SIX PASSAGES · ONE VOICE
An inner monologue in six movements. The voice never stops; what changes is the ground it stands on. The same questions open the first chapter and the last.
SIX SONGS · ONE PER CHAPTER
One original song for each chapter. Melodies composed on piano and M-Audio Venom, post-production in Suno. The first chapters are close-miked folk; the last two open toward the dancefloor.
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PROCESS
A commission for a friend who came through addiction and out the other side. Six passages, six films, six songs, and a piece of software that treats the words as material.
It started as an exploration of the internal monologue addicts describe: a voice in your head that never shuts up. Am I enough. Do I have enough money. I want to drink. Can I find happiness. Why am I so alone. Not one thought but a loop, and the loop is the condition. The work had to sound like that before it could look like anything.
Recovery is not one moment. We thought through the stages as they are actually felt, from the inside, and put a name to each: how the noise sounds before, how the bargaining lies, how quiet the bottom is, what changes when something else enters the room, and what the same questions sound like later, on different ground.
Each stage became a passage: unpunctuated, one breath after another, written to be spoken rather than read. The voice keeps the same questions through all six chapters. In the first it only asks them. By the last it answers.
A film was built for each passage. The pictures stay mundane on purpose: a ceiling fan, a phone face down, a sink, a parking lot, a folding chair. Nothing dramatic ever happens on screen; the distance between what you hear and what you see is the piece. Shots from the first chapter return in the fifth with the same framing and new weather.
Then a text engine, built so the passages could be treated the way a photocopier treats a page. Every composition is made only from the current chapter's own words: microtext columns, stacked grotesque, a key word set tall, the printed-matter paraphernalia of rules, registration marks and barcodes. The page is reduced to one bit of white toner on black, and it decays by wrong blocks: cells displaced, smeared, quantized to solid chunks, accumulating across a chapter and recopied clean at the next. Some lines surface whole and are protected. Most are only half caught. The films play underneath, and the type prints only into the bright parts of each scene.
Finally, an original song for each chapter. The melodies were composed on piano and on an M-Audio Venom, then taken through post-production in Suno. The first chapters are folk and close-miked; the last two open up toward the dancefloor, because house music is built on the same two things the piece is about: a loop that does not stop, and a release you only earn by the breakdown before it.