I conceived a [NONAME]-machine, or creation machine, as a prototype tool for generating new musical ideas by combining different artistic inputs in a cyclical process. Instead of relying solely on personal taste or reacting directly to others’ work, I wanted to break from familiar creative paths and uncover fresh perspectives. This theoretical device helps me disrupt habitual patterns—both in thinking and in composition—by introducing a structured sense of distance. Through this approach, various musical and personal identities can merge in surprising ways, encouraging further creation.
Although it’s still a work in progress, the creation machine’s basic function is straightforward: I gather elements (recordings, improvisations, textual fragments, or outside collaboration), layer them, and see what emerges. I can repeatedly feed new material into the system, reassembling older pieces and blending them with fresh contributions. This cyclical loop means each generation of results can become source material for the next round of experiments, creating a fluid, open-ended process.
I also view this machine as an aid to my own brain—another “physical and theoretical machine”—by disrupting familiar neural pathways. Rather than descending into chaos, I give the [NONAME]-machine just enough structure to anchor my creativity while leaving room for spontaneity. The outcome is an interplay between controlled unpredictability and directed exploration, encouraging me to keep pushing toward unfamiliar territory.
For me, this method reflects my belief that a robust creative process requires guiding constraints while also questioning what I take for granted. My [NONAME]-machine fulfills both: it shapes the environment via layered inputs yet allows for unplanned discoveries. It doesn’t generate finished works by itself but ignites my imagination, prompting ideas I might otherwise overlook.
Though the device lacks a definitive name, it owes much to the “cut-up” approach made famous by William Burroughs and Brion Gysin, who sliced and rearranged text and sound to expose unexpected connections. By repurposing and reconfiguring various materials—improvised tracks, words, sonic fragments—I often stumble on patterns that nudge me into new artistic territory.
Curated assembly from multiple random input
Test #1 – forced explorations, randomization as a disruptive element, not to complete, but to search for new
Early on it became evident that trust had to be included as a specific component in my work. It is the answer to knowing that music is “maximalized self-expression”.
If it really is, and it is, then how do I as an artist select “the best” from a range of variations?
I was at a concert with the marching band my kids play in, and I liked it. I liked it, because I trust everyone in the band to play to the best of their ability.
That’s key. This can be applied to everything. If you do something to the best of your ability, then nobody can argue it is not good enough.
As such, being used as a collaborative catalyst, you may simply say that trust is essential in allowing diverse backgrounds and skill sets to coexist productively. Each collaborator can contribute ideas at varying stages of development, and without rigid rules dictating how or when to respond, fear of wrongdoing is non-existant. This method ensures that unfamiliar concepts or methods are not immediately dismissed but explored to reveal other connections.
It's important to remember that in a creative setting, there can be many people, or just one person. If only one, you are collaborating with yourself, and it might be even harder to trust these thoughts themselves. To allow yourself not to shut an idea down before it’s fully examined. To make sure your own lack of confidence isn’t really hindering you from walking down a new route. To be aware that noone else needs to know that a silly and seemingly embarrasing idea that was the starting point.
In practice, trust functions as an implicit agreement to suspend judgment until new proposals has been fully tested. Unfinished sketches and rhythmic outlines can be shared openly, inviting adaptations that can often lead to unforeseen yet valuable outcomes. Critically, each participant can rely on personal judgment to decide when to guide, alter, or step back, balancing self-confidence with respect for whatever emerges.