I left the recorder on for almost an hour last night while at the KHM, at the Rothko exhibition. With the exception of an alarm (that lasted for a few seconds after it went off when somebody got too close to a canvas) and the sound of very faint, almost quiet voices from the visitors, there is nothing to hear but the old hardwood floors creaking and cracking, bringing to life a sort of colorful sound field, one rivaling with the color fields hanging on the walls.
Listening to the recording, it feels like being in the presence of so much more than walking on herringbone parquet.
Sometimes it sounds like crumpling paper.
Sometimes like walking over powdery, dry snow, on a very cold winter morning.
Sometimes like a bonfire lighting up cool summer nights in the mountains.
Sometimes like huge trees falling, breaking the sinews that kept them whole when they were chopped down.
Sometimes like hundreds of mouths biting into crisp and juicy bell peppers.
Sometimes like actually walking on hardwood floors.
Sometimes like the rapping of the rain on the roof of a woodshed or like moored boats swaying in the wind, somewhere by the sea.