February 01, 2023
Program note:
You are meadow, but once you were an open cut in a place no one wants to remember. You are the ashes of a brass band, too few opportunities for the young. The shadow of my instrument. You are lambs eating from morning hands. At night, you are the absence of a dog, of a body, of play. For the women in the haunted hills, mothers of coal and prehistory, they are the stronghold of a working class. You do not sing ecological laments or paint landscapes into notes. You spring in perpetual meadows and linger in the already-past. The concrescence of the orchestra in two parts, only to cut once again.
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Photos by Laura Manariti