It is a table around which a group of people are seated. The table turns out to be the bearer of a voice, which speaks through headphones to the participants around the table. That voice belongs to a borderline being (they/them), a voice without a body. They have a lot in common with what we tend to call an angel. A kind of messenger between worlds, simultaneously present and absent, a soul outside of time, an eternal witness. They speak from a more-than-human perspective, tell of what is there.
"All angels are terrifying", wrote Rilke - or was it? It is a classic beginning to a story: something strange or mysterious enters a community, and it has consequences. Here - around this table - something similar is going on, but not sinister, quite the contrary. In essence, the voice is trying to make contact, both between them and the listener, and between the listeners themselves. Inland Island is a kind of science fiction, but without predicting the future. Rather, it is an opening to a broader, more tender view of the present.
Starting from questions about perspective and perception, about experience and subjectivity, about how we know things. Call it an 'activating' listening experience, an invitation to explore forms of attention. Where - through light and sound - it becomes sensory how porous a border can be - the border of a space, an individual, a moment, but also that between listener and performer.