Angus Carlyle
mercoledì 03 giugno 2015
June 3rd, Diary

h10:55 — Baselice

Walking through the hot cobbled streets of San Marco Dei Cavoti. Light reflects from the pale buildings, from the paving stones polished by the generations who have passed here before, from windows, from the pools of cold water in the ornate fountain, from glasses, from cat fur, from skin, from the leaves of flowers. And sound reflects, too. The calls of swifts and sparrows, harsh creaking of crows, keening mewl of a distant bird of prey, car wheels pressing down, engines firing, shutters pulled down, water thrown down, voices and laughter: all of this bounces and we hear it bounce.

h11:01 — Baselice

As the sun fell away and the moon rose over the skyline, Chiara and I found our project: the darkness of night and its temporalities. In the dark, the turbine lights shone like red stars, artificial cousins to the white millennial stars in the clusters that we call constellations and mechanical sisters to the fireflies that rose floating from the hedges. For my microphones, other alien worlds: not the underwater acoustics but frogs (louder, stranger, in chorus this time), bats in inhuman synthesis racing after moths and flies, insects, and (using a special device), the sounds of the cosmos itself.

h15:13 — Agriturismo Fattoria Giada — San Marco dei Cavoti

On the farmhouse table we have created a studio of sorts: with our laptops open, we are listening back to our recordings and watching what we have filmed, starting to edit and arrange. This morning, Rafaelle, Esther and Luca conducted a series of interviews relating to our theme of nocturnal time and have hauled in a bulging catch. Recordings that express vocal character and detail, questioning that has drawn out memories, thoughts, anecdotes: il tempo della notte in dynamic range. Now the challenge is to make proper room for these oral testimonies in our sound and moving images.

h17:24— Agriturismo Fattoria Giada — San Marco dei Cavoti

We were driven down to the valley that Baselice overlooks. As we swung through farmsteads – cows in the fields, hay being mown and rolled into bales wrapped in plastic – the distant riverbed looked white and dry. Closer still and through the car window stretches of water started to make themselves visible; onto the desiccated flood plain on foot and scents of myrtle (?) in the air, funnel web spider nests, and the water becomes a shallow river, dammed in places and home to frogs and iridescent dragonflies. Tonight we return with Franco for our last filming and recording session.