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**Released in waves beginning in April 2021**
Field Collage is the second sound work by Tvordis Veeler. I call him my dead husband– I kept his name. Of course he was me. Scattered about are his little gifts to friends woven together from compulsively gathered audio.
I started with a room which I wanted to feel like a love letter. I left some letters from my book, which was intended as a comprehensive testament of my ignorance. Unedited and released continuously to friends who saw me clearly in it. My last diaries in the fury of my endogenous testosterone. A snapshot of a tinted lens in eternal transformation.
I made Provincial Skinflint from my immediately accessible environment of sounds while I was abroad, using the internet, my iPhone, and sounds generated by the Audacity software.
I made these sound collages in 2016/17. This was the first use of the name 'field collage' to describe this process of washing and sorting sounds from my world. I always saw these like foley for a movie that never happened, or a movie witnessed only by me, but which implicates many others in various crimes against art.
In 2015 I started using Audacity to generate confrontational and confusing sounds as Provincial Skinflint. Incongruity because I liked the grate of it. I suppose I had some things to be confront.
The old mask hurt. This was a way to scream without anyone screaming back. I came home as Tvordis. He was a very good mask. I was home from my first time abroad alone with a new me to be. I should have known that the solution to feeling masked is not to make a better mask, but I don't regret the effort.
I wanted to make presents for my friends. I wanted to be a person who makes presents for her friends. I genuinely don't know what pronoun is appropriate here. I was a girl who didn't know she was a girl, but I was cultivating a masculinity. What grew was a peculiar shape indeed. It was a performance which I realize now was too deliberate to be convincing. Nonetheless it delighted most participants in the work.
fc1 is a self portrait of the little rock I wanted to be when I started my 22 year old life again again. 40 seconds, just some nice water I found.
I listened to this album often and made sounds like this for myself regularly that I discarded when I was finished playing. It was the music I wanted to listen to. The trains in Paris, the rain everywhere, my friends in Chicago, myself the tiniest bit, speaking rarely but fumbling the recorder constantly. I am here, you don't need me to tell you.
When I field collage I usually wait until I've forgotten some of what was recorded where. It sparks my mental images to life much better than a typical picture. This is a project of memory and forgetting.
Now you can see I'm trying to tell a story like I did on Provincial Skinflint 14, but not backwards this time. Wanting to be forwards very badly. Forwards can be backwards to some people. Skinflint says I love you in Jim Jones's voice, a love lying through its teeth. Here I want to say I love you in the way that makes no demands. Ben struggles with the Zippo, blames the wind. Swish, flick, I am smoking. The scene changes. We are still in Kenosha. Lucas is in Berlin, Andrew is in Tokyo. We're on our way to Milwaukee. Paulstretch isn't a game anymore, this is serious. Was that music?
This one hit at a lacuna– a trip I couldn't crack with an expert in painting with silence. She left me room to catch up. One week that felt cocooned outside of reality. I've forgotten almost every detail except the feeling of melting by the air conditioning vent in the floor while otis redding melted on the turntable which got too much direct sunlight for the average pothos let alone vinyl. Someone transmitted from the radio as we drive, somehow I hear no engine. Crowding out her voice with this intrusive symphony. Shorter yes, but lacking finality
remember your manners! be mindful of time and remember the water. When I found out Bradford Cox made the bedroom databank releases with just a tascam dp008, I bought one and sat it on my window sill during four rains and mixed the 8 channels as a treat for myself. Those bells are in Chicago. I was probably late for class if this was recorded in Spring of 2016. credits
I failed many times to record that SCNF announcement sound. Here I say I am present with the looping sound of the accidentally keyed microphone. I viewed these as gifts for friends, a flower woven together from my personal phonography. 40 seconds felt like a picture.
Airplanes were always music. You can imagine my delight when I learned I shared this fascination with Eliane Radigue. In the Ardeche region, the French air force practice their flying through the gorges. Many walks back and forth on a gravel path.
Getting comfortable, returning to a train I listened intently to for a fall. Voices just out of reach. A cello from Barjac along sings with the note generously provided by the SCNF.
a voice! my voice? my ben sings simon and garfunkel only living boy in new york from the shower. A few perfect rains and garbled transitions from a cabinet of curiosities. the voice is peculiar resonance. abounding everywhere. what luck!
Delivered for the third performance of A Time Capsule Or A Grave at NFT Tuesday on 1/17/2023