Sound Discovery

There’s no stage here. No audience in sight. Just cracked concrete, scattered stones, and a jungle of cables. A modular sculpture or a performance rig? It’s both—and neither.

In a forgotten industrial warehouse somewhere on the periphery of Europe, sound artist and technician Mira E. has built what she calls a “non-instrument.” A rectangular slab of metal becomes altar and workstation, where consumer pedals, analog synths, and a modest mixer intertwine with raw stones and paper scraps. The gloves rest like an invitation—or a warning. Don’t touch unless you’re ready to feel.

This is not a rehearsal. It’s an ecosystem. Each object, from the vibrantly colored delay pedal to the torn-up sheet of set notes, has been chosen with intention. But there’s no clear order. The chaos is part of the composition.

“I wanted to make something that sounds like the inside of a collapsing building,” Mira tells us. “Not destruction in the cinematic sense—but the intimate acoustics of decay. The electric hum of a society slowly short-circuiting.”

The stones aren’t just decorative. They’re sensors, triggers, even amplifiers. Each rock carries a contact mic embedded beneath its weight. A dropped stone might become a bassline; a scrape across concrete, the spine of a rhythm. The cables are veins. The whole thing breathes.

There’s a manifesto somewhere in all this: about resisting polish, about reclaiming noise, about tuning into frequencies we’re taught to ignore. But Mira’s not interested in telling you what to think. She just wants you to listen—and maybe, if you dare, to play.