Vessels waiting to be filled — soil, water, plants, endless material objects. If we leave them empty, try to resist our desire or need to fill, what do they say — with a space and therefore voice of their own?
Susurrous utterings slip into a hum and grow louder, oscillating in and out of pleasure, edging on discomfort. Their resonant frequency — that is the excitation of molecules (bodies? ideas?) provoking further, greater movements, tones — singing. Feedback loops, sometimes squeals.
Is it the beginning of a conversation? A composition?
Echo is cursed to repeat only that which she last heard — the myth of a body made to dematerialize, depersonalize through an inability to speak for oneself. Without her words she undoes, turns from nymph to voice and stone. The implicated hierarchy — holy phrase to lowly sound, but Echo's gift is sonorant resonance through space/body/mind, the power of sound diffused and re-materialized, and a subversion of identity’s claim to singularity and objective through doublings’ distortions and reassembly.
We manipulate, pushing and pulling bodies, tones, levels. Is it a manifestation of our intuitive aversion to discomfort? A sign of time and place? Keep voices moderate. Modest. The gesture does not reach the intention, but the effort is honest — a wave, first, second, third, fourth, fifth.