Sometimes a place returns to me as a sound before it returns as an image. Footsteps fading along a corridor, a chair meeting the floor, voices drifting through an open window: these apparently small pieces build a place’s particular atmosphere when they come together.
In these notes, I am drawn less to the loudest sounds than to what happens between them. What remains in the room after a conversation ends? How does movement outside make itself felt indoors? Rather than explaining every moment in words, I want to leave room for the place to join the story. Sometimes understanding a scene begins with listening a little longer.
