The Isle of Sounds and Sweet Airs is an architectural inhabitation of spaces within the abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel that history has rendered vacant, creating a residence for artists and an artists’ residency. Inspired by William Shakespeare’s The Tempest – a play of metamorphosis and self-enlightenment – this series of dwellings, pavilions and bridges facilitate and celebrate the voyage of discovery and pursuit of knowledge. Just as destiny brought the Milanese to Prospero’s Island, inquisition brings artists to the Isle of Sounds and Sweet Airs.
Nestled within existing ‘husks’, the proposal hyperbolises the architectural language of voids and bridges found within Mont-Saint-Michel, reconstructing found space and composing new walkways, canopies and pavilions to address and engage with the rich context of the island directly. The performativity of the architecture reverts the island once more to a place of ritual and myth, as well as referencing the theatricality of the source material from which it was derived. As the artists navigate their day-to-day tasks, visitors to the island catch glimpses of movement and flashes of architecture; an audience to the performance of discovery, isolated from the inner workings much as the island is isolated by the tides.
The Isle of Sounds and Sweet Airs imbeds itself within this historic island, reiterating its importance as a hub of artistic, architectural and divine inspiration. “Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.”
“I want these words to vanish, so to speak, into the silence they came from, and for nothing to remain but the memory of their presence, a token of the fact that they were once here and are here no longer and that during their brief life they seemed not so much to be saying any particular thing as to be the thing that was happening at the same time a certain body was moving in a certain space and that in themselves they were of no importance whatsoever.”
I boarded the king’s ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flamed amazement: sometime I’ld divide,
And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,
Then meet and join. Jove’s lightnings, the precursors
O’ the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not; the fire and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune
Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble,
Yea, his dread trident shake.
Not a soul but felt a fever of the mad and play’d
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners
Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,
Then all afire with me: the king’s son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring,—then like reeds, not hair,—
Was the first man that leap’d; cried, ‘Hell is empty
And all the devils are here.’