There had always been a piano in the House. Hiding in the shadows. Waiting. For a stroke. For an embrace. For something to rouse what it had hidden beneath its keys, locked away underneath its shell.

People would sometimes come to the House. To say hello. To have a drink. To share a meal. Some were friends. Some made music. Some even knew how to play the piano. And all of them had something to say. Just not always with words.

But the piano hadn’t always been in the House. Before that, it was in another, the one where Aunt Françoise grew up. She says the piano was already there in the 50s. That her mother played it, mostly Schubert, the Impromptus. But Antonin checked, and it wasn’t. Built in the 50s. It was built in 1960. Precisely.

The House was built before that, around the same time as the kinematograph was born. When Antonin’s father found it, in 1980, it was abandoned. But before that, it was occupied by a film distribution company. That's why there's a screening room in the House. It hasn't changed since the 60s. And that’s where Antonin set up his studio. Where the piano hides. Where it belongs. In the shadows. By the drums. Waiting for a stroke to bring it back to life.

That’s how the Idea came about. A compilation of pieces recorded on that piano, the one in the House.

Antonin was the first. He sat down and played a few notes. Struck a few chords. Closed his eyes. Recorded what was roused. And then edited what sounded wrong or useless or trite. Making movies like he does teaches you to do that. To distinguish, afterwards, between what is sensible and what is not.

Julie was the second. She lived in the House in the 90s. She’s not sure anymore on which piano she began composing her piece. But she did record it on the one in the House. 32 years later. Precisely.

In 2019, Antonin met Olivier. They started making music together. Then others joined them. They would gather at the House, in the studio, and improvise. That's how Les Antonymes were formed. And that’s when Antonin began to record everything.

One day, Hugues came. He brought a bugle, his instrument of choice. But he noticed the piano. Hiding in the shadows. Waiting for a stroke. He took the plunge. Playing the piano had always been his retreat. To somewhere safe. Antonin knew it, having attended Impromptus at houses. Not this one, or that one, but those of friends. And that's why he asked Hugues to come back, without his bugle.

David was the fifth. David plays the bass. He has for a while now. When it comes to the piano, he’s always a little wary. So he brought some pedals, just in case, to make sure. But in the end, his emotions got the better of him. And he only really used a pedal for one of his three.

As for Olivier, all he needed was to be left alone. Locked away, hiding in the shadows, by the drums, with the piano, for an hour. Antonin discovered his 13 pieces later on, when he watched the video he’d left running in the studio. It was a strange experience. Watching his friend so focused, sitting up so straight, taking long breaths between each take. Playing more with silence and resonance than with the notes themselves. With one hand on the keys, and the other beneath the shell, plucking the piano’s strings like a heart forlorn.

With Nina, it was a different story. Her song came first. It remains untamed, shaking its rider from its shoulders every time she dares to claim it. Like a bird trapped in an attic, waiting for someone to open a window and set it free.

The last one to come to the House was Shelbatra. She liked the piano, and the piano liked her. It made itself understood. How it should be played. How what it keeps hidden beneath its shell can be roused. Shelbatra had things to say. So she did.

That’s what happened to each of them: they crawled inside the piano, underneath its shell, and roused what they had kept hidden beneath its keys.

Each of these recordings is that space, a space carved out by a voice, a voice that hides inside a shell, amidst the shadows, in a House, by the drums.

Each one serves as an anchor. For those moments when you wake up in a fragile place. To hold you steady. To hold you firm. So you can let it pass you by. So you can let it pass you through. Without being carried away. So you can let it go and let it out. Without a filter. Without a net. And watch it fade away.