Materials: Silk, video, 8 channel audio, speakers, steel 

How often are we ambushed by the strange symphony within us—the gurgles, murmurs, and rumbles of digestion, hunger, and movement? If our organs are instruments, blood is the conductor, pulsing its rhythmic authority. 

 In I Hear My Blood Singing, Vivian Caccuri transforms Mattress Factory into a visceral concert hall. Her installation probes sound not only as a sensory phenomenon, but as a bodily experience—political, embodied, and uncontainable.  

We enter a gut. Quite literally. The first room swells like a stomach, housing grotesque, insectoid hybrids—part arthropod, part speaker. They vibrate, not with speech, but with murmurs: distorted, internal, unsettling. Clad in slick, slimy textures, these monstrous forms evoke both allure and threat. Each hums with internal unrest, suggesting that we, too, are speakers—resonating chambers for the strange, untranslatable signals our bodies carry.  

Frequencies pass through us like animal instincts—real but rarely recognized.  

Caccuri’s work has long examined the materialization of marginalized sounds, historically linked to pathologies, class-marked popular musical genres, and frequently located within colonized geographies. These sounds often manifest through frequencies that hover at the edges of perception, whether they are low or sharply acute, they are persistently under-recognized. They fight a power battle to assert their presence, to avoid being silenced. Whether too low to register or piercingly high, these sonic forms fight to be felt. In her hands, they become ghosts of resistance, spectral presences that haunt the now. Through texture and tone, Caccuri reveals how power moves through sound—how listening itself can become an act of rebellion.  

The second room is a site of digestion, transformation, absorption. Here, translucent human silhouettes float from ceiling to floor. They don’t fall—they descend, spectral and deliberate. These are not complete bodies, but memories that refuse clarity or a pragmatic agency, they resist capitalist ideals by simply being: unproductive, fragile, ghostly, and unashamed. 

Caccuri asks us not to judge these bodies, but to recognize ourselves in them. Bodies, after all, are messy. They leak, vibrate, get lost, and are always under pressure. But they are also archives—vessels that register the world's violence, hold its pain, and still find ways to sing. 

Our blood doesn’t lie. It pulses its own language of resistance, joy, and fury—songs we don’t understand but deeply feel. These inner rhythms remind us that being alive is not clean or efficient. It’s unruly, political, and miraculous. And when we hear that blood-song—low and defiant—we shiver, not from fear, but from recognition. 

We are alive, despite everything. 

Text by Irene Campolmi