A Row of Trees
The Journal of The Sonic Art Research Unit
The icy wind burns my face, hits my cheeks like a thousand needles. The air I inhale is dry, cold; my body warm, feeling out of place, sensing with my ears the sound of a million drops of water – a choir of voices.
A low tone invites to follow a rhythm; it’s hard to keep up with the high pitch sound of the crampon’s points penetrating the ice. The bottom river gets louder and louder, and I can see the water flowing behind the though surface. It’s amazing how nothing is ever still.
Glaciers have the ability to live in-between timescales. The deepest layers are the oldest, holding water and air from up to two hundred years ago. In a cave of ice, I can breathe this antique air. I once read that two sensitive clocks at different heights will differ in speed as the one at the top will move faster. It does seem like the deeper I go, the slower the time.
Feeling filled by the echoes of the sounds, I remerge to learn that an avalanche had fallen from the loud music vibrations of the après ski party held on the other side of the mountain.
Artist biography:
Return to: