John Foster
Portfolio
Sometimes music seems to arrive already half-remembered. Like something you heard once through a wall, or in a dream you can't quite place upon waking. Notes suspended in amber, each one allowed to dissolve before the next emerges from wherever notes come from.
There's an old-world sensibility underneath it all, something that understands melody as a kind of forgetting rather than a destination. It moves the way light moves through water, bending, slowing, arriving changed.
A directness buried inside the delicacy. The songs know something. They don't say what exactly. They say it in a frequency that bypasses language entirely, lands somewhere behind the eyes, spreads slow like dye in water.
Some sounds exist less as separate voices than as echoes of a color that has no name in any living language.
look outward look inward look forward you are not a robot check the fire hydrants check the stairs it all makes sense now
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