Grischa took it upon himself to interpret the Workspace and Environment series and approach it in his own way. I encourage this type of behavior.
I would have to tell you, who else? (In english?/ Auf englisch, dieser vermittelnden sprache, wo sich die wˆrter zu einander verhalten, wie idiosynchratische ¸bersetzungen von gegenst‰nden) Portray gravitational lines, draw (in reverse) the traction of things here: emigrated, emmisive, haunting – where your traces (in me) earthed the appearance of a machine. a strategy, a fetish – tied together by a history of words I raised my habits in. A family, not a pattern.
You would never ask for the determination, as I would never question your strength. You’ve been there, always before me, constantly, prevenient, anterior. I’m building pairs of three, a bundle of scattered references. The deranged double. Irritated look-alikes. ‘you’, you split apart – there is this text and there are the words we have drowned. I have to tell you, tell, recount, report. Is there a single instrument I could use to sing to, still?
You know the pine trees, the lime and all the other plants, where I was hiding away from no matter what. La demeure/demeurer lettre morte – il y a pÈril en la demeure. How could I possibly tell someone else, not you? Just talk sense into the demolished glazed tiles of the corridor and the rudiments we saw of the timbered toilet haven where he was unraveling mysteries we didn’t/don’t know about?
They asked me (I don’t really know why) to tell them about the AK141 philips (tuned bassport) speakers, about the Spirit Folio mixing desk, about Sony’s Sonic Soundforge and all the other things I got used to. Tell them how I would have screamed Soundgarden lyrics towards the speaker’s membrane? Do you remember that they had been on the top of the shelf and I needed to climb up there, standing on a board case, clutch something to not fall off? The tinned voices – a face I stared at, always through the black hole sun of the conical diaphragm. How could I describe it to them?
The potentiometer’s crackled accusation – regardless I am still sitting there in your old studio-den, where you trusted me to live-mix your new impro-band. I messed up every tape. All these things weigh heavier every day, the dust constantly accumulating the lapses, re-recorded sough in signal paths. No, I won’t encourage anyone to prance such disposition, I promise. But I have to tell you.
You taught me to slide the caret over the Soundwave in Soundforge (4.5), you trusted a compression beyond +16db in Sony Acid, you cared about the lines and verses, believed in the absorptional potential of e-minor on a children’s guitar, sprayed blue with stolen can’s. I will have to apologize to print, to show, to tell.
What contamination spread from this unnamed demarcation of subtracting him from this planet? Could you trust these words (oder jene) any longer? No, I have to say, even if it is so unbearable pretentious elaborating this few signs in this foreign language to release them into an inappropriate, indecent, but open space of many eyes, I have to tell you…
Photos by Sarah Ambrosi
