Sandro

Sandro’s earliest recordings were mostly wind, his own breathing and a cousin asking whether the machine was on. He kept them. The accidental material always seemed more alive than his carefully announced performances, although it took years to admit that a mistake could be useful without becoming an excuse not to practise.

He met Nino in a school recording club where she wanted quiet and he wanted to test every switch. They still work that way. For her entrance archive, he records the pause before a story as carefully as the voice itself. He is determined not to turn somebody else’s ordinary life into decorative atmosphere, even when that means discarding a sound he loves.

Tako’s movement films give his restlessness a shape. She asks for a clean rhythm; he arrives with footsteps, a loose window catch and three possible endings. Dachi helps build small resonant wooden objects, none of which they agree to call instruments until they survive being carried downstairs. Their most promising prototype currently sounds better upside down.

A familiar refrain feels to Sandro like a conversation that began before he entered the room. The Suliko detail stays quiet because he dislikes explaining every feeling at full volume. Yet his own unfinished pieces occupy an increasingly noisy folder. He can find the right sound for someone else’s film; choosing an ending for his own is the decision he keeps avoiding.