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Experiencing Vert

by Emmanuelle Dauplay
15 April 2002

Quite a while ago now, I discovered Vert. Various records, one cd, the beginning of an overwhelming fondness and of a sustained listening activity. The Koln Konzert, through many seasons, brought lightness and interest to my world until spring saw me happy, walking down a long, wide and busy street and walking back again, excited and anxious, carrying in a leather bag, Nine Types of Ambiguity. I already liked the design, reminiscent of some of Bruno Munari’s experiments: "Theoretical Reconstructions of Imaginary Objects." Then I locked myself in, sat on a soft surface, in between solid walls, paused for a while until I felt safe, comfortable, opened to surprise, with perceptive qualities awaiting confusion. It was sunny, it was nearly hot. From then on I consolidated my already firm belief that Vert was very good. Not only very good, I had decided that the music was perfect. Not perfect for me, but simply the most staggeringly beautifully accomplished work of its well… time and field of music; whatever that may be. I thought I was right, I assumed it to be true. And following the rational notion that if something is true, it is true for a reason, if it was true, there had to be a reason. So I searched for a little while and as I did not find a proof, it became true by accident. Quite predictably, quite naturally, of course. Because the focus of creativity lies in the unknown, how stupid of me to try and confine it to the domain of understanding. As I concentrated on the enumeration of sounds though, so complete and decisive, meticulously arranged in the most refined structures, I thought I could hear the very legitimacy to use noises as pictorial elements, intelligent thoughts imprinted on sounds to denote visions, I did find intellectual aspirations and emotional outbursts, deconstructed theories and interesting cadences, nature and artifice.

The artist’s senses sent their own vibratory messages and in an act of reciprocity, received messages from the brain, which, in the meantime, were being altered by proprioceptive messages. The process isn’t so straightforward, it isn’t secure, so the accident resided there, it just happened, as all things do, and then it grew. It grew and melted with original approaches to composition, formed alloys of sensuous and precious textures, got played with by the hands of an artist thankfully "out of his prudent mind," building together, a whole of resounding hints, not to be described in any other way, unfolding progressively but not too explicitly. The ingenious balance of emotions and detailed ideas was filling places with speculative thoughts, harsh sounds and subtle harmonies, shelves and books covered with dust and at times innocent, at times elegant melodies. Evocations floating everywhere in an atmosphere turned light and heavy, by a refreshing system of signs, an original organic entity. Willingly communicated ideas were forming conceptual sceneries in my mind and reminded me of Velasquez and Degas. Those were entire memorial traces, born thanks to someone else’s interior language, artistic seer, expressive values, visions, sources of music. It’s all pretty simple. The creator is receptive when floodgates to novelty open; the artist widens the scope of the voluntary. And I had found, the pleasing, magic combination of creativity and intelligence, technique and inspiration, spirituality and physicality…

Quite alarmingly, I noticed that my body also was reacting. It made me giggle, it felt funny to groove in the most unusual way, while trying to follow things that I could not fully grasp; I could have been imitating the swift, circular movements and timeless durations of interior emotions, created by a mooseic that made the unconscious conscious in a beguiling, engaging manner. Energy flows, funk follows?! Someone told me that dancing, as if no one was watching, represented yet another way of surviving. So I was OK and it was all right to start off gently, to get a little crazy and to come down again, differently. At some point I heard some words, a voice speaking softly behind or in front of the purity of a piano. But then I sat down again, not even surprised, a little envious that he was additionally able to throw into all this, tranquil poetry, articulated rhythms and more nostalgic imagery. But then…After all, vert skating was about discovering new ways and new terrains to ride and is associated with sensations of weightlessness. I don’t know, why choose the horizontal when you can use a vertical structure, and why not try to kick the board into a spin before you land back on it…

When I saw Vert live, I thought the stage was too small for such a big aura. Apparently, the creative process stimulates the spirit and it stimulates the body, so the author must be feeling honestly pretty beautiful, sometimes. I saw a man doing, moving and smiling at a machine; as you will soon see.

It is very selfish; yet very comforting to be happy to see that some people are doing things you can truly admire and respect, to be happy to acknowledge how delightful it feels to be inspired. I guess I just wanted to say: "Thank you Adam, I like Mooseic very much!?"

There is a Sonig tour in May.