Interview by Belen Vera Raya
Felix Blume is a sound artist and engineer whose work blurs conventional boundaries, intertwining sound, space, and community into deeply immersive experiences. His journey began in the world of sound engineering for film, but it was his early fascination with music that drove him to explore the infinite possibilities of sound beyond the confines of the musical realm. From his small hometown in southern France, Blume has ventured to remote places like the Amazon and the deserts of Mexico, capturing the acoustic essence of these landscapes and the people who inhabit them.
Geography and culture permeate his work, where sound becomes a medium for understanding and connecting with the world. Whether through the echo of foghorns in the Harbour of Piraeus or the everyday rhythms of a bustling street, Blume seeks to unravel the relationship between people and their surroundings. His projects, which often begin with a simple recording, evolve into complex installations that invite the audience to engage with sound in new and meaningful ways.
Among his most emblematic works, Fog Horns (2019) captures the powerful sounds of foghorns during a Greek Orthodox celebration. At the same time, Swarm (2021) explores the delicate balance between bees and the ecosystems they sustain. Blume doesn’t just record and play back sounds; he creates a dialogue between the listener, the environment, and the living beings within it, inviting deeper reflection.
In documentary pieces like Curupido/a, bicho do mato, Blume merges sound and image to enhance the sensory experience, weaving narratives that are as captivating as they are introspective. His work challenges us to listen more closely to the world, pay attention to sounds that often go unnoticed, and reflect on the stories these soundscapes reveal.
For Blume, creativity thrives in a space without constraints. He believes the pressure to create can stifle innovation and that true creativity emerges from freedom and exploration. This philosophy is evident in his diverse body of work, which crosses borders and cultures, inviting us to rediscover the world through sound in unexpected and profoundly transformative ways.
Can you tell us about your approach to sound art and how you started in this field? What led you to work with sound as an artistic medium?
I have a background in film sound engineering. What initially drew me to sound was music. At eighteen, when I had to choose a career, I wanted to work in the musical field without being a musician, so I decided on sound engineering. I studied in France first and then in Belgium, which led me to film and documentary sound recording. Working in film and documentaries allowed me to travel, discover new places and people, and listen to new environments. I come from a small village in southern France where travelling wasn’t common, so this was new to me.
I began recording and sharing the sounds of the places I visited because I felt they didn’t belong to me and should be shared. This need to share sounds led me to create sound pieces and landscapes for radio, like Arte Radio in France. Later, I worked on larger sound projects, such as Los gritos Mexico in 2014. In 2015, I was invited to present these sound pieces in physical spaces, which led to the creation of sound installations. This opened up a range of work, including actions, videos, and participatory pieces, all starting from my sound engineering background.
How do geography and culture influence your work as a sound artist?
What greatly influences my projects is the relationship between the inhabitants and their territory. When I arrive at a place, I am drawn not only to the location but also to the people who live there. I enjoy understanding how these humans interact with their environment and seeing the different intelligent beings in a place as part of a whole, constantly dialoguing, interacting, and listening to each other.
My first sound piece was recorded in southern Argentina, in Patagonia. It features the sounds of sheep and shepherds yelling to gather them, mixed with the creaking trees and the unique acoustics of the large forests there. I am fascinated by the dialogue and relationship between these beings and their territory. I try to understand how they relate through listening.
One of your most well-known works is Fog Horns, where you captured the sound of foghorns in the Strait of Magellan. What inspired you to create this piece, and what message did you hope to convey?
This work was recorded over three weeks at the Piraeus Harbour in Athens, Greece. It’s a mostly unedited recording of the Epiphany celebration on January 6th, a significant date for Greek culture and the Orthodox tradition. During this celebration, all the ships in the port sound their foghorns. I was fortunate to be there and capture these moments. What interests me is how humans, through their ships and powerful sounds, manage to inhabit such an ample space as the harbour sonically. I love how the sounds interact, and the place’s acoustics and distant echoes are heard. Even though it’s not a concert with premeditated notes, it invites us to listen in that way.
The important aspect of my work is the idea of inviting people to listen to this event and the ships but also, more broadly, to our environment. It’s about inviting us to hear what we don’t typically notice in our daily lives: the small, minimal, or distant sounds. This piece, like others, aims to invite us to listen to the sounds around us.
In your project, Desierto, you explored the sounds of the Sonoran Desert in Mexico. What challenges did you face in capturing or presenting those soundscapes?
Actually, it wasn’t the Sonoran Desert but the Potosí Desert in the Altiplano of San Luis Potosí. This desert connects with the Sonoran Desert and extends from San Luis Potosí to California and Arizona. The starting point was recording sounds in a place often imagined as silent and uninhabited. When we arrived with our microphones, we discovered many sounds and living beings. The microphones served as a pretext to be there, to meet people, and to start dialogues.
Recording sounds allowed us to understand how locals interact with their environment, which sounds are significant to them, and how they perceive their surroundings. This process revealed the relationship between living beings and their territory, highlighting how humans fit within what we call nature, not as separate but as part of the whole.
What is your opinion on climate diaspora?
Climate diaspora refers to people and animals being forced to relocate due to climate change. While this concept might have been doubted in the past, it is now undeniable. For example, in southern France, cicadas, which used to be found only in certain areas, are now moving northward. This change is noticeable even through sound, as the presence of cicadas can be heard rather than seen. This phenomenon affects not just cicadas but also human and animal populations forced to migrate to survive. It’s a reality that impacts many, including agricultural regions experiencing crises due to changing climates. Vineyards, for instance, are moving to cooler areas.
Climate diaspora results in significant, often painful changes for most affected populations. It can lead to species disappearing and severe human migration crises. While sound art might not solve these issues, it is important to maintain hope that things can improve, even if the changes are currently dramatic.
Recently, the Amazon seems to be central to your work, as well as for many environmental artists. Tell us about your project, Amazonia. What’s your approach?
I’ve visited the Amazon several times, initially as a sound recorder for films. My work often starts with my background as a sound engineer and then evolves. My first trip to the Amazon was in 2012 on the Venezuelan side. Since then, I’ve returned multiple times, exploring countries with the Amazon rainforest.
One of my main projects took place in a small village called Tauri in the Brazilian Amazon. Initially, I went there with microphones to record the sounds of the jungle, but soon,m I began focusing on the relationship between the inhabitants and their surrounding environment. My work often starts with nature, but it naturally includes the people who live within it.
This project led to several pieces. One is a 34-minute film called Curupido/a, bicho do mato(2018), and another is a sound piece titled Amazonia (2020). In contrast to my later work in the desert, Amazonia represents a sonic paradise filled with bird calls and animal sounds. The people in this region have a deep connection with their environment, often relying on their knowledge of the sounds for hunting, fishing, and agriculture.
In Amazonia, we spend a day in this village, from morning to night, capturing everyday moments—from life in the village and school to hunting crocodiles—always focusing on the interactions between the inhabitants and the living beings around them.
How do you select the natural environments where you work?
I don’t define my projects in advance. I work with sound material as I collect and listen to it without planning or preparing a detailed project beforehand, which can sometimes be challenging in terms of production. I value the freedom to create without a rigid plan. Often, the places I choose are simply those that interest me out of curiosity, which could be described as “sound tourism”. The microphones become an excuse to be in those places and start recording.
In some cases, the recorded sounds become a project or installation, but in others, they simply remain as captured sounds, shared without becoming a final piece. Over the past twenty years, I’ve spent more time in Latin America than in Europe, allowing me to explore various territories and landscapes. Often, these decisions aren’t thoroughly planned but stem from spontaneous attractions to certain places. However, this closeness to the territories has led to encounters and harmonies that sometimes give rise to sound projects.
Your work Swarm seems to address broader themes related to ecology and the interconnection between living beings. How does this work fit into your overall body of work, and what message do you hope to convey?
Swarm stems from the need to listen to the small living beings around us, like bees. Previously, I was interested in crickets in Chile, always exploring subtle sounds we don’t usually notice. The central idea of “Swarm” is to find individuality within the multitude, which can be applied to both bees and us as individuals in society.
For this project, I spent a week recording 600 bees in collaboration with a beekeeper. We built a specific recording studio for bees, where each individual sound is reproduced through a speaker, allowing us to listen to the collective and individual bees. The installation invites reflection on the crucial role of bees in biodiversity and agriculture.
I hope that through this work, people become more sensitive and start listening to their environment differently. Sound has the power to invite us to reflect, to open our imaginations, and to appreciate the importance of living beings that often go unnoticed.
Your work often complements high-quality visual material, and you released your first documentary, Curupido/a, bicho do mato in 2018. Would you do it again?
Yes, my work has always been closely tied to visual elements. While I’m interested in pure sound and how we can listen with our eyes closed, I’m also fascinated by how sound interacts with other senses. This is evident in my installations, sculptures, and participatory works, where the visual reinforces the auditory experience.
Since 2012, with my series Son Seul / Wildtrack, I’ve explored the relationship between sound and visuals, using imagery to enhance listening. This approach was key in my documentary Curupido/a, bicho do Mato (2018), which was created in the Amazonian village of Tauri. The project started as a sound piece, but adding visuals made it closer to a film, often shown in cinemas or as visual installations.
I continued this approach with Luces del Desierto (2021) in San Luis Potosí’s Altiplano, combining desert sounds and local challenges into a film. My process often involves gathering material, both sound and visual, without a predetermined plan. Sometimes, these become documentaries, and other times, videos or installations. The images and sounds are always interconnected, but the final form often emerges as I work.
For Curupido/a, bicho do mato, I initially went to record sounds without intending to make a documentary. I had a small video-capable camera with me, and during the last few days, I decided to film portraits of the people who had been accompanying me, capturing their reactions as they listened to the sounds. The video material was spontaneous, but modern cameras allowed me to create something of quality. My projects can be more or less planned, but I prefer to keep things open, allowing the process and tools at hand—whether sound or visual—to shape the final outcome.
Can you tell us about any upcoming projects you’re currently working on?
I’m currently working on several future projects, some of which are ongoing and others in the planning stages. One project I’m particularly excited about began in São Paulo two years ago during a residency. I will continue developing it next year in Quebec, Canada, during a residency at Avatar.
This project, called Andamento (2022), explores the tempo of walking in various cities. It examines how pedestrians’ pace can serve as a form of resistance to the fast-paced environments of urban life. The piece involves studying the walking tempo of different areas, measuring how many steps per minute people take, and translating this data into a sound installation. In different parts of the city, I plan to create a “shoe concert” where each shoe reproduces the walking tempo of a specific location by striking a wooden box, creating a rhythmic soundscape. This project will highlight the different paces in the city, whether people are rushing or strolling leisurely, and encourage listeners to reflect on these urban flows.
I’ll also conduct this study in Canada during April and May next year, which will be my first time working there. Additionally, I’m developing a project that uses solar energy to generate sounds on a lake. I’m also continuing to explore previous works, like “Cello Suites,” where I recorded windmills in Arizona playing the cello.
What’s your chief enemy of creativity?
I believe that the obligation to create is the enemy of creativity. To truly create, it’s important not to feel forced to do so. There should be the freedom to create or not, to produce or not. It’s essential to live, to connect with people and places, but without the pressure of obligation. The need to create, when it becomes a requirement, stifles creativity.
You couldn’t live without….
I believe there are many things we can live without. Humans have incredible resilience and adaptability to their environment. While some changes would be drastic and difficult, I think we could survive without many things. However, I couldn’t live alone or without other living beings. I need that interaction, that connection, and the ability to listen to others. I couldn’t live without the presence of other living beings around me.
