practical research unfolded through three main experiments, each building on the last in complexity, immediacy, and intimacy. From an initial asynchronous exchange of materials to shared rehearsal in physical space, and finally to an immersive performance environment, each stage was designed to test different modes of relation: sonic to gestural, coded to improvised, structured to emergent. This progression was not linear, but spiral: each experiment revisited and reconfigured insights from the previous one, creating a layered, recursive trajectory.

First experiment - 26/03/25, 12:20 (online)

The first experiment took the form of a remote exchange. I sent Janhavi preliminary audio sketches representing the opening Invocation section of the work. These sketches were built primarily through processed bansuri samples and harmonic drone fields constructed using additive and spectral synthesis techniques in SuperCollider. My aim was to evoke a sense of emergence — textures that breathed rather than progressed, a slow exhalation of harmonic mass from silence. These materials were not accompanied by instructions or narratives; they were sent as sonic atmospheres, invitations rather than directives.

In return, Janhavi sent video sketches of her choreographic interpretations. Rooted in upper-body movement, her dances began with a grounded, prayer-like posture and evolved into increasingly symbolic and nature-inspired gestures. What was striking was that her interpretation was not reactive in the usual sense. She did not move to the beat (there was none), nor did she mimic sound textures. Instead, she allowed a quite evocative imagery to emerge: bees fluttering, water flowing, a boatman pushing away from shore. These metaphors emerged without prior prompting, purely from listening.

This suggested that abstraction does not preclude narrative. In fact, it may invite deeper metaphorical engagement precisely because it resists closure. Music, in this instance, functioned not as accompaniment or mood-setter, but as provocation — not what to perform, but how to feel. Our creative process began to resemble a double helix: two strands twisting, informing, and mutating each other through proximity. Even at a distance, something reciprocal was taking shape.

Besides, we exchanged reading, listening and watching recommendations. I received from her names focused on the textual sources traditionally used as thematic material in Odissi dance. Foremost among them are prayers of Vedic origin, foundational invocations that carry the ritual and philosophical weight of ancient Indian spirituality. Alongside these, she introduced me to selected passages from the Gita Govinda by Jayadeva (12th century), a seminal poetic work that recounts in sensuous and devotional language the amorous episodes between Radha and Krishna. The Gita Govinda has long been a cornerstone of the Odissi repertoire, offering dancers a rich terrain of expressive potential—its verses imbued with rhythm, metaphor, and mythic intimacy.

In response, I proposed a set of references from the world of contemporary music and dance to open a dialogical exchange across cultures and temporalities. Among them were Inori by Karlheinz Stockhausen, Mahābhārata by Riccardo Nova, and the choreographic works of Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker set to music by Steve Reich. Each of these works, in its own way, offers a compelling example of the intersection between movement and sound in the context of contemporary performance practice.

Of these, she found Inori particularly striking. What resonated most was the idea of composing a score for the body—a choreography not as an accompaniment to music, but as its very structure. In Inori, Stockhausen constructs a detailed gestural lexicon based on prayer movements from diverse religious traditions around the world. These gestures are not simply symbolic; they are treated as musical elements, articulated with the same care and precision as a phrase of melody or rhythm. The result is a kind of polyphonic ritual, in which the performer’s body becomes an instrument of spiritual resonance. Among the many gestures incorporated into the work are also Indian mudras, used extensively in Odissi dance.

First sketch of Invocation

Second experiment - 30/04/25, 12:00 (Vienna)

The second experiment marked a major shift, both physically and relationally. Conducted in person in Vienna, it allowed us to explore not just movement and sound, but also space, costume, gaze, and presence. In this session, we could respond in real time — not only to each other’s outputs, but to each other’s pauses, hesitations, and impulses. The rehearsal space became a laboratory of subtle negotiation, where glances replaced directives and moments of silence became decisions.

This was followed by a concise explanation of what tala and raga are—at least in broad terms—intended for a musician like myself who had only encountered these concepts in passing during some personal research.

The raga (a Sanskrit word that literally means “color” or “emotion”) is the melodic framework of Indian classical music. It is far more than a scale; it is a complex system of rules and conventions that define which notes may be used (both in ascending and descending motion), which notes serve as structural anchors, how those notes should be intoned and ornamented (with techniques such as meend, gamak, and others), and how the melodic line should evolve over time to evoke a specific rasa—that is, an emotional essence or inner state.

Each raga is associated with particular times of day or seasons, and often carries with it spiritual, poetic, or narrative connotations. For example, Raga Bhairav is considered solemn and meditative, traditionally performed in the early morning hours to evoke a sense of calm and reverence. In this way, the raga functions not just as a musical structure, but as a carrier of affective and symbolic meaning, a mode of attunement to time, space, and atmosphere.

On the other hand, tala is the rhythmic framework of Indian music. It consists of recurring temporal cycles that can range from simple to extremely complex. Each tala is made up of a series of matra (units of time, roughly analogous to beats), which are grouped into segments of varying lengths, often marked by hand gestures and claps. These cycles repeat continuously throughout the performance, providing a temporal canvas for improvisation and variation.

The musician can improvise within the tala, playing with tension and release in relation to the sam—the first and most important beat of the cycle. This creates a dynamic interplay between fixed rhythmic structure and expressive freedom, where the return to the sam after elaborate deviations often produces a satisfying sense of resolution.

A particularly helpful resource in deepening my understanding was Francesca Cassio’s explanation of raga and tala on pages 13–24 of Percorsi della voce. Storia e tecniche esecutive del canto dhrupad nella musica classica dell’India del nord (2000). Cassio’s detailed yet accessible exposition clarified the foundational principles of these systems, especially within the context of Dhrupad, the oldest surviving genre of North Indian classical music, where the precision and spiritual significance of both raga and tala are most pronounced.

The second and third experiments in our process were the ones that most deeply tested — and ultimately transformed — our understanding of collaboration. While the first exchange had been atmospheric and suggestive, these later stages demanded attention to the granular details of timing, gesture, space, and energy. It was no longer about interpreting the other’s material from a distance, but about composing the moment together, in real time, within the same field of affect and response.

In the second experiment, our co-presence allowed us to step beyond metaphor and begin crafting shared dramaturgies. One of the central questions that emerged was: how do we perform difference? Rather than neutralizing our cultural distance, we chose to highlight it — not to exaggerate or exoticize, but to make it visible as part of the work. This asymmetry was intentional. It created a field in which attention could shift without resolution — an unstable balance that mirrored the dynamics of intercultural dialogue itself.

Sound design, too, became more relational. I began to compose not only for what the dancer would do, but for what she might choose not to do. I created sonic textures that held space — drones, delayed pulses, decaying echoes — and left them open, waiting for her response. Sometimes she responded with stillness. Sometimes with sudden, angular movement. Sometimes with slowness so exaggerated that time seemed to collapse. These were not pre-agreed “cues,” but real-time negotiations. I began to think of my sound patches as invitations rather than commands — proposals for situations of tension or suspension.

Third experiment - 08/06/24, 11:00 (Graz)

The third experiment, conducted in Graz at the IEM Cube — a multichannel ambisonic studio — allowed us to expand into spatial audio and embodied interaction. For the first time, sound could not only accompany the dancer, but envelop her, move around her, chase or evade her. I composed several layers of surround sound movement trajectories using PanAz UGens in SuperCollider: the goal was to create a “choreography of air” — not only in the dancer’s movement, but in the sound’s own circulation.

We tried for the first time the second section (Pallavi) and the fourth section (Moksha) of the performance. Pallavi, in Odissi, is a pure dance section — ornate, non-narrative, rhythmically rich. I constructed a complex, layered polyrhythm engine using multiple Pbind streams with variable swing and density, relying on a synthetic kick and Indian drum samples (mridangam, ghungroo, kartal). Janhavi responded with powerful lower-body footwork, her anklet bells (ghungroo) adding a live rhythmic counterpoint to the algorithmic grid.

Janhavi introduced the idea of incorporating a jugalbandi within the second section of the piece—an idea I found particularly sharp and resonant. The jugalbandi, which literally means “entwined twins,” is a well-established format in both Indian classical music and dance. It typically features a playful and virtuosic exchange between two performers, who engage in a dialogue based on improvisation, imitation, and variation. This conversational dynamic often begins with relatively simple phrases, passed back and forth in a spirit of mutual recognition, and gradually builds in complexity, intensity, and speed—culminating in a kind of figurative accelerando.

We began thinking of the piece less as a linear narrative and more as a series of energetic states. Not scenes, but zones. Not acts, but temperatures. This changed how I composed: instead of scripting transitions, I began to think in terms of thresholds. When does stasis become movement? When does intimacy become distance? When does attention shift from one body to the other? I structured sonic environments that could linger indefinitely, allowing us to inhabit these thresholds without the need to “progress.”

This approach also aligned with theories of intercultural performance that reject synthesis in favor of co-presence. Rustom Bharucha’s work, for example, warns against the danger of aestheticizing cultural difference without acknowledging its histories. He calls for “intimate alienations” — spaces where discomfort is not erased but honored. Our piece, in its asymmetries and silences, attempted to create such a space. It did not try to resolve the differences between us. It let them speak. It let them breathe.

By the end of our process, we had not created a finished “product” but a living score — one that changes each time it is performed, depending on the space, the sound system, the feeling in the room, the breath between us. This openness is not indecision. It is structure held lightly. It is a commitment to listening. To allowing the work to emerge from relation, not prescription.

My rhythmic engines in SuperCollider operated via asynchronous patterns with constantly shifting subdivisions, creating a rhythmic field that resisted regularity while maintaining internal coherence. These layered patterns were less about groove than about texture — rhythms to be touched, entered, withdrawn from.

Janhavi’s movement in this context became a form of temporal drawing: lines traced not only through space but through time itself. She entered these unstable rhythmic zones with confidence and sensitivity. She did not follow the sound; she wove into it. Her footfalls became disruptions and anchors, her upper body floated while her legs pulsed like resonant membranes.

Spatial design, too, played a critical role in shaping rhythm. The IEM Cube allowed us to treat space as a compositional dimension equal to pitch or time. I constructed multiple spatial “modes”: one where sound encircled the performer in spheric patterns, another where it sliced through diagonally, and a third where sounds rise and fall in spirals. These strategies weren’t decorative — they were rhythmic articulations of space. They gave Janhavi anchor points, tensions to lean into or avoid. She began to navigate the room as if it were a score, with sonic landmarks replacing visual cues.

SuperCollider as a Partner

Throughout this collaboration, SuperCollider functioned not merely as a tool or environment, but as an active partner in the compositional process. Its capacity for algorithmic generation, real-time modulation, and spatial diffusion allowed me to work not only with sound, but with behavior — to shape processes rather than products, and to engage with unpredictability as an expressive quality. This was not a matter of delegating creativity to the machine, but of composing with it, listening to its responses, allowing it to shape the dialogue in ways that were not always foreseeable.

My use of SuperCollider was grounded in a modular, patch-based approach that combined pattern sequencing, stochastic modulation, spectral synthesis, and custom envelope systems. Rather than creating fixed “tracks,” I built a set of behaviors: rhythmic engines that would subtly shift over time, noise-based events that would rupture the harmonic flow, etc. Each of these sonic agents was defined by a logic — a way of entering, behaving, and decaying. This made the system feel alive, reactive, capable of proposing sonic gestures as much as responding to choreographic ones.

One key technique I used was layered polyrhythm.Using Pbind and Ppar patterns that interleaved different tuplets (e.g., 5 against 7, 3 against 4), often modulated by low-frequency oscillators to introduce non-linearity in amplitude and timing. These patterns were not quantized to a global clock, but allowed to drift subtly, creating evolving grooves that felt both unstable and grounded. Janhavi responded not by counting, but by feeling — her movement adapting to the textures of tension and release in the rhythm rather than aligning to metronomic time.

Importantly, I did not build these systems in advance and leave them static. The SuperCollider patches were designed for live manipulation: each performance involved choosing when to trigger a pattern, when to cut it off, how to reshape a filter, how long to sustain a drone. This improvisatory control was central to the dialogic quality of the piece.

The language of code also offered a form of notation that was both flexible and alive. Unlike a traditional score, which fixes parameters in advance, a SuperCollider script is always a potential — a set of instructions that only become sound when run, and that can behave differently each time depending on their internal randomness or dynamic control. This quality made it ideal for a work based on mutual unpredictability. Rather than memorizing cues, I had to listen — to her, to the system, to myself. The code became a map of possibility, not a prescription.

From a conceptual standpoint, using SuperCollider also reinforced the project’s commitment to process over product. The music did not exist outside of the moment; it was not a soundtrack, but an action. It was written live, rewritten in rehearsal, deformed by space, stretched by breath. The system was never finished — only iterated, listened to, argued with. This kept the work open, porous, vulnerable.

Some might argue that this approach risks chaos — and indeed, it did. There were moments when the system became too dense, when a mistake in code disrupted the flow, when the logic of the patch led somewhere unexpected. But these moments, too, became part of the method. They demanded responsiveness. They reminded us that collaboration means not only control but care — an attentiveness to the shared field of expression, even when it behaves unexpectedly.

In the end, SuperCollider was not a tool I used to shape Janhavi’s movement, nor a background track for her dancing. It was a third presence, a volatile partner, a carrier of tensions and invitations. It offered not precision, but possibility. It asked questions rather than delivering answers.

On the Role of Intuition

Throughout the collaborative process and particularly in the live shaping of the piece, intuition emerged as a central agent—not as an ineffable or mystical force, but as a mode of embodied, situated knowledge. In line with Giordano’s reflections in The Emerging Sense, intuition can be understood as a form of pre-verbal knowing that arises from the body’s constant negotiation with the world. Rather than operating in opposition to rationality, it functions as a continuous synthesis of perception, memory, attention, and micro-decisions. In our case, intuition played a crucial role in navigating moments where predetermined structures faded and responsiveness took over: a glance, a breath, a shift in weight could trigger a sonic decision, and vice versa.

Similarly, Henrik Frisk, in Sound Intuition, proposes that intuition is not merely a passive reception of ‘inspiration’, but an active practice of listening and anticipating, refined through repetition, failure, and attention. His notion of “sound intuition” points to the musician’s ability to respond in real time to complex, often ambiguous auditory stimuli—not just reacting, but co-shaping the unfolding sonic field. In this light, the performer becomes a kind of sensorium, constantly decoding subtle cues and reorganizing them into meaningful action. This resonates deeply with our experience: many of the most powerful moments in the work emerged not from pre-planned alignments but from intuitive responses—temporal syncs that could never be written, but only lived.

A further source of inspiration came from Frödin and Unander-Scharin’s project FRAGMENTE2 (2024), a richly layered exposition published on the Research Catalogue. The work explores the notion of fragmentation not as rupture, but as a generative aesthetic strategy—one that allows multiple media, temporalities, and embodied gestures to coexist in a non-hierarchical constellation. Particularly compelling is their use of voice, movement, and interactive technology to create hybrid performative environments where meaning emerges through accumulation, contrast, and intuitive resonance rather than linear development. This approach resonated deeply with my own interest in shaping open, dialogical structures in which dancer and musician co-construct the moment through presence, attention, and divergence.

Ultimately, intuition in this context was neither a fallback from planning nor an excuse for vagueness, but a precision tool for navigating the uncertain, the unstable, the emergent. It allowed both dancer and musician to act with trust in the moment, to shape form without the need to predict it entirely. Intuition thus became a methodology—situated, iterative, and inherently collaborative.

Janhavi about intuition

Conclusion

In undertaking this collaboration between experimental electronic music and Odissi dance, my initial question has unfolded into a broader inquiry about presence, reciprocity, and artistic knowledge. What I had first framed as a dialogue between two media — movement and sound — revealed itself to be something far more complex and multilayered: a negotiation between temporalities, between cultural systems, between different types of performance. Rather than offering a singular answer, the work has opened a space of resonance, one in which multiple layers of meaning, affect, and lineage intersect without collapsing into fusion. In this shared space, contradiction was not a problem to solve, but a field to inhabit.

Janhavi about “How do you feel your practice can relate to mine?” Pt.1, Pt.2

The project affirmed the generative potential of asymmetry. Rather than aiming for an artificial parity between our practices, we embraced our differences. Odissi’s use of the entire body as a semiotic field, stood in stark contrast to my abstract, algorithmic sound structures, mediated through machines. Yet it was precisely in this contrast that dialogue emerged. The friction was not an obstacle; it was the site of energy. By refusing to collapse into similarity, we preserved the richness of encounter. The work of Andrée Grau reminds us that true intercultural collaboration is not about flattening differences but sustaining the tension of the incommensurable, holding it gently, without seeking immediate resolution.

The implications of this project extend beyond the immediate context of performance. They touch on larger questions of intercultural collaboration, technological embodiment, and the nature of artistic knowledge. In a time where cultural appropriation is rightly under scrutiny, this project suggests one possibility of ethical engagement: not by “borrowing” elements from an art of a distant culture, but by entering into sustained dialogue with practitioners of that art, allowing each voice to shape the other. This requires humility, slowness, and above all, trust. It also requires the ability to sit with discomfort — to accept that certain gestures may not be fully understood, and that some aspects of the tradition must remain opaque.

Moreover, the piece suggests that digital and “analogic” practices need not be in opposition. The SuperCollider environment, with its emphasis on process and emergence, proved to be a surprisingly apt counterpart to Odissi’s emphasis on gesture, flow, and narrative arc. Both are temporal forms; both rely on repetition, variation, and attention. The notion that code is “cold” or “disembodied” is challenged when one sees how its outputs become read by a human body as emotional cues. Likewise, the idea that tradition is “fixed” or “inflexible” dissolves when one sees how a dancer like Janhavi uses its forms to generate new meanings in unfamiliar contexts. Our collaboration demonstrates that it is not the tools themselves, but the relationships we build around them, that determine their expressive capacity.

Looking ahead, there are many possible extensions of this work. Technically, I would like to develop a more sophisticated reactive system in SuperCollider that can respond to live movement data — perhaps using sensors or even biosignals — allowing for an even tighter feedback loop between sound and gesture. Compositionally, I would like to explore other formal models derived from Indian music, not to replicate them, but to inspire new temporal strategies. Collaboratively, I am curious to see how this method would evolve with other forms of dance (e.g. classical ballet).

Thematically, I am drawn to the idea of continuing the “repertoire without gods” that Janhavi described in one of our meetings. This does not mean secularizing the sacred, but rather expanding the scope of what can be considered worthy of performance: personal stories, ecological grief, speculative futures, states of mind. Odissi — like all living traditions — contains within it the seeds of transformation. Our work together is one small sprout from that soil. And yet, in that small gesture, I feel the possibility of a larger movement — one that is not about replacing tradition with technology, but about creating spaces where they can breathe together.

In closing, I return to the image of the air. We moved it, shaped it, disturbed it. We listened to its response. We allowed it to carry signals between us. And in that shared field — neither hers nor mine — something unexpected emerged. Not a fusion, not a hybrid, not a compromise. But a duet. Two tongues, two voices. Spoken in air. And perhaps, if we have done our work well, it will keep speaking — in someone else’s breath, someone else’s gesture, somewhere beyond our frame.

Bibliography

Cassio, F. (2000). Percorsi della voce. Storia e tecniche esecutive del canto dhrupad nella musica classica dell’India del nord. Ut Orpheus Edizioni.

Frisk, H. (2025). Sound Intuition. Research Catalogue. https://www.researchcatalogue.net/profile/show-exposition?exposition=3025541

Frödin, K. & Unander-Scharin, Å. (2024). FRAGMENTE2. Research Catalogue. https://www.researchcatalogue.net/profile/show-exposition?exposition=2045845

Giordano, S. The Emerging Sense. Research Catalogue. https://www.researchcatalogue.net/profile/show-exposition?exposition=1220694

Grau, A. (1992). Intercultural Research in the Performing Arts: A Critical Review. Edinburgh University Press.

Jayadeva. (1982). Gītagovinda. Translated by G. Boccali. Adelphi