The Labyrinth of Sound ◯ In Conversation with Hicham Gardaf 

Where there is a valley of roads, and the individual becomes a scale of the masses, a city unfolds to show itself. This phenomenon, so uniquely hidden, is revealed in Hicham Gardaf’s testament to film as a conduit of the senses. The spectator surrenders to see what has been obstructed at the core of industry and commerce. In Praise of Slowness (Hicham Gardaf, 2023) harnesses sight to elongate movement. The sounds of Tangier pace urgently and yet slowly, defining the protagonist’s vocal and physical trade of selling bleach. Gardaf writes: 

“The ears / tell the eyes / where to look / the feet / follow / the sound / from the center / of the puzzling labyrinth”

Athens Design Forum and co-curator Isabella Barkett present THE ECHO OF THE FEAST THAT CALLS ME, a double-screening of Hicham Gardaf's In Praise of Slowness (2023) and Izza Genini’s Aïta (1988) on the occasion of Milan Design Week 2024.  Prioritizing film programming as an integral, critical methodology to decipher design’s social role, ADF defines a theoretical framework in the field, previously introducing the work of Yugantar Collective (India), Marta Rodríguez (Colombia) and Menelaos Karamaghiolis (Greece). For the premiere of In Praise of Slowness by Hicham Gardaf in Milan, Papanikolopoulos and Barkett engage in conversation with the Director. Gardaf enlarges the thresholds of architecture and urbanism through cinematic interrogation into the processes’ therein – providing a silhouette to visualize territorial and cultural transformations. 

On questioning spatial disparities & sonic landscapes 

* “For me, the memory of Tangier remained frozen in the time when I first left, and all the years after don't seem to exist or count” – Hicham Gardaf

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: Within the film, there is an emphasis on inconclusive imagery, the 'dead-end’ so to speak. Your transition from a wide-open plane to condensed frames allows you to feel the possession of space and the walls that surround you. We have a perspective towards a woman sweeping and then returning to non-human depictions of built surroundings – how was it for you to transition from industrial areas into more domestic spaces?

Hicham Gardaf:  It was about sharing two contrasting landscapes. It was planned to be like this. To give an idea of what architecture those people have to walk and go through. You see the stairs because this is also an emblem of how Tangier is built on hills. I was thinking about the narrowness of the streets and that is how I remember it. To follow the person [such as the bleach seller] brings the idea of a labyrinth – not necessarily visible – an image where all of a sudden the person appears and then disappears.

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: The sound may then be altered through the condensed surroundings – mirroring the way sound travels in parallel to a human’s path....

Hicham Gardaf: Yes, there is a particular sound. Each street seems to have its own sonic identity. Within neighborhoods like the one we see in front of us, it allows you to hear a lot. You hear conversations on the street—your neighbors, and children playing outside. It's part of the constant background noise I hear. There are fewer cars and less traffic, as these are pedestrian ways, with the neighborhood situated on a hill.

Isabella Barkett: Within the still images, you feel the roads are growing smaller –that there's about to be a dead end, but then there's this uphill movement and you don't know what's after. How was it for you as a child to navigate this, and then to come back after living in a very different city such as London, following these sounds?

Hicham Gardaf:  Sounds change too. The soundscape of the city, of this neighborhood, is also evolving. In terms of sound, Tangier is very rich, particularly when one walks in the alleyways of the old town and the medina, parts that are devoid of the noise caused by machinery and cars. There's a constant human presence—the sound of people talking, playing, and the call to prayer—things I completely forget about in London. Walking through these neighborhoods provides a sensory experience; one is continuously exposed to smells and sounds. Going back to Tangier and walking the streets, there's a sense of being at home—a sense of comfort. For me, the memory of Tangier remained frozen in the time when I first left, and all the years after don't seem to exist or count. Going back again and realizing—yes, this is home, I recognise it. I can feel safe here, but also, there is a sense of estrangement as I can also see and feel the changes.

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: The role of street infrastructure becomes a visual axis within In Praise of Slowness – a prominent territory of transversal action. How do you isolate people within their associated actions, emphasizing the urban skin and façades?

Hicham Gardaf: In photography, we have the idea of chance – well, I mean, I don't know what to call it, chance or...

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: Encounters?

Hicham Gardaf: Yeah, encounters or occurrences—things you don't expect, that suddenly happen. Of course, it's different with film, but it's not different when you're partly making a documentary film, and there are elements captured that couldn't have been filmed again. Suppose they were there at a certain time... or even the idea of the weather. It was filmed during the summer, so there's consistency in the light. In one of the scenes where you see the man walking with the bottles and see the cityscape, this happened by accident—I had to go and meet someone and then I got lost. I took the wrong road (that did not exist before) and then discovered this whole new perspective of the city. So it was at once fascinating and surprising. Not that I didn’t know about this part of the city before, but seeing it from a new perspective felt like a revelation (or new discovery).

Within the industrial areas we filmed, there were textile factories, and you could feel the toxic ‘dust’ in the air; it was unbearable to stand in the surrounding areas. I filmed some fragments from the industrial districts—chimneys and rusted metal, primarily from the textile industry. I had an obsession with a billboard (situated on the highway, at the exit of the city) that was just a skeleton, as it was falling apart. I've been going there for five years, photographing it at the same time—just after sunrise. At that hour, I also saw vans coming to collect laborers.

On the identity of sound in memory

* “ The core of the film is to direct our attention to sound” – Hicham Gardaf

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: Hicham, from where stems the identity of sound in memory and your use of poetic language?  How do you transgress your earliest sonic remembrances from Tangier, built on the effect of your belated return?

Hicham Gardaf: In 2014, I began to read theoretical texts about cities and architecture. One of the key books I came across was The Eyes of the Skin by Juhani Pallasmaa. The book revolves around the idea that architecture should not be conceived solely as a visual art, but as an art that engages all human senses. The author argues that the dominance of vision in architecture has led to neglect of other senses, resulting in environments that fail to fully engage and connect with the human experience. So, he explores the sensory nature of human perception and its implications for architecture. He discusses how touch, sound, and smell contribute to our understanding and experience of space. I started from that moment on to think about other senses, or how we experience the city. Sound emerged as one of the strong elements, especially because I was living in London and could easily notice the sounds of Tangier whenever I left or came back, as they offered different sonic experiences.

During the pandemic, I managed to go back to Tangier. At the time, I was interested in field recording. This practice invites you to listen to your surrounding environments, and because there is not much else you can do except listen, you become an active listener and more sensitive to sound. I remember there was a curfew at that time. Until eight o'clock, life was almost normal. And then, there was a transition from day to night marked by the sound of sirens and the police going around the city and asking everyone to go home. So I wanted to immortalize this moment and record it. I was thinking about how sound reflects this particular time in history. I went to a café where people played Parchís. When the café was about to close, you slowly started hearing people leaving, then the sound of the waiters stacking the chairs, until the closing of the café and the sirens—the police coming and asking everyone to leave. And then after a bit, it goes to complete silence.

To return to the film—during one of my visits to Tangier, long before the pandemic, the story I tell in the film emerged. I was at my mom's, and I could hear one of the bleach sellers passing by our house. It triggered a childhood memory, almost as if this sound awakened other senses and memories. Since I had been away from this environment for so long, in each of my visits, I noticed new sounds and experiences that I had previously taken for granted. I wanted to create a sound piece about the bleach sellers, where one navigates through a labyrinth guided by sound, much like I would follow the sound of the bleach sellers in the narrow streets of my neighborhood. That's how the idea of "the ears / tell the eyes..." developed, as you don't see the person, but you follow their voice until you find them.

Then I thought this could be another way of exploring and experiencing the city, from a non-visual perspective. I didn't know what I was going to do. At this stage, it was only an idea. When I was nominated for the MAST Photography Prize at Fondazione MAST in Bologna, I thought that I could propose this idea. Although initially, I didn't want it to be a film, it imposed itself, as it was difficult not to have images. Yet, the core of the film is to direct our attention to sound—it is about the idea of slowing down the way we live, and the way we look and listen.

On the pacing of form in poetry, image, and  cinema

* “I thought of bleach as a chemical product and how it is used in traditional photography to make images disappear. And there was this strong analogy between the disappearance of the bleach seller's job and bleach as a chemical product that makes images disappear” – Hicham Gardaf

Isabella Barkett: I thought that you spoke so beautifully about how you move between senses – how you first presented this as a sound piece, accompanied by then involving photography and moving into the medium of film. You are constantly bringing in the senses: the sight, the sound, the smells. How do these interact, especially In Praise of Slowness – in your creative thinking and your travels? 

Hicham Gardaf: Well, I realized it's not that I thought about it strictly as a sound piece; I realized it wouldn't be sufficient to translate the [full] experience. It's a personal project, but it was also for the exhibition and for the prize. I also was considering how I'm going to show it in an exhibition space. I think there was also something about the film’s medium: as it was shot with 16 mm, I thought of bleach as a chemical product and how it is used in traditional photography to make images disappear. And there was this strong analogy between the disappearance of the bleach seller's job and bleach as a chemical product that makes images disappear.

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: In Athens, each morning around 7 a.m., we have Roma who sell plants or collect discarded materials through their automobiles with large megaphones. As we hear their calls, it becomes a definite sonic symbol of the city.  From a genealogical perspective – when you spoke to your family and to your mother about the bleach seller vendors, do they recall the trade when they were younger? As these trades are not isolated in scope, it could also have been another labor trade with sonic instruments (voice or otherwise). How did other’s perceptions of an older Tangier inform the final image? 

Hicham Gardaf: Among the reasons I made the film was the realization that many jobs are disappearing, akin to the bleach seller tradition, as the city undergoes transition. There's rarely a young person such as the protagonist. I also wondered how this tradition persists: is it due to solidarity, with locals supporting the sellers who return to the same neighborhood daily? Or perhaps it's because they offer a more competitive price than supermarkets, or is it the convenience of having products delivered to your door? Until the eighties, another occupation existed: Terra’h—a baker’s helper—with a distinctive voice. They'd collect dough from homes, take it to a communal oven to bake, and return it. Payment was in bread, and bakers could recognize individual families’ dough, coordinating deliveries accordingly.

On identifying the title 

Isabella Barkett: I always wonder with every film – the title. Particularly in regards to the world we live in today, where there is almost an economy on time, and now it's not just time passing, but there is also a monetary value to time. What made you choose In Praise of Slowness? 

Hicham Gardaf: Well, I had a few titles at the beginning. I find titles helpful when starting a project, providing a reference to return to as you work. In the end, I chose the one that felt truer or closer to what I was trying to say or express. I was thinking of slowness more as a way of resisting the pace of life in which we live today. It was also about slowing down our way of looking. It's not only about how we live but also how we look at images, considering film and the film industry. People can really look and study the image as if each frame was a moving tableau. 

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: From Ungaretti’s poem mentioned within your publication, “in the simmering air / involuntary revolt / of the man present at his / brittleness”; how does embodying a pace, slowness – across form – contour and shape the rhythms of life even in peril? 

Hicham Gardaf: I generally think of myself as a slow person, partly influenced by growing up in Tangier. Compared to other cities in Morocco, Tangier, and typically the Northern parts, have a slower pace. Businesses open around 11:00 a.m., which often surprises Moroccans from the South. It's just my nature, regardless. I was reflecting on this notion of time and its value. The bleach seller trade exemplifies this; waiting for them to arrive (without knowing exactly when) contradicts the capitalist idea of instant consumption—you can't simply order and receive immediately. This reflection occurred to me while waiting for them (during the scouting stage of my film). You can't rush them; you have to be patient and accept waiting. Normalizing waiting, or simply being with oneself without any action, is partly why I wanted to make the film about them. They resist this capitalist pressure.

On process and transformation 

* “ There's no specific location where you can find the bleach sellers. You don't go to a shop or find them elsewhere. You have to wait for them to come to you” – Hicham Gardaf

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: How did you experience the overarching adjustments of the film’s process and your closeness to the eventual protagonist? The framing of the bleach seller’s eyes and jaw, in his lament, or the view of a half body with the red truck... were these sequences out of necessity or was it a conscious choice for you to convey in this way? We could feel there was a navigation of the protagonist’s desires, presented in a cohesive form. 

Hicham Gardaf: They were deliberate choices that crystallized during the editing process. The concept of focusing on the eyes first (before the mouth) originated from the same notion of "the ears tell the eyes where to look." I aimed to dissociate the organs responsible for sound (ears and mouth) from vision (eyes) within a single image. In fact, the first sequence depicts Khalid from behind, emphasizing the ears before transitioning to the eyes and then the mouth. 

I spent over six months in Tangier working on the project—mostly searching for bleach sellers who would agree to be in the film. This was the main challenge for me because I couldn't find a protagonist for my film throughout this six-month period. They all refused for one reason or another to be filmed or recorded (voice). This forced me to think about a different film or approach.

There's no specific location where you can find the bleach sellers. You don't go to a shop or find them elsewhere. You have to wait for them to come to you. So that's what I did. I would sit at home, waiting for the bleach seller to pass by. Then I would go out and stop the person, asking them, “Would you like to be in the film?” I began this process with some individuals in my neighborhood—where my mom lives. Three people would pass by, each with their own distinct sound. After a while, I started recognizing who was who. Eventually, I hired an assistant to help me find a seller, and by chance, we met the protagonist of my film, Khalid, at a FedEx shop where he was selling bleach. After explaining the project to him, he agreed to be in the film. The three of us then met to discuss the details and practicalities.

Shortly after, I tried to contact Khalid, but his phone stopped ringing. I went back to his neighborhood with his picture, and people mistook me for the police, asking if something was wrong or if he had done something. I spent another ten days hoping to find him. Finally, we decided to return to the FedEx shop and ask if he had returned since our last visit. They informed us that he was a returning seller, and that's how we managed to get back in touch.

Isabella Barkett: How was it then to start shooting and editing  In Praise of Slowness, to open a dialogue on the bleach seller’s work and life? 

Hicham Gardaf: So, the filming didn't take much time because I was limited in how much I could film. I had a certain amount of film. I decided to prioritize what was most important to me: first, capturing the man walking with the bottles, recording  the seller’s calls in the streets. Secondly, I focused on his story—how he goes about his day—and then filled in the other details. I tried to envision what viewers would want to see while he's narrating his story.

It took me six months to complete the project for the exhibition, as I had a deadline to meet. This forced me to consider a different approach to making the film. The film evolved into its final form during the editing process. Initially, I hadn't planned to include my own voice or narrative, or even the idea of incorporating written text into the film. All these decisions were made in a short span of time while I was editing, perhaps over ten days.

I encountered another issue during editing—as I shot the film on 16mm using an old Bollex camera (which is very loud), it didn't allow for synchronized sound. Because of this limitation, I had to think creatively about the power of language and storytelling, finding innovative ways to incorporate certain elements into the film despite the lack of synchronized sound.

Ilyass, my assistant, helped with scouting and carrying equipment, but I handled everything else—directing, filming, and recording the sound simultaneously. Even small tasks would take a full day to accomplish. Fortunately, the sound design, created by Hannan Jones, was more straightforward and easier to achieve.

The language of color 

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: Regarding the motif of deep red throughout the film – How does it serve as a conduit for emotional resonance and cultural symbolism? 

Hicham Gardaf: I am drawn to certain colors, patterns, or textures, which comes to me intuitively. I was intrigued by painters who used photography as a means to create their paintings, and vice versa—photographers who used paintings as references to create their photographs. Tangier is not very colorful. I would say, it is predominantly white. However, you come across these red-painted facades that recur in the urban landscape, which I made a project about in 2016, called The Red Square.

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: This process then from photograph to painting (and the interactions therein) is deeply rooted. 

Hicham Gardaf: Throughout my research, I encountered the work of painter Josef Albers. In his book "Interaction of Color," Albers explores the complex relationships between colors and how they interact with each other. He delves into various optical illusions, demonstrating how colors can appear differently depending on their context and the colors surrounding them. He also undertook a project called "Homage to the Square" in 1966. I aimed to find associations that exist between painting and photography in real life. To do so, I created pairings with my own photographs and those of other painters, such as Barnett Newman and Nicolas de Stael. One of my photographs was inspired by a painting from Albers' "Homage to the Square" series. Additionally, I discovered that Albers began this series when he visited Mexico in the 1930s and photographed the facades of Mexican houses.  These are drawings or paintings, but they're all based on photographs of facades or architectural patterns. One of his paintings resembles a lot of the red buildings that I photographed in Tangier. This was a funny coincidence. 

Katerina Papanikolopoulos: Red is the deep color of brick, a unit of infrastructure –

Hicham Gardaf: Yes, yes. The Red Square also referred to this imaginary square where people in this suburban neighborhood of Tangier could gather, meet, and discuss the future of their community. The Red Square was created during the first residency program by Think Tanger, initiated in 2016, which addressed issues facing the city. For me, it was important to consider the role of nature in this neighborhood—contemplating playgrounds or envisioning how these communities might evolve in twenty years.

Isabella Barkett: Mirroring In Praise of Slowness, Genini’s films touch upon relearning collective public space through one’s senses. To present your work alongside Izza Genini’s Aïta, which captures the sounds and connections between the cheikates as they travel around Morocco, speaks to the heart of both films – filmmaking becomes one of instinct and feeling. Izza is a dear friend (and perhaps she wouldn’t mind me sharing this): Izza would describe herself as a swallow, as she is always flying and floating between people. And I know she has such excitement about showing her work alongside younger directors to continue this generational transformation rooted in meaning. 

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