• Rating:
Perhaps all the beauty of human life lies in those photographs, in those long takes branded into memory. I remember a walk in the city with my father, a Milan covered in snow: the colors of the coats, the hustle and bustle of the trams, the accents of the words, and my blood that regurgitated expectations.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Perhaps all the beauty of human life lies in that catharsis, in those moments of ecstatic contemplation where it seems we see things for the first time. I remember a solitary walk through the village's alleys, transfigured by a night snowfall: the stones, the courtyards, the houses that revealed themselves precisely to the extent they were hidden.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Perhaps all the beauty of human life lies in those adamantine resonances, in that active sharing of time and space with our kindred. I remember the playtimes in the courtyard of the oratory with my friends: the laughter, the slips, the footprints and the shivers down the spine from a handful of well-placed snow breaking through the sweater.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Perhaps all the beauty of human life lies in knowing how to draw one's vision from things, in being able to shape the Present according to a will to power. I remember the snow piles I built in the courtyard at home: deformed, temporary figures grateful for that breath of life destined to drip into oblivion.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Perhaps all the beauty of human life lies in "Un Peu de Neige Salie", or "a bit of dirty snow." Being able to lose oneself in the interstices of the infinitely small, decipher the hieroglyphics that cracks carve into a portion of a wall, narrate the whispers of a blade of grass, interpret the dreams of an ant.
In this album, a true Bible of the lowercase, Bernhard Günter informs us that "all pieces are sequenced on a computer using digitally modified samples in a kind of compositional approach that uses flexible strategies rather than a preconceived system."
The result is an aseptic, distant, fragmented, and formless electronic music. A boundary line between silence and the dull noise of existence that emerges from intolerable abysses from time to time in the form of nervous shivers at the limit of audibility.
There is no rhythm and there is no melody. There is only the hypnotic state of a man who observes too closely a bark disfigured by moss, a sponge pitted by porosity, or a bit of snow smeared with dirt.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Perhaps all the beauty of human life lies in the attempt to dehumanize oneself to grasp its essence. Recognizing that "human life" is only a part, an accessory, a fragment of Life residing in this world.
But after all, who can say with certainty what Life is? And music? What really is Music?
Loading comments slowly
