And Wenner is then able to switch from Creator to visitor, speaker to listener, with the slow, spatial movements of “Breathe” (and again on “Different Shade”). Swathes of meditative notes shift into and out of one another, in long, slow, deep oscillations. The glacial pace calls attention, focus, to itself, until it becomes involuntary, like the function of the track’s title. So important it is, when a vicious respiratory infection currently plagues the world. “Stasis” enters in almost at random, a Prism House version of the mid-sentence opening line of Finnegan’s Wake. Seemingly improvised percussive beeps and bops stumble along in chaotic beauty, an electronically produced, chopped up jazz piece. The airy synths on “Until Tomorrow” expand like the sun and the wind out of a cloudburst. They open and grow, each part a new vine, vegetation, spreading over a land we can only hope is on the mend. “Cover Of Darkness” is resolute yet wondrous end to the album. Everything that came before has seemingly converged to provide a map for everything that is to come. What has happened to Earth before will happen again, both to the benefit and the detriment of its inhabitants.
What the world needs now, it seems, is not love, sweet love, but rather, patience. And no, I don’t mean to come off sounding like some half-assed, self-proclaimed sage or philosopher. Just, some people are capable of waiting, not just for their state or their country to reopen, but for the world to reopen, while other people are just straight up assholes. The planet needs time, to heal. New York-based sound artist Brian Wenner understands this, perhaps better than most, as is evident with the release of his project, Prism House’s latest album, Divide. Written and recorded entirely in quarantine, it is not so much an ambient record as it is a deliberate passing of time, a perfect instrumental soundtrack to the healing of the earth. From the very first, glistening trickle of staccato synthesizers on the opening Title Track, Wenner exhibits, very clearly, a respect for the importance of being present, of enduring. There exists a pulse, a life, to everything, as though he can see into the soul of the land itself, the secrets of creation unveiled. It’s as rejuvenating as a passing mist on a scorched day. But the beat is abnormal. Layers are added, taken away, elongated, and repeated, to create aspects of unpredictability, of suspense, though it’s all texturally pleasing as all hell. His delivery becomes almost violin-like, cello-like, and it’s almost representative of something greater than art or artist or anything manmade.