Words, their meanings, and the stories that they tell fascinate me. At the same time I recognize that music has the capacity to tap into that deeper part of our being that precedes language. COR is no exception. In various languages it is at the root of words meaning "body," which for me taps into the physical part of our existence: in this piece you hear the sound waves, you look at the body of the guitar, and, perhaps most importantly, you recognize the musician on the stage who is alive, flesh and blood, directed towards the body of the instrument to produce invisible physicality. In other contexts COR becomes heart: to me this symbolizes Jiji's will to sacrifice her time (and time is a part of life) for an idea and without this living, breathing, feeling, thinking human being a piece of music is merely an idea. Heart is love: towards music we make and love towards people we work with; love towards life in its myriad shades. COR is also where we get our word for courage from: and it takes a tremendous amount of courage to approach music that asks your body and mind to come together approaching the limit of what is possible. One of the joys of working with Jiji has been exactly her courage to dig deeper, to seek the unknown, to get closer to the edge of our existence. Her courage lies at the root of what this piece has become.

I am glad a piece of music cannot be captured in a single word and to me COR approaches something musical: it points towards a possibility of meaning without itself becoming meaningful. For meaning to emerge two people - the listener and the performer - must meet. COR is a possibility for meeting, it is a place one can enter. Current affairs have pushed the association of the root word in a particular direction but perhaps next time you hear about the virus, it can remind you about the importance of bodies, hearts, and courage.