DEHN SORA
This is an excerpt from a discussion that lasted eight hours, covering much of Dehn Sora’s life and work, including TREHA SEKTORI, THROANE, his work as a designer and more. The full text will be published in print a few months down the road.
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Earlier, we started talking about the language you use in TREHA SEKTORI. If I remember correctly, this is something that came to you when you were a child?
Dehn Sora – Yes, exactly. So, how can I explain all this? I think it comes from… I keep forgetting the term, but there’s a term for it. When we…
I can suggest two, actually. In the context of religious ecstasy, it’s called glossolalia, or “speaking in tongues”. Otherwise, it might be idioglossia, which is defined as a language anomaly characterized by the substitution of syllables or words with elements that lack conventional meaning.
Dehn Sora – True, it probably fits more in that category, I’d say, because of how it came to be. Sometimes, I didn’t know what I was feeling, I was somewhat overwhelmed by emotions. I think the first time it happened — starting to speak in a language that had no meaning — my earliest memory of it is at a swimming pool, actually, when I was learning to swim as a kid. There was a moment, really, where I think everyone has a kind of cogito ergo sum realization when they’re young, a moment where you realize you exist. For me, it happened during a swimming lesson. I was learning to swim, and in the middle of the water, I started to panic. I was trying to say I was drowning, but I couldn’t. So I started speaking in some… I don’t know, I couldn’t express what I was feeling. This would come back repeatedly throughout my childhood. I think it disappeared a bit during adolescence, actually. But for a large part of my childhood, whenever I was lost or couldn’t express myself – often during moments of fear, anger, or strong emotions where I felt endangered – I couldn’t articulate how I felt. So I began to form phrases and words that didn’t have any linguistic roots.
In the end, I realized there were certain words that would recur. I never tried to, how should I say, structure it? There’s no specific grammar. I haven’t written a collection or a kind of manifesto; I wouldn’t even know how to describe it. But there are phrases, words that would come back, ways of starting to develop a construction of its own, in fact, over time. So it stayed with me because it was also a means of having my own personal method of expression, something that could also remain incomprehensible to others, allowing me to… sometimes to write things that no one else could actually hear or understand. And in that case, it allowed me to let go a little more. I think it had an instinctive aspect, maybe even a completely instinctive one. So it happened that I would write in this language, telling myself that, anyway, only I would be able to hear it. So it faded away at some point. And then, when I started feeling that what I was working on would eventually become TREHA SEKTORI, the first thing that came to me for the very first track I recorded was actually in this language.
And every time I worked under those conditions, it was always this language that came back to me. So in the end, whenever I work on something that’s going to become part of Treha, only this language comes to mind, and I find the same words I used as a child. It has developed a bit with Treha as well, because there’s been more regular practice, and it happens more frequently. So certain words appeared, even as recently as three years ago, I think. And there it is; it kind of established itself that way. In the end, I know I’ve started to write things for TREHA SEKTORI when, in my mind, only this language comes to the fore. When I begin to have a clear idea, a vision of what I’m going to create, I often write a very, very long text entirely in this language… which I generally reread several weeks, even months later, to be able to extract what will sometimes become the lyrics. Can we even call them lyrics… what will become what I sing, at least, what I put into music.
Would it be completely wrong to draw a parallel with MAGMA and Kobaïan?
Dehn Sora – No, I don’t think so. No, no, honestly, there are actually many other examples, I think, musically speaking. Even Sigur Rós did something similar. There are a few bands who have done this, but I do think that… For a long time, I actually thought Kobaïan was a real language; I didn’t realize it was a language invented by Magma. I thought they were singing in a foreign language that I just didn’t understand, but one that was spoken in a real country. Looking back, I feel it has strong connotations of Eastern European languages.
Slavic and Germanic influences, among others.
Dehn Sora – And I didn’t really… I wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint a specific country, but I had the impression it was just a foreign language belonging to a particular country. So, to say that it inspired me is probably accurate… I don’t think that’s illogical. But did it trigger my own creation of language? Not at all, I think. However, I did want to preserve it, even if that made the project very hermetic. I think MAGMA might have influenced me in that sense, because I could have simply… There aren’t tangible lyrics in TREHA’s music, so it’s ultimately not that important to understand it in the music itself.
But I always include the text; there’s always… I include text in the artwork to make it accessible. I also translate it. But the decision to retain this language as the project’s primary language – I think MAGMA likely had some influence on that, as they are probably the main reference for that approach. It’s their way of communicating, both musically and linguistically. Yet in the end, we do understand them. Initially, it’s hermetic, but if you take an interest in what they do, you end up understanding it. It’s also a language. I think it’s similar with TREHA SEKTORI: it’s a musical language more than a language of direct communication. A word, a sound, because it’s supposed to evoke a certain emotion. A sentence is constructed in such a way that it might be, I don’t know, very choppy, with very sharp sounds to inspire something as well. The word itself can sometimes completely disappear beneath the meaning it carries in the music, going beyond mere communication through words. It becomes a sound that can still be understood sensorially.
Then again, understanding the exact meaning of a sentence without any contextual “keys” is obviously challenging. Creating that distance with listeners – since without a translation, there’s no other way to know its meaning other than directly asking me – is something I find appealing. It’s written as it is, with no need to alter it. This approach carries over to other projects I’ve worked on, like singing in English. It feels strange for me; it’s not something I’ve done much in THROANE. It’s quite unintelligible; I actually sing in French, but I enunciate so little that no one can tell. There might be words that occasionally stand out – people have asked me if it was in English. In fact, all the lyrics are in French. I tried singing a bit in English on stage, and it didn’t work very well. It felt somewhat false, and I’m not particularly attached to it, but I feel like singing in one’s native language evokes much more. At least in the language where you can fully think through everything beforehand. I don’t know if all bands work this way, but it seems to me that lyrics are often conceived in the native language, then adapted to English, involving a kind of adaptation process to sing in English. For those without a strong level of English, there’s a small phase of adaptation, which might seem minimal, but it’s enough to make it feel even more authentic than not adapting it at all. So with TREHA SEKTORI, there was never any question of me trying to sing in English, French, or any other language that interested me. I conceive of it this way, so I will transcribe it this way. Likewise, in THROANE, when I write, the texts are directly in French; I think in French, so I don’t try to translate them into English afterward. The only thing translated in THROANE is probably the credits – that’s about the only thing in English.
And in terms of meaning, to you it may be obvious, but does each phrase in the language of TREHA SEKTORI have a particular meaning? Because, for instance, with Christian Vander, he first works on the sound of the language, and the meaning often comes afterward. In your case, on the first album Sorieh, which apparently means “sweat,” if I understood correctly… And the following album, Severh Sehen… What does that mean?
Dehn Sora – It means “Crush the Palm.” More precisely, it means having the hand twisted with the palm pressed against something. It’s not really a standard word, but literally, it means “crush the palm.” It was more about the imagery of having this hand, the idea of the hand being really broken. You know, that sensation of intense pain that runs up your arm when you try to push yourself up off the ground, or to crawl.
So, if this language originated in a quasi-traumatic moment when you couldn’t find the words to express something intense that was happening to you… I imagine we’ve moved beyond trauma now, as it’s been, what, fifteen years since then? Or maybe even much longer. So, what does it connect to now? Is it a universal language, like French? Or is it a deeply personal language that expresses a range of the unspeakable, so to speak?
Dehn Sora – I don’t necessarily interpret it as something purely personal, because I think everyone could have this, actually. Anyone could create their own language. Ultimately, anyone could materialize their emotions, their visions, into perhaps a kind of language that imposes itself. There would be thousands of different languages. Does it connect to something purely traumatic? No. Is it a quasi-altered state? Yes. But traumatic? Not necessarily. Today, I don’t think that’s the case at all. I don’t believe I’ve relived something that plunges me into that kind of state due to trauma for a long time. There have been many challenging experiences, but none that have left me quite as lost. Now it’s become something I’ve internalized, something purely intimate. I’ve never really intellectualized how it comes about or what it could mean. To be honest, I just put it out there, as honestly as I can, without trying too hard to explain or make it comprehensible to others. But I am convinced that, in some way, this exists within everyone. And if it could trigger a desire in others to delve into something deeply primordial, materializing into a language, then that would resonate with me, both for listeners and in speaking about it.
But I’ve intellectualized it or analyzed it very little. There’s a big paradox here: it’s something difficult for me to express. It’s hard for me to talk about, because it’s so intimate. And yet, I express it through my music, which naturally invites questions. But I always feel strangely uncomfortable discussing it, because I don’t even want to have all the answers about what it stirs in me. However, I do like that TREHA has become more than just a music project – it’s a more encompassing project, injecting its own language, its own… mythology, so to speak, in big quotes. That interests me, because I think it elevates the project beyond just a purely material or human level, without pretension. I feel it removes it from the earthly plane, in a sense, and connects it to an invisible, sensory world that’s really beyond the terrestrial realm. It disconnects it from trivial matters. For this reason, I completely separate it from human considerations… not in the sense that it’s devoid of human aspects, since it obviously comes from me, but it lifts it beyond this earthly dimension. Keeping this language furthers its separation from human soil, or at least from this world. I’m not sure how else to put it.
Broadly speaking, I’m not sure if the term “dreamlike” is accurate to describe what you do with TREHA SEKTORI, but I get the impression, as you mentioned, that it’s not necessarily an intellectual process. It’s more something that speaks to people’s unconscious and emotions. For example, you use a lot of whispering, things that are extremely hard to understand, especially when they’re in a language we don’t know. So, it’s an evocation of something rather than an explication.
Dehn Sora – Yes, that’s true. I’m reflecting a bit on what you mentioned at the start of the question. Yes, that’s it. It’s something people have repeated to me.
Just on the term “dreamlike.” It’s a bit overused as a term, but, well, to make a parallel with a painter or illustrator, I don’t know if you’re familiar with Alfred Kubin, the Austrian artist. Like you, he often uses animals, for example, to evoke certain things. Here, we’re veering away from TREHA SEKTORI into your graphic work, but… it’s very much about suggestion, sometimes quite strong, but there’s always an element that connects with the recipient’s personal experience. In other words, we’re not dealing with… it’s not prescriptive art, if you will. With TREHA, it’s similar; you’ve created something deeply personal that invites listeners to connect with their own experiences, even if what they feel is based on their own history.
Dehn Sora – To be honest, I’m not entirely comfortable with the term “dreamlike.”
I agree it’s not quite right.
Dehn Sora – I understand why it might be associated with something dreamlike, yes, the unconscious, certainly. That’s absolutely the case. As for opening doors for the listener, that does resonate with me. I like to conceive of the project as an open door… well, maybe not an open door exactly, more like a battering ram to force open doors. Let’s say that could be part of the ultimate quest as well. If listening to an album allows a listener to draw something from it, whether purely internal or even creative, I think that’s a great reward. After all, it’s not meant to be fully understood. That brings me back to this little paradox: I’m not aiming for opacity on purpose. I’m not trying to be as obscure as possible, but at the same time, I feel that the projects that have led me to understand myself or to do other things are those that require a lot of digging, projects that require a bit of research or explanation – or maybe not even explanations per se, but that need some deciphering. I think I like to leave the door closed.
I intentionally leave my door closed with respect to what I’m offering so as not to give too many keys and not to… it’s not meant to be a guide of any kind. I think some music can serve as a guide to reach altered or heightened states of consciousness. For instance, I’ve often been told that my music is both the best and worst music for meditation. It’s largely breath-based, so people say, “It’s my ideal music for meditation.” But it’s probably also the worst because, while it remains ambient, there’s a touch of chaos. Sometimes the breaths aren’t… steady; they’re not on beat. They’re always somewhat jagged. If you added a metronome to the breaths, there’s no rhythm; it fluctuates. And triggering these very irregular breaths can, in a way, throw you off a bit. Those who manage to fully concentrate on the music or on the practice of meditation, for example, may find themselves entirely focused on what they’re hearing, and each small sound may distract them, even disturb them to some degree.
And that’s something I’ve heard back from people who meditate: they’ve tried it with my music, and it made them see very strange images, or in some cases, it even made them feel like they were suffocating. Conversely, sometimes it completely calms them down, which I understand a bit less. But this is something I can fully connect with. It’s something I try to achieve live, too – trying to put myself in that state. The act of breathing like that can make my head spin if I do it too forcefully, and then everything blurs, and I forget where I am. There’s just this small part of my brain that keeps the motions going. In that sense… coming back to the term “dreamlike,” I’m not sure it’s quite what I’m aiming to evoke. But being a small vessel of invocation, triggering a kind of unconscious reaction in others rather than presenting a testament to unconsciousness – that resonates with me more. I don’t know if I’m clear about that, but that’s roughly how I feel. It’s a kind of testimony, in a way, to my own unconsciousness, but it’s not necessarily what I’m trying to evoke.
I’d just like to follow up on what you said about breath because I wanted to share a quote by Giuseppe Penone, an artist we’ve discussed before. He said, “Breathing is the volume of a breath. When you breathe, you release into the air a volume of air that is different from what surrounds it, with a different temperature. The act of breathing is already a sculptural act.” In fact, while listening to some of your albums, I found myself listening with my eyes closed or in dim light. I feel that describing your work almost as sound sculpture wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate. But I don’t know if, as a creator, that resonates with you.
Dehn Sora – I do like that image. I appreciate that in sculpture, it’s something you can walk around. That’s something I… I like about the word “sculpture.” We have something that takes on volume, essentially. And being able to move around it is something I personally enjoy when I’m at an exhibit or viewing a sculpture – I love walking around it. Often, it’s meant to be seen in a specific light or from a certain angle, but you can also view it from different perspectives, sometimes finding that only one side has been fully sculpted, the front-facing view. As you walk around, it transforms completely, depending on your perspective and the positioning. The idea of music materializing something you can mentally circle around, that… yes, that really resonates with me. I can see myself in that.
Continuing on the theme of breath, you mentioned what it evokes for you, but breath in general is a marker of life; it can be a positive marker, conveying excitement or anxiety, but it also often carries a great deal of intensity. That’s something I often feel in TREHA SEKTORI’s music: there may be calm moments, but there’s often a high underlying intensity. It’s very tense music.
Dehn Sora – Yes, tense.
And I believe the primary marker of that, beyond the orchestration or percussion you might use, is clearly the use of breath.
Dehn Sora – I feel like it has always been… the act of working with breath and the body itself, really. From the beginning of my first compositions, it became a core element. I was very… how to say… I had this vision of music being made with the body, not just using arms to create sound. As I’ve explained in other interviews, I’d create percussion just by hitting myself or using body sounds. I think I’ve sampled every sound my body could produce, depending on the inspiration I had at the time. It’s probably a marker of life, but it was also the image of music generated by the body. Honestly, if I could one day create an album entirely centered around sounds 100% tied to my body, I’d love to try it, maybe with some reprocessing or other effects. I think we all have an inner music, often quite oppressive – like the sound the stomach makes. Sometimes, those sounds are like cries. And in that moment, the breath… I think the first time I introduced breath into a composition was simply to create a tempo.
I realized that… later, when I became interested in various folk traditions, that breathing – choppy, staccato breathing for entering a trance state – is widely practiced across many cultures and is simply a scientific reality. Practicing it without any references initially, the first few times, led me into such a powerful and fascinating state that I wanted to try it again. There was a sort of dangerous attraction, almost. It was more the feeling of suffocation than of life, really. It didn’t feel like taking deep, full breaths to calm the heart; rather, it was more about sending contradictory signals to my body, making my head spin. I never really intellectualized it, and I still don’t know why I keep doing it today or why it speaks to me so deeply. But I feel like I’ve only explored 3% of what’s possible with just breath, breathing, and the nose – there are probably billions of ways to approach it.
And this often brings up… several things in my mind, but I often feel like I’m reenacting moments where you simply can’t breathe, whether it’s sensory memory or something I’m trying to call up, to reproduce something deep within that feels familiar. Maybe it’s not even from this lifetime, I’m not sure how to explain it, but it’s so persistent and nearly obsessive – almost 20 years in, and I still keep coming back to it. There must be something unresolved there, I guess? I’ve never practiced meditation or done many breathing exercises in my life. I have no formal technique. But breath quickly provokes something – it doesn’t take ten minutes to kick in; sometimes, it’s a matter of 30 seconds. A recent example: I performed for what I think was only the second time in my life during daylight, in full sunlight, and it made me extremely nervous because I wasn’t hidden by my visuals.
I had my setup in front of me, hiding me a bit, but learning I’d be playing in full daylight at my concert in Leipzig, in the ruins of a castle, was terrifying. I went on stage already tense. Even during the soundcheck, as I started producing the sounds of certain pieces, I felt this intense throb at my temples. I thought, “Damn, I have to play for 35 minutes like this.” There are pauses, sure, but mostly it was… since I was playing the entirety of “Rejet,” I had to do a lot of looping, layering, and breathing sounds that wouldn’t just repeat on their own. Between the stress, the heat, and my lungs working overtime, I felt like I was about to pass out at least 200 times.
At one point, I felt like I wasn’t even on solid ground; it felt like the floor was slipping out from under me. It was both an incredibly beautiful and terrifying experience. It’s amazing how powerful that sensation can be in such a short amount of time. It intrigued me even more, pushing me to keep exploring this. I know some people who had seen me perform before said it was fascinating to finally watch me doing it in full light. They felt I was genuinely suffocating on stage, which made them feel a bit anxious. There are times when I have to come back to my instruments, small moments of grounding. I’m honestly interested in the idea of making an album entirely centered around this. Playing with this practice over a long period, I’m curious to see what vision or feeling might emerge. Anyway, I think I’ve rambled a bit.
Just to expand on what you’ve said, I want to ask you about your relationship with your body. You’ve marked it with some rather striking tattoos—they’re impossible to miss. Moreover, like certain performers, you don’t seem to fear putting yourself in danger. I’m reminded of that famous video you shot in Brittany where you stayed in freezing water for two or three hours.
Dehn Sora – Actually, that wasn’t in Brittany; it was indoors in Seine-et-Marne.
Seine-et-Marne, then – my apologies. But regardless, the water was truly freezing, and you suffered aftereffects from it. So you did put yourself at risk.
Dehn Sora – Yes, for several of the videos I’ve done for TREHA, there have been a few reckless moments – nothing that could have directly cost me my life, but close. That particular story, for instance, was about filming a video where I was submerged in murky water. William, with whom I often work on videos, and I had this idea for a strobe effect. We couldn’t shoot it outdoors, so we decided to use an inflatable pool, filling it with water and various materials like mud and branches. The idea was to submerge myself in it, and of course, we did this in December in a house that wasn’t well-heated. And naturally, being as “pragmatic and intelligent” as we are, we didn’t consider that there was no hot water source to fill the pool. So, we were filling it with boiling water by the bucket. But by the time we brought it over, the water had already started cooling down. At one point, I just said, “Alright, I’ll go in. It’s fine, I’ll shiver, but let’s get this done.” The plan was not to shoot for very long. But as with all video shoots, you think it’ll be quick, and it never is, because you never feel you’ve got enough footage.
So I ended up staying in that water for hours. Eventually, I reached a survival response. I’d never felt so cold in my life. The water kept cooling, and at one point, I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I started to drift away. It was the first time I’d ever experienced that—I couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, couldn’t understand anything. There was this very cinematic moment, I think, where everything blurred, and I could see a tiny flickering light in the distance, which I think was just the lights we had set up, with my eyes shaking so much it appeared stroboscopic. I was giving off so few signals that William didn’t realize I was struggling. My trembling had stopped, I had no visible reaction anymore. I’m not even sure what prompted the survival instinct to kick in, but I think another person coming in helped me snap out of it. I had to take a hot shower afterward for—no joke—two hours, and I didn’t feel my fingertips for weeks.
I had lost sensation—there was no circulation, I think. Even if I tapped my fingers, I felt nothing. Gradually, feeling returned, thankfully, because I was starting to get worried. I didn’t even tell anyone about it—I didn’t want to admit I’d done something reckless without considering the consequences. It wasn’t exactly a near-death experience, but I did feel myself letting go, as my body couldn’t resist anymore. I had been trembling so intensely that I was completely tense, drained of strength, and I just gave up. I mentioned earlier that my survival instinct is pretty lousy—I thought, “We’re filming a video; I have to hold on, grit my teeth.” But I think time stretched out, and I didn’t realize how long it had been.
And yes, I’ve never shied away from putting my body at risk in these contexts. There are things that do scare me—like we talked about my fear of heights. Attractions, bungee jumping, those things truly terrify me. There’s no reasoning to it—I’m just afraid, with knees shaking, reacting in the typical way. But with things like physical pain—a sudden impact, scarification, tattoos, I’m fine with it. I even have several scars on my hand. Have you ever noticed? I think I may have mentioned it to you before?
Explain.
Dehn Sora – So, about my hand – I have a circle that’s what you’d call a branding. It was done with a heated scalpel. I just have a circle there, and it’s exactly the kind of thing that doesn’t frighten me at all. It’s not pleasant, clearly, it’s not without pain. But honestly, it was probably one of the least painful things I’ve ever had done because you stop feeling anything pretty quickly. In half a second, all the nerve endings are gone. It’s similar to a tattoo, where you get an adrenaline rush at the first needle prick, so you don’t feel much for about an hour. I think this is common for many people – biologically, you just stop feeling it after a short while. This branding took about an hour, so I honestly didn’t feel much. The next day, sure, I felt a bit worse, but no, I’d have no problem, in a sense, putting myself “in danger.” Maybe with time, I’ve developed a bit more of an understanding about not hurting myself unnecessarily.
That’s really the main thing – not injuring myself for no reason. It bothers me to be slowed down or limited because of an injury. I get frustrated. I recently got a piece of glass stuck in my foot, and being “disabled” in that way drives me crazy. But hurting myself needlessly annoys me. However, if I got injured while filming a video, or if it happened in the service of creating something – knowing the purpose behind it – I’d handle it better. Maybe age has taught me to think, “I know I’m going to get hurt for no good reason here, so maybe it’s not worth it.” But it’s been a few years since I had to physically involve myself in a Treha video shoot. I’m not sure how I’d react now. The last tough one was probably the live performance with the people from L’Homme Sauvage during COVID, with the cube installation. That one was rough. Physically, it involved hauling equipment, making repeated trips over uneven ground under a blazing sun, with no shade whatsoever. I think what did me in there was the sunstroke I had the next day, which was kind of ridiculous.
I even ended up vomiting. I know sunstroke can have delayed effects, but the next day, I threw up like never before. I had these glorious sunburns all over the back of my head and neck. You can even see it, I think, in the video – I have a vein that’s extremely swollen where I’m directly facing the sun. So, if you ever notice that big vein in my head when it’s cold, it means I’m very irritated, even if I’m not saying it. Consider it your signal. But as soon as I get a sunburn… Anyway, the point is, yes, involving my body in what I do is essential. I’d even feel uncomfortable if someone else did it in my place, even if they might have more talent or a better physical appearance. I’ve considered using other performers, both for videos and concerts, but it’s difficult for me to hand that part over, no matter how close we might be.
When I had all these ideas for TREHA videos, it was never even a question that someone else would be the one in the thick of it. It’s kind of like getting your hands dirty; that’s the whole idea. But you also mentioned my tattoos as part of this connection with my body?
Yes, in the sense that… I don’t want to use big terms because that might be a bit excessive, but I feel like your entire existence is, in a way, a work of art. That is, your body is an expression of it. You create on different levels, and it seems like there’s almost nothing in your life that isn’t somehow connected to this aspect. It’s as if there’s a kind of drive within you.
Dehn Sora – Definitely. Regarding tattoos, there’s a part that’s very connected to TREHA or even THROANE to some extent. I think tattoos have another level to them… there’s some distance, though, because I tend to view my tattoos somewhat like armor. It’s that simple to me. My fully blacked-out arm, for example – sure, there’s clear symbolism there, but it’s also a canvas for others. Even though these are my ideas, if I could tattoo myself, that would be ideal. Still, it’s about leaving it to people who know what they’re doing. Over time, I’ve come to appreciate the fact that it’s also, to some extent, their creative space. Take Valeria Sakseeva, for instance. Many of my tattoos embody things I relate to, but it’s still her work, her hand, and a part of her that’s infused into it. So, I have several tattoos that came from my impulse – I brought the idea – but their interpretation speaks to me, too. I think I like giving that space to people who understand my feelings, even without us having to talk about it.
When I look at my tattoos, I don’t really “see” them, you know? I don’t even think of them in that way. I don’t see the artists’ faces or personalities in them. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I consider my body as a work of art. Mostly, I just want to cover it up, really – that’s the main purpose of the tattoos. I’m not aiming for art in the broad sense. I don’t seek to be a work of art myself, far from it. I’m trying to cover my body as much as possible. This covering, yes, could be seen as a little canvas in a way, since it represents different moments and expressions, and there’s even a kind of evolution there. I can see the earliest tattoos I got; I can see which were some of the tattoo artists’ first pieces. It’s similar to how things evolve in creative work like music. It was that way in the moment because that’s what made sense at the time. And surely… tattoos are even more permanent in a sense.
Although, well, they could be covered up or modified. Either way, I fully embrace them, as they reflect a period in time. Even if some haven’t aged particularly well or don’t have the most refined lines, they’re good indicators of evolution, too. I don’t look in the mirror much, but when I look at my tattoos, I can also see the progression of my own ideas and desires. And I notice there’s still a common thread. That reassures me a bit. At the same time, I can see that there’s real change, a true progression, which is always comforting to observe. Especially on my legs – when I look at those tattoos, I see designs that… to me, the idea behind them is still the same, still perfect for me. But I wouldn’t execute them that way now. Yet, I know each one has its own little story. Actually… aside from my first tattoo, which wasn’t particularly ritualistic, most of my tattoos carry some form of ceremony. I always wanted to inject that ritualistic aspect into them.
Some were done under conditions that were, well… outside of a tattoo studio. I got some of them done backstage at concert venues. So, being able to work alongside Valeria Sakseeva, who tattoos me in her studio, creates a real bond. And, how should I put it? There’s often a similar desire when it comes to getting tattooed – a similar attempt to transport myself somewhere else, much like I experience with music. Except that this time, I’m not in control. It’s someone else working on me. But the pain of a tattoo has never, how can I say… it’s never transported me into a different state of mind. Putting your body in danger – tattooing isn’t necessarily putting your body in danger, it’s just a form of rough treatment. But there are types of pain that allow you to completely let go or even reveal things about yourself. For me, tattoo pain is very down-to-earth; it’s just irritating, personally. Plus, the machine’s constant noise is grating.
It’s not a pain I particularly enjoy, quite the opposite. If I could avoid the pain of tattoos, I’d be thrilled – that’s not the point for me. I’m reminded of something Hervé from ANTAEUS once said: it’s not the pain that’s interesting; it’s the healing process. I resonate with that 100%. I know it’s something that could also be linked to what I went through filming videos for TREHA, those tough times when we put ourselves in crappy, dangerous, cold conditions. Like that TREHA video anecdote I mentioned in BARDO METHODOLOGY about the shoot at Étretat, where we started getting rocks falling on us. So we ended up climbing, since we were trapped by the tide, scrambling up this emergency escape—a steep grassy slope. With, I don’t know, maybe 50 kilos of gear on us, packed in backpacks and everything.
The feeling of accomplishment once the hard part is over brings a kind of peace. It’s the same, I think, with an injury. When it heals, there’s this calm moment, a sense of tranquility. For me, it triggers a wave of calm, as if there’s a pulse radiating from the healing wound. That state… it’s something that could, I think, if I were a bit less aware of it, lead me to seek out self-inflicted pain more often just to experience that state again. Keeping a certain distance from that impulse probably helps me stay aware enough not to put myself in harm’s way all the time. But those sensations, the kind you can find… You’d understand it from mountaineering, those sensations after you finish an intense effort, that moment of reward. In mountaineering, there’s a visual reward, but there’s also a physical one. You feel like… I don’t know if you experience similar things, but you can sit down and, for a brief moment, there’s this kind of grace. You’re sore all over, but it’s for the right reasons. It’s an abstract and precise feeling, but that pain is essential to experience those things. You can’t feel that good without first finding a balance with pain. There needs to be a lot of pain to…
Just to circle back on the topic of mountaineering, it’s true that after some of the hardest climbs I’ve done, I remember my body really hurt. But a few days later, the only thing that remains is the memory of that almost religious epiphany of success.
Dehn Sora – Exactly, that’s it.
Even though I know it hurt, that pain just doesn’t exist anymore although it was the dominant feeling for hours, it’s overshadowed by a few short moments of bliss.
Dehn Sora – You can even completely forget the pain you put yourself through when you know that’s waiting for you at the end. Even if you don’t make it because conditions or circumstances don’t align… knowing what happens afterward can push you to do anything, I think. If you don’t set limits, you could end up doing really stupid things just to feel those little moments that sometimes last only two seconds. But it’s enough to make it all worth it.
We had talked about that performance by Chris Burden, where he gets shot in the shoulder; it’s called Shoot, from 1971. We also discussed Günter Brus and his final performance, Zerreisprobe in 1970. It was an ordeal of tearing or rupture, after which he said he was done with performance art because he had reached the absolute limit of what he could do. Beyond that, it was basically guaranteed death. So, can you imagine a boundary like that for yourself? Some kind of ultimate performance or act after which there’s nothing left but the death of your biological organism?
Dehn Sora – Yes and no. I have ideas, I do. Honestly, if I were told I had something incurable, I wouldn’t try to fight it. But I would try to go out with style. And, I mean… I’d be more inclined to transform my body into something… maybe even use my remains to create something. I might even call on some external hands if anyone would be up for it. But right now, as for putting myself in that kind of danger to the point of risking handicap or death… I still have enough creative ambitions to hold me back from that. It’s something I discussed a lot with an artist named Lily Lu, formerly known as Little Swastika in the tattoo art world. In the context of a project with AMENRA, he – now she, going by Lily – specializes in really extreme body modification. In a project with AMENRA, he tattooed three people in a way that, when they stand together, it forms one of AMENRA’s logos. He invited us to finish the tattoos during an AMENRA concert, with a series of small performances happening during the tattooing. So, I was invited to play music all afternoon in the room where they were doing the tattooing.
So back then – I don’t think she tattoos anymore, but when she did, I was really intrigued by the fact that he was missing two phalanges. After that first day, we talked a bit, and with a little alcohol to help, I went straight to the point, asking what had happened to him, whether it had been an accident, and if it didn’t bother him for tattooing. She replied, “No, no, I had them removed willingly; it’s actually a body modification.” I didn’t judge; I’m pretty open-minded about extreme body modifications, but voluntary amputation that handicaps you? I struggle to wrap my head around that. I mean, I could understand the idea if someone explained it, but voluntarily amputating yourself is deeply troubling to me. Making things more challenging for yourself is one thing, but in this case, it seems like intentionally creating barriers where none existed before. In this case, it didn’t really hinder her for drawing; she held her machine with just three fingers, and it didn’t seem to bother her at all. But I still have a strong fear of ending up handicapped, whether in the name of performance or any other idea that might leave me unable to function afterward. That’s something I couldn’t live with easily.
I already find it incredibly difficult to materialize and realize the visions I have in my mind. Adding unnecessary obstacles to that seems counterproductive. So, I’m a bit wary – I haven’t had any ideas recently that would put me in a lot of danger. I can’t imagine doing something like amputating part of myself. However, if there was an idea where putting my body at risk was unavoidable in order to realize it, I would do it without hesitation. I’ve done it before and will continue to do so. But so far, I haven’t had any ideas that really demand that kind of extremity. I wouldn’t, for example, go so far as to get shot. When it comes to performance, I haven’t had a vision or idea that would require that level of radical action. The message I’d want to convey doesn’t call for such extreme measures, at least not so far. But who knows? If I ever reached a point of no return in life, physically, there would probably be very radical changes. I don’t think I’d want to leave my body as it is.
If I were to end up as ashes, I’d want it to serve a purpose first. And, in that regard, I do have some ideas, though they might go beyond traditional frameworks… I’m not sure I’d want to turn my death into a performance. But maybe, I don’t know – it could be something to consider. I have a few ideas floating around. But there’s something else I sometimes regret never having done and probably won’t get the chance to do. I have two so-called excuses for not having done it. One of them might sound trivial, but I understand it completely. I once had the opportunity to try suspension through Colin from AMENRA, who has done it several times himself. I was always curious and really wanted to experience it, I wanted to know what it felt like. The opportunity came up, and I was pretty eager. But then, Colin put on the brakes and told me, “Don’t do it for these reasons. You’re not doing it for the right reasons. You need to do it for the right reasons.”
So it made me think a bit, and the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it. We even discussed the idea of connecting ourselves to each other as a starting point. The idea was for us to stand back-to-back, each with hooks in our backs, and slowly move forward together. It’s a real trauma for the body; there’s preparation involved for the skin. From all the accounts I’ve read on this, there’s something profound… I’ve never been a big user of or particularly interested in psychedelics; they’ve never followed me around much. I’ve had a few experiences but don’t revisit them often, and they don’t call to me regularly. But apparently, suspension can have very similar effects to certain psychedelics. This connects with the idea of pain creating completely altered states, and all the stories and feedback I’ve heard about it confirm that, yes, you’re not here anymore; another reality opens up, especially with the swaying motion, which has a very hypnotic effect. That aspect is incredibly intriguing to me. I regret not having done it or tried it when I was younger.
But even today, I still think about it often. Sometimes, when I come across articles, photos of people performing suspensions, or read accounts from others, it reignites my desire to try it. Ideally, I’d want it in a very specific setting. The first time Colin did it, it was exactly in the kind of setting I’d want: out in nature, with only the people who prepared the suspension around. The performance aspect of suspension, with a big crowd, would be too uncomfortable for me; I wouldn’t feel at ease. I wouldn’t want to be exposed to everyone’s gaze. I’d want it to be a more intimate, personal experience, which is why I still feel drawn to it. It’s risky; things can go wrong, although it’s generally well-controlled, so the chance of serious injury is low. Maybe I’ll do it for my midlife crisis. But I know I’ve also tempered my eagerness a bit, and it sounds silly, but it matters. I’ve already worried my mother a lot with some of my choices – scarification, tattoos – which she never fully understood. Seeing her child, in her eyes, ‘destroying’ their body is hard for her.
And Leslie too, actually. She has two conditions in our relationship: no ayahuasca and no suspension. At first, I was like, ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll do it; everything will be fine, and you won’t have to see it.’ But then she said something like, ‘You don’t realize how painful it is for others to witness that.’ Because it means they care about you. You’re unintentionally hurting them, even though it doesn’t directly involve them. But you hurt them without meaning to, thinking it’s not a big deal. I don’t think I’m someone who typically hurts others; I rarely do things that affect them. But if I did this, it would probably destroy them inside—they’d suffer ten times more than I would. Freud would probably say I should distance myself from my wife and mother, but the fact is, seeing that pain in their eyes… Hurting them would hurt me and tear me apart. I don’t want to put them through that. And in the rare moments when I’ve seen that look in their eyes… For instance, with my mother, if I tell her I got another tattoo, that I’ve scarred myself, there’s a questioning, puzzled look as if she’s wondering, ‘What did I do for you to feel the need to do this? How did I raise you?’ These reactions can sometimes be amusing.
And this time, it was the first time she said, ‘I’ll never be able to look you in the eye if you do this. I’ll never be able to look you in the eye again.’ And I could see in their eyes that she was very serious. They each said something very different, but I could see it was genuinely, deeply serious. There’s no room for negotiation; it’s now or never—you take the risk, and if you decide to do this, our relationship will be entirely different. And I thought, ‘Okay, well, this is what I’m explaining after all. If a great opportunity arises, something that could potentially even transform me as a person… I’m sorry, but I’d seize it.’ But that chance never came up again. So either I have to actively make it happen, which would feel forced, but it’s still something that lingers.
People evolve, I think. My mother doesn’t care much anymore; I already did the black tattoo sleeve, and it’s fine between us now. But this is something that I know will happen one day, sick or not – it has nothing to do with that. I’m incredibly curious. I mean, I could live without trying ayahuasca. I really do want to try it one day, though; I couldn’t leave this world without having experienced it. I’m very eager to give it a try, and on top of that, I have super elastic skin, so they say that’s ideal, and I’m not even sure it would hurt much.
There’s an Australian performer named Stelarc, I don’t know if you’re familiar with his work. He’s done quite a few suspensions, and he talks about gravitational landscapes when referring to the skin.
Dehn Sora – Yes, that resonates with me.
He took body modification quite far, even genetically modifying an ear onto his forearm.
Dehn Sora – Well, that’s more like transformation, almost genetic engineering. It’s something else entirely… It’s not about experiencing pain anymore; it’s about transforming his body. In his case, I think he truly considers his body as a work of art or an experiment. It goes beyond pain… Cronenberg-like, almost.