Amphibious sounds and melting glaciers - tuning in with Pablo Diserens
Working across ecosystems and environmental scales, sound artist Pablo Diserens' delicate recordings encourage sensitive listening to the more-than-human world.
“I’m more frog than human these days,” muses Berlin-based sound artist Pablo (Rana) Diserens in the book on becoming amphibian, written to accompany their latest release turning porous. Poetic, playful and speculative - concerned with ideas of metamorphosis and the shapeshifting potential of a more empathetic relationship with the natural world - it sums up Diserens’ attitude to a creative practice which uses sound to blur the edges between human and more-than-human experience.
Whether assembling recordings of water bodies for upstream ensemble, capturing the melting glaciers of Iceland on ebbing ice lines, or spending two months crouched at the edge of quarry ponds in Galicia for turning porous, Diserens’ work is united by a belief that listening can open routes towards greater presence and care for the environment.
It is a listening which - like the name of the label Diserens runs, forms of minutiae - rewards close and detailed attention. On turning porous, Diserens seems to invite the listener to lean in and get personal with the quiet yet insistent sounds of frog choruses, insect stridulations and hydroelectric hums that permeate the environment.
I have followed Diserens’ work for a while now - and previously featured some of it in this newsletter - so I was delighted when they agreed to answer my questions via email. Although I encourage you to check out Diserens’ previous work, the interview focussed primarily on two recent projects - ebbing ice lines and turning porous - the first of which began as an exhibition earlier and will be followed by an album in 2025, and the second which began as an album and will be followed by an exhibition this autumn.
What initially attracted you to working with amphibian sounds?
As a child I oddly developed a kind of fear, a disgust, for frogs, and other amphibians by extension. It all started on a warm summer afternoon as my cousin and I were rowing a small boat on the surface of a pond in the south of France. Out of nowhere a frog jumped into our boat igniting all of us (the frog included) into panic. We all frantically leaped around the vessel trying to avoid each other and find a way out. The boat swayed intensely with the threat of flipping over until the ranid finally reached the safety of the water. More fear than harm, yet it had been a difficult holiday, and today with some distance my hunch is that my response to the frog might have been a conduit for other aching emotions. From then on, I felt a revulsion at the sight of amphibians, something that saddened me as I had always been enamoured with animals. It is only years later, thanks to my field recording and listening practices, that this disgust turned into adoration. The sonic intricacies and beauty of frog calls is undeniable as one develops an interest in sound and begins to listen.
My life and my relationship to the world really took a turn the day I witnessed with my own ears the mesmeric calls of fire-bellied toads (Bombina bombina) for the first time. It was as if the entire pond was vibrating and humming an intoxicating song. Countless breathy, pipping tones forming a droning music. Moved, I spent hours listening, recording, and feeling a strong sense of entanglement and belonging. “Earthlings”, I thought, while some part of me began to change. This spellbinding encounter was deeply grounding and sparked my fascination, my love, for the anuran world. But what a vulnerable world that is.
In the face of this peril, my work attempts to bridge human and non-human realities; form ways of creating emotional, existential, connections in the hope of inspiring lasting change in the way we think of ourselves in relation to the Earth and its dwellers. Out of commitment for the planet’s health, I try to share with others what listening offered me: a gateway to presence, environmental awareness, and earthly kinship. And what better way of doing so than hearing what some of the most impacted beings out there have to say?
I imagine you must have spent a lot of time crouched down by the pond. Could you describe the environment and how it felt to be out there recording?
Slimy. Humid air entering myriads of lungs. Reed-bordered waters cradling numerous species. Eardrums overwhelmed by boisterous songs. Skins percolating with porosity. Ponds are lush goo! I have indeed spent a lot of time by them in various regions. In Galicia it was no different, I dwelled many nights in old, abandoned quarries that in time morphed into ponds. Experiencing scarred environments being reclaimed by a plethora of species as they turned these spaces into thriving habitats is a pleasurable sight. There is hope!
A quarry next to Chantada struck me with its abundance of water frogs (Pelophylax perezi), tree frogs (Hyla molleri), water beetles, bats and insects. Standing for hours by the moonlit pond surrounded by dozens of aroused amphibians calling at the top of their voice was one of the loudest and most immersive soundscapes I had the chance to experience. Frogs seemed to omit my presence, or tolerate it a least, as many of them kept calling very close to me. I could see them inflating their vocal sacs less than a meter away, it was fascinating. Above us bats were dotting the darkness with their ultrasonic clicks, and beneath us the murky shallows buzzed with water beetles’ stridulations. As I listened and recorded for an extended period of time I began to decipher individual acoustic signatures amongst the chorus. To each frog their voice. My sense of self gently blurred, as if I was dissolving into new semantics. And that’s how it ultimately felt, bathing in a slimy togetherness made of a language I didn’t understand.
Were there things that surprised you about the sounds you were recording?
These listening and recording instances triggered an unlearning process. Water frog and tree frog calls weren’t new to me (they are kind of the “classic” sounds that some people immediately link to frog acoustics, at least in these parts of the globe), yet despite that the more I listened the more my understanding of their vocalizations renewed. And that’s where the surprise lay: the familiar became foreign again. It felt like a process of unlearning, or perhaps re-learning. Listening to water frogs at different times of the day made me realize how diverse and complex their vocalizations actually are. In the middle of the day when the sun is at its zenith their exchanges sound entirely different than at night. The nocturnal cacophony of quivering croaks is replaced by short bubbly accents which surprisingly reminded me of apes. (These differences can be heard in the album’s two “herpetophonics” tracks: ‘ponderings’ being the diurnal and ‘arousal’ the nocturnal.)
Field recording is at times so wrapped up in a chase for novelty and exoticism, but the sounds we know are as precious as any other. Familiarity isn’t a bad thing, on the contrary, something extraordinary can happen when one gets to exist with these sounds and know them on an intimate level. In my view, it can enable a profound relationship with our neighbouring ecologies.
Listening to turning porous I was struck by the attention to the feeling of scale, and how through the minimalist composition of ‘alytes’ I had to readjust my expectations in order to come down to this level. To what extent can playing with scale in sound alter the perspectives of the listener?
I find it fascinating to engage and work with the minute. To place ears in spaces they usually can’t access through the means of perspective or technology (hydrophones, contact microphones, etc). Something occurs when we listen to small or imperceptible sounds from an extremely close perspective and/or amplified. It draws us in, like an acoustic zooming in. Our sense of space alters and listening becomes a playground for discovery and curiosity which in turn extends our understanding of what is already there, around us.
So much of turning porous is about that: the Alytes, the underwater recordings of water beetle stridulations on “permeable skin”, the wind-borne tones on “mirage in motion”, the site-specific music of the dam structures, etc. It is all about playing with acoustic perspectives to change our own on physical, temporal and existential levels. It’s like an invitation: “how might it feel to be one of the Alytes or water beetles?” Playing with scale is a gateway for listeners to transform by embodying other realities while perceiving environments in new intimate ways.
In the press release you are quoted as saying “I’m more frog than human these days” - could you expand on that a little more?
This quote is taken from the little book (to be published in the fall) I wrote during my two-month stay in Galicia, a poetic travelog which also acts as an extension, contextualization, of the album. This sentence perfectly captures the feeling of gradual metamorphosis I experienced as I spent days and nights listening to frogs while inhabiting their homes. These encounters were so powerful and bewitching that I found myself and my relationship to the world shapeshift. There was a sense of human alienation accompanied by a desire to entirely dive into another existence. For some time there, I felt like I understood other species better than my own, and even felt a greater empathy. Still today, I sometimes catch myself looking at the structures and ways of living we have built for ourselves and think: “what are we doing?”
Ideas of the “permeable” surface throughout this work. What does the word mean to you and in what way can this idea impact the way we relate to the environment?
In the continuity of the shapeshifting I mentioned above and highly inspired by amphibians’ skins, I think of permeance as ways of embodying other forms of existence, other realities. Through somatic positioning, such as listening, I believe that we can attune to the world around us in gestures of presence. Presence allows us to let the world in and pour ourselves out in a continuous percolating conversation—a porosity of some sort. In my view, being permeable is soaking up, thus understanding, the multifarious truths and life experiences around us. It’s a way of slowing down and going against the preconceived notions of our societies that tend to create a divide between culture and nature, humans and animals, cities and environments.
Instead, permeance is a window onto interspecies kinship and interdependence as well as planetary thinking. I believe that this post-humanist approach is crucial if we are to overcome the challenges that our planet’s health faces. It is a de-centering of the self, a shift of perspective towards interconnectedness. It is considering life with others, rather than next to. And over time, the sense of self becomes much less singular, turning me into we.
You mention the fact that frogs are indicator species - in what way does the work engage in the border questions facing amphibian biodiversity and freshwater ecosystems?
Ponds are some of the richest environments on Earth, making them key habitats for protecting freshwater biodiversity and ecosystems. They are cradles for an enormous variety of species, and part of some the rare places in Europe where you can still experience animal calls spreading across a wide range of frequencies, from bats’ ultrasonic clicks to the low booming calls of bitterns (which are the loudest birds in Europe). They are reminders of how rich and diverse life in Europe used to be and how quiet it has become.
turning porous and other of my works celebrate these habitats and the life within while also engaging with the ways we have impacted them sonically and physically. There is a fine line between showing a thriving environment and the sad reality of the consequences of human endeavours. It is difficult to stimulate action if we believe biodiversity is already doomed, therefore I find positive reinforcement, paired with an awareness of the state of things, to be much more efficient than the contrary. If we tune in and care for our local ponds, thriving amphibian communities could mark a path of hope for our planet.
Moving on to some of your other work, earlier this year you presented an exhibition at the Vysočina Regional Gallery in the Czech Republic called ebbing ice lines, which draws on a completely different geographical location. Could you tell me a little bit about the intention behind this work?
When we think of a glacier’s sound it is often the thundering ice calving process that comes to mind first—the roaring birth of icebergs. Yet a glacier is a remarkably active environment and is home to a multitude of architectonic and sonic gestures. As temperatures rise, the thaw carves the glacier into a vast system of sinuous arteries, an expanse of earthly memory, a trickling archive spreading over eons, a cold and wet ever-changing landscape, melting away exponentially.
ebbing ice lines is a tentacular project that investigates these vulnerable soundscapes within the Low Arctic’s melting zones and the life they foster. Materializing as an audiovisual installation (and an upcoming album) that weave glacial gurgles, thawing squeals, avian vocalizations, hydrophonic acoustics, and anthropogenic hums, the work sheds light on the minute sounds produced by these environments as they retreat under warming climates.
Recorded in and around Iceland’s glaciers and Finland’s tundras, these animals and melting voices tell a story of disappearance. The title plays with the existing tree line terminology—the edge past which trees do not grow—to imagine ebbing lines beyond which ice cannot exist. Beyond the thundering booms of calving glaciers, ebbing ice lines offers a different perspective and brings ears into the odd and beautiful intimacy of the ice in an attempt at nurturing emotional tethers and ecological actions.
How did you go about translating the “earthly memory” archived within the ice and give it sonic form?
It turns out this idea of earthly memory is somewhat audible. As glacial ice melts it releases strings of bubbling air trapped inside for centuries, even millennia. As the bubbles burst and swim to the surface, the Earth’s old atmosphere carries its history back into the air. This process creates bestial growls and multi-pitched oscillations that resemble the sound of algae photosynthesis, critters and avian calls, or even … flatulence at times (one could argue that we are listening to geofarts). Smaller chunks of floating ice are actually called “growlers” thanks to this sonic phenomenon. These sounds can be heard with our own ears but are much more vibrant and loud underwater which we can listen to thanks to hydrophones.
ebbing ice lines features this time-traveling air with various recordings made in the proglacial lakes and on the surfaces of Icelandic glaciers such as Sólheimajökull, Svínafellsjökull, Fjallsjökull, and Breiðamerkurjökull. I find these sounds extremely engaging as they create an intimate positioning with glaciers, instantly changing our perspective on these melting giants and giving us a window into geological time. Teeming with sounds, the labyrinthine ice acts as a portal, a fading temporal bridge, past and future.
You can listen to one of these recordings in the “Sound of the Year” and “Disappearing Sound” categories of the Sound of the Years Awards 2022.
There’s an interesting line between the beauty of glaciers and the tragedy of their melting that is also present in lots of artistic work that addresses loss and climate change. How do you play with that tension in your work?
I like to create a conjunction between the beauty and strangeness of the soundscapes birthed by glaciers and the anthropogenic impact we have on these environments. In my compositions I often merge bio- and geophonic sounds with human/machine-borne hums found in the habitats I’m recording in. For example, unwavering boat engines appear in ebbing ice lines, creating a sense of heaviness and sonic displacement. For me, these sounds hint at the current assault of naval industries on the Arctic, and the capitalist opportunities they see in receding ice.
To my drone-music-loving ears, there is also a site-specific music in these found hums that I find really interesting to work with. Sustain tones are alluring, and they often highlight the acoustic differences between the mechanical and the organic - the second being much more unpredictable and rich than the first. If you compare the sounds of glaciers and their neighbouring species (or any other biomes for that matter) with the ones of human-made apparatuses, the monotony of the latter is flagrant. Glaciers are in constant flux, in perpetual momentum, something images hardly convey. Yet if we decide to listen, glaciers and their thaws speak volumes.
Given the breadth of locations and habitats in which you work, is there a binding principle that connects your approach across projects?
Listening, presence, curiosity, and tenderness. And stimulating sensitivity to counteract apathy.
Have you always been a keen listener? And has a professional engagement with sound changed the way you experience the world around you?
I’m not entirely sure, I might have been, but perhaps sound wasn’t always the main medium through which I listened (if we think of it as a form of attunement). I have always been absorbed and inspired by my surroundings, ecologies, and animals, one way or the other. But discovering field recording, acoustic ecology and listening practices definitely marked an important pivotal moment in my life and the way I experience the world.
So to answer your second question, professional engagement didn’t change anything, listening did. Actually for me, the thing with working professionally with sound and listening is that there is a risk of altering, damaging even, the precious relationship I have with them. While having to exist within the systems in place, I don’t want these priceless tethers to fall prey to capitalism. Tread carefully, as some say.
Pablo Diserens’ turning porous is out now via forms of minutiae