On 29 July, I will present my practice-led PhD research at Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts (NAFA), Singapore. As the conference approaches, I am putting the final touches on my slides, rehearsing my presentation, and refining the performative elements that accompany my research.
This summer, we are spending our holidays in Kazakhstan. During the day, my daughters attend an art camp while I work from our apartment, preparing for the conference. These quiet weeks have given me the time and space to think deeply about how sound can become part of my artistic practice.
Over the past months, I have been weaving together a three-minute soundscape from recordings I made in places that carry a strong spiritual presence: a Japanese cemetery at dawn, an Orthodox church, a Taoist temple, a Hindu temple (mandir), parks, and places of remembrance. What fascinates me is not only the sounds themselves, but the atmosphere they hold—the moments before everyday noise takes over.
The composition begins with the quiet sounds of the Japanese cemetery recorded very early in the morning. Gradually, Orthodox chanting merges with the powerful rhythm of drums from a Taoist temple. Sounds from a Hindu mandir emerge alongside the delicate ringing of small bells. Together, these recordings form a layered soundscape where different traditions coexist without hierarchy, creating a space for contemplation, memory, and movement.
I am increasingly interested in sound as an extension of my visual and performative practice. Rather than illustrating an artwork, it creates an atmosphere for immersion. It can accompany movement during a performance or quietly surround viewers as they stand before my collages, drawings, or textile works, encouraging them to experience the work through listening as well as seeing.
When I cannot spend long hours in the studio making objects, sound has become another material to think with. Recording, listening, editing, and composing have become part of my artistic process. It feels like a natural extension of my practice rather than a departure from it.
The idea of moving slowly to the rhythm of chants, bells, and ceremonial sounds continues to stay with me. These poetic rituals are becoming another way of exploring embodied memory—not only through words or images, but through gesture, repetition, and attentive listening.
The slides are almost finished, the soundscape has taken shape, and now I am rehearsing my presentation, searching for a rhythm between speaking, silence, movement, and sound. My hope is that these twenty minutes will not simply communicate my research, but offer the audience an embodied experience that lingers long after the presentation has ended.