My phonographic practice is a form of exploratory listening that uses microphones as tools for perceiving the world, in a way that is similar but not identical to photography. Listening through headphones via microphones is both amplified and reduced: amplified because microphones allow us to get closer to sounds that would otherwise be imperceptible, reduced because it is deprived of the natural spatiality of human hearing. It is not just a matter of recording, but of immersing oneself in listening to a place with one's whole body, in real and unprotected contexts. I prefer to talk about field listening rather than field recording, to emphasize the act of listening rather than that of documenting.
For SSQ, I took an exploratory approach, carrying a different set of lightweight equipment each day and walking around the locations suggested by the group. I used a system that combines high fidelity and imperfection: Sennheiser MKH 8020 microphones, a hydrophone, a modified vintage SQN analog mixer, and a Sony WM-D6C cassette recorder. The cassettes, each with its own sound characteristics, become an integral part of the final result, accentuating the material and tactile aspect of listening.

ATTENTION: FOR OPTIMAL LISTENING TO THE RECORDINGS, WE STRONGLY RECOMMEND THE USE OF HEADPHONES.
And if you can, make yourself comfortable and close your eyes.

In the garden of the house where I was staying, there were some small palm trees. The leaves, moved by the wind, produced a sound very similar to that of flowing liquid.
When I listen through microphones, I often notice how some solid objects, apparently compact and indivisible, suddenly reveal themselves for what they really are: an organic whole composed of many small parts in constant dynamic relation with each other. The static nature of the microphones, fixed immovably on their stands, further accentuates this perception of mobility in the things they record.

The delta is almost completely flat, and the lack of traffic allows sounds from afar to be heard, often without being able to identify their source. The microphones are pressed against the mosquito net of my room's open window, from the inside, and point roughly in the direction from which I seem to hear a continuous noise, perhaps from a factory or a production process that I cannot distinguish.
It's late September and it's starting to get cold. The house is invaded by bedbugs, which crawl into crevices to hibernate for the winter. The cracks in the window frames, the roller shutter boxes, and the mosquito net guides are full of them. I think the sudden, sharp sounds you hear in the recording are caused by the bugs banging against the mosquito net.
The microphone offers a very specific perspective: the bugs were not audible to the naked ear, and even the sound of the factory, when I listened to it without headphones, seemed less abstract, less ‘sidereal’.

During one of my walks along the banks of the Po River, I met a dog who started following me, and for a few hours we explored the area together. Almost all of my colleagues based their research on encounters with people, whom they interviewed or followed in their daily activities. I remember thinking that for that afternoon, the dog could become my reference character, to be followed just as he followed me. Some people noticed us from a distance and, perhaps intrigued by the strange equipment I had with me, drove up to us. They asked me why I was recording there: “There's nothing here,” they said, “no birds singing, no sound of waves.” At the time, I didn't know how to respond; only later did I realize that I could have told them to ask the dog why he found that place interesting.
This recording, like all the others in this collection, was recorded directly onto cassette. The device I use has a kind of glitch that allows me to record at double speed (so when you listen to it, the sound is slowed down). These slowdowns acted as a kind of accent on some of the dog's actions, and were not added in post-production.

This recording was made from a quay directly opposite the power station chimney, shortly before sunset. When viewed with the eyes and listened to with the ears, the river water appeared very calm. The microphones were positioned almost at the water's edge, barely touching the low waves that gently broke against the pier. Strangely, however, the sound they captured is almost hysterical, not at all relaxing or peaceful.

Another participant in the project advised me to go and record at a river lock, where small concrete basins are agitated by pumps, creating whirlpools. The sound of the lock was actually very pleasant to listen to, but I couldn't find an interesting way to record it. I also tried lowering a hydrophone (an underwater microphone) into the water, but even that didn't capture a particularly interesting sound. The lock is located very close to a road where cars occasionally passed by. The hydrophone I use is a kind of metal tube about a foot long, with a rubber end that captures sound, but in reality, the metal body is also sensitive and receives vibrations. So I placed the hydrophone on an iron grate along a walkway out of the water and recorded this continuous drone, produced by the lock motor and modulated by the noise of passing cars. I remember having the distinct feeling that that sound had always been there and would remain there forever.

During the period in which we conducted our research, the only area of the Ca' Mello Oasis that seemed to be frequented by tourists was the picnic area near the state road. At the park entrance, there was a map showing some internal trails, but as soon as I took one of them, I realized that no one had been there for a long time: I literally had to make my way through the vegetation that had completely invaded the path. There were ponds on either side of the path, but I couldn't see them, I could only hear the birds flying away towards the water as I passed by. I found a small wooden bridge and sat there for a long time, using my empty, squashed backpack as a chair and the microphone boom as if it were a fishing rod to lower the hydrophone into the water. The vegetation was so thick that I could only see a few meters ahead, but the sound of the blue crab, captured by the underwater microphone, was extremely present. The rhythmic patterns produced by this animal are both discontinuous and regular. Perhaps because of my awareness of the ecological upheavals caused by this crustacean in the delta area, its sound seemed aggressive to me, like a succession of small shocks.

For this recording, I immersed the hydrophone in a stretch of river surrounded by busy bridges, buildings, houses, and various manufacturing activities. No sounds of aquatic creatures could be heard; evidently, not even the infamous blue crab can live in this crowded part of the delta. On the contrary, the electromagnetic interference generated by human activities produces a deep, constant hum, which can only be heard through the hydrophone immersed in the water.