Andy Emler piano Claude Tchamitchian double bass Eric Echampard drums Recorded July 17-18 and mixed July 21-22, 2026, by Gérard de Haro at Studios La Buissonne Mastering by Nicolas Baillard at La Buissonne Mastering Studios Steinway grand piano prepared and tuned by Sylvain Charles Produced by La Compagnie aime l’air, license to La Buissonne Label Artistic director Gérard de Haro for La Buissonne Label Release date: March 20, 2026
The second release on the La Buissonne label for 2026 returns to the ever-fertile terrain of pianist Andy Emler, whose singular compositional language has flourished across a wide range of ensembles, though perhaps nowhere with such distilled intimacy as in this trio alongside bassist Claude Tchamitchian and drummer Eric Echampard. Together, they move as a migratory organism, each gesture altering the trajectory of the next. The album unfolds as a study in divergence itself, a meditation on paths abandoned, rediscovered, then illuminated from impossible angles.
The title track arrives almost imperceptibly, soft-footed and lantern-lit. Piano chords sway between emotional climates, each voicing carrying the grain of uncertainty, as though Emler were testing the architecture of the room before fully stepping inside it. An arco bass line threads through the composition like smoke curling beneath a locked door, while cymbals glint overhead with the brittle shimmer of winter sunlight on river ice. Once Echampard enters in earnest, the horizon widens dramatically. Space itself appears to dilate. The trio suddenly resembles a flock lifting from dark water, each member catching a separate current while remaining bound to the same invisible compass. What emerges is trust of the highest order, proceeding with the calm authority of a river knowing precisely where the mountain ends.
Now that the emotional topography has been revealed, “Incipit” exhales into quieter territory. Its brevity carries the sensation of standing alone in a hallway after difficult news has settled into the walls. Emler allows silence to hover with unusual dignity. The pauses themselves seem composed, alive with suspended meaning. One begins to understand that this album concerns interior motion just as deeply as physical momentum. Beneath the trio’s precision lives something bruised, searching, profoundly human.
The cleverly titled “Drums habits die hard” pivots into kinetic terrain, giving Echampard ample room to fracture and reassemble pulse with characteristic elasticity. His rhythms stagger forward with the elegant imbalance of someone learning how to walk after catastrophe. Against this, Emler builds spiraling ostinatos that seem to rotate around hidden gravitational centers. The trio’s discipline becomes especially vivid here. Apparent hesitations reveal themselves as calculated feints. Sudden detours bloom into new emotional districts. The music behaves as memory itself, nonlinear yet uncannily coherent, forever discovering side streets beneath familiar maps. Sharp punctuation dissolves into tenderness without warning. Intimacy arrives carrying the scent of iron and rain.
Tchamitchian’s groundwork in “Enough,” opening with a magnificently tensile solo, feels painted in oil pastel and charcoal, dense with texture yet vulnerable to the touch. Emler enters carefully, his phrases drifting as chalk dust suspended in late afternoon light. A darker current gradually surfaces beneath the lyricism. Here the trio sketches the anatomy of dissolution, perhaps the ending of a relationship, perhaps the collapse of an older self that can no longer survive intact. One hears exhaustion breathing through the harmonies. Turmoil swells and recedes in long tidal motions until a fragile equilibrium returns. Survival becomes its own muted form of grace.
“The hard way” wrestles directly with the scars left behind. The writing tightens into intricate knots, rhythmic and harmonic tensions pulling against one another. Yet the trio never loses sight of release. Their improvisations carry the rough wisdom of travelers who understand that endurance rarely arrives adorned with triumph. Sometimes revelation limps into view wearing the clothes of failure. Sometimes conviction resembles solitude for a very long time. By the piece’s conclusion, the music has shed its bitterness and uncovered something steadier beneath it, an earned resilience untouched by sentimentality.
A brief interlude follows in “There is our way,” turning the pockets of expectation inside out. Private languages become briefly audible. Half-formed melodies drift through the composition as fragments of overheard prayer. The trio appears to glance at itself from a distance, examining the circuitry that has allowed this collective voice to endure through years of shared intuition and risk.
All of which leads naturally toward the apex of “Mess around the mood.” Deep piano arpeggios unfurl beside soaring arco passages that seem to lift the room several inches off its foundation. Expansive lyricism narrows into inward meditation, delicate cymbal textures flickering at the center of it all. Then comes the resolution, luminous and slow-burning, carrying the quiet exhilaration of dawn arriving after sleeplessness.
By the end, the title, There Is Another Way, reveals itself as more than a phrase of encouragement. It becomes a philosophical proposition. Emler and his trio seem less interested in certainty than in permeability, in the possibility that every apparent conclusion conceals an undiscovered passage. The music rejects the tyranny of fixed direction. It listens for hidden entrances beneath the mechanical repetitions that quietly govern ordinary life. Another way may not promise comfort or redemption in any simplistic sense. Rather, it suggests that existence itself remains unfinished, endlessly revisable, alive with corridors still dark enough to surprise us.
Judith Berkson voice, piano Trevor Dunn double bass Gerald Cleaver drums Recorded July 2021 Oktaven Audio Studio Mount Vernon, NY Engineer: Ryan Streber Cover: Fidel Sclavo Mastering: Christoph Stickel Album produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: April 24, 2026
Mezzo-soprano, pianist, composer, and improviser Judith Berkson returns to ECM with a compelling new trio project. Conceptual art, liturgical inquiry, chamber abstraction, and jazz formalism: each arrives carrying its own gravity, yet none bends submissively toward a central identity. To call Berkson “multifaceted” feels insufficient, flat in a way her music refuses to be. These practices do not orbit a core. They are neighboring rooms illuminated at different hours of the day. If her 2010 solo album Oylam fashioned a private syntax from fractured song, Thee They Thy inhabits the classical jazz trio format as though entering an ancestral home whose walls still remember fire. Longtime associate Gerald Cleaver joins on drums, alongside new recruit, bassist Trevor Dunn, making his ECM debut with the calm authority of someone stepping into a river already moving beneath his feet.
The album opens with “Slow,” a through-composed prelude that reveals itself with the cold shimmer of arithmetic carved into glass. Beneath its measured surfaces lies an unguarded study of human behavior and the invisible fissures where our most sacred opportunities collapse under the weight of hesitation. Berkson’s voice enters neither as narrator nor confessor. Rather, it touches every object it describes without claiming ownership of any of them. Her words retain an open voltage, charged enough to bring interpretation to its knees. Dissonances bloom at the edges of the arrangement as bruises darkening beneath pale skin, while the trio advances through the piece with the patience of astronomers mapping a dying star.
Then comes “V’shamru,” and the atmosphere pivots completely, as though the record has opened a hidden window inside itself. Berkson’s original cantorial song tears through the stale fabric of expectation, allowing something ancient and inward to cross our eyeline unscathed. Her voice recedes slightly into shadow, gathering resonance from depths untouched by performance instinct. The modal pianism moves tidally, lifting and withdrawing with ritual precision, while Dunn’s arco bass offers a second pair of lungs. For a fleeting instant, one hears an accidental ghost of Chopin’s “Minute Waltz,” though the resemblance dissolves just as quickly into stranger territory, somewhere between prayer and mirage. The words orient the music without pinning it down. Easts and wests gather around the instruments’ norths and souths, forming a compass that points nowhere stable, nowhere singular.
“Torque” returns the listener to geometric terrain. Berkson’s note choices leap and contort like ladders folding back into themselves, each rung briefly becoming a horizon before disappearing. Built around improvisations on 12-tone rows, the piece visualizes cognition in motion, thought discovering fresh corridors while the walls rearrange themselves. Cleaver’s drumming behaves almost tectonically here, creating subtle pressures beneath the trio’s surface language, while Dunn anchors the abstraction with a presence that feels carved from volcanic stone.
“Dust” follows with startling restraint. Based on 19th-century harmonic language yet rendered through a minimalist lens, it carries the quiet devastation of an emptied ballroom after the candles have consumed themselves. Every chord seems suspended in the air a moment too long, as though uncertain whether to continue existing. Berkson understands silence as a living material. She places it beside sound the way a painter leaves bare canvas exposed, permitting absence to complete the image.
“Cleav,” the lone non-Berkson composition, offers Gerald Cleaver a solitary expanse in which rhythm becomes autobiography. His solo drumming circles through traditions without settling permanently inside any of them. Earth tones dominate the piece. One hears soil breaking beneath rain, wood splintering under pressure, iron cooling after contact with flame. The piece possesses a rare humility. Nothing seeks transcendence. Everything seeks honesty. Even at its most expansive, the performance maintains the intimacy of someone speaking quietly to themselves in a dark field.
“Notice,” with its insistent refrain, is the album’s pulse point, while the scat-inspired title track reveals Berkson at her most untethered. Her vocalizations fracture syntax into pure muscular expression. Aphasia becomes a kind of integrity here, a refusal to allow meaning the comfort of fixed borders. Beneath her, the rhythm section creates a living lattice around the piano, supporting angular phrases as they skip and recoil through chains of miniature ascensions.
“Amerika” arrives as a vast instrumental plain of shifting sands and mirage heat. Without voice, the trio communicates through contour alone, and the silence left by absent lyrics becomes strangely eloquent. Dunn contributes one of the record’s most tender passages during his solo. The music evokes impressions without illustrating them directly. Empty highways at dusk. Electrical hum beneath motel signage. The loneliness of fluorescent light.
Voice and text return in “Slowly Walk Into It,” freely improvised alongside Berkson’s piano. The result resembles an anthem for unseen presences, the peripheral shadows trailing human life with patient hunger. Her singing here feels startlingly mortal. Words emerge half-formed, carrying the fragility of thoughts overheard inside dreams. Lastly, in “Sated,” stepwise motions drift through the scales while the vocal lines hover weightlessly above them, neither ascending nor descending so much as evaporating.
Throughout the album, Berkson never conceals her vulnerabilities. She wears them openly, transforming fracture into protection, uncertainty into method. Many singers pursue purity as though it were evidence of transcendence. Berkson seeks the sound of a soul rubbing against its own limitations.
And then there is the title. Three pronouns orbiting one another without grammatical completion, each gesturing toward identity while dissolving certainty around who speaks and who is spoken to. The sequence feels devotional and fragmented at once, intimate enough for liturgy, unstable enough for philosophy. Perhaps Berkson understands personhood itself as a kind of unfinished chord, forever shifting between self, other, and the unnamed force binding both together. Language spends centuries attempting to stabilize the human experience through categories and declarations. Music witnesses how quickly those structures soften in the presence of feeling. By the album’s end, Thee They Thy resembles a doorway left slightly open in the middle of the night, revealing nothing clearly, yet altering the entire shape of the darkness around it.
Elina Duni voice, percussion Rob Luft guitars, electronics Recorded June 2025 at Studios La Buissonne Engineer: Gérard de Haro Cover photo: Jean-Guy Lathuilière Mastering: Christoph Stickel Album produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: April 24, 2026
Stranger is the heart In the shadows it has grown apart Lonely dancer, lonely lark Your song is lost, adrift from the start
For her sixth foray into the ever-expanding territory of ECM records, singer Elina Duni returns alongside her most intuitive counterpart, guitarist Rob Luft, shaping a shared breath sustained across time. This meeting dispenses with the quartet format of their previous studio collaborations and settles into a two-person orbit, where every gesture carries even greater weight of intention. The result is a listening experience in which language itself becomes a constellation, each tongue a different shade of twilight, flickering against the dark. Italian, French, English, Albanian, and Arabic drift as migrating birds, presence the invisible translator between them.
The title track by Irving Berlin already bears the fingerprints of history, yet here it sheds its familiarity. Luft lays down chords that feel weathered by recall, soft as footsteps on a path that no longer exists, while Duni’s voice rises in quiet illumination. There is a sensation of recognition without name, of sketching a horizon that recedes as one approaches, inviting pursuit rather than arrival.
From this invocation, “Cammina Cammina,” by Italian singer-songwriter Pino Daniele, deepens the album’s nocturnal terrain. The old man it pictures wandering through the past becomes less a character than a mirror held up to the listener’s own sediment of experience. Duni traces his solitude with exquisite restraint, allowing each syllable to carry the weight of absence. The moonlight here feels tangible, something one might gather in the hands only to watch it dissolve. Luft bends toward fragility, his phrases hovering at the edge of dissolution.
The duo’s thematic commitment is further unraveled in “Les Berceaux.” This setting of René-François Sully-Prudhomme to the music of Gabriel Fauré embodies the rocking motion of its title (French for “The Cradles”), allowing us respite in the warmth of a lullaby. Speaking of lullabies, we are treated to two further examples of this ancient art. First is “Leili Lullaby” by Mahsa Vahdat, the astronomically talented Persian singer in whose lineage I might easily place Duni in terms of psychological acuity and somatic transferrence, breathes with a rhythm all its own. Second is “Sleep Safe and Warm” by Krzysztof Komeda, a haunting piece of art from Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby that, despite being relieved of its cinematic veneer, reminds us that a mother’s song is sung only to become a memory in her eventual absence. The latter is paired with “Yumeji’s Theme” by Shigeru Umebayashi, which references the 1991 Seijun Suzuki film, Yumeji. Both are offered with Duni’s voice as pure instrument.
Two Kosovar songs introduce the pulse of the earth. “Ani More Nuse” conveys vitality, its rhythmic foundation grounding the album’s more ethereal tendencies. Duni’s percussion adds a tactile dimension, a reminder of the body’s presence within this otherwise weightless landscape. “Zambaku I Prizrenit” by composer Akil Koci blooms with a different energy, its melodic contours unfolding under an unseen sun. Luft navigates its modal terrain with a sense of curiosity.
Three originals serve as emotional waypoints within this journey. “Foolish Flame” flickers with restless energy, its chromatic lines tracing the unpredictable path of desire. There is vulnerability here, though it is not offered as confession but as an open question. “Magnolia” answers with certainty, a rootedness that feels earned rather than assumed. The voice carries a newfound steadiness, an acceptance of the self’s shifting contours. “Your Arms” extends this feeling outward, exploring the architecture of intimacy. Luft’s solo glows with the warmth of a fire one might sit beside in the depths of winter.
The inevitable farewell comes in the form of “Lonely Woman.” The Ornette Coleman standard, paired with lyrics by Margo Guryan, brings us back into the fold of night, allowing the hesitations of life to wander free from the trappings of the flesh, so that they might achieve the spiritual journeying that human ways so often tarnish.
Throughout, there are moments when Duni abandons words altogether, allowing vocalese to emerge as a self-sustaining channel of communication. These passages offer glimpses into fragments of thought and feeling that resist translation. Luft’s subtly altered arpeggios lay down tectonic plates beneath them, creating a sense of movement even in stillness. It is here that the album reveals its deepest truth, not as a statement but as an experience.
Ultimately, we are left with a sensation akin to standing beneath a sky so vast it erases the boundaries of the self. Indeed, music invites a willingness to dissolve into something larger, where the distinction between listener and sound becomes irrelevant. What remains is the fragile yet enduring glow of a star whose light continues long after its source has vanished.
Images often arrive clothed in certainty. They glide across the eye with a quiet authority, suggesting that what is seen is whole and already understood. The world appears to organize itself within the frame, its contradictions softened, its fractures sealed beneath a luminous surface. Yet this coherence is a delicate fiction. Beneath it, something restless persists, a tremor that resists being made smooth. Peter Tscherkassky’s cinema lives in that tremor. His creations expose the fragility of suspended disbelief, allowing the image to stutter in recognizance.
Emerging from the lineage of the Austrian avant-garde, Tscherkassky has always treated film as both medium and wound. His practice, grounded in the physical manipulation of celluloid, fevers his gaze. He dissects footage with a tactile intensity, pushing it toward states of convulsion and rupture.
In Aderlaß (Blood-Letting, 1981), the screen opens into a darkness that feels less like absence than anticipation. Sound arrives first, jagged and insistent, as if the apparatus itself were clearing its throat. The question “What language do you speak?” reverberates not as inquiry but as accusation. Communication falters, dissolving into laughter that feels almost violent. Here, the moving image becomes an act of self-interrogation, a ritual of undoing. The invocation of “murder as the only real artwork” lingers not as provocation alone but as a symptom of artistic despair. Blood seeps into the frame, not metaphor but material. One begins to wonder whether movement produces film or whether film produces movement. What remains in this interrogation is a flicker that feels terminal, witness to its own extinction.
With Liebesfilm (Film of Love, 1982), Tscherkassky turns to intimacy, albeit stripped of fulfillment. A kiss approaches endlessly, rehearsed 522 times without consummation. Desire becomes mechanical, an algorithm of longing caught in a loop. Each repetition erodes meaning yet intensifies sensation. Love reveals itself as a structure of hesitation, a choreography of almosts. The bodies lean toward each other, again and again, yet never arrive. What should be a culmination becomes a suspension. The male gaze lingers in that gap, feeding on deferral. Lips remain unlocked, not out of restraint but because closure would end the system that sustains them.
Urlaubsfilm (Holiday Film, 1983) complicates the act of looking more directly. A woman moves through a field, undressing with a gesture that might initially invite voyeuristic comfort. But then, her gaze meets the camera, and with it, the viewer. The illusion fractures. To look is suddenly to be seen looking. The image begins to mutate and open portals within itself. A second frame emerges like an eyelid lifting from the surface. Gradually, visibility recedes. Flesh dissolves into abstraction. What remains is not the body but its residue, held precariously in memory. The gaze loses its object and confronts its own voraciousness.
By the time we reach tabula rasa (1989), the gaze has become predatory. Cowboys lurk in the brush, archetypes of surveillance and control, their attention sharpened to a point. Yet what they see refuses coherence. The image slips and folds into textures that evade recognition. Skin becomes landscape. Cloth becomes terrain. The female body, when it appears, resists fixation. She is neither subject nor object but a shifting locus of desire that cannot be pinned down. The camera reveals itself as complicit, even parasitic, driven by a hunger that consumes its own vision.
This trajectory finds a kind of culmination in The Exquisite Corpus (2015), a work that gathers decades of experimentation into a dense, almost tidal structure. Drawing from found footage, including a 1960s nudist film, Tscherkassky constructs a landscape where bodies and film stock merge into a single unstable organism. A couple sails toward an island, though their arrival feels illusory. A thunderclap fractures the image before frames multiply, invert, and overlay themselves in a choreography of excess. Flesh becomes pattern. Movement becomes echo. Erotic gestures lose their charge, not through repression but through saturation. The more the body is shown, the less it can be possessed.
Natural elements intrude. Leaves, flowers, woven textures. These are not mere decorations but reminders that cinema, too, is subject to decay and transformation, even as it pulses like a living thing. Tscherkassky’s frame-by-frame method becomes a form of devotion, an insistence on tactile reality. In an era of digital smoothness, he retains the scars of the past, resisting the flattening of experience into seamless flow.
Across these works, the POV is never stable. It shifts from voyeur to participant, from observer to accomplice. It reveals itself as constructed, fractured, and, above all, unreliable. Tscherkassky implicates the viewer in the act of looking, exposing the desires and violences embedded within it. What emerges is not simply a critique of representation but a reconfiguration of perception itself. The films suggest that seeing is always entangled with absence, that every image carries within it the trace of what cannot be shown.
And perhaps this is where Tscherkassky’s work ultimately leads beyond myth and beyond even the body. The gaze, stripped of its certainties, becomes something quieter and more elusive. Not a tool of mastery, nor a site of pleasure, but a fragile relation to the unknown. To look is to risk losing the ground beneath perception. To see is to encounter the limits of seeing. In that encounter, something almost philosophical stirs. Not an answer, not a conclusion, but a question that lingers like an afterimage, asking what it means to inhabit a world that cannot be fully brought into view.
When entering ITERAE, we realize that it has already entered us. In this realm of post-glitch and digital bliss, an unsettling current draws us inward, threading its way through our attention until we no longer stand outside it. By the time orientation falters, we have already been absorbed into its matrix. This first collaboration between Joseph Branciforte and Jozef Dumoulin feels less like a beginning than a recognition, as though the music had been forming elsewhere long before it reached our ears. The eight-part work makes room for whatever meanings we bring to it, yet those meanings do not remain intact. They splinter, becoming granular, each shard holding its own quiet tremor.
Although the sounds are free-flowing and, for all intents and purposes, “abstract,” something organic guides their unfolding. There is a sense of inevitability that breathes through the music, as if each gesture were the continuation of an unseen process. Both performers have examined the inner workings of the Fender Rhodes with an intimacy that borders on anatomical devotion. Branciforte approaches from a cerebral vantage, tracing circuitry and signal, while Dumoulin leans into resonance and touch. Their shared immersion in improvisation suggests a practice that listens as much as it acts. Electroacoustic molecules begin to feel like carriers of a subtler vitality, and what emerges, though rooted in the present, carries a strange immunity to time.
With an instrument each at their disposal, they shape and process their sounds in distinct ways, allowing differences to coexist without friction. Branciforte’s live editing system introduces another dimension, folding moments back into themselves so that traces of what has just passed continue to sing within what is becoming. The effect is neither nostalgic nor recursive in a conventional sense. Memory behaves more like a living texture, constantly reabsorbed into the present. Across 70 minutes, a broader tapestry takes form, one that does not declare its structure outright yet reveals a continuity of reception. By the end, something in us aligns more closely with itself, though the nature of that alignment resists easy articulation.
What’s astonishingly heartfelt about this record is the unforced way in which it unfolds. Each shift of color, light, and texture feels intentional without ever seeming imposed. The music often takes on a visual quality, as though it were painting in slow motion across an inner field of perception. At certain points, the effect is hymnal, repetition carrying a quiet sense of ritual that feels open rather than doctrinal. Elsewhere, the atmosphere turns distinctly technological, articulating patterns that seem native to machines yet remain accessible to human feeling. While Branciforte and Dumoulin could easily construct overwhelming densities, their attention turns toward the interstices, the fine cracks where detail becomes a form of revelation.
Skips and starts establish a kind of pulse, though one that resists regularity. In the spaces where expectation wavers, something almost biological begins to stir, hovering between unease and resolution, never fully committing to either. As the sonic architecture takes on a more metallic sheen, a subtle shift occurs in its sensory character. There is a taste to it, faintly coppery, as if the sound itself were brushing against the elemental conditions from which life emerges. This grounding in the fundamental gives the less anchored passages a surprising sense of familiarity.
The continuity of the work remains one of its quiet marvels. Emotional currents, physical responses, and fragments of memory intertwine in ways that feel both intimate and expansive. The initial unsettlement does not disappear, yet it softens as the music offers points of illumination along the way. There is always a sense of contact, as though the sound remains attuned to our capacity to receive it. Nothing is pushed beyond reach, even when clarity seems just out of grasp.
When rhythms become more defined, they resemble presences moving alongside one another rather than structures imposed from above. Listening begins to feel like watching language dissolve into color, each shade carrying a meaning that cannot be translated back into words. Melodic gestures arise from the digital substrate as complete entities, already aware of their own contours. Direction loses its usual significance, and the distinction between forward and backward begins to blur.
Near the end, distortion enters with a subtle insistence, though it never threatens to overwhelm. Instead, it refines the material, drawing out a clarity that feels paradoxically linked to decay. Each iteration preserves a certain purity, suggesting an affection for entropy rather than a resistance to it.
Natascia Gazzana violin Raffaella Gazzana piano Recorded February 2025, Reitstadel Neumarkt Engineer: Markus Heiland Mixed September 2025 by Manfred Eicher and Michael Hinreiner (engineer) Cover photo: Michael Kenna Produced by Manfred Eicher Release date: April 17, 2026
Since 2011, Duo Gazzana have occupied a rarefied space within the ECM New Series realm, where sound is uncovered as a relic from beneath layers of listening. Across their previous recordings, the sisters Natascia and Raffaella have cultivated a language of intimacy that resists spectacle, drawing the ear inward, toward a threshold where precision meets vulnerability. Their artistry thrives not on assertion but on trust, a quiet confidence that what is essential will endure without artifice.
This latest album extends that ethos while threading it through a program shaped by endurance, fracture, and the fragile grace of survival. The chosen composers speak across time not through stylistic unity but through shared confrontation with hardship. As Stefano Carucci observes in his booklet essay, these figures, despite their divergent origins and trajectories, all encountered forms of sociopolitical suffering that threatened to silence them, and yet found in music a passageway beyond constraint. What emerges, then, is not merely a collection of works but a meditation on resilience. Each piece becomes a chamber where pressure resonates.
Sergei Prokofiev (1891–1953) Sonata for Violin and Piano No. 1 in f minor, op. 80
Written under the oppressive weight of the Stalinist regime, interrupted by war, and completed in 1946, this sonata bears the imprint of a mind navigating both external censorship and internal unrest. The opening Andante assai does not so much begin as seep into being. The piano murmurs from its lower depths, a shadowed resonance that seems to remember something it cannot name. The violin responds with a tremor, not quite a voice yet no longer silenced. Their exchange unfolds like a fragile correspondence between distant selves, each phrase arriving slightly worn by travel.
Textures accumulate slowly, their friction almost tactile. One senses thought grinding against itself. Then, unexpectedly, a glint of irony surfaces, a crooked smile glimpsed through fog. The piano drifts into an impressionistic shimmer, while the violin traces an erratic line above, a figure balancing along a fence that refuses stability. A final whisper of pizzicato settles the air before the Allegro brusco asserts its presence, not with brute force but with a taut clarity that holds its ground. The Gazzanas render this movement with astonishing poise, maintaining a paradoxical separation. It feels as though violin and piano inhabit parallel rooms, their dialogue conducted through walls that neither obstruct nor reveal entirely.
The subsequent Andante opens a window. A stream appears, modest and unassuming, its flow uninterrupted by spectacle. Yet even here, unease lingers beneath the surface. The music twists subtly, its beauty edged with something watchful. By the time the Allegrissimo erupts, the earlier calm reveals itself as prelude rather than respite. Motion accelerates into a language of leaps and surges, returning to earlier motifs not as closure but as transformation. The ending resists finality. It suggests continuation beyond hearing, as though the sonata persists in some unseen dimension, spiraling outward long after the last vibration fades.
After such intensity, the arrival of Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel feels like stepping into a space where time loosens its grip. This work, among the first articulations of Pärt’s tintinnabuli style, invites a relinquishing of self. The performers become vessels rather than agents, their gestures stripped of excess until only essence remains. The piano’s arpeggios unfold with crystalline patience, while the violin sustains a line that seems to hover between presence and absence.
In this interpretation, the Gazzanas uncover a depth that resists articulation. The music breathes within a threshold where the physical dissolves into the ineffable. It carries the faint suggestion of something sacred, not declared but intimated. Each note appears as if reflected in another, a mirror that does not duplicate but reveals hidden dimensions. The simplicity is deceptive. Beneath it lies an infinite regress, each tone containing the seed of another, extending endlessly into silence.
Prokofiev Five Melodies, op. 35a
Originally conceived as vocalises for soprano and piano in 1920 and later transcribed for violin, these miniatures form a bridge between tradition and innovation. They are concise yet expansive, each piece a self-contained world that flickers into being and vanishes before it can be fully grasped. The Gazzanas approach them with a sensitivity that honors their dual nature.
The second melody stands out in particular. Its opening pizzicato gestures evoke a tactile immediacy, as though the music were being plucked directly from the air. The flowing ostinato that follows transforms this grounded beginning into something buoyant, almost dance-like. Yet the energy never settles into predictability. It shifts, folds inward, then reemerges with altered contours. The final Andante non troppo balances restraint and exuberance, its voice alternating between whisper and exclamation. The conclusion does not resolve so much as dissolve into a state of luminous equilibrium.
Alfred Schnittke (1934–1998) Gratulationsrondo
Schnittke’s polystylistic language introduces a different kind of tension. Here, contrasts are not reconciled but allowed to coexist in uneasy proximity. Familiar gestures are tinged with unease, while dissonance acquires an unexpected radiance. The Gazzanas navigate this terrain with a delicacy that reveals the work’s inner vulnerability. Beneath its shifting surfaces lies a candid exposure, as though the music has shed its defenses and stands unguarded before the listener.
What ultimately defines Duo Gazzana’s performance throughout this album is a quality that might be called bareness, though the term hardly captures its fullness. Their playing does not impose meaning. It creates space for meaning to emerge. Each phrase feels unencumbered by expectation, as if the music were discovering itself in real time. Their sisterly connection is evident, yet it is not the focal point. Rather, it is the organic foundation upon which a more profound dialogue unfolds.
And perhaps this is where the album leaves us. Not with answers, nor even with questions, but with a shift in how we attend to sound itself. These works, shaped by hardship and carried forward through fragile persistence, remind us that music is not merely an object of listening. It is a mode of being, a way in which experience transforms into something that can be shared without being diminished. In the end, what lingers is not the echo of suffering but the realization that even in silence, something continues to resonate. Whether we call it memory, spirit, or simply presence, it carries us forward with hope.
Before anything gathers into form, there is a trembling that does not yet belong to sight, a faint stirring within shadow, as though feeling out the air. What emerges is neither absence nor void, but a density without edges, a field in which something waits without voicing itself. Out of this condition, images condense, hesitate, and drift, carrying with them the sense that they could just as easily recede.
Sleep Has Her House unfolds within this threshold. Rather than presenting a world, it allows one to waver into partial visibility, as though seeing were a fragile event, never fully secured. Movement breathes in long, patient intervals. Light gathers slowly, then loosens, while darkness continues as part of a rhythm with no discernible beginning, only a quiet persistence.
To think of images as things that simply show is to miss the instability at their core. They gather surfaces where perception bends, folds, and slips into itself. What appears carries no fixed boundary. Forms arrive as tremors rather than certainties, flickering into provisional being through an uneasy negotiation between light, duration, and attention.
Filmmaker Scott Barley’s practice is one of attunement, dispersing attention across a field where nothing claims priority. No figure guides the gaze, no arc gathers momentum. Encounters drift into one another with an intimacy that remains strangely indifferent, as though what unfolds were aware of our presence yet entirely unconcerned with it. Nature and cosmology linger less as themes than as atmospheres, conditions in which images gather and dissolve.
The camera ceases to function as an instrument directed outward and instead becomes embedded within what it perceives, a reflexive organ sensing its own act of sensing. Vision loses its hierarchy. Every element hovers on the same trembling plane, significance and insignificance phasing without resistance.
Disorientation never quite arrives. Instead, what fades is the assumption that orientation was ever stable to begin with. In astronomy, averted vision allows faint stars to appear by shifting the gaze slightly aside. Direct sight proves too blunt, too saturated with expectation. The peripheral regions of the eye receive what the center cannot hold.
These images ask for that oblique attention. Meaning glimmers at the margins, appearing only to recede. Darkness becomes both method and substance, a space to inhabit rather than penetrate. Within it, forms hesitate into being: a valley pulses with a faint, unstable strobe as the sensor strains against its limits; mist thickens into a surface that reflects without resolving; an owl lingers in a silence that stretches until it hums.
Jakob von Uexküll’s notion of Umwelt finds an unexpected echo here. Each organism inhabits a world shaped by its relations, a world lived rather than possessed. The apparatus begins to suggest such a realm of its own, raising the question of what it perceives when left alone, and what relations form between grain and the slow erosion of light.
Shot over four days on an iPhone 6, then extended across 16 months through post-production processes that blur the line between motion, stillness, and drawn intervention, the film becomes a layered field. Each image carries the residue of multiple gestures. These layers unfold from within, as though the image were recalling itself into being.
Time resists compression. Events do not assert themselves; instead, conditions gather and disperse. Thus, the viewer is drawn into a circuit where perception gives rise to the image, and the image, in turn, alters perception, an exchange without clear origin or conclusion.
A sense of haunting settles as atmosphere. Light withdraws, leaving behind zones usually passed over behind closed eyes: afterimages that flicker at the threshold of rest, a faint luminescence that persists even when illumination seems absent. These phenomena have always been present, quietly registered and quickly dismissed. Here, dismissal becomes impossible.
The familiar begins to shift under the pressure of sustained attention. A waterfall emerges first as a distant murmur, then as a slow insistence that feels remembered rather than heard. Rock opens its wound, receiving and releasing in the same movement. Water, shadow, and something that cannot be named blend in fragile equilibrium.
Two animals gaze into the dark. Their presence offers no explanation. Their calls dissolve into wind, into distance, into a trace that lingers without resolution. A horse’s eye fills the frame, rain sliding across its surface in delicate, transient paths. The gaze passes through or beyond, as though we occupy a position that cannot be fully perceived.
Trees rise and fall in respiration, each trunk a vertical inhalation, each branch an exhaled uncertainty tracing the air. A lifeless deer rests with a stillness that refuses transformation, its form functioning as a density of matter returning to quiet dispersion. The forest offers no acknowledgment. It neither absorbs nor rejects; it simply continues, carrying within it the slow work of decay and renewal, processes so gradual they dissolve into a single continuous gesture.
Above, stars fracture the sky into granular tremblings. Clouds drift with a weight that feels almost intentional, as though bearing something that cannot arrive, their movement both aimless and exact. Then the sun breaks through with pressure, an overwhelming saturation that presses against the limits of form.
Night returns in long, measured intervals, gathering thought the way night gathers moisture, condensing it into something fragile and momentary. Each withdrawal of light folds back into its own interior. What follows is a thickening.
Sound moves through these images as a quiet force of disturbance. Wind unsettles the trees, bending them into slow, reluctant gestures. Water expands beyond the limits of any attempts to contain it. The camera listens. Light becomes something that resonates rather than reveals. Seeing drifts toward a tactile sensing in which vision no longer dominates but pulses and recedes without hierarchy.
Nothing resolves into memory as something fixed or retrievable. What remains is a condition. The world now feels less certain, as though chemically softened, forms loosening their agreement to remain what they are.
Somewhere just beyond attention, something persists. It does not gather into shape or ask to be known. It lingers as a force without location, a presence that surrounds the space where we might be. It watches without eyes, listens without ears, as if perception itself had slipped free of its objects and continued, alone, in the dark.
It is tempting, almost reflexive, to speak of an artist’s output as a body of work, as though its existence depends on assembly, arrangement, and, ultimately, externalization. Meanwhile, Phil Solomon’s cinema metabolizes audiovisuality at its most internal. His films are residues of contact, impressions left where perception has brushed against the world and recoiled. They seep from life, haunted by the fragile choreography between presence and disappearance.
Born in 1954, Solomon came of age artistically at SUNY Binghamton in the 1970s, studying under figures such as Ken Jacobs and Peter Kubelka, whose engagements with the materiality of film left an indelible mark. His own sensibility, however, slips beyond questions of influence. It pursues a kind of inverse archaeology, digging toward a vanishing point of the medium. Though often associated with found footage, even that term falters under scrutiny. As Eve Heller suggests, what he found remained inseparable from what had already been lost. His images carry the weight of retrieval, though never restoration. They arrive wounded, already slipping away.
This INDEX edition, gathering his final works, reveals a fascination with largely digital environments while remaining tethered to the tactile ghosts of celluloid. Solomon’s engagement with video games, particularly the Grand Theft Auto franchise, delineates sites of profound reorientation. These virtual landscapes, designed for velocity and spectacle, are slowed, hollowed, and made to mourn what he once called “the inevitable ineffable,” a phrase that captures a peculiar sort of alchemy. Seemingly disparate elements coalesce into something uncannily coherent, insofar as it exerts pressure toward a center that cannot be named.
Crossroad (2005) inaugurates this phase with an unresolved chord. GTA’s protagonist, CJ, drifts through rain and foliage, accompanied by an impossibly floating bouquet of flowers devoid of recipient. Everything hums faintly around him. Thunder cracks. A train sounds in the distance. Nothing answers his movement. He runs, stops, waits, stretches his limbs as if testing the fact of his own existence. The environment offers only indifferent signals. A bird crosses the sky. A plane cuts overhead. These nods to continuity are almost cruel, reminders that life persists elsewhere, just beyond reach.
Solomon’s collaborator for this project was his dear friend Mark LaPore, who died suddenly shortly after its completion. What follows in In Memoriam (Mark LaPore) unfolds as an extended meditation, stretched across three works drawing deeper from the well they tapped in GTA. In Rehearsals for Retirement, the digital realm saturates with grief. Rain falls with unnatural persistence. Acts are interrupted, deferred, dissolved into blackness before they can resolve into purpose. A hearse glides through fields where wheat stalks pierce its interior, a glitch that reads less like error and more like revelation. The laws of nature bend, fracture, and rearrange themselves, yet death remains unaltered, immovable, the single constant in a system otherwise given to distortion.
Last Days in a Lonely Place expands this desolation outward, layering fragments of dialogue from Rebel Without a Causeagainst a world emptied of its inhabitants. The cosmos looms with indifferent permanence. A cinema marquee stands blank, awaiting spectators who will never return. Figures drift toward one another but never meet, their trajectories misaligned by forces that remain unseen. Machines operate without operators. Vehicles sink without resistance. The environment continues going through the motions, stripped of intention. Meaning has migrated elsewhere, leaving behind a mere scaffolding of function.
In Still Raining, Still Dreaming, Solomon turns his gaze toward the overlooked margins of the game’s architecture. Spaces designed to be passed through become sites of prolonged attention. A magician performs for no one. Pedestrians move without identity, their individuality folded into patterns without flesh. Sound drifts in and out of earshot, marking an internal logic that resists interpretation yet insists on affect. What players once bypassed in pursuit of action becomes, under Solomon’s eye, the true locus of experience.
John Powers writes that these works mourn not only LaPore but also the passing of film as a material form, the replacement of chemistry with code. Solomon’s digital skins nevertheless bear the scars of physical media, their anomalies echoing the traumatic memory of scratches and burns in bygone emulsion layers. An underlying inquiry remains: What does it mean to fend for oneself in a context already at odds with itself?
This question finds a different articulation in Psalm IV: Valley of the Shadow (2013), where Solomon turns to the Elder Scrolls universe of Skyrim, stripping away characters to leave behind a landscape without bloodshed. The voiceover, drawn from John Huston’s adaptation of James Joyce’s “The Dead,” drapes the eyes and ears in inexorable meditations. Snow falls. Mist gathers. A lone figure moves through a forest that seems to recede the more it is perceived. An icon whispering to itself, an object of contemplation that resists interpretation even as it invites it.
The Emblazoned Apparitions returns to analog processes, though not as a gesture of nostalgia. Here, a molecular transformation implodes, turning the familiar into abstraction (and vice versa). The tunnel motif recurs, suggestive of both passage and enclosure, a space that leads forward while folding inward. Film reveals itself as an artifact of entropy that documents what it records along with its own disintegration. Technology thus becomes inseparable from mortality, each frame a testament to impermanence.
Across these works, Solomon’s cinema resists containment. It offers no conventional narratives, yet it avoids pure abstraction. It occupies an unstable territory between states, hovering on the brink of recognition and dissolution. His legacy lies in a mode of attention, an insistence on lingering where others would move on, on dwelling within the unresolved.
To encounter these films is to be drawn into a space where time loosens its grip, where cause and effect give way to something more diffuse. In this sense, Solomon’s work persists as a kind of afterimage, a presence that remains even after the screen goes dark. Perhaps it resides there, in a space where seeing becomes indistinguishable from remembering, and remembering from forgetting, until even those distinctions dissolve into something more elemental, a flicker without origin, a trace without end.
Across the canvas of Austrian avant-garde cinema, where names such as Kubelka and Kren have long been rendered in sharp, declarative strokes, the work of Moucle Blackout flickers with a quieter, though no less vibrant radiance. Her work breathes in a mirrored room, only to be released again in altered form. To encounter her oeuvre is to step into a field of delicate resistances, where form unsettles authority and vision unfolds through a patient, almost subterranean insistence.
Born Christiane Engländer in 1935, she embarked on her creative self-examinations through sculpture and design. As Brigitta Burger-Utzer observes, she moved within the orbit of the Vienna Group during its formative years, witnessing a burgeoning experimental culture that, despite its radical aspirations, remained curiously closed to women. While the men gathered, wrote, filmed, and declared, she watched, listened, and absorbed.
That threshold, neither inside nor entirely outside, became fertile ground. Instead of echoing the gestures of her contemporaries, she cultivated another trajectory, one that slips between categories. Her studies at the IDHEC in Paris between 1957 and 1958 opened a corridor of possibility, while her chance encounter with Marc Adrian (whom she later married) introduced her to the tactile processes of making films by placing a camera in her hands, an act that now carries a faint mythic glow. From that moment, experimentation became atmosphere, and together they explored development, color manipulation, and the mutable chemistry of the image. As she later remarked in conversation with Michaela Grill and Isabella Reicher: “I enjoy filmmaking, and this pleasure becomes visible.”
The name Moucle Blackout itself embodies that same playful opacity. “Muckl,” a childhood nickname, was combined with the enigmatic “Blackout” at Adrian’s suggestion into a conceptual eclipse. The moniker suggests a break in the flow of light. It also invites a loss of consciousness, as if meaning might shift under prolonged attention.
Thresholds, Absences, Openings
Her earliest independent films have been lost, a disappearance that feels less accidental than symptomatic. The marginalization of women within international avant-garde histories leaves behind many such absences that echo louder than presence. What remains begins, officially, with Walk in from 1969.
Blackout has long resisted the notion of meaning as a finished object. “I wanted the films to remain open to interpretation, but not too easy to decipher,” she explains. “It is not about serving the audience things ready made.” The viewer dwells at risk of uncertain, entering a building under construction where the floor may shift beneath each step.
Her filmography, though concise, unfolds across a spectrum of forms. Structural rigor dissolves into moments of chromatic delirium. Color pulses with interior life. Elsewhere, fragments of bourgeois ritual appear as rehearsed performances, their naturalness gently undone. Her palette is one of perceptual instruments, recalibrating not only what is seen but the conditions under which seeing becomes possible.
Arindam Sen suggests that Blackout’s work invites a rethinking of history itself, less as a sequence of monumental gestures than as an accumulation of small, deliberate acts. Each project becomes a step, quiet yet exacting, within a trajectory that often remains obscured. Recognition arrived late. Only in 2014, at the age of 79, did she receive a retrospective in Villach, a gathering of decades that had persisted without spectacle.
To place Moucle Blackout alongside figures such as VALIE EXPORT opens a dialogue between distinct strategies. Whereas EXPORT confronts with immediacy, Blackout allows the image to tremble until its surface betrays its instability.
Her work resides in intervals. Between frames. Between disciplines. Between recognition and obscurity. Photography, collage, object-making, dance: all is fair game. Each medium becomes a site where perception is tested.
Filmic Apertures
1. Walk in (1969, 16mm/digital, 5 min)
Although this is a structural film, it also functions as Blackout’s critical response to structural film, a gesture that flirts with imitation yet resolves into something more internally corrosive. The canonical language of repetition is taken up only to be bent inward, its apparent neutrality revealed as a mechanism capable of entrapment. From Marc Adrian’s entrance into their shared apartment to his measured sitting, the careful filling of a pipe, and the slow ignition of smoke, each action arrives with the promise of ordinary continuity. That promise dissolves almost immediately. The gesture fractures, breaks apart, and multiplies itself into rhythmic segments that refuse to align into forward motion. Seven hundred twenty frames are shuffled into a temporal labyrinth, where progression loses its footing and begins to circle itself.
The duplication process leaves visible scars across the filmstrip. Scratches cling like residue from a failed attempt at preservation, as though the act of repetition itself had worn down the material. Adrian appears caught between intention and interruption, his small domestic ritual transformed into a loop that cannot conclude. What might have been an act of unwinding instead becomes a tightening coil, a choreography of deferred release. Blackout’s notion of “the impression of manic behavior” lingers, though it feels less like mania than a quiet suffocation. The accompanying music hovers delicately, never resolving into comfort, its presence amplifying the unease.
2. Die Geburt der Venus / The Birth of Venus (1970-72, 35mm/digital, 5 min)
Here, the titular birth opens onto a charged terrain where pleasure and violence occupy the same visual field without settling into hierarchy. Photographs of exuberant sexuality among friends are interwoven with the stark presence of a pig carcass discovered on a roadside, a juxtaposition that resists easy symbolic closure. Flesh appears in multiple registers, one animated by desire and agency, the other reduced to inert matter, abandoned and exposed. Through motion montage, the images slide symmetrically across a central axis, mirroring themselves into shifting patterns that hover between abstraction and recognition. The repetition produces a visual grammar that both unifies and destabilizes, suggesting correspondences that remain perpetually unsettled.
The pig emerges as a mutable figure, at times evoking victimhood, at times broadcasting pure form, while the human bodies retain a sense of volition that resists reduction. Songs by The Beatles weave throughout, their presence feeling less like accompaniment than revelation. “Tell Me What You See,” “Happiness Is a Warm Gun,” “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?” circulate throughout, each track inflecting the visual play with shifting tonalities in a field where liberation and vulnerability remain entangled.
3. Stoned Vienna (1976-79, 16mm/digital, 20 min)
Stoned Vienna unfolds as a portrait of a city caught between preservation and disintegration, its surfaces layered with histories that refuse to settle into coherence. Emerging alongside Ernst Schmidt jr.’s Wienfilm 1896-1976 (see INDEX 044), it echoes another cinematic project while maintaining its own distinct pulse, as though two parallel observations had briefly intersected without fully merging. Vienna appears at once monumental and fragile, its historical architecture standing beside modern interventions that already seem fatigued, their promise of progress tinged with obsolescence.
A wax doll named Dolly occupies this landscape, a figure that condenses the city’s condition into a single uncanny presence. She is handled, displayed, and displaced as a surrogate for a Vienna that is both preserved and manipulated. Double exposures have their say, negative and positive collapsing into one another until the city itself becomes a shifting surface. Male comportment hovers between care and absurdity. Apartment blocks scroll past in relentless succession, their repetition suggesting a form of urban anonymity that absorbs individuality into pattern.
The burial of Dolly within the debris of demolished buildings introduces a subdued violence. The soundtrack invokes anxious rhythms, shaker and organ weaving a sonic texture that offsets things further. Then the color palette shifts abruptly, erupting into garish, almost radioactive tones. The editing accelerates, its resulting friction vibrating with a special agitation. When the man kisses Dolly, the gesture lands with a hollow resonance, an attempt at connection that collapses into artifice. Vienna remains suspended between beauty and decay, its identity perpetually rewritten by forces that cannot fully erase what came before.
4. o.k. (1987, 16mm/digital, 5 min)
In o.k., perception is folded back onto its own conditions of existence, drawing attention to the fragile interface between projection and surface. The title’s reference to Oberflächen-Kontakt (Surface Contact) anchors the work in a palpable reality, even as it destabilizes any simple notion of contact. Footage originally captured on Super-8 is re-projected onto Blackout’s hand, then re-filmed in 16mm, creating a layered structure in which each iteration transforms what came before. The hand becomes both support and participant, its contours shaping the image even as the image redefines the hand.
This recursive process generates a sense of temporal slippage, as though remembering itself in real time while simultaneously forgetting its origin. Water moving over stones, a man eating, the sudden appearance of a bee: these fragments circulate without coalescing into narrative, their repetition producing a kind of haunted continuity. Bruckner’s symphonism erupts subcutaneously, lending the sequence a gravity that feels disproportionate to its ephemerality.
As the hand closes and opens again, revealing physical fragments of film, the illusion of permanence proves itself to be dependent on surfaces that can never fully stabilize it. What remains is an awareness of cinema as an act of holding and releasing, a temporary convergence of light, matter, and perception that resists any claim to lasting solidity.
5. Der Galaktische Nordpol liegt im Haar der Berenice / The Galactic North Pole Lies in the Hair of Berenice (1992, 16mm/digital, 14 min)
This work unfolds like a myth refracted through unstable time, where narrative threads intertwine without resolving into a single trajectory. The story of Berenice II of Egypt, who sacrifices her hair to ensure her husband’s safe return, drifts alongside the fate of Actaeon, whose desire leads to his transformation into prey. These figures move as volatile chemicals, their actions filtered through layers of dissolves and double exposures.
Acts of survival—eating, drinking, sex, and violence—accumulate into a sequence that oscillates between preservation and destruction. The body emerges as both agent and site of vulnerability, caught within cycles that cannot be easily disentangled. A star map flickers intermittently, suggesting a cosmic dimension that reframes the narrative as something both intimate and vast. The transformation of Berenice’s hair into a constellation lingers as a gesture suspended between offering and relic, a trace that resists disappearance even as it becomes abstract.
Images of decay, a rotting meal, blood, and moments of penetration interrupt the flow, grounding the myth in a fiercely material reality that refuses transcendence. A red beast appears, then recedes, its presence marking a threshold between recognizable form and something more elusive. Everyday fragments surface unexpectedly, seeking to exceed the frame’s containments in disorientation, where the underworld awaits its fleshly meal.
6. Loss (1998, 16mm/digital, 12 min)
Loss gathers its materials from disparate geographies, weaving together home movies from the Canadian wilderness with documents from Australia and Europe into a meditation on mourning that unfolds without overt declaration. Landscapes stretch outward, even as they are shaped by the weight of memory that presses inward from all sides.
The suggestion of a mother losing her child emerges not as a singular event but as a continuous undercurrent. The footage acquires a strange inflection of agency, as if it were the viewer who had been summoned rather than the other way around. Recurrent motifs, including a stone wall and fragments of play, return with subtle variations, their circularity nevertheless buckling against closure.
Peter Mudie’s voice introduces language into the visual field, describing it as “silence interrupted by language.” The montage begins to move in reverse, time folding back upon itself in an attempt to retrace what has been lost. This reversal does not restore what is gone. Instead, it reveals the persistence of absence.
7. Neue Wege bricht neue Welt aus / New Paths Breaks New World Out (1996, 16mm/digital, 11 min)
This collaboration with Karin Schöffauer unfolds as a dialogue that never fully aligns, each element maintaining a degree of autonomy. Its opening situates the viewer within a space of exhaustion and self-doubt, a final push into an undefined void undertaken with a sense of misalignment, as though the timing itself were already off.
Flashes of physical exertion, of bodies engaged in sport, refinement, and displays of vitality, circulate alongside a textual voice that distances itself from corporeal pleasure, describing a terrain that feels hopeless and illuminating. The body becomes a site of contradiction, celebrated and estranged simultaneously.
“With fade-ins, darling, I am at the cinema, wallpapering the breaks,” the text declares, introducing a notion of cinema as both construction and concealment. The appearance of an empty sanatorium intensifies this atmosphere, its vacancy suggesting a waiting that may never be fulfilled.
Afterimage, Residue, Name
To watch these films in one go is to encounter the living questions they continue to nurse. What does it mean to look without mastery? How does repetition alter power? Where does pleasure reside in the act of making? Such questions are afterimages in and of themselves.
And then there is the name.
Moucle.
Blackout.
Letters recur.
The “l” overlaps.
The “c” overlaps.
Small intersections suggest identity folding into itself, as though the name were a loop akin to her cinematic imagination. Not one name, in fact, but two. Not one form, but an overlap. A self intersecting with itself in the space between light and its disappearance.
A blackout that reveals rather than obscures, exposing the fragile architecture through which vision becomes inescapable.
