While listening to the trumpet of Arve Henriksen, I think of the endless possibilities of existence, maybe because of the aleatory feeling behind his music, like it was the air blowing, the air as the almost random hiss of the environment.
The trumpet on the table blown by the wind; objects falling, unwanted percussions; voices from the surrounding city.
I dream of a music with no creation, that composes itself, growing with the tide, lost in the mist of the moment with no pretense of staying still or being recognized.
A music that sounds like rain, before we even know it is raining, still recognizing its familiarity.
Like those ordinary noises with no seeming cause, that make us feel the time…