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AARON KEATON
- THE END -
The End / tells the story of the emotional transcription of a dream, which itself served as the basis for my visual execution. The final support will be the transcription of the transcription.
The End,
The piano used for the recording is not perfect. Lunar bloom, Auroral decay, Cosmic linger, This piano is very far away and tired. Call it what you want. Nevertheless, I wanted to share it. In this piece, there is no improvised part. The music is a transcription of a dream I've had for several years. This dream stirred up a lot of emotions. It wasn't easy to capture it and transcribe it. The memory of the dream was there but the emotion that surrounded it was sometimes hard to describe. It's a trip as close as possible to the emotion itself.
By the way, what time is it, Mr White Rabbit?
It's 11:28, of course!
The End,
The piano used for the recording is not perfect. Lunar bloom, Auroral decay, Cosmic linger, This piano is very far away and tired. Call it what you want. Nevertheless, I wanted to share it. In this piece, there is no improvised part. The music is a transcription of a dream I've had for several years. This dream stirred up a lot of emotions. It wasn't easy to capture it and transcribe it. The memory of the dream was there but the emotion that surrounded it was sometimes hard to describe. It's a trip as close as possible to the emotion itself.
By the way, what time is it, Mr White Rabbit?
It's 11:28, of course!
- ELLE -
In 2017, a chance encounter led the artist to record the album ELLE at Balik Farm Studio. The artist has said very little about this work. In some notes, he confides, ‘we were two kids who met and recognised each other’.
- PART OF AN IMPROVISATION -
This is the story of a few musical notes, made by someone, somewhere, for someone.
The hotel was practically empty, and within two people in the breakfast room we were in a scene from Shinning. Upstairs, in a room of almost indecent dimensions, slept an old piano with keys that belonged to another era. The windows overlooked the park. Opposite is the maison de maitre, the old tiles distorting the landscape. A journey opens up for me. I owe these notes to Arturo Coralles, at least part of them, a definite impulse. Yet I only heard him for a few seconds in a contemporary music class. He sat down at the piano and put his hands on it, and the magic happened. It was subversive, unexpected, not respecting any rules or conventions. He would say so a little later in the course.
This is part of an improvisation, in which I play the way I imagine a virus penetrating a computer system, perhaps influenced by my studies. I play this suite we were in. That letter I never wrote and that ending that was far too brutal and subversive.
I play that terrifying monster, the ego, the anger, the fear, the rejection, the enthusiasm that never lasts, the illusion of happiness that never comes except with a bottle of wine for a night.
I'm telling a certain story, mine perhaps, or someone else's. Who hasn't felt lost?
Who hasn't felt lost? I remind myself that if all is not well, it's not over.
Where are you again?
Gone...
I'm lost in the distorted reflections of the windows overlooking the park. The piano resonates, I play with it. The birds are magical, I seek the harmony that sings without stopping, I stop thinking, it's my time to fuck conventions.
The piano has a vibration, some more than others, this one sings and accompanies me at times, it's a dialogue, a dance for two, even if in the end, when I leave this room, I'll be alone. But a man who can't be alone is a terribly dull man.
The hotel was practically empty, and within two people in the breakfast room we were in a scene from Shinning. Upstairs, in a room of almost indecent dimensions, slept an old piano with keys that belonged to another era. The windows overlooked the park. Opposite is the maison de maitre, the old tiles distorting the landscape. A journey opens up for me. I owe these notes to Arturo Coralles, at least part of them, a definite impulse. Yet I only heard him for a few seconds in a contemporary music class. He sat down at the piano and put his hands on it, and the magic happened. It was subversive, unexpected, not respecting any rules or conventions. He would say so a little later in the course.
This is part of an improvisation, in which I play the way I imagine a virus penetrating a computer system, perhaps influenced by my studies. I play this suite we were in. That letter I never wrote and that ending that was far too brutal and subversive.
I play that terrifying monster, the ego, the anger, the fear, the rejection, the enthusiasm that never lasts, the illusion of happiness that never comes except with a bottle of wine for a night.
I'm telling a certain story, mine perhaps, or someone else's. Who hasn't felt lost?
Who hasn't felt lost? I remind myself that if all is not well, it's not over.
Where are you again?
Gone...
I'm lost in the distorted reflections of the windows overlooking the park. The piano resonates, I play with it. The birds are magical, I seek the harmony that sings without stopping, I stop thinking, it's my time to fuck conventions.
The piano has a vibration, some more than others, this one sings and accompanies me at times, it's a dialogue, a dance for two, even if in the end, when I leave this room, I'll be alone. But a man who can't be alone is a terribly dull man.
- Walzer der Liebenden | Akt 1 & 2 -
Where Suits Meet Shoots
PROJECT OVERVIEW
Walzer der Liebenden
Wie ihr Titel kann sie von einer tiefen Betäubung sein. Hier die Geschichte, trotz der Erscheinungen, hat mehrere Erzählungen.
Sie kann überwältigend sein, aber sie erzählt eine bestimmte Chronologie der Ereignisse. Dieses Stück ist eine Improvisation in zwei Akten zum Thema «Valse des Amants»
Akt 1.
Der erste Akt ist die Einführung einer sanften Dekadenz in den Abgrund des menschlichen Geistes. Die Mäander, die bald nur noch ein langer, endloser Tanz sein werden, wie Der Steppenwolf von Hermann Hesse oder die Blechtrommel von Günter Grass. Ohne Ende, ohne Anfang, ohne Leber.
Der Begriff der Zeit, der Rhythmus der Musik selbst wird dadurch berührt, und die entstehende Dissonanz ist nur ein Spiegelbild dieser Emotion.
Akt 2.
02:45 Der Übergang ist unvergleichlich, wie die Geschichte, nicht vorhanden und doch. Sie folgt der ersten in einem Übergang, bei dem man kaum feststellen kann, was vor sich geht. Es ist dann eine andere Reise auf dem gleichen Boot, das gleiche, aber anders, wie sie sagen.
PROJECT OVERVIEW
Walzer der Liebenden
Wie ihr Titel kann sie von einer tiefen Betäubung sein. Hier die Geschichte, trotz der Erscheinungen, hat mehrere Erzählungen.
Sie kann überwältigend sein, aber sie erzählt eine bestimmte Chronologie der Ereignisse. Dieses Stück ist eine Improvisation in zwei Akten zum Thema «Valse des Amants»
Akt 1.
Der erste Akt ist die Einführung einer sanften Dekadenz in den Abgrund des menschlichen Geistes. Die Mäander, die bald nur noch ein langer, endloser Tanz sein werden, wie Der Steppenwolf von Hermann Hesse oder die Blechtrommel von Günter Grass. Ohne Ende, ohne Anfang, ohne Leber.
Der Begriff der Zeit, der Rhythmus der Musik selbst wird dadurch berührt, und die entstehende Dissonanz ist nur ein Spiegelbild dieser Emotion.
Akt 2.
02:45 Der Übergang ist unvergleichlich, wie die Geschichte, nicht vorhanden und doch. Sie folgt der ersten in einem Übergang, bei dem man kaum feststellen kann, was vor sich geht. Es ist dann eine andere Reise auf dem gleichen Boot, das gleiche, aber anders, wie sie sagen.
- THE BELLS OF THE JUNE MOON SPACE -
Paradise Found?
PROJECT OVERVIEW //
THE BELLS OF THE JUNE MOON SPACE is rather unusual, mainly because of what led to its creation. Its production was also very spontaneous. A single pencil stroke was enough to transcribe those six hours under a sky among a thousand others.
We were outside, in the hole we had dug beforehand, with a fire burning. I lay down on a giant wool blanket. There is something Alice in Wonderland about it. The embers burst, the fire envelops us, despite the heat already present. That evening, everything seems superfluous to me, nothing makes sense. Even less so the speeches. A disease peculiar to contemporary man. Excel spreadsheets make me want to vomit, my colleagues at the office disgust me. They are empty, empty like the canvas of a contemporary artist who has vomited two drops of Indian ink onto Chinese paper in order to express emptiness. Fuck you!
I lay down on the ground and looked up at the sky. I stared at it for hours. Just like when we look at a quartz clock, if we look closely, the minute hand moves every second. That's what I'm talking about in the 9:28. The sky was moving, the colours were beautiful. I don't think I'd seen anything like it since my last night flights at 9842 ft, one last look at the instruments. I remember turning off all the communication instruments on board. Then, in the dark of night, the control instruments disappeared, the wheels touched the ground, and I returned from a moment stolen from reason. What if only those moments stolen from reason really mattered?
I fell asleep at dawn. The air was mild. I miss my childhood, or rather, what was connected to it. It's almost standard to have these kinds of emotions, but on a few occasions I experienced a sense of timeless innocence, away from people, without a telephone. Except at the barracks and at school. For the rest, it still stank of petrol when someone started a car, a plane, an old buggy or anything that ran on petrol.
PROJECT OVERVIEW //
THE BELLS OF THE JUNE MOON SPACE is rather unusual, mainly because of what led to its creation. Its production was also very spontaneous. A single pencil stroke was enough to transcribe those six hours under a sky among a thousand others.
We were outside, in the hole we had dug beforehand, with a fire burning. I lay down on a giant wool blanket. There is something Alice in Wonderland about it. The embers burst, the fire envelops us, despite the heat already present. That evening, everything seems superfluous to me, nothing makes sense. Even less so the speeches. A disease peculiar to contemporary man. Excel spreadsheets make me want to vomit, my colleagues at the office disgust me. They are empty, empty like the canvas of a contemporary artist who has vomited two drops of Indian ink onto Chinese paper in order to express emptiness. Fuck you!
I lay down on the ground and looked up at the sky. I stared at it for hours. Just like when we look at a quartz clock, if we look closely, the minute hand moves every second. That's what I'm talking about in the 9:28. The sky was moving, the colours were beautiful. I don't think I'd seen anything like it since my last night flights at 9842 ft, one last look at the instruments. I remember turning off all the communication instruments on board. Then, in the dark of night, the control instruments disappeared, the wheels touched the ground, and I returned from a moment stolen from reason. What if only those moments stolen from reason really mattered?
I fell asleep at dawn. The air was mild. I miss my childhood, or rather, what was connected to it. It's almost standard to have these kinds of emotions, but on a few occasions I experienced a sense of timeless innocence, away from people, without a telephone. Except at the barracks and at school. For the rest, it still stank of petrol when someone started a car, a plane, an old buggy or anything that ran on petrol.
- HEELFLIP UNDER THE RAIN / SIDE B -
Touch the Stars (No Rocket Required)
PROJECT OVERVIEW
Just when you think you've got it, you'll find you haven't. It's a reflection as meticulous as it is brutal. It's delicate, crisp, fine and at times brittle, as if suspended on a thread. The improvisation that precedes it is none other than the red thread that runs through the main theme. In the end, it was almost a surreal image. The rain didn't stop, nothing changed. Then this spot in the middle of the landscape, only it knows. Artistic expression is pushed to a certain paroxysm here. I've deliberately spit out the music, it's nothing more than my own expression of a feeling that words wouldn't allow me to describe. Whatever the case, the foundations have been laid and the artistic expression that will follow will be all the richer for it.
I wanted to integrate a movement of musical deconstruction based more on the intention than the realisation itself to give an extra dimension to the piece. It was late, the weather was starting to turn bad, everyone had left, I was the only one left, a completely ordinary scene, but when you know the neighbourhood well, once night falls, the streets are deserted, which is normal in summer. And in summer, there is no one around. At one point, I started to feel really tired, my legs were giving way beneath me. I decided to sit down on a module, and in front of me was this lamp, right at the top. In that spot, actually. Suddenly, it started to rain, and the rain reminded me of Ireland. The drops became denser and denser. I thought to myself, ‘If you stay there, mate, you're going to get soaked,’ but I stayed. I cycled home in the rain, soaked, with my skateboard hanging from the luggage rack. For a few seconds, I was Neo in The Matrix, not by comparison, but because I had the chance to see things from a very special perspective. I could only observe, and yet. The interplay between the wind, the rain, the light and this deserted setting.
PROJECT OVERVIEW
Just when you think you've got it, you'll find you haven't. It's a reflection as meticulous as it is brutal. It's delicate, crisp, fine and at times brittle, as if suspended on a thread. The improvisation that precedes it is none other than the red thread that runs through the main theme. In the end, it was almost a surreal image. The rain didn't stop, nothing changed. Then this spot in the middle of the landscape, only it knows. Artistic expression is pushed to a certain paroxysm here. I've deliberately spit out the music, it's nothing more than my own expression of a feeling that words wouldn't allow me to describe. Whatever the case, the foundations have been laid and the artistic expression that will follow will be all the richer for it.
I wanted to integrate a movement of musical deconstruction based more on the intention than the realisation itself to give an extra dimension to the piece. It was late, the weather was starting to turn bad, everyone had left, I was the only one left, a completely ordinary scene, but when you know the neighbourhood well, once night falls, the streets are deserted, which is normal in summer. And in summer, there is no one around. At one point, I started to feel really tired, my legs were giving way beneath me. I decided to sit down on a module, and in front of me was this lamp, right at the top. In that spot, actually. Suddenly, it started to rain, and the rain reminded me of Ireland. The drops became denser and denser. I thought to myself, ‘If you stay there, mate, you're going to get soaked,’ but I stayed. I cycled home in the rain, soaked, with my skateboard hanging from the luggage rack. For a few seconds, I was Neo in The Matrix, not by comparison, but because I had the chance to see things from a very special perspective. I could only observe, and yet. The interplay between the wind, the rain, the light and this deserted setting.
- EMILIE WILLOW Ω -
Where Music Finds Its Perfect Home
PROJECT OVERVIEW
Where Music Finds Its Perfect Home
PROJECT OVERVIEW
Literally inspired by a dream I had just had, the place was sumptuous. The owner of the place, in exchange for good treatment, had allowed me to stay there in his absence. I fell asleep in the small room at the end of the corridor, a room that seemed to have stopped in 1988, but the pretty 1988. The bed was small but long enough for me to lie down completely. The bed sheet was thin and soft, the window open to the outside world. There were some noises, but sleep quickly came. I had obviously dreamt of her. I can't remember what it was about, but the emotion associated with it is seared into my memory. It's like falling in love in a dream. When you wake up, it can be unsettling because the dream was so intense. I know this state, I fled from it for several years. The hypnagogic state, a shape, a colour, a sound, a sensation. All of this is mixed together, and a tennis ball can become a field of wheat in a fraction of a second. It's so beautiful and intense, it's almost like cheating. It's like being in a living impressionist painting. You can control it as much as you can't. The feeling of falling is more real than life itself, and the experience of certain situations can turn out to be true in real life. Not that the hypnagogic experience isn't real, but it remains a projection. In my dream, I'm riding a special motorbike.
PROJECT OVERVIEW
Where Music Finds Its Perfect Home
PROJECT OVERVIEW
Literally inspired by a dream I had just had, the place was sumptuous. The owner of the place, in exchange for good treatment, had allowed me to stay there in his absence. I fell asleep in the small room at the end of the corridor, a room that seemed to have stopped in 1988, but the pretty 1988. The bed was small but long enough for me to lie down completely. The bed sheet was thin and soft, the window open to the outside world. There were some noises, but sleep quickly came. I had obviously dreamt of her. I can't remember what it was about, but the emotion associated with it is seared into my memory. It's like falling in love in a dream. When you wake up, it can be unsettling because the dream was so intense. I know this state, I fled from it for several years. The hypnagogic state, a shape, a colour, a sound, a sensation. All of this is mixed together, and a tennis ball can become a field of wheat in a fraction of a second. It's so beautiful and intense, it's almost like cheating. It's like being in a living impressionist painting. You can control it as much as you can't. The feeling of falling is more real than life itself, and the experience of certain situations can turn out to be true in real life. Not that the hypnagogic experience isn't real, but it remains a projection. In my dream, I'm riding a special motorbike.
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