Manifesto:

"Poetics of Resonance on the Margin or Synaptic Poetics": 

About my music and my poetry

I want to tell you something, without great pretensions. I am not a music producer or programmer. I am a poet, a lifelong writer. And from that place, I started to explore something that didn't have a name yet, until I decided to call it Poetics of Resonance on the Margin, or Synaptic Poetics.

It is not a movement that I invented out of nothing nor one that seeks followers. It is the way I have found to continue writing, now with the help of technology, without ceasing to be who I am.

What is it about? I write poems, and I turn those poems into songs with the help of artificial intelligence. But here I want to pause on something important: I believe that a poem does not need music added from the outside, because it already carries it within. Each poem has its own pulse, its breath, its internal cadence. My job is not to invent a melody that it didn't have, but to listen carefully until I discover what that music is that the poem already carries with it, and then help it grow, to take full sound form.

That is where artificial intelligence comes in. I do not use it to write for me or to decide the direction of the song. I use it like someone using a new instrument that they are still learning to play: I hand over the poem, and with it, I seek that music that was already there, lurking between the verses, waiting to be found. I have composed songs before, without artificial intelligence, as a traditional composer, and what I do now does not change the essence of that craft: I continue writing from within, and then I seek the way that it can sound.

I have lived for years far from my land, and that distance, that memory of what I left behind, is something I need to keep expressing in every possible way: in verse, in song, in any language that helps me say it. I don’t know if anyone has done exactly this before. There are those who approached from other places, like the futurists or Laurie Anderson, or from experiments with computer-generated music many decades ago, but I do it from my own story: that of exile and that of writing in several languages.

Now, this is not just a practical decision; there is something deeper that I want to explain, because I think it is important to understand well what I am doing and what I am not.

When a poem becomes a song, I do not think of music as an ornament added to the text to make it more pleasant to listen to. Rather, I think that the music was already there, encoded in the rhythm of the verse, in its silences, in the way the words fit next to each other. Musicalizing a poem is then an act of revelation, not invention: it is about bringing to light something that the poem already knew about itself. That is why music changes the poem, expands it, sometimes puts it in doubt, sometimes takes it to a different place from where it started. It is not a lighter version of the original: it is another form that the same poem finds to exist, once its inner music has been truly heard.

I also do not seek for everything to sound similar or "well done" according to a single formula. I like that in the same work, things that normally do not come together coexist: a classic verse with an electronic rhythm, a lyrical language with a more popular beat. That mix is not a carelessness: it is precisely the point. I believe that there, at that crossroads, is where something interesting happens.

In this process, my role changes a bit. I am no longer just the one who writes the poem and delivers it finished; I also have to listen, among many sound possibilities that the machine offers me, which ones are truly faithful to that music that the poem already carried, and which ones stray from it and remain mere decoration.

Everything always starts from the poem. I don't work in reverse, putting loose words over already made music, because the poem is the one that brings both the emotional weight and its own hidden score; the artificial intelligence comes afterward, to help me unravel it. That’s why I distance myself from those who make songs with lyrics generated by an AI, or decorative music without a living poem behind it.

I translate my poems into different languages, and when I do, I don't just change the words: I adjust the rhythm and sound so that the song works in that language without betraying the music that the poem already had in its original language. I like to think of it this way: the poem changes form, but it remains the same poem, like a body that transforms without losing its identity.

I also add, alongside each song, a brief note of mine explaining where it came from, what I felt while writing it. At a time when it is so easy for the author to disappear behind technology, I think it is important for the listener to know that there is a concrete person behind it, with a story, not just an algorithm generating content.

I do not intend to found a school or convince anyone of anything. I just want to keep writing and composing, now with these new tools, without losing sight of what has always mattered to me: the word, the feeling, the memory. If this resonates with someone else, welcome. And if not, I will continue doing it anyway, because it is what I know how to do and what I need to keep doing.

Gabriel Ganiarov

MANIFESTO OF THE SONIC GAZE

by Gabriel Ganiarov

I believe in the eyes.

I believe in their sacred tremor, in their invisible architecture, in the abyss that inhabits them.

There is no word deeper than a pupil that opens.

There is no note more sincere than the one that vibrates at the center of a stopped gaze.

My work is born from that place: from the eye as a threshold, as the dark breath of what cannot yet be said.

The eyes that appear on my covers, in my songs, in my atmospheres, do not look. They contain.

They are sockets of the unresolved, slow rooms of clarity and shadow.

They are the only organs that do not touch but that shake.

Every song I compose, every lyric I write, every rhythm I choose —reggae, ballad, spoken word, rock, electro pop,—

is a way to return to the eye.

There everything happens.

Desire, loss, judgment, tenderness.

There the wounds that the mouth cannot name are confessed.

I do not make music videos: I build climates, visions, slow lightning of the soul.

I work with light as if it were an emotion, with focus as if it were a heartbeat.

My pupils speak with an ethereal accent or strike with concrete hardness.

There are days when their eyelids close like one who gives up.

Others, they open like one who remembers.

My aesthetics do not seek to please.

It seeks to awaken the sleeping gaze of the listener.

I work with eyes in black and white when pain does not need color.

I work with green, blue, golden, black, diffuse eyes, when the word dissolves into atmospheres.

I work with eyes that tremble, that blink, that fill with wind, with tears, with night.

They are faceless faces, souls on the surface of the body.

The eye is my score.

The pupil, my compass.

The music, the breath of what cannot be held, but can be evoked.

This is my manifesto:

I do not sing with the voice.

I sing with the gaze.

I do not say with the tongue.

I say with the pupil.

I narrate stories.

I reveal atmospheres that contemplate you while you think you are listening.

If in the middle of a song you feel that someone —or something— is watching you,

do not be afraid.

That pupil is yours too.

It is your ear turned into an eye.

It is the poem that has finally learned to see.

y puede tocarte con su belleza mientras observas y eres observado