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90 pages

English

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What Matters Now? (What Can't You Hear?) is an anthology of 16 newly-commissioned texts on listening. Texts by Cheryl Tipp, Chiara Guidi, David Toop, Francesco Tenaglia, Helena Hunter, Ivan Carozzi, James Wilkes, Luciano Chessa, Mike Cooper, Patrick Farmer, Salome Voegelin, Sandra Jasper, Simone Bertuzzi, Stefano Scalich, Steve Roden, Tone Gellein.

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Publié par	Noch
Date de parution	02 avril 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781783011179
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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What Matters Now? (What Can't You Hear?)
Cheryl Tipp, Chiara Guidi, David Toop, Francesco Tenaglia, Helena Hunter, Ivan Carozzi, James Wilkes, Luciano Chessa, Mike Cooper, Patrick Farmer, Salomé Voegelin, Sandra Jasper, Simone Bertuzzi, Stefano Scalich, Steve Roden, Tone Gellein
Edited by Daniela Cascella and Paolo Inverni
What Matters Now? (What Can't You Hear?) Published by NOCH / an imprint of ICR Distribution © NOCH / ICR Distribution Texts © the authors Published on March 2013
ISBN 9781783011179
All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Edited by Daniela Cascella and Paolo Inverni Designed by Paolo Inverni Coded by Paolo Inverni Managing Editor: Daniela Cascella Translations (texts by Chiara Guidi, Francesco Tenaglia, Ivan Carozzi, Simone Bertuzzi): Chris Rose
NOCH NOCH is a publishing unit focused on expanded listening. NOCH commissions, edits and publishes ebooks. NOCH posits an open approach to the idea of listening – across a variety of forms and modes not restricted to the aural – as they are channelled into text. NOCH is directed and edited by Daniela Cascella and Paolo Inverni.
What Matters Now? (What Can't You Hear?) What Matters Now? (What Can't You Hear?) is the first book published by NOCH. It is an anthology that took shape after an invitation to a group of artists, writers, thinkers, to write a short text in reply to our questions: What Matters Now? (What Can't You Hear?) It is a prompt to people who entice us, and the first step to establish the grounds for projects to come. It is an invitation to respond to each still in listening, to each yet in thinking.
www.nochpublishing.com nochpublishing@gmail.com
Contents
Cover
Titlepage
Colophon
Listening to the Stars . Salomé Voegelin
Señoras . Ivan Carozzi
Poor Wat, with Listening Ear . James Wilkes
In Relation to . David Toop
In the Dust, I Can Hear the Slowly Falling . Steve Roden
Whole Lotta Love . Francesco Tenaglia
You Know Who You Are . Stefano Scalich
Scryings . Helena Hunter
Listening to Lost Voices . Cheryl Tipp
To You, Poor Actor! . Chiara Guidi
One's Crackling Skin to the Screaming Jowl . Patrick Farmer
Three Program Notes (2007/09/10/11/12) . Luciano Chessa
Architecture for Expanded Listening. Hans Scharoun's Philharmonie in Berlin . Sandra Jasper
Mexican Firecrackers . Simone Bertuzzi
Listening Better . Mike Cooper
Shake . Tone Gellein
Biographies
Acknowledgements
Listening to the Stars
Salomé Voegelin
...make new acquaintances; listen to understand their methods of attaining success. (19 November 1952, Taurus) 1
We have lived here for a while. Third floor, nice views but no garden. I always resented that, no garden. And the stairs, particularly with the buggy and the children. They are older now but still. Then came the mudslide, all of a sudden, I really do not know where from. But the long and short of it is that now we are on the ground floor. No more stairs, no more dragging up of shopping, no more lugging of buggies and heavy children up and down three sets of steps. Just a nice ground floor entrance, and of course the garden is ours now. Sometimes we can hear the noises from down below. Screams and banging, smashing of furniture against the walls and the ceilings no doubt. We try to ignore it. I am sure it will stop eventually. The mud is drying, we have sown some seeds, by summer it should have become a nice green lawn to play on.
1 Theodor W. Adorno, The Stars Down to Earth , Routledge, 2007, p. 145
Señoras
Ivan Carozzi
A voice captured one Sunday towards the end of August, at dusk, on a bus with no more than six passengers. The bus is going from Sesto San Giovanni, an old working-class suburb of Milan, towards the city centre. The voice belongs to a woman about 35 years old with two big nylon bags at her feet, each one filled with packaged food, the logo of the Carrefour supermarket chain printed on both sides. At the back of the bus there are two adolescent girls with identical haircuts. A man stands near the middle door. Another sits next to the ticket machine. He could be the same age as the number of the bus: 57. The woman is sitting behind the driver's cabin. The driver has his elbow sticking out of the open window. No one is reading a newspaper. Everyone is silent. One person keeps their arms folded and their eyes on the road. The road is empty, deserted. We drive quietly around one, two roundabouts. The breath of the bus, when the bus slows down at a crossroads, seems to enter our own breaths like a small landslide. The light slowly wanes. From pink, it turns dark blue, then grey, and then an ever-paler blue. A phone rings. The woman puts her hand into a bag, looks at the display and replies:
Hola Carmen, niñita... […] me da mucha lastima […] oye, te digo que no, tu hermano está cansado […] cansado de vivir! […] yo simplemente digo la verdad: tu hermano se encontró con una mujer mala, muy mala, niñita […] claro, claro […] claro […] lo entiendo […] ya lo sabes, tu padre no fue rico, pero nos diò su cariño y su protección […] tu hermano ahora necesita de amor y su familia, de otra forma, niñita, el se va a matar […] como su padre se ha matado, hija, siento que se va a matar […] escucha bien, yo le voy a enviar dinero, entonces tú, tu hermano Manuelito y el niño que tomen el avión y vuelvan en Milano. 1
For the entire time of the conversation, a pink quilt is spread out on the roof of the bus. A quilt embroidered with the faces of Christ, the Virgin Mary, Veronica Castro, Grecia Colmenares and other telenovela actresses. So, her husband, Manuelito's father, se ha matado , killed himself? A few drops of blood drip from the roof down onto the windows. The woman gets off at via Padova, where the South American immigrant communities live. Ecuador, Chile, Peru, Bolivia. Courtyards where meat smokes on grills, where the women carry phones in cases decorated with two Raphael putti . The city is a map and a tapestry, and this part of the tapestry is dedicated to the weaving of love and sentiment.
1 Hello Carmen, dear […] it makes me suffer a lot […] listen, I say, no, your brother is tired […] tired of living! […] I simply tell the truth: your brother ended up with an evil, a very evil woman, my dear […] of course, of course […] of course […] I see […] you know your father was not rich, but he gave us love and protection […] your brother needs love and his family, otherwise, my dear, he will end up killing himself […] just like his father killed himself, dear daughter, I fear he also will end up killing himself […] listen to me, I'm sending you some money – yourself, your brother Manuelito and the child, get on a plane and come here to Milan.
Poor Wat, with Listening Ear
James Wilkes
With my listening ear slightly deaf in the musits? (What, Wat?) What marks off smell from sound? (What doubling through apertures Can stop a dog-breath?) On the phone the feedback Like your pinna's a Fender (European offender?) Well
'He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles', writes Shakespeare of the hare: a doubling and redoubling which silences the hounds who are on his scent, stops 'the loud pursuers in their yell', gives brief relief to the hare's grief (continuous till the Hunting Act of 2004). The OED dates the first use of 'double-cross' to 1834, so in Venus and Adonis these two words are yet in suspension, the doubling already resonating with deceit, and the crossing, if not yet humming with dishonesty, still obstructive (Shakespeare uses it this way in Much Ado About Nothing a few years later: 'How canst thou cross this marriage?'). But the deeper wordplay we hear in this line is a nothing: the sympathetic vibration between the sundered cross and its double is an auditory chimera, a back-formation from 19th-century sporting slang.
I used then to sail, one cocked forward to catch the wind The other (a rudder?) I spent my voice perhaps That's why there's no reception when You sorteth out a herd of deer and can shift volumes
The hare's labyrinth is of scent, woven via small hedge-holes or 'musits'. But for us (schooled in the definitive luge and sweep of Henry Vandyke Carter) it is also the inner ear, the osseous labyrinth, which bans the pack from vocal profligacy. What marks off scent from sound? Ice water sprayed across the dogs' 'hot scent-snuffing' till they single 'the cold fault cleanly out', and only then 'spend their mouths'. A cold fault is a 'break in the line of scent' (OED), and when 'driven to doubt' they cannot run their mouths off. Hare here as financial ombudsman, 'indenting' as it loops uphill, its doubling noiseless run a severing of the field into two twin documents, in both of which it gets away with it.
Emergency calls only (only to coneys?) Trying To cash your economic check I got Cold feet in the silent bank, saved my breath. Mutter. On listening ear mutter. What wat, mutter. Matter mutter, mutter.
In Relation to
David Toop
After all this time I find myself in relation to Artaud once again. I was snared by this sentence: 'The Theatre of Cruelty will choose themes and subjects corresponding to the agitation and unrest of our times.' (from The Theatre of Cruelty , second manifesto, 1933). Every day, images of street battles – Greece, Spain and Portugal – record an unravelling, a spectre of civil war. In the Reina Sofia, Madrid, I looked at Picasso's 1937 studies for the weeping head of Guernica . He drew the tongues as conical spikes, as if sound, a scream, had pierced a violent path through the passage of the throat, the teeth, the lips. In the gathering storm of the Great Depression, Artaud experienced Balinese performance, finding himself immers