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The first thing that strikes you is the sound: Christian Calon is a composer who listens to what he does.
It is impossible to escape the bewilderment of these swarming sonorous beings, fugitive within an unpredictable polyphony, of these pure sonic waves unceasingly overcome by new surges, of these iridescent bubblings sparkling at the surface of our listening. Polymorphic shimmers, multiplied figures for the ear’s pure sensual joy.
Still the thunder and whispers would remain the simple rhetoric of an emotional whim if behind them where not the proliferation, at every instant, of the “visitor’s” insistant silhouette. His veiled image shows through. Does he know it?
He passes, carried by the wave, withdrawing with it, returning and re-emerging again, barely giving away his lost profile. We thought we had seen into him… here he is, in yet another perspective. Who is he?
The poet then takes us by the hand and speaks. A literary concern.
The portrait takes shape stroke by stroke and the puzzle gathers its pieces under careful listening. Now, finally, he lifts the veil, exposes, authorizes indiscretion, impudence, looks, himself as well. Smoothly, the sound slips away into the intimacy of a disturbing maelström; together we are shipwrecking…
The bed, that prison, has closed in upon its immemorial mirage… from these ancient times will arise the human and old story, which is, like the sea, within each man “eternally retold.”
Shattered voice…
Ah! This stuttering of desire, of death, of disappearance, “of these breaks, of these scissions, of these ruptures, of these sudden and bottomless falls which”…
Francis Dhomont, Montréal [xii-89]
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