Meredith Monk: between the cracks, a Voice, a Body and a Berimbau

I made a fatal error when developing the Meredith Monk's concert negatives and they became damaged. Her's performance had been so extraordinary, her voice had impressed me so much that I certainly lost the clarity needed to do a competent job.

Following the frustration of my failure, I found that the images that survived the disaster were wonderful after all, the error transformed the photographs into unique plastic objects: as if in a clumsy magic trick, something had been added that gave them another light, another dimension, another design.

Her voice had been indelibly lodged in a secret place in the ceiling of my brain. I still hear it from time to time, without warning, coming from nowhere, take off and dance freely; her gestures, the movements of her hands, her fingers, the gentle modulations of her face, sometimes inadvertently plague me.