to be continued,
from Örö island to Wien Modern between November 1st and 30th

  • ESCR #12

    18/11 Security


    Today is Sunday. Weekdays carry no meaning here. No shops, restaurants, churches, offices, nothing exists to mark the time. Nothing from outside has an influence how I plan my day, except maybe the weather and daylight. However, I open one of my two bottles of wine today. They were brought in by Marja’s guests from Helsinki, last weekend.

    I work on my desk, writing, researching, and composing. I take extended excursions outside. When the light fits for filming, I take the good camera with me. The only important date for island life is the arrival and departure of Thursday’s ferry. Different ferries or boats are used, depending on what must be transported. If two or three people need a ride, a small boat is enough. A bigger ferry is used to bring in a new tractor for forest work or building material.

    By now, all military people left the island. A few workers from Estonia arrived to renovate one of the nicer old houses. On the island, they use bicycles to cover the distance from their living quarters to the building site on the other shore. Örö is empty, nowadays. Other than the working men, the only company we have is a herd of Highland cattle, a peaceful and curious group grazing on the eastern shores. When food gets too scarce, later in fall, they will leave, taking the ferry, too.

    Marja Salo, currently also here as resident, is a researcher at the Finnish Environment Institute, doctoral student at Helsinki University, and a sustainable consumption specialist. Together, we share a passion for foraging, for berries and mushrooms. We talk about safety. When telling friends of our plans to spend a month in a remote island, both of us had similar experiences – people asking us questions such as: Will you feel safe? Aren’t you afraid? What will you eat? If anyting happens, what will you do?

    Personally, I felt afraid the first night I spent in Örö. Nights are quite dark here, in spite of the few ‘street lamps’ right in front of our door. When the sky is clear, stars are magnificent. The waxing moon shines brightly. But no wild and dangerous animals live in the forest, except some snakes and ticks in summer (as in Austria, in mountain areas). No wolves, no bears, not even a dog. No giant spiders nor rats. In fact, Örö is an utterly peaceful place. Also, I did not experience the soldiers as threatening presence. They all behaved in a polite and friendly way, as well mannered people.

    Speaking of security and fear: there are numerous bunkers and fortifications on this island, smaller ones where only one person can fit in, and big underground edifices that can accommodate dozens of people. Most of them are open all year round, their doors stay unlocked. Tourists are invited to explore them at will. Only a general warning sign asks visitors to be aware of falling and take care of one’s steps. I do feel quite uncomfortable, rather unsafe, when entering these dark, narrow spaces. The muffled sounds of my steps reverberating from close walls. Again, the question is: what am I afraid of? With my headlamp on, I entered, taking videos. Please follow me inside…



    The largest bunker can only be accessed through a narrow, crumbled concrete entrance. With the visitors from Helsinki, I dared to set foot into the tunnel. The bunker is hewn into rock, three stories deep. From a maze of tunnels, a narrow iron stair leads down into an abyss of darkness. Inside, the space widens into a set of several larger rooms. They look as though they had been abandoned decades ago and left in their original state, to crumble and decay.


    Read Marja Salo’s publications under
    Marja Salo’s publications



  • ESCR #11

    15/11 Fuzzy terrains



    It is raining a lot. Lichens grow and expand everywhere, covering trees, rocks, the ground. The world looks fuzzy and contours lack definition. 

    I decided to occupy the historic mess hall (now hosting a small exhibition) at the southwestern end of Örö. The acoustics are good, the house is made of wood except for the foundations. Inside, it is dry and quite a bit warmer than outside, still, although the door does not close properly. I like the smell of the old wooden floor, blackened with tar; it is a smell that recalls pleasant childhood memories. The room is spacious.


    It has three huge stoves (not working) and a mural from the 1930-ies. This photo from Örön Linnake (2008), Johanna Pakola’s comprehensive investigation into the history of the island, shows the hall in its former function.

    Since nobody else is there now, and the door stands open, I have turned the hall into a studio space – as long as temperatures will allow. I walk through coastal woods with my instrument and gear, thinking: let’s make experimental music for the soldiers of the past who look down on me from the photographs pinned to the walls (the accordionist is here, too). Last Tuesday, I recorded three pieces. Lichens worlds, and my sense of defiance towards military thinking played a certain role in the making of this performance. In the background, the constant noise of the sea is faintly audible. The hall stands near the shore.


    Yesterday, I came across this wonderful passage in a book I currently read: Siri Hustvedt’s Living, Thinking, Looking (2012, Hodder&Stoughton, London) – some of her books are also available in German translation. Indeed, I took her book to the island with me, in print format. Within the context of experiencing a loss in perspective for my work, on this island, I find these sentences interesting:

    “A willigness to lose perspective means an openness to others who are guided by a set of unfamiliar propositions. It means entertaining a confounding, even frightening and radical intersubjectivity. It also means that however happy you are among the few residents of your particular island, that little island is not the whole world.”

    From afar, I wave at the Wien Modern audience. I miss you.

  • ESCR #10

    13/11 Music, an endangered species?



    Since the beginning of my residency period at Örö, I have been looking for locations and places that might be interesting for (musical) performances. During the first days of November, I experimented in the woods near our house, the old school building. At that time, much military personnel was stationed in Örö, because of the Nato exercise Trident Junction that took place across the Baltic region.

    This picture was taken on November 4th. I had just set up my instrument and began to play, when two Finnish soldiers with machine guns in hands came marching along the pathway, noticed me, turned and curiously approached, to watch! They acted friendly, even tried to talk to me, yet I found I’m not really used to performing with machine guns that close nearby – yet. The instrument soon gave up, because of the weather conditions; it is too cold, too windy, and too damp to perform outside.


    Several buildings in Örö are unlocked and open to the public, even in this time of the year. One of them is a former mess hall near the west coast; here, a collection of historic photographs is on exhibition. One of the photos shows a very young accordion player in uniform in the middle of a large group of soldiers. Among the many historic photographs about Örö fortress I have seen so far, in books or on display, only this one shows a musical instrument. I would like to know more about the anonymous musician. Who was he? Without question, he holds a prominent position in this assembly and looks at rest with his instrument.

    The numerous military structures and buildings all over the island emanate a harsh, functional, brutal background noise. They resonate a mode of thinking that is geared towards power, warfare, control, and force – in the name of (national) safety and protection. Current activities around the anniversary of the end of WWI come to my mind. Nowadays, much is being done to ensure a friendly and positive image of the military. For example, see the official reports on Trident Junction on twitter under



    Other than the military, there is wilderness. Nature’s stern rule governs island life. I spend much time outside, exposed to wind, coldness, moisture and rain, listening to the roar of the sea and the woods. Walking over sand, moss, and rocks, I find myself touched – and changed. After long periods of darkness and clouded skies, I enjoy brief moments of brilliant sunshine. I take delight in simple and small things: gnarled trees, graceful waves, tiny flowers, a handful of edible mushrooms, remarkable rocks, a few birds or the squirrel we saw from the kitchen window. 

    It appears that music is the most endangered species on this island. Is it a question of protecting my artistic process? Does music need protection and safety, within a martial and harsh environment and culture? What is it that music needs to live and unfold?

    Personally, I notice how the pervasive presence of military culture as found in Örö Linnake interrupts my artistic drive and my compositional activity. I notice how I strive to work against, around it, in between.

    Through the rain, I walk defiantly.


    Dusk Song (Pia Palme 2018) from Palmeworks on Vimeo.


  • ESCR #9

    11/11 Listening #2: mattoteline


    All over the island, sturdy and foldable metal racks – finn. mattoteline – for hanging carpets or laundry are installed near living quarters or holiday homes. They serve multiple functions. This mattoteline stands near the sauna and a group of holiday cottages. I am attracted to their sound: a multipurpose outdoor version of tubular bells. I use crude wooden beaters that I found nearby; handling the pieces of wood, I aim at simple sonic structures. For recording this performance, I once more use the AKG contact mic. Listening inside… outside weather: around 7° and a stiff breeze. As it turned out, the wind had shifted around my iphone on its stand during the visual recording. 

  • ESCR #8


    10-11/11 Alltagsgegenstände – Finnish Design

    Diesen Eintrag schreibe ich in meiner Muttersprache. Es geht diesmal um Dinge des alltäglichen Lebens und den Haushalt, da kann ich mich in Deutsch einfach besser ausdrücken. Finnisches Design ist für seine Funktionalität und Schlichtheit weltbekannt; auf Örö bin ich zum Fan des ganz gewöhnlichen finnischen Alltagsdesigns geworden.

    Praktisch finde ich den Geschirrkasten zum Abtropfen, genau über der Abwasch. Gitter statt Bretter machen es möglich, nasses Geschirr direkt nach dem Abspülen einzuordnen. Türen zu, und die Küche wirkt – oder besser: sie ist – sofort aufgeräumt.

    In die Küche wurde da ein groß dimensioniertes und klug entworfenes Teigbrett integriert. Man zieht es heraus und hat sofort eine praktische Arbeitsfläche. Für uns eine Erleichterung, denn Marja und ich backen eigenes Brot – frisches kann man auf Örö nicht kaufen, und wir wollen vier Wochen auskommen. Wir haben Weizen-, Roggen-, und Gerstenmehl mitgebracht, Sauerteig und Hefe.

    Wir, die Residents, wohnen derzeit in der ehemaligen Schule von Örö, die heute zu Wohn- und Schulungszwecken verwendet wird (siehe Foto ganz oben). Sie liegt an einer der beleuchteten ‘Hauptstraßen’ der Insel. Bis in die 1970er Jahre wurden in unserer Wohnküche/Unterrichtsraum Kinder unterrichtet. In den kleineren Zimmern wohnten LehrerInnen und Personal. Das historische Foto zeigt genau unseren Hauseingang.


    Bürsten beim Haustor sind wichtig. Ich habe nur zwei Paar Schuhe mit, leichte und schwere Wanderschuhe. In Finnland sollte man unbedingt Schuhe im Vorzimmer ausziehen.


    In der Personalsauna, die wir benützen dürfen, hängt ein wunderschönes altes Thermometer, das rekordverdächtige Temperaturen messen kann. Der Mann, der da mit nacktem Oberkörper ruhig zum Saunahaus im Wäldchen schreitet, hat eine einfache Arbeitshose an. Man erkennt, dass die Sauna nicht als Lifestyle Spa für urbanes Publikum mit Freizeit und Geld entstanden ist, sondern arbeitenden Menschen zur Körperpflege diente – im Alltag, zu Hause. In Helsinki hat die Mehrzahl der Wohnungen (besonders ältere) eine eigene Sauna. Bildung, Arbeit und Sauna passen auch hervorragend zusammen, wie die lateinische Inschrift zeigt.



  • ESCR #7

    8-9/11 Shopping and shipping

    Even in a remote place like Örö it is possible to shop online and receive mail and packages.

    Setting up my workplace, I found out that a specific cable was missing to connect my laptop to an extra screen. After some consideration, the best solution seemed to order the cable via internet from a local provider based in Helsinki. Shopping online was easily accomplished. The order had to be placed in Finnish; this I managed with intuition and help from my Finnish colleague Marja Salo. 

    My shipping address is 


    ‘Linnake’ is ‘fortress’ in English.

    The package would be shipped to the nearest post office, to be picked up by either by myself  – or by a person with an official authorisation. The post office is located in the store in Kasnäs, in the small harbour from where the ferry leaves, and where I bought most of my supplies. Within two days, the package arrived in Kasnäs. Via analogue communication – a quad bike stopping in front of the residency house and the driver personally calling on us –  Marja and I were informed that this week’s ferry on Thursday was cancelled. Instead, there would only be a smaller boat very early in the morning doing necessary transportation. Too early for the post office… it would not be open yet.

    By the way, most inland ferries are free in Finland, such as the one I took from Kasnäs to Örö. They are considered part of the road system, ensuring free transportation in the country.

    To get my order to the residency, I depended on further support from maintenance people of the forestry department: one of them agreed to pick up the package during the opening hours of the postal provider, in time to take it with him on the early boat trip the next day, when he would come in to Örö for work from the mainland.


    Finnish postal services are well organised and work efficiently; the large country is sparsely populated. The Kasnäs post office was strict about an original warrant. That is, the correct form must be downloaded from the internet, printed, filled out, and signed. At the residency, it took us quite a while to get the printer going… finally, success. Next, the correctly signed form had to be delivered to the maintenance boat, as was agreed. Much thanks to Marja, who can so much easier communicate about these intricate matters with everyone, in Finnish!

    If you look closely, you can see the folded warrant behind the boat’s front-screen wipers.

    The Thursday morning ship also brought two weekend visitors from Helsinki, Marja’s husband and her friend. Within this wheel cart, the mail package travelled the last leg of the journey, from the landing place to our house.

    Altogether, I received the cable within four days, thanks to the interplay of digital and analogue means, directed by human interaction and cooperation. Composing a piece from sounds gathered in field recordings, I much appreciate the extra screen space. Even more so, I am grateful for people’s readiness to communicate, help, and cooperate.

  • ESCR #6

    6-7/11 Listening #1

    The island is a quiet place these days.

    The weather is cloudy, slightly misty, only a gentle breeze. Sounds of nature dominate, with the roar of waves as loudest appearance. No cars. Almost no airplanes pass over the land, much different from home. Occasionally a quad bike passing the residency house, once or twice a day a tractor. Maintenance men tend to the military sites and historic places before winter comes; they empty garbage cans and even clean the patch of lawn in front of the surveillance tower from fallen leaves – I couldn’t believe my eyes, as I walked past.


    Since the wind was quiet, I decided to do recordings on Hangover Hill, on the western beach. When I first explored the site a few days ago, a plan for a piece developed right away. On top of a metal mast, a radar rotates, emitting a constantly cycling pitched sound. A (forbidden) subterranean military site is covered by a huge metal dome, featuring a large museum gun on top. Visitors are allowed to climb up to the dome and gun. 

    By attaching a contact microphone (the AKG C411, one of my favourite mics) to the hollow mast structure, I recorded the sound of the radar.



    Then, I climbed the hill to work on the dome. For that I had brought two beaters and my superball. During my first visit to the site, I had found out by experimentation that the huge cavity underneath the dome acts as a resonator.
    Via contact mic, working on the iron dome with beaters, I planned to record a selection of samples.

    I set up my gear and attached the microphone to the dome. Putting on earphones, I was surprised to hear male voices arguing inside. Men tapped on the metal structure from within, before I could act with my beaters. Happily, I recorded their conversation, and after a while began to use my superball on the structure. The noise is unexpectedly sonorous… the small silicone egg mounted on a nail file exciting the huge military dome to sound… 

    Of course, men came running out right away, curious about the sound source. As it turned out, they were workers from the maintenance inspecting the building. Some sound interaction happened after they reutned to their work, they tapping from the inside, I from the outside.



    Further on, I went to the waterline to record small waves gurgling on their path through boulders of different sizes, and my own shoes crunching sand, stones, and black shells. When I do field recordings, my interest is in mapping sonorous qualities of an object’s inside. The volume and inner space is what I want to hear. What is the sound of the volume of the dome? What is the sound of the rotating radar as it resonates within the metal mast? What is the sound of differently sized stones interacting with the water, and with each other?


  • ESCR #5

    5/11 Part of larger worlds

    This battered tea kettle once stood on the stove of the Reading Room of the Finnish military colony at Örö. A cosy wooden library house was provided as an intellectual stimulant for the soldiers stationed at Örö, in the beginning of the 20th century. Newspapers could be read here, too. The ethnographer Michael H. Agar writes in his book that “communities don’t have edges; they are part of larger worlds”. The small community of people currently present at Örö consists of maintenance personnel (they stay for a couple days a week, then leave for he mainland over the weekend), a changing number of soldiers (last week there were more than usual because of Nato projects), occasional tourists (visiting per private boat), a couple who lives in a house on the eastern cost, and us, the two resident explorers.


    Today, internet and mobile phone work as excellent and reliable means of connection to the outside from here. But also, plastic residue can be found on all the shores, bringing to mind that this island is not a remote paradise, but currently very much part of larger worlds. On my walks I take a bag with me; I have decided to pick up at least some of the garbage, as a personal contribution to this place.

    In 2015, the Finnish artist in residence Elina Juopperi collected shards of plastic fibres all over the island and assembled them into a huge ball. Mostly, they come from fishing gear. Three years later, her nearly indestructible scuplture is still  visible from afar, like an alien entity landed on the shore. It will last for decades, if not centuries.

    Interestingly, the ball has moved 20 meters from its original position in three years. As contribution to her project website I form yet another small plastic ball of my own and make a photo.

    The outside world has an impact on my artistic work here on site, as well. My plan was to write a composition for ensemble during the residency, to be performed next spring in Vienna. I had applied for three grants to finance this project. Yesterday, I received notification that two of those applications were not successful. Disheartened, I took a long exploratory hike and lost myself in wind, magnificent sunlight, and the intense blueness of the ocean. At noon, the sun is already low in the sky, and my shadow self on the sand appears as a giant.

    I have to make new plans and find other ways to realise my work. On the other hand, I now have more freedom.

    In the evening, Marja and I enjoy the sauna! We can use the personnel sauna in a small house a couple minutes on foot, direction east. As we walk ‘home’ the nightly sky is brilliant, full of stars.

  • ESCR #4

    3-4/11 Examination and surveillance


    Everybody seems to watch everyone in this place. We watch soldiers, they observe us. A number of buildings on Örö is dedicated to guarantee safety through surveillance. A fortress, an island, a nation must be guarded, it seems. In the woods, I come across this sign.

    Even insects are being monitored throughout the island, multiple insect traps are brightly lit at night. As I stroll between trees, a black woodpecker curiously looks at me from behind a tree, while I try to observe him, in turn.

    There is not much going on here, and one begins to record small things and details. For entertainment? For safety? For art?

    In my experience, I like to detect outstanding elements, singular events. Phenomena that come to the foreground catch my attention. Human perception is geared to provide safety from the unexpected. There is a connection to patterning and also to composing. However, a solid background must be provided to sustain the appearance of the singular. If too many singularities occur in succession, they form a new background. They lose their specialness.

    Walking across the western beach, I notice Marja’s footprints in the sand. There are not many women on the island, they are unmistakably from her hiking boots. Reminds me of Robinson Crusoe, who comes across his own footprints one day. I detect other marks, left by diverse animals (mink, in this case).

    Looking at my own footprints in the sand, I notice the lines on the rock nearby. These traces were  left by a glacier a long time ago. They will stay on, while my traces will be washed away by the sea rather soon.

    Hiking to the northern tip of Örö, I take the paved main road. As soon as the sun breaks through the clouds, the light is brilliant.

    I record small plants, flowers, and mushrooms. Steadily, wind blows from the West. The island’s western side is battered by waves, the roar is audible throughout the land. Yet, small flowers and mushrooms endure right on the shore. The east and south coast are calm and more protected from wind and water, trees, reeds, and grass grow right up to the waterline.


    On my walks through the woods, I begin to orient myself along the ever-present roar of the waves. Noise is west, quiet is east.


  • ESCR #3

    2/11 Exploratory walking

    On foot, I begin to explore the island, taking extended walks. I enter an enchanted place. At this stage, Örö seems bigger than expected. The landscape constantly changes, surprising views open up. Lichen-covered undergrowth, trees, some of them remarkable individuals, boulders, moss carpets in various shades of green, meadows, reed, and water. Small paths and paved roads. Beaches. Old wooden structures, houses, military buildings, observation bunkers.

    I stop for every mushroom – there are some edible specimens around, it’s the end of the season, and most of them are too old and soft for culinary purposes – and gather blueberries. Already, I have cooked and eaten both, and found them somewhat disappointing.


    Probably the reason is that it is rather late in the year, there is not much sunlight anymore, and too much moisture. Amazing that they are still around, with the first period of frost, they will be gone.

    The military: Örö is a training ground for the Finnish military. Drinking my morning coffee in our living room, I have the first encounter with soldiers. Directly in front of the house, I notice a group of men in grey disguise, no helmets, only black hoods, machine guns in firing position, sneaking through the shrubs and the trees. Slowly, they move around the building, stopping, signalling to each other, moving on.

    As they do their training routine, I fetch a pair of binoculars and observe them. I feel safe in my living room, knowing that this is Örö and Finnish military in training. If this happened somewhere in Austria, in the countryside, I would be more concerned. In the afternoon, they do them same routine again, moving towards the northern tip of the island this time.



    Later, hiking along the main road towards the Southern harbour, I meet more soldiers. Some of them greet me. All of them are without helmets, otherwise fully armoured. It seems that there are more people on this island than I expected. I pass a black watchtower, still in use. In the archipelago, a tower on top of a rocky hill is a strategic point, offering a wide view.

    As I move around the island, my progress is slow at this stage. With the intense observation, every distance is prolonged. Space extends during the discovery stage. I take in as much as I can. Michael H. Agar’s book ‘The Professional Stranger. An Informal Introduction to Ethnography’ (San Diego, California: Academic Press, 1996) comes to my mind. The book is good to read; Agar writes in a lively style about what it means to be an ethnographer . Along the idea of fieldwork in unknown terrains, I am interested in exploring my own professional artistic process. As composer, I want to cultivate a curious and open attitude towards my environment and towards my own work. I want to cultivate a healthy form of criticism.


    Marja Salo told me about a website, where one can find official information about when and where the Finnish Defence Forces conduct training sessions, including noisy events involving shootings and explosions. It seems we will have some noise in Örö in the middle of November:

    Since many people in Finland have houses in the countryside, this is useful information.


  • ESCR #2

    1/11 Landing at Örö


    I have never stayed and worked in a place as remote as Örö island. Travelling from Helsinki by bus, we passed though Salo to Taalintehdas. Human settlements thinned out and gave way to fields and cultivated landscapes, later woods, water, moss and boulders came to the foreground. A taxi brought us to the tiny harbour Kasnäs. From here the weekly ferry runs, direction Örö and back again. Us: that is Marja Salo from Helsinki, scientist in residence, and myself, all our luggage and food supplies, my instrument. From the well equipped local store I picked up further supplies, already packed in boxes – including a share of fish from a salmon farm next to the landing place.

    In excellent weather, the ride through the archipelago to Örö took about 35 minutes. The ferry navigated through island of all sizes. Gently rounded patches of stone, some a mere rock looking like the curved back of a whale; some islands stately sized and covered by dense wood, even bigger ones hosting small red houses with a landing place. Occasionally, a modern holiday home came into view. The view: endless variations of shallow rounded rock, trees bent from the wind, moss, and water. After a while, the scene roughened, with a colder wind coming up. The scattered islands appeared more flat and barren, tress gave way to shrubs. More and more barren rock dominated the scene. No living being in sight, except for a few birds and, occasionally, a pair of white swans swimming in formation. Then, Örö. The last appearance of land before the expanse of the Gulf of Finland stretches out to meet the Baltic sea.



    That could mean: far from civilisation. Far from shops and amenities of urban culture. Far from friends, partners, family. Far from home, from Vienna. From the mainland. From Wien Modern. I miss the audience’s company. I long for the sparkling entrance hall of Konzerthaus Wien, for the concert atmosphere, for spirited smalltalk and and a glass of wine, or else. Then catching the last U4 towards home.


    During the landing manoeuvre, the engine of the ferry emitted an eery machine noise. To me, it sounded like a heart torn by longing. The remoteness inevitably brings forth s sense of longing. The sense of longing is strong and connects the world to me. Through longing, the entire world is mine, to share.


    A quad-bike transports us to a red house in the woods. In a former school building, we set up our rooms, kitchen, workspaces. A lot of moving furniture around and some cleaning as well. A classroom turned into a kitchen transforms into a decent living room. The residency space had been moved this year, necessitated by renovation work in progress. A good living situation is essential, much time will be spent inside, as darkness falls early now. 

    We walk to the West beach before sunset. At Örö it is not as cold as I expected it to be. The warmth of the summer is still stored in the ocean. This year was exceptionally warm in Finland, too. 

  • ERSC #1

    Helsinki umarmt mich kräftig und kalt.

    Ich entdecke einen Ort namens Thinkcorner. Moderne Holzarchitektur, einladend, über drei Stockwerke hinweg. Eine Art Wohnzimmer, sagt man mir, für Denkende, für die StudentInnen und jedermann zugänglich, als Teil der Universität Helsinki, konsumzwangfrei, komfortabel. Wegweisend. Tische, Arbeitsplätze, Sofas, Sitzkissen, zahlreiche Steckdosen. Warm. Alles da, was zum Arbeiten nötig ist.


    Da bis Monatsende eine Publikation als Beitrag für ein Buch fertigstellt sein soll, kommt mir dieser Zufluchtsort gerade recht. Mit dem Titel “Performing Gender as Polyphony”. Das Thema ist auch hier wieder Hinein-hören und Re-komponieren; beschäftigt mich schon länger.

    Ich kann hier sofort gut arbeiten. Bin jeden Tag ein paar Stunden da. Apropos Gender: die hier üblichen Multigender-inklusiv Toiletten könnten wir in Österreich auch übernehmen. Apropos Denkraum:


    Come as you are, and cooperate

    Das könnte das Motto für das öffentliche Schwimm- und Saunabad sein, das ich heute am Damentag besuchte. Herren und Damentage wechseln ab. Schuhe draussen abstellen und hinein in die ehrwürdigen Hallen. Man bringt ein Handtuch mit oder mietet eins, mehr braucht Frau nicht. Die Hausordnung erlaubt Schwimmen: in herkömmlicher Badekleidung, im Burkini oder nackt. Vormittags frequentieren scheinbar vor allem Studentinnen und Pensionistinnen das Haus, zahlreiches Kommen und gehen. Die Mehrzahl zieht nackt ihre Runden, in drei Bahnen, wohl geordnet immer auf der linken Seite hin, rechts zurück. Der einzig bekleidete Mensch und Mann (in Rot) ist der Bademeister. Mit stoischer Miene betrachtet er aus seiner Glaskabine das Geschehen, macht hie und da Rundgänge durch die Duschen. Die zwei Saunen sind spartanisch gefliest, erfüllen bestens ihren Zweck. Die Stimmen der Frauen und ihre fremde Sprache umgeben mich. Das Wasser plätschert.

    Der Musikpavillion steht im Winter leer, denn in Zeiten wie diesen ziehen sich selbst Hunde warm an. Morgen früh gehe ich zu Fuß mit 48 kg Gepäck zum Busbahnhof. Instrument, Koffer, Rucksack mit einem Teil der Lebensmittel. Um 6:50 Abfahrt Richtung Örö.


    28–29/10 Im Transit


    Zeitgleich mit dem Eröffnungskonzert von Wien Modern besteige ich den Flieger.

    Die letzten Tage in Wien war ich mit Vorbereitungen für die Reise beschäftigt. Die Frage “Was nehme ich auf eine Insel mit?” bekommt beim bevorstehenden Projekt eine eigene Bedeutung. Örö ist eine nur schwer erreichbare Insel im finnischen Archipelago, im Spätherbst/Frühwinter. Kleidung? Schuhe? Arbeitsmaterial? Was brauche ich zum Leben, vier Wochen lang? Vor allem: Proviant, alles will gut geplant sein.

    Ich wache mitten in der Nacht auf und meine Gedanken rasen: wie transportiere ich mit öffentlichen Verkehrsmitteln 40kg Gepäck (inklusive Instrument und etwas Elektronik) und zusätzlich Lebensmittel für zwei bis vier Wochen? Noch einen Rucksack, wie schwer kann ich tragen? Batterien, Powerbank? Adapter? Was mache ich, wenn ich krank werde? Die Kälte, die Entfernung…welche Medikamente sollte ich dabeihaben? In meinem normalen Alltag machen mir diese Dinge kein Kopfzerbrechen; in der Stadt ist doch alles gut erreichbar, alles ist zu haben. Jetzt entdecke ich das Gefühl der Unsicherheit, wie ein Nebel zieht es herauf.

    Der Transport von größeren Instrumenten erfordert zusätzliche Logistik. Kraftaufwand sowieso, und Verhandlungsgeschick. Damit habe ich Erfahrung. Für gewöhnlich nehme ich wegen meines Instrumentenkoffers Diskussionen mit dem Bordpersonal in Kauf, Nach mehr oder weniger intensiven Verhandlungen darf ich das Instrument als Cabin baggage im Gepäckfach verstauen. Das geht sich gut aus. Wichtig: verwende in Diskussionen mit Fluglinien im Zusammenhang mit Gepäck niemals das Wort “Kontrabass”. Das klingt nach riesig groß und die Antwort ist “geht nicht”. “Blockflötenkoffer” kommt besser an. Allerdings wurden die Airlines zuletzt restriktiver. Diesmal wollte ich nichts riskieren und habe einen Sitz extra für mein Instrument gebucht. Sicherheitshalber. Ich werde allein als erste an Bord gebeten, noch vor der Priority Class. 4’33” erlebe ich sozusagen in der leeren Kabine. Später nimmt schräg gegenüber ein finnischer Dirigent Platz. Er studiert den Flug hindurch völlig konzentriert Partituren neuer Musik. Eine nach der anderen entfaltet er im Großformat, bis in den Mittelgang hinein. Ich fühle mich wohl unter Menschen, die mitten im Fluglärm für (neue) Musik arbeiten.

    In einer Stadt, die ich nicht kenne, mache ich am Liebsten ausgedehnte Spaziergänge. Ich lasse mich dabei treiben und wandere ziellos herum. Mit Sicherheit entdecke ich dann interessante Dinge. Orte, Objekte, Gebäude, Menschen, Tiere. Die Stadt entfaltet sich im absichtslosen Gehen wie von selbst.

    Diesen Abend ist in Helsinki die Luft frisch, gesund und kalt. Bemerkenswerte Architektur zieht mich in ihren Bann. Stumm und ruhig halten die Riesen am Eingangstor zum Bahnhof ihre Lichter über den Platz. Sie wirken ebenso konzentriert wie der finnische Dirigent bei der Arbeit. Ich fühle mich beschützt und bewacht, von so viel steingewichtiger Freundlichkeit.

    Licht hat im Norden eine besondere Bedeutung. Man gibt das Licht in die Obhut von Riesen, damit es gut bewahrt bleibt, in dunklen Zeiten.


    From Örö Island to Wien Modern
    November 1st to 30th
    with sounds, texts, video & (live)performance

    in cooperation with Wien Modern 31
    and the Örö Residency Programme

    Mit Sound, Text (Deutsch, Englisch),
    Video und (Live) Performance

    Dank an Örö Residency Programme,
    SKE Fonds für die Förderung der Arbeit.

    «Einen Monat lang lebe und arbeite ich auf der Festungsinsel Örö, einer geschichtsträchtigen Hochsicherheitszone und einem einsamen Naturpark im finnischen Archipel. Ich erkunde die Umgebung samt der militärischen Relikte, performe mit oder ohne Instrument, baue Installationen, filme und horche, forsche, schreibe und komponiere im Blockhaus. Auf meinem Blog kann man mich täglich begleiten, mitkommen bei Streifzügen durch die frostige, dunkle Landschaft – Tang riechen, Metall fühlen – das kalte Meer rauschen hören und dabei gemütlich daheim im warmen Zimmer sitzen.

    Wie geht es mir als Komponistin in der Einsamkeit, angesichts der Relikte einer kämpferischen Gesellschaft? Fühle ich mich sicher? Was bewirken Kampf und Krieg in meinem Arbeitsvorgang? Was macht die Gefahr mit meiner Musik? Ist da ein Kontrast von männlich-weiblich mit im Spiel? Und was hat das alles mit Wien Modern zu tun? Mit Sicherheit gibt es die Sauna, zum Glück und zum Aufwärmen.»