What happens when we reopen the ear, not only as a site of perception, but as a threshold for memory, identity, and transformation? How might deep, embodied listening allow us to access the invisible architectures that shape who we are , internal time, ritual, spiritual resonance, and reorient us toward a more fluid, post-human understanding of self? In a world saturated by visual dominance and extraction logics, can listening become a quiet form of resistance, a way to transmit emotion, reimagine presence, and dissolve boundaries between body, landscape, technology, and the unknown?

Those are big questions. I often think about these themes. Listening, for me, is something entirely different from hearing. I was actually just the other day reading Pauline Oliveros’ Quantum Listening, in which she talks about this distinction: hearing is passive, it just happens. But listening is a decision, an orientation. It unlocks entire worlds.

For example, when I’m outside and hear an unusual sound that catches my ear, the act of recording it forces me to actively listen, which shifts how I relate to the space around me. It sharpens my awareness and connects me to my environment in a deeper way. I become more present. But there’s also this internal listening connected to memory. I can hear or recall sounds in my head, like imagining a flute inside a cave. That imagined echo has a memory attached to it. It’s not just sound, it’s spatial, emotional, associative.

As a musician, deep listening is essential. It’s how I interact with my materials and make creative decisions. But beyond that, it feels like a way of being. A way of tracing memory through sound and finding identity in moments that are fleeting, dislocated, but still resonant.

In a time defined by overstimulation and hyper-visibility, can listening become a form of resistance — a counter-practice rooted in slowness, attention, and care?

Yes, I believe it can. Listening is a powerful tool for cultivating empathy. In a world that often feels overwhelming, with so much negativity, polarization, and noise, listening offers another route. A quieter one. A slower one.

Through listening, we can reach a different kind of understanding. Not just with people, but with landscapes, histories, and emotions. It’s a way of paying attention to what might otherwise go unnoticed. And in that attention, there is care.

Listening can bring us into contact with what lies beneath the surface. It cuts through the quick assumptions we tend to make. It invites us to pause, to receive, and to connect. That, to me, is a form of resistance. Especially now, when speed, distraction, and spectacle dominate. Listening asks something else from us and gives something back in return.

Your work often inhabits sonic in-betweens: fragile, suspended, undefined. What draws you to these liminal states, and how do they shape the emotional or spatial architectures of your compositions?

Honestly, I rarely know what the final result will be when I start. I might begin with a loose idea, a texture I want to explore, or a feeling I’m trying to reach. But I never map it out in a fixed way. It’s more like following sound and letting it guide me somewhere unexpected.

Take The Living Monument score, for example. It was created to accompany extremely slow movement by dancers. I had to imagine the choreography while still in the studio. That meant slowing everything down: sonically, emotionally, perceptually. I had to let the sounds expand and take their time.

I’m drawn to that space, the in-between where things feel suspended. It allows for a kind of openness. The boundaries dissolve a little, and you’re left with something that feels more intuitive than logical. I like not knowing exactly where I’m going. That uncertainty is where a lot of the magic lives.

There’s a temporal softness to your work: sounds stretch, blur, and become immersive. How does this slowing-down allow you to access more intuitive or unconscious states, both for yourself and the listener?

When I stretch a sound over time, I begin to notice details I wouldn’t otherwise hear. It’s like placing a magnifying lens over a moment. The texture opens up, and so does my ability to respond to it.

I enjoy sinking deeply into sounds, allowing them to breathe and unfold. My process is mostly intuitive. I might have some structural guidelines or ideas, but I try to stay flexible. Sometimes the best ideas emerge when I stop trying to control the outcome. It’s about listening to the sound, and listening to myself inside that process.

That slowing-down allows me to enter a different state. Less mental, more sensory. And I think it allows the listener to do the same.


Question from Cinna Peyghamy:
Do you consciously seek out the unheard, to create sounds that challenge expectations or dissolve the known edges of genre, voice, or instrument?

Absolutely. I love the challenge of morphing sounds, reshaping them until they become unrecognizable yet still intimate. It’s like a form of sonic treasure hunting.

In collaborating with visual artists I might start with a suggestion or a prompt. For example, for the Living Monument score, the choreographer Eszter Salamon gave me a feeling, a texture, even a color, and from there I begin trying to push the material beyond conventional limits. 

The goal in my music isn’t novelty for its own sake. It’s about arriving at something that feels emotionally specific, something that sounds like me. That search keeps me excited. It keeps the work alive.

You’re about to perform Music from The Living Monument at Subset Festival in Greece, your first time performing there. What does this performance mean to you, and how do you anticipate the work unfolding in that context?

I’m really looking forward to it. I’ve never played in Greece before, so it feels special. Performing The Living Monument in a live context is something I cherish. It’s a piece that invites me to go deep into the sound and let it sit, let it breathe for a long time.

I’m excited to see how it resonates in the space and how the audience listens with me. That mutual attention, that quiet exchange, is what makes these moments feel meaningful.