Ayumi Paul in Conversation with Patrizia Dander

Patrizia Dander: I’d like to start by asking about The Singing Project’s origins. What was the starting point for the project?

Ayumi Paul: In 2019, Julia Draganović, then Director of the Kunsthalle Osnabrück, asked me if I’d like to have a solo exhibition. It would be my first solo show, and the first time I presented work outside the traditional concert context. The invitation meant grappling with the responsibility and privilege of animating a public space – reflecting on what I wanted to share with others. I wanted to find ways for us to perceive each other more subtly; new ways of being here together.

I remembered a temple I had visited in Varanasi during a trip to India. People there told me the singing had never stopped in this temple. I don’t know if that’s true. And it doesn’t really matter whether it is or isn’t. The mere idea that there’s a place where the singing has never stopped comforts me to this day. These thoughts came together, and I decided that I wanted to create a place of singing.

PD: To what extent were you able to draw on your musical training for the project?

AP: I can apply almost everything I’ve learned as a violinist to the human voice. And unlike the violin, the voice is something most of us have in common. So I simply started running workshops with the goal of transforming the Kunsthalle Osnabrück into a place of continuous song. When the exhibition opened, I was very nervous. It was possible, after all, that nobody would turn up and nobody would sing and a large part of the museum would remain empty. But then so many people came – and sang.

PD: You spoke of wanting to create a singing space. What does it mean to you to undertake such a project within an arts institution – compared, say, to a rehearsal room, or a gathering in a meadow?

AP: It means placing the project in the public sphere, from which it can reach into all areas of life. I dream that this way of perceiving the world as sound emerges not only when we come together to activate the project, but also when we encounter other living beings, when we find ourselves in situations where we don’t know what to do, or when we are alone with ourselves in the morning.

PD: You always activate the project at Gropius Bau on the summer solstice. Why did you choose that particular moment?

AP: There are moments in the yearly cycle that remain undisturbed by calendar systems. One such moment is when the Earth has completed a single orbit around the sun. I believe that these moments will always be perceived by ecological systems, even if humanity may one day cease to exist. I think in broad timescales and hope that the essence of the project will live on – even if, one day, museums as we understand them no longer exist. Maybe people will gather then at this very spot where Gropius Bau now stands, to be together with the world. That’s why I chose this moment – because it is not so easily undone.

PD: This feeling, or sensing, is an important aspect. Singing is about setting something into vibration – and this setting-into-vibration is both physical and deeply emotional. I’m interested in your experiences of participants’ reactions to The Singing Project. What do they take away from it, and what did you encounter during the hours you spent with them?

AP: Many special encounters immediately come to mind. I’d like to share a memory from my time in Osnabrück. At the beginning of the project, a group of female students from Russia, near the Siberian border, participated in a workshop for The Singing Project. They were in Osnabrück as part of a student exchange programme, and it was one of their last days in Germany. A few weeks later, we received an email with a photo of the students who had participated in the workshop. They were in a forest, their arms stretched upwards. In the email, they wrote that where they live, they couldn’t sing in a museum. So they met in the forest instead and continued singing the project there. Just the thought that there’s a place on the border of Siberia where people might still be singing strikes me as very special – much like the temple in Varanasi, where, according to the stories, the singing never stops.

At the same time, I’ve always asked myself how to document the project. I don’t want to make audio recordings, and I don’t want any filming or photography during the sessions. Documenting through images has taken on such importance today that I often find it invasive. And so after many workshops, I asked whether those who wanted to say something would write it down – in a kind of letter. I now have a large collection of these letters. There’s one that I read aloud in a workshop, with the author’s consent, and I’d like to read a few sentences from it:

“I have been reminded that I have already everything inside of me and that we hold each other, even without realising. Our presence is immaterial and we can hear it and feel it way more than we think. I trust that there are sensitive and open hearts and that we are holding space for them and making it available for them to sing. I trust that they exist even if they are quiet.”

PD: I can understand why this moment of first encounter is so important. All the feelings, questions and moods of the participants – all these dynamics – are incorporated into The Singing Project. Everything that exists beyond the institution also plays a role in this space.

AP: Every workshop, every installation of a workshop, takes courage. I start preparing days before I even set foot in the physical space, thinking about how I’ll design it. For me, the project becomes an installation the moment the doors open and people enter. What takes courage is the fact that this installation cannot be seen – that we’re not yet in an era where what we feel is valued as highly as what we see. And then I also design it so that everyone who comes in influences it, is part of the exchange, and participates from the moment they walk through the door – not just from the moment they start humming. A lot can happen, perhaps even things you don’t necessarily like – and that’s a good thing. The Singing Project could serve as a testing ground: what happens when we perceive everything primarily through sound?

PD: How would you actually describe The Singing Project? Is it a composition, is it a work of art – you just mentioned an “installation” – or is it a practice? Which description fits best in your view?

AP: In an art context, the word “practice” best describes it. It’s a collective practice that I initiate. But if I assume that most of what we call reality consists of levels of reality we can’t see with our eyes – and that, therefore, matter doesn’t need to be visible in order to be shaped – then I see The Singing Project as a kind of organism. To outside observers, my work often appears ephemeral, quiet and gentle. But I don’t see it that way. Take its scale, for example: I want this project to encompass the whole world, and in the art context, the project can be anything at all, even a light installation. In Osnabrück, I invited an acoustician who measured the vibrations in the room during a number of sessions. She was also present at several workshops at Gropius Bau. These measurements revealed that the room where people were singing became brighter. And who knows? If one day a great many people around the world were to sing simultaneously and join in the totality of sound on Earth, the Earth might well glow. It’s all possible; it’s not at all inconceivable.

PD: What are your hopes for the future of The Singing Project?

AP: I hope that The Singing Project becomes a habit. And that around the summer solstice, people are simply invited to come and sing. Gropius Bau has no permanent collection, but it’s almost as if the project were already an integral part of the institution. Still, habits need to be nurtured lest they slowly erode and one day disappear.