Homewood Studios Events Archive
November 10, 2008
IMPROVISED MUSIC AT HOMEWOOD STUDIOS
Perhaps the most inviting concert in this year's Improvised Music at Homewood Studios series. Reeds, strings (bowed, plucked, stroked and electrified) - and drums. Intriguing...
Milo Fine: drum set;
Davu Seru: cello, violin;
Charles Gillett: guitar;
Stefan Kac: tuba
Music exploration begins at 7p. $5 admission to offer the musicians a little walkin' around after the concert money.
this dark, shoulder-swaying animal, bear-like in its sauntering, poking its long snout around the corner of the gallery. first hints of winter beading the stiff bristles dotting its chin. slow, tentative steps, body swaying back and forth, rolling, left then right then left. pause to nose the air, then again the swaying. until, without warning, heavy and purposeful lumbering out of the darkness into the less dark. urging its bulk toward light and more light. then no. sniffing the air for hint of something. backing up. loosing definition, softening, as dark swallows the details of its shaggy form.
this maybe bear, maybe not-bear, pulled between curiosity for the unknown quality of light and the comfort of dark - where it was bred, birthed, and brought forth. this maybe /maybe not thing contracts, halts, listens. its breathing an over and over question.
ice responds. eons of snowfall compressed by the avalanche of time. clamor squeezed from heavy crevices thick with spellbound light. refracting itself in every direction. naming crack and fissure of clear, solid, water with the words of the question, turned about into an answer.
measureless distance. between stars and planets. delicate as lace, as spider strings catching light in their early morning dewy mistlike quivering. interrogating the distance pulsing with dark matter. whatever there is "out there" trying to say hello while the radiator pipes rattle with last year’s trapped air.
inside this almost human sound lies the more primitive, more animal, no, more mineral sound of stone turning into dust. not counted in days or seasons or even decades, this taptaptapping at the edges of form, at the outline of shape, thrusts us into a spiraling, tumbling place were poetry takes on the role of door hinges needing oil, door hinges opening to the vastness of BEFORE, of NOT YET, of UNTIL
say the cymbal is a sawblade. say charles' guitar is a theodolite or a collimator. say the tuba is traffic. and say the cello tells tiny stories to moths. a straight line, cut into the wall near the base of an old brick building, carries the plot of the moth story into print. when will the moths learn to read?
you may find an e-mail file in the floorplates of your car
dangling, hidden, behind the portrait of the girl on a swing, behind a photograph of the moon tangled in the winter architecture of trees. turning turning pause turning on a string. a life, a story, a history. as the camera flashes, as the brush touches the canvas, for that instant, nothing is visible. something moves from imagination to physical presence. is captured, suspended. finally, this new thing, this portrait, this photograph, requires vibration this music to release it into motion. again.