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Sonic Continuum

Transcript

Reece Cox: Before we discuss any works, I’m curious how you came to the practice you have today. You work in a notably wide range of styles and disciplines. I’d like to learn about the origin point that set you on this trajectory.

Hassan Khan: Well, when I was finishing school, so when I was around 13-14, I had huge literary aspirations – I had the fantasy that I would be the youngest Nobel Prize winning author. At the time, I was so involved with the idea of literature and writing, which segues subliminally to what I ended up doing. I entered university young, I was a 15-year-old freshman. That transition from schoolboy to university student was a bit of an intense shock to the system. In the span of six months, I went from a well-behaved schoolboy to a totally crazed teenager. Partially because of that jump, and because I was surrounded by people who were mostly much older. That moment, those six months of collapse, where all your ideas suddenly crash down, was also the moment where I really got into making music. That following period at university was very tumultuous, this is the starting point for lots of things that became important in my life including my work.

I was also brought up in a culturally informed household – my father was a filmmaker, and my mother is a jeweller – with politically progressive ideas they were open in terms of influences. I was exposed to a lot of things even pre-internet. There was no idea or distinction between these various influences, as if this is a ‘Western’ influence, and this an ‘Eastern’ influence, or that is local and this is international, instead it was a big hodgepodge of books, films, art, paintings, etc. that were without any real hierarchy of geography or time. It was natural for me to listen to North Indian classical music, Frank Zappa, 20th century recording of mediaeval English music, and Egyptian Shaabi music and to not think of these things as being different, or opposites, but rather as intense sources of inspiration and love. Throughout my university years, there were a lot of semi-private, semi-public bedroom jams, performing on rooftops, at friends’ places, etc. Towards the end of university, in January 1995, I showed my first work, a piece called Lungfan that I had produced with a friend of mine at the time, Amr Hosny. It was a co-authored slideshow of images accompanied by sound. We performed it at the Atelier du Caire to a mostly unappreciative audience, who accused us of trying to brainwash them, being Israeli agents and other such pleasantries.

RC: I’ve certainly witnessed audiences respond negatively or even actively reject live experimental music and performance, but I’ve never heard of an audience accusing the performers of brainwashing them or working as foreign agents.

HK: Yeah, it was a fundamental experience, because I was 19. Amr and I had imagined that this was going to be an incredibly successful performance, that people would love it and we’d have great acclaim. The reaction was a bit of a shock to us. Afterwards, we went out for some drinks with friends, the few supportive ones who were there in Horreya. I was asking myself, ‘do I have the right to put something out there that is rejected by an audience?’ You know, that was a central question. ‘Yes, I do have a right.’ When I resolved that question, I also decided what I was going to do for the rest of my life.

RC: Can you talk a little about what that decision entailed?

HK: Yeah, I mean, of course, it has mutated through the years, but at that very raw moment, the decision was based upon who has the right to determine meaning or values. Who has the right to determine what is right or wrong, public taste, or whatever? Who has the right to present aesthetics that might be rejected by the majority? Do you succumb to the taste of the majority? Maybe it is not even the majority – do you succumb to official ideas? Do you succumb to the state? Do you succumb to established ideas of what is right or wrong – or not? In this case, add the rawness of the moment, of being 19 years old. It was a matter of deciding that nobody has the right to control any of this 100% and that it’s always a negotiation. I will therefore do whatever I can to negotiate, to pose my arguments, to present my position. In any case, my position in relation to the social order is, at its best, marginal. The assumption, of course, is that what I’m proposing is of value, or maybe that’s a presumption – maybe you cannot function as an artist without both the questions and the presumptions. This is not the same position I inhabit now, because, of course, time has passed, and my position has shifted: I function within a system that also determines the meaning of what I’m doing. At the time this was much looser – things were in flux.

RC: Fast forwarding to now, you’re working with sound in quite a varied way – as a composer, an artist, an improviser, and musician. I’m curious how you’ve come to differentiate between these venues and modes? It’s not as though you’re only playing concerts, you’re also exhibiting pieces which might in some ways bear resemblances to each other, but their treatment is ultimately different depending on the context. How do you differentiate between these worlds?

HK: I differentiate, and at the same time, I don’t. If I go back to these teenage years, I didn’t think of myself as an artist, maybe a musician in the beginning, and then it all got a bit hazy. In terms of my career, which also split practices and structures, I found this differentiation important. For example, if I’m recognised as an artist within a certain context and then I’m invited to perform a concert in an art space, I find it incredibly important to emphasise that it is a ‘concert’, not a ‘performance’. The art space always wants to label it a performance. I always insist on certain protocols that relate to how music is experienced, maybe in the art context that is lost because they are less really engaged with the material. In these cases, I make a distinction, which I find essential and productive. When I produce a soundtrack for someone – I also make soundtracks for theatre, for film, for dance, mostly in Cairo – I’m a musician, I’m not an artist. We discuss and, of course, I have ideas, but the music must function with the piece and for it, it must be part of it, to serve its goals. However, what I’ve learned in music has become very influential on my art practice, and things I’ve learned in my art practice are influential on my attitude towards music. Also, in relation to film, maybe I prefer to call it moving image, the things I’ve learned in theatre since the 1990s, what I’ve learned from theatre workshops and from working with actors have been hugely influential. There’s a lot of cross pollination going on between the mediums. I’m keeping them distinct because I want to be precise; there are differences, specificities. There are modes of perception that are slightly different.

Another difference is my own relationship to the medium when I’m making what I would think of as an artwork. I’m more self-critical, maybe critical is not the right word, much more self-analytical. I’m thinking: what does this mean? How is it done? What is the process? Why do you show it this way, not in that? Maybe that choice reveals too much? Maybe that one doesn’t reveal enough? How does this portray the figure of the artist behind the work? All these concerns become pressing questions. Conversely, when I perform a concert, I don’t care. What’s important is that it’s powerful, that the music makes sense, and very crucially that there’s a pleasure that is derived, hopefully for both the audience and me. My communication with the audience is much more immediate. I don’t question that. Even if it’s a spectacular show with lights and stuff – well, I don’t really do those kinds of spectacular shows, yet I try to use very minimal means to create a form of spectacle. It still partakes in this logic of ‘you’re on stage and you’re delivering a certain type of energy – and the audience is part of that, and there is something primal going on’. This is not how I think about art practice, some of these impulses might enter some works, but that’s based on the specificity of that work. That’s why I brought up this guitar story. If I could go on stage and play the guitar like when I was a teenager, I would do it without shame. But I wouldn’t do an art piece which reflected that attitude, that would be a terrible art piece.

RC: I’d like to shift gears and talk about Composition for a Public Park. This piece has been shown a few times but is most known for winning the Silver Lion award at the 57th Venice Biennale in 2017. This piece is not one that is performed but is a multi-channel audio installation with three movements designed specifically to be played in a public space. Could you start by describing what someone might encounter when they enter the space of the work and your desire to address the public specifically within a public park setting?

HK: It’s been shown in different contexts, but I’ll speak about its premiere. It was 2013 and I was invited to participate in Nuit Blanche in Paris, and I remember there wasn’t a lot of time, maybe three or two months left, when I was invited to do a site visit. We walked around and then I saw the Parc de Belleville, which was one of the available venues. I was immediately interested – first, it’s in a popular neighbourhood, and second, it’s on a hill so it goes from top to bottom – almost like a cascade. I immediately decided I wanted to produce a piece in this park that was a musical composition. The idea has a past in the sense that when I was an MA student, probably in my mid 20s, I was in discussion with a music professor about the possibility of using a black box theatre to do a multi-channeled music installation that people walked through. I think the roots of what happened in Composition for Public Park were initiated at that moment 15 years earlier. The second thing I immediately knew was that music alone was not enough – I didn’t want the piece to just be a piece of music.

Composition For a Public Park is interesting because it’s both a music and art piece. I wanted to use that space, maybe because it was like a cascade, maybe because it was public. But, then the art consciousness kicks in and it was clear that music couldn’t be the only element of this work. If it’s just music, it might be very beautiful, it might be very popular and seductive, it might be many good things, but it would lack a certain type of grain. I felt it was important to have some traction, to have some roughness, to have something else to break easy consumption. Not superficially by making the music abrasive, for example. No, this friction needed to be produced in a deeper way. So, the text came in and then the idea of a spoken libretto became crucial. Writing the libretto relates to my writing practice. The piece therefore brings these different aspects of my work. I also knew that I would mark the three movements with lights. This was only implemented in the Paris version because the piece was shown at night there. Each movement had a different colour achieved by changing the colour of the existing public lights, it was also important that nothing was added- the effect was achieved by modifying the existing infrastructure. When you look at the composition from the top of the park, you would see a yellow area, a red area, and an orange area. You would see the three different colours and you would spatially understand that each colour was a movement and that the three colour fields created a pattern. It was important that the visitor starts by perceiving the whole piece as a simultaneous moment in time and space, and then proceeds to enter that and to get involved in the details of it.

The other crucial aspect of the piece was that it was public, that was super important and that’s why it’s part of the title. The park is a public space, and what’s interesting about parks is that they’re like brackets. When in a park you enter a sort of parenthesis, you’re still part of the collective city, but you’re also alone, mildly isolated. There is something that happens in that situation or condition, that’s why romance is associated with parks and gardens. Moments of loosening up, of illicit behaviour make sense in these kinds of brackets. There’s a very subtle border, and for a second, you’re slightly stepping out of the social order. I was interested in that emotion, not the idea of it, but the emotion of it became a motor for the writing of these texts. So, each movement is written with the idea that it channels a voice that should be recognisable but not totally identifiable.

RC: Composition for Public Park consists of three movements laid out across a public space.  Each takes on a complex web of themes apparent both in the various monologues as well as in the music. The piece approaches narratives of isolation, alienation, and loss at the same time it touches on self-realisation or seduction and connection, culminating in the final movement to a generalised voice evoking political conditions of defeat of collective aspirations. Each encounter is a kind of vignette wherein Hassan has designed and arranged a psychogeographical experience wherein the exploration of the park becomes an exploration of the visitors’ inner landscape all happening in the public realm of a busy park. The piece is not easy to represent accurately on the radio as it is designed to be experienced in space and consists of multiple channels playing at once. The work is currently installed at Jameel Art Center in Dubai who were kind enough to make a walk though recording from which I’d like to play you a few excerpts:

[Hassan Khan, Compositions for a Public Park plays]

RC: I’d now like to talk about a work called I saw the world collapse and it was only a word, which was first performed at Haus der Kulturen der Welt (HKW), in Berlin in 2019, and was written for the vocal ensemble PHØNIX16. This piece is quite different from Composition for a Public Park, however, I find it to be just as enigmatic. This takes on more of a traditional setting, in that it was performed over a fixed period in front of an audience. However, the compositional approach, as I understand it, is something very specific. I’d like to play some excerpts from the performance but first, can you talk a bit about its design?

HK: Yes, it was performed twice so far, in the foyer of HKW, and in Dresden at the Albertinum Museum – also in their lobby. In both cases not in a theatre, because there are five singers laid out in a circle around the audience, so they’re surrounded by the singers, and in the centre there is someone – in the first performance that was me and, in the second it was Sonia Lescene from the Berlin-based ensemble PHØNIX16, who then performs the Coda on her cell phone. The singers are not amplified. They all start at the same moment– each singer sings a sequence of 14 words over the span of 30-minutes while they modulate through a written sequence of pitches. The pitches were written for each singer keeping in mind their vocal range. There are microtones and very fine gradations between each pitch and the next. So, what you have is really a multi-channeled cascade of words and pitches that are modulating over a duration of time. It’s elastic, the voices are moving through something to something to something, both individually and together.

As an audience member, you’re in the middle of it. There is a sense that this is an embodied experience- each voice is coming from a specific location, and from a specific singe. At the same time, over the span of 30-minutes, the singers slowly turn around 180 degrees. Therefore, the sound is also spatially shifting as it slowly modulates, like an organice human quadrophonic experience. Not only that but every time two of the singers’ eyes lock across the room, there is a set of seven instructions in the score that they can choose from. The instruction for each singer is half of an imagined conversation. So, when two singers see each other, both choose one of their seven instructions and performs it: a full conversation is produced but neither are aware what the other’s instructions are. It can’t be rehearsed – it is a spontaneous moment that is built into the music.

The instructions ask them to do something technical and something that is non-technical at the same time. For example, they’re asked to look with accusation at their best friend using the pitches A and A sharp. The technical element is that they use these two pitches, the interpretive part is where they must invest a certain emotion and perform a role – almost like acting. What happens is that you perceive a moment of communication that is charged with the details of human interaction, without knowing exactly what these details are, and without the singers themselves knowing exactly what they are. To me what that offers is the ability to touch these depths, without falling into the replica, i.e., without falling into the condition of repeating the generic, or repeating established ideas of what drama should be, or what a conversation should be. I’m building formal apparatuses in the score to create a situation that is partially out of control, yet is also completely controlled, to try to explore human interactions.

RC: There was quite a complex graphical score that was published in book form with a wonderful essay by Darci Sprengel, wherein there is a quote that I want to discuss as the last point on this piece, that quote, being as follows:

‘The work begs the question of collapse from what. Rather than a doomsday message that intimates that perhaps the world really isn’t newly collapsing at all. Instead, Khan poses collapse as an ever present underlying condition, challenging much contemporary and electrolyzing that positions the current moment as somehow peculiar or extraordinary’.

This is to say that perhaps I saw the world collapse and it was only a word might be proposing that a collapse is not something that happens in a singular instance but is an ongoing and continuous condition. Is that something that you resonate with or maybe even agree with? And is it something that you feel that this work is embodying somehow?

HK: Yeah, this comment is very insightful – I really appreciate Darci’s essay. First there’s a political danger in thinking about collapse as epic, monumental moments that are identifiable as moments of collapse, it’s akin to claiming a specific moment of victory. This way of thinking about time, or history, or life leads to what we call ‘fascism’. It’s a simplified conception, like assuming revolution happens on this or that specific day, which I don’t think is true. Things are constantly in play. Moments of eruption are manifestations of things that have been going on for decades. Basically, it’s not a telos, it’s not an end, it’s not millenarian or messianic – that’s the danger of this kind of thought, which is very common now, because we are in quite a fragile state globally. It’s very easy to turn to messianic thinking and end-of-the-world scenarios. But the argument here, and again, on the level of personal emotions rather than global catastrophes, is that this sense of collapse is as constitutive of who we are as is a sense of regeneration.

The libretto is just 70 words sung by five people, each singing 14 words, over the span of 30-minutes – it has very clear coordinates. The libretto was written in a few minutes, I just sat and wrote a list of words, for most of them it is clear how they connect to collapse. There is a little bit of looseness with them, but it’s a cascade, and this cascade of words with each one bringing associations, I think opens the possibility of experiencing collapse as a lived moment.

The first thing I did with PHØNIX16 on the first day of rehearsals was to read the 70 words out loud, which immediately changed their relationship to the piece. The moment we read it as one cascade, the meaning of the words was much clearer, and they could also understand how the words work with alliteration and rhythm, which is part of the piece. All of this comes from the Egyptian Munshid Yassin El Tohamy, whom I’ve learned so many things from by just listening to him sing. I think he’s an incredible vocalist, and what is incredible about his use of language is the way he stretches words, condenses them, and then moves from one word to the other. There was a sense that a word didn’t end, and another word began, but that words modulated into other words. This might be a tripped-out thing to say, but that was my experience of listening to him.

I’ve always been kind of fascinated by this idea of a modulation, rather than an actual cut (though in 1993 I fell in love with Bergman’s jump cut of the waking eye in the opening sequence of Persona). So, it’s not like a word ends and that meaning is set and then we jump to this other word, and then that meaning is set, but that the word itself really transforms and becomes something else, almost like clay or putty morphing into different meanings. That was something I perceived him doing through his vocalisation and that became a very important idea for me. In I saw the world collapse and it was only a word that’s a conscious part of the logic of the work, that their performance is like taking this material, this language and morphing it from word to word and meaning to meaning. Having them read it together in the beginning was also a way of making them sense that without me having to explain it. It was written to emphasise that, that’s why alliteration is important, rhyming is important. A certain type of rhythm is important with this piece because it reveals that feeling.

[Hassan Khan, I Saw the World Collapse (2019) live in Dresden]

RC: The last piece that I’d like to discuss is called The Infinite Hip Hop Song, which strikes me as a wildly ambitious project. If I understand correctly, it is an 11-hour long piece of music, which you authored, featuring a dozen or so rappers, and that this audio was produced to be exhibited, not to be distributed on records or online. A lot of questions come to mind about this work, but first I want to ask you what it was about the genre of hip hop, which you don’t typically work in. What about hip hop lends itself to becoming infinite?

HK: It’s not an 11-hour recording, it’s like the title, a platform that generates a potentially limitless amount of music. When you turn on the session it always generates new material. When we installed it at Reina Sofia, in Madrid, it did this for 4-months, non-stop without repeating, but that material was not recorded. The same happened in Taipei for I think two months, and it keeps going. There are 11 rappers who are involved in the project, but the thing about it is that it constructs this unlimited stream from a limited amount of material. There’s a limited amount of rapping because it’s organic, meaning It’s not machine-generated – the vocals are human vocals – that is an essential part of the work. There’s a limited number of beats, a limited number of basslines, there’s limited number of melodies, etc. But the way these elements are constructed together, the way they come together is, well, not literally, infinite, but it’s one in 20 Duodecillion (that’s 20 zeros after the 20). The chances of the same exact thing repeating again are very low, exactly one in 20 Duodecillion.

I had the image of a never-ending song for a long time, the desire to produce something that just continuously went on and on and didn’t repeat, didn’t loop and was always able to produce something new. I don’t know why I had that in mind, but there was a strong desire to do this since a long time. The Infinite Hip Hop Song became more concrete when I was working on my show at the Reina Sofia titled The Keys to the Kingdom, which is a show that included many different formats, but was really driven by going deeply into populism, partially because it was at the Crystal Palace, in Madrid, though it’s part of the Reina Sofia Museum it is open to the public for free. Therefore it’s an incredibly well visited space, on average between 10 to 15,000 visitors a day. I knew I was going to have this massive, random audience. A lot of passersby just walk in because the Crystal Palace is in the Retiro Park the city’s most popular public park. That all played a role in how I conceived the whole show in the first place my interest was into something that tapped into the logic of populism and grotesquerie, not to critique nor celebrate it, but rather to function within it. To use this content, to tap into its charge. One of the main reasons why many different versions of right-wing populism have become politically viable in the past decade or two is, I believe, because they are consciously tapping into real needs and desires.

There are layers that are maybe not so explicit, which have to do with how our global culture at the present needs to address these aspects of collective living that are being ignored, which itself has to do with the grotesque, with our conception of the grotesque, which has been whitewashed especially with the advent of the 20th century and the rise of the modern nation state. If you look at, mediaeval pageantry, or images of mediaeval clowns, it’s full of this certain type of grotesque, or if you look at carnivals of a certain time. In the present day if you look at popular culture, there is grotesquerie that is a vital force in this unauthored culture, and this vital force is suspect, for many reasons. Ascendant right-wing populism is partially successful because it taps into that and turns it into a commodity-packaged with hatred and violence. I’m interested in these forces, because I think they are vital and that it is a tragedy that they are being instrumentalised by right-wing forces, partially because other political forces refuse to understand that lack or deal with it.

The show was informed by these ideas, and while I was working on it, I felt I needed another voice within the show that would also be a popular voice, yet one that spoke in another register, and so hip hop suddenly became very important for the exhibition. I wasn’t a fan of hip hop when I was younger, it was only recently that I got into it. I think it was after my father died. So, there are personal reasons, I guess, somewhere, but also after I started noticing how Egyptian hip hop had recently become quite interesting as a form. How it began powerfully communicating in a direct and immediate way. I’m speaking out loud here but part of the reasons why I think this genre makes a lot of sense and has this huge popularity all over the world at the present time, is related to – am not sure if repression is the correct word – but maybe negation. The negation of not just the grotesque, but of these different forces. This genre can encapsulate them. In a sense boasts and disses, let’s just put them like that, are the most fundamental aspects of ego. In different places and for different reasons having a space within this format to, in an unembarrassed, unashamed way, celebrate that force allows it to become a culturally viable and important space. I found that I was also formally attracted to that, and I wanted to use this, however I thought it was necessary to displace the voice of the rapping subject itself.

I wrote all the lyrics with the concept that they emanate from a decentered voice. This is not the voice of the ascendant male ego, which is the most common voice in hip hop, though not the only one of course. It will not be that voice, but it will try to be a voice that is constantly morphing. A voice, not genderless, but one that is shifting in its gender and class positions. Though it doesn’t really touch ethnicity, it’s constantly shifting in the locations it describes, and in a way, it attempts to become a collective voice. Well, I’m trying to investigate a collective condition, so my rhetorical strategies here are not for the purpose of claiming diversity and inclusion. I’m interested in a decentered collective voice because if I want to speak about a shared condition, it makes sense to decentre the voice amongst all these various locations. I attempt to coalesce them into some sort of hybrid and to write from this logic. At moments it’s a certain type of persona, and then it becomes another type of persona, and another type of persona, that’s how these lyrics were written.

The structure of The Infinite Hip Hop Song is that it continuously re-assembles its own order, meaning all these lines that were written and recorded by many different voices are broken and chopped up, so that when you’re listening to them, parts are added to other parts. It was also written with the idea that any one part can be assembled with any other part, like a jigsaw puzzle where everything fits at any point. I learned this from Yassin El Tohamy, where the relationship between his sung stanzas is constantly shifting. Yassin El Tohamy draws upon a memorized archive, a living archive of poets from over 1000 years to the present. He says in an interview that before he begins singing, he pauses a moment and then he falls in love with one sentence, one phrase, and when he falls in love with that phrase, he starts singing it, and when he sings it, it demands the next phrase which then appears, and they’re not necessarily all from the same poem. So, he starts from the one sentence that he falls in love with and then he shifts and moves from one poem to the other, and back and forth. He is a singer who’s making these instinctive choices. However, in my case, the algorithm makes these choices. I created a corpus, an archive, a library of words and lyrics, a library of musical elements, that the algorithm is constantly putting together in new relationships. They are not at random: the way it’s putting it together is determined by a logic that we programmed. I worked with Olivier Pasquet, who was the technical collaborator on this project. There’s a lot of algorithmic music, which I find not very convincing, because it just tests what an algorithm can do, and then you get an effect. My ambition, at least in this work is to use the algorithm as a tool rather than as a dominant structure. To use the algorithm as a tool, we had to develop a logic that controls what the algorithm does by using its own language.

To give you a concrete example, I made over 200 and something beats. These beats are broken up into different types. There are main beats, and there are associate beats, and then we tell the algorithm, ‘you can do the following: you can take one main beat and play it on its own, you can take one main beat and one associate beat and play them together to create a new beat, you can take two associate beats and put them together to play a beat on their own, and you can put one main beat and two associate beats together. You can never put two main beats together’. You control these choices through probabilities. You can have seven out of 10 that you do this, six out of 10 that you can do that – probabilities for each choice. So, the algorithm will make these choices and it will change according to these probabilities over time, and that means that the beats are always changing. Even if you only have 200 and something beats, there is a much higher level of complexity by mixing them all together, especially as within the beat itself, we also have paradigms that control which elements play or don’t play. So, the snare plays and stops, the cymbals play or stop, or the kick. So, that’s how produce out of a limited number this massive array of possibilities.

The other element of The Infinite Hip Hop Song, which I also insisted upon was that I authored the content. So, I authored the beats, I authored the basslines, I authored the melodies, and I produced the rapping sessions in the studio with the rappers as well as writing the lyrics. This was important because it wasn’t just about creating this idea of infinity, it was also about creating an authored piece of music- that was always also part of it. So, the strange thing is that it is an authored piece of music, and it’s not. I listen to my own piece, and I don’t know what I’m going to hear next, this weird sensation is strangely liberating. A lot of people can be very critical of this attitude and say the algorithm gives us the potential of liberation, because it takes away the author, some people argue for that. I’m being a bit old school and kind of insisting on the authorial touch as being fundamental to at least this project. Again, I would never argue for the absolute correctness of any one approach, I’m just speaking about my own practice in relation to one specific piece here.

RC: When the Infinite Hip Hop Song is exhibited, a long selection of musical and lyrical elements is brought together in ever changing combinations to produce a piece which is extremely unlikely to repeat itself. Each time the piece is presented it will be different, always starting and ending in different places because there is no beginning or end. The piece operates more like a machine extruding virtually endless variations from the same set of materials. The excerpt provided by Hassan was generated and exported specifically for this episode of INFO so the beginning you’re about to hear now is not actually the beginning of a song, it’s just the beginning of an algorithmic function producing an infinite hip hop song.

[Hassan Khan, The Infinite Hip Hop Song plays]

You’ve been listening to conversation with and sounds from artist and musician Hassan Khan. The last piece you heard was The Infinite Hip Hop Song. Before that was, I saw the world collapse and it was only a word and the first piece we discussed was Composition for a Public Park. This conversation is part of an ongoing collaboration between InfoUnltd and Nottingham Contemporary for Cashmere Radio. You can find this interview transcribed online at thecontemporaryjournal.com, and I’d like to thank Nottingham Contemporary and Sofia Lemos for the invitation to participate in this collaboration. I’d also like to thank Hassan for joining me to participate in this episode. If you’d like to learn more about anything that was discussed on today’s programme, please head to cashmereradio.com/shows/info-unltd for a complete list of show notes. This has been another episode of INFO Unltd and as always, thank you so much for listening.

 

This is part of a series made in collaboration with Nottingham Contemporary and INFO Unltd for Cashmere Radio.

Cashmere Radio is a not-for-profit community experimental radio station based in Lichtenberg, Berlin and whose ambition is to preserve and further radio and broadcasting practices through play and proliferation of the radio medium.