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?

That’s such a deep and fascinating question. I always like to start by saying that sound doesn’t need images to be understood. Hearing is one of our most fundamental senses, but it’s also a way of perceiving the world across different timelines and intensities. Whether you’re in a concert hall or walking through a forest, sound is something you can feel. It surrounds you, it moves through you. It’s not abstract—it’s physical.

In French, we use the word matière to describe sound. It means material, something tactile. And I treat it like that—as something I can shape, mold, and work with like clay. Unlike vision, which we can close off easily, we can’t simply choose not to hear. You can close your eyes, but you can’t close your ears. That makes sound uniquely intimate, but also inescapable. It reaches you whether you invite it or not.

Orson Welles once said something about how we’re addicted to images, and I think that’s still true. We live in a visual culture. But sound is older. In nature, it’s how animals protect themselves. It’s how a child cries for its mother. It’s primal. And yet we tend to treat it as background. I’m interested in what happens when we bring it back to the foreground.

How do you see sound as a source of transformation?
Sound is transformation. It is energy in motion. A wave doesn’t move matter, but it transfers force. It literally reshapes the space around us. It changes how the air behaves. When a wave hits the ear, it gets translated into electric signals in the brain—and that translation becomes emotion, memory, sensation. So even before you attach meaning, sound is already doing something to you. That’s the level I’m working on. The invisible level that still leaves an imprint.

When you’re composing, how does that sense of energy and space influence your creative process?

I often describe myself as a two-faced musician. I play acoustic instruments, but I also compose electronic music. My work lives in the space between—electrifying the acoustic and bringing acoustic resonance into the electronic world. That duality is everything to me.

The way energy feels is completely different depending on the source. When I’m playing percussion, I’m the source. I create the sound. My hand hits the skin, I feel the feedback in my body. There’s a direct, muscular relationship to the sound. But when I’m composing electronically, I’m working with machines and software. The speaker becomes the voice—but it’s designed, manufactured, mediated. It’s a different intimacy.

At the computer, I’m focused on texture, weight, spatial balance. How do the frequencies sit? Where does the bass fall in the room? But when I’m performing live, it’s almost athletic. I think about posture, hand coordination, physical stamina. It’s about staying attuned to the space and what it’s asking for. One is psychological, the other is fully embodied. Both are necessary.

Silence and decay seem as present in your work as tone and rhythm. What is the function of absence in your compositions? Is there a kind of sacredness in withholding sound?

Absolutely. There’s a quote often attributed to Chopin—”Silence is music”—and I believe it. But silence is difficult. Most people are afraid of it. Even outside of music, silence in conversation can feel awkward, like something you need to fill. But I think silence is also peace. It’s immobility. It slows things down. It invites reflection.

Silence functions very differently depending on the space. If I’m performing in a church, silence has weight. It echoes. You can use it to stretch time, to create tension, to let something land. In a club, it’s trickier. Silence exposes the background—the bar noise, the chatter, the bodies. It’s more fragile. But even then, it can be powerful if you trust it.

When I’m composing, I often return to a track and realize I’ve said too much. Why is there so much happening? Did I really need that many layers? Maybe not. Subtraction is a tool. You remove until you’re almost at silence—but not quite. That in-between space is where I try to live. That equilibrium, where presence and absence are in dialogue. It’s a place of heightened listening.

How did your collaboration with MONOM influence the way you think about resonance, space, and performance?

I worked with MONOM in May 2024. Usually, artists do a residency and create a fixed piece using their 4DSOUND system. But from the beginning, I knew I didn’t want to compose a finished work. My practice is rooted in improvisation. I never go on stage knowing exactly what I’ll play. That’s what makes each performance alive.

The MONOM system is incredibly complex—more than 50 speakers in a multidimensional space. With the spatial sound engineer, we adapted my usual stereo live set into a format that could move through that environment. I didn’t write anything in the traditional sense. I treated the space as an instrument and trained myself to play it.

Every day during the residency, I practiced, improvised, tested gestures. How does a frequency move across the room? How can I shape it in real time without hiding behind a screen? We developed a system that let me perform the room. The final show was fully improvised, like always. But it felt different. I had to react instantly to what I was hearing. That concert was recorded and will be presented at Subset. It’s a piece made entirely of live responsiveness.

What does it feel like to perform in that way?
When I perform, I enter a very specific state. I’m not thinking. I’m not planning. It’s like a small inner sphere—me, my drum, my synth. My hands are doing the work. I let them think for me.

It doesn’t matter if there are ten people or a thousand. The focus is the same. It’s not about control. It’s about attainment. The performance reflects the space, the mood, the temperature, the breath in the room. Everything affects everything. I like to compare it to walking a tightrope. You can’t lose balance for even a second. That’s what keeps it alive.

Questions from Christina Vantzou:
Is there a sound you’ve always wanted to hear but haven’t been able to?

I’ve always wanted to hear the sound of an earthquake. Not buildings falling, not the aftermath. I mean the sound the earth itself makes when it moves. That ultra-low frequency that we can’t quite access. It’s probably more of a vibration than a sound. But I hope one day we’ll find a way to hear it.

Would you say sound exists more on a cosmic level or a sensual one?

Sensual, definitely. What we talked about at the beginning—sound goes through you. It wraps around you. It touches you. That’s the core of it. It’s bodily. It’s intimate. It’s a feeling.