Could you introduce Le chant du monde, the piece you are presenting at Ars Musica 2024?

This is a project developed as a duo with Pierre Slinckx. We are working with scenographer Valentin Périlleux, organist Cindy Castillo, percussionist Ruben Orio, and lighting designer Caspar Langhoff.

Le chant du monde, whose title refers to the eponymous work by the “poet of nature” Jean Giono, is a musical and visual metaphor for the trajectory of our civilization within its environment. Our civilization seems to detach itself from reality by attempting to dominate nature, separating humans from their surroundings and creating a world where it is never too hot or too cold, where nothing is lacking, where excess is the norm, where space and time can be infinitely compressed, and where humans no longer follow nature’s tempo. We now know that this project can only be a dream—and one that paradoxically leads to the destruction of life.

This vast sound fresco is shaped by the organetto, percussion, electronics, and strange instruments made from large pieces of dead wood—reminiscent of primitive instruments. These split timbers stretch and intertwine, forming a root-like network that provides shelter for the musicians. Within this structure, they play music inspired by rich and complex soundscapes, echoing a nature untouched by human presence, as well as chaotic, impoverished music that reflects areas degraded by human activity.

How does this project more broadly fit within your artistic practice, which often draws on the four elements and the sensory orders?

As with most of my compositions, I draw inspiration from observing nature. Dedicating my music to nature allows me to pursue a personal exploration of my connection to the cosmos. It’s also a poetic need to participate in the Whole that we form together with flora and fauna.

I strive to give full attention to the vibration of sound—its texture and micro-details. Giving space to the minute is important to me. I believe it is in the microscopic elements of nature that we can find inspiration for a better balance with our environment.

My music is intuitive because, when I compose, I bring together a variety of inspirations (reading, listening to music, visual art, walks) that remain in the background throughout the creative process, from which I draw intuitively. I don’t rank or prioritize these inspirations: a feeling holds as much value as an idea. These inspirations serve the sonic result—but never the other way around—which likely gives my music its sensory quality.

Could we describe your work as “soundscapes,” and how do these meet the musical world of composer and guitarist Pierre Slinckx, who explores vibratory spatialization?

I aim to write music that is both minimalist and complex, like how I perceive a landscape: we can take it in at a glance but need time to observe all its details. I want to immerse the listener in a contemplative state, the same state we experience when we stop to observe nature and its intricacies.

What I love about the encounter between my world and Pierre’s is the dynamic created by the differences in our writing, while maintaining sonic coherence through our shared sensibilities. Inspired by the playwright Michel Vinaver’s idea of categorizing literary works as either “machine-plays” or “landscape-plays,” I’d say I compose “landscape-plays,” where action unfolds by juxtaposition, inviting the listener to wander. Pierre composes “machine-plays” with problems to solve, cause-and-effect sequences, and a resolution.

Harmony is at the heart of Pierre’s musical construction, whereas mine is ultra-minimalist—I often revolve around a single chord for 15 minutes to give full space to the sound’s texture and to evoke a feeling of spatial unity, as one feels when looking at a landscape. This lets me develop something both motionless and teeming with micro-movements.

What we share is a pursuit of beauty—of what sounds good—and it is often this pursuit that guides our decisions. We also both seek a kind of overall sound, nourished by all the sonic layers present.

Between sound installation and instrument-making, a scenography by Valentin Périlleux also accompanies Le chant du monde. Could you describe the artistic development it brings to the musical work?

Valentin has built a sort of chapel made from large, split pieces of dead wood. It resembles a root network. We envision it as a shelter within a world destroyed by humans, allowing us to reflect on that world while also dreaming of a rebirth.

These dead timbers form both the structure of the chapel and strange instruments inspired by prehistoric ones, such as the bow and the bullroarer (editor’s note: the bullroarer is a wind instrument in the aerophone family, producing sound through air friction. Its roaring sound has been compared to wind, thunder, or the cries of gods, spirits, or ancestors—acting as intermediaries between the earthly and supernatural worlds).

These dead woods symbolize two axes that echo the musical inspirations. They evoke the cycle of life: dead wood plays a key role in forest regeneration, which we hope for our world and illustrate through music. But these split woods also remind us of trees mutilated by human action.

This same tension is present in the music: the poeticization of nature and its destruction by humankind. The return to prehistoric instruments is a return to the origins—to primitive music created when humans lived in minority within a thriving environment.

— Interview by Alexandre Castant