Lamina is the moniker of Brussels-based French artist Clarice Calvo-Pinsolle. In Basque mythology, the term refers to a half-human, half-animal spirit that dwells in the forest. Essentially a nocturnal creature, it lives in caves and close to water sources and creeks. Similarly, Lamina’s music is swampy and growling, an ever-evolving and living imaginary ecosystem. Textures, effects and field recordings blend seamlessly to create these personal landscapes. She has released albums on Complex Holidays, Mus Joutra, Wabi-Sabi, Orila, with her first vinyl release set to come out on Twin System.
How have you been, Clarice? What occupies your mind these days?
To be honest, a lot is on my mind right now, and I’m feeling deeply ambivalent about everything that’s happening politically and the idea of continuing to make music and art. I’m going through intense periods of questioning, where it sometimes feels impossible to keep creating art with everything that’s going on, even though deep down, I know that creative spaces are also spaces of resistance, and they’re so important for building new things, new ways of living, communities, and different ways of seeing the world. But I struggle to keep that in mind sometimes. I’m trying to stay positive.
How and when did you start making music? Do you recall the initial impetus that led you to active music-making—a transition of sorts from being a listener to becoming a creator?
I used to make music as a child but stopped. It wasn’t until art school that I started experimenting with sound again, initially through installations, and, over the years, sound gradually took on a more important role—whether through the instruments I created for my installations or compositions based on field recordings.
I’ve been building a sound archive for years and wanted these sounds to exist beyond my installations, in more performative contexts. The transition into music was a long process, I didn’t feel legitimate, like many women in the music industry. I struggled to imagine that all these sounds I had collected could exist as music in their own right, and it was overwhelming.
Then a friend invited me to do a live performance. I had never done one before. Someone lent me a machine, and that’s how it all started—about five or six years ago. I think being thrown into the situation and agreeing to do a live set before having a live set prepared really pushed me to take a leap and fully embrace making music, which allowed me to experiment with less rigid structures.
My environment in Brussels also played a huge role. Being immersed in a community of musicians was incredibly inspiring for me. Seeing women perform live, in particular, made me realise it was possible, and that gave me a lot of strength and inspiration.
Lamina, your artist moniker, refers to Basque mythology “a nocturnal creature that is a half-human, half-animal spirit that dwells in the forest”. Can you talk about why you chose this moniker and how it expresses what you do?
Indeed, this creature lives in forests, near caves, or water sources, and it has no gender, it is half-human, half-animal.
I was born and raised in Bayonne, in the French Basque Country, where mythology is deeply present. There are many rites, customs, and folktales involving various creatures and witches. It’s important to note that in the Spanish Basque Country, the Inquisition in the 17th century led to a significant witch hunt, in other words, femicides. As a result, Basque mythology is full of stories of witches and other mystical figures.
As I delved deeper into Basque mythology, I discovered the Lamina around the same time I was starting my music project, and it immediately resonated with me. It’s as if, through my music, I’m trying to create habitats, ecosystems, and, above all, shelters for the Lamina and all the other creatures—sometimes in aquatic environments, sometimes in marshlands, sometimes in forests. It moves between luminous landscapes and darker realms; places where it can exist, hide, and dance. These are always deeply organic ecosystems that echo nature.
Water seems to play an important role in your work—as also seen in your latest album, Sueños Acuáticos. Can you talk about the importance of the aquatic?
I’ve been surrounded by water since childhood. I grew up just five minutes from the Atlantic Ocean and spent eight years doing synchronised swimming. Water has always been a very present and important element in my life—it’s the place where I feel most at peace.
I often use water as a metaphor to understand my own emotions, my fluctuations, and my energy. Sometimes I need calmer, more fluid periods, like a stream, while at other times, I go through phases where my energy feels like massive waves, and I need a lot of movement and agitation. Then the tide recedes, and the cycle continues.
I’m very interested in hydrofeminism and the research of Astrida Neimanis (Bodies of Water: Posthuman Feminist Phenomenology), who sees human bodies as extensions of aquatic systems. I deeply relate to her perspective. Water is an element of connection, a connection to oneself, to others, to the more-than-human world, and to ecosystems. Our water bodies are intrinsically linked to all bodies of water.
As Neimanis explains, our bodies are not fixed or autonomous entities but are rather flows in constant interaction with their environment. Our bodily fluids connect us to oceans, rivers, clouds, and other forms of life. The water flowing through us today has existed in other forms before; it has passed through other bodies, other histories, carrying a memory of its circulation.
I like to view things through the lens of water: things evolve, circulate, transform, and remain interconnected. Even when water stagnates, there is always an eventual movement. Nothing is fixed.
Water is a recurring element in my music, and interestingly, most of the aquatic sounds I use are not actual recordings of water. In my installations, water is used as a sonic element to create instruments or as a means of circulation, connecting one sculpture to another.
It’s also interesting how you compare water to sound, the fluidity of their movement and how they take shape. Can you talk about sculpting your sound?
The process that interests me most when making music is shaping the sounds I record—finding ways to give them form, movement, and texture. I love the idea that a sound can be almost visible and tangible—something deeply sensory that can pass through us and we can feel its movement and materiality.
I see sounds as materials, much like when I work with ceramics, metal, or other physical media. I try to shape them and sculpt them by adding and removing material. It’s very similar with sound: I use software, effects, and machines that allow me to reshape the sounds, giving them a more organic, almost living quality. Sometimes, I also use objects to diffuse the sounds within them, altering their colour and making them resonate with the material of the object itself.
When I create music, I like to imagine sounds as creatures, wandering and encountering each other. Once, during a hypnosis journey, I had a vision that deeply materialised this idea. I felt my ribcage as a cave, and as I went inside, I saw drops of water falling, I could feel them, hear them resonate inside my body. Little by little, these drops started to dematerialise, splitting into many tiny fragments—like a granular effect—before transforming into insects. It was incredibly beautiful, and I think it perfectly represents the way I perceive the sounds I use.
You also work with field recordings quite extensively – how do you approach these ready-made sounds?
As I mentioned earlier, I’ve been accumulating a large collection of recorded sounds over the years, using both microphones and my phone. I have to admit, I’m not very demanding when it comes to recording quality. I rework these sounds on my computer using software called Cecilia, along with other tools that allow me to transform them.
For me, recording sounds is my favourite way to remember the places I visit. I can recall exactly where I recorded each sound—it’s like a kind of photo album, but through sound.
You’re based in Brussels, which has an interesting music scene. Can you talk about it?
Yes, I’ve been living in Brussels for five years, and the music scene here has been a huge source of inspiration for me. There are concerts happening all the time, sometimes even multiple on the same night. It’s incredibly rich and intense. Venues open, others close, but there’s always this artistic energy, and a sense of community and collectivity. A lot of people put in the effort to organise events and keep the DIY scene alive.
When I first arrived, seeing that organising something was possible, even with little to no resources, really inspired me.
Things are evolving, but I still find the scene to be very male-dominated and insular, with persistent issues of sexism and violence. There are spaces where problematic things happen, lineups that are still predominantly male, and a general lack of inclusivity.
Some collectives are working to bring change to the music scene and alternative spaces. They try to support survivors, create spaces for healing, and build safer environments. But unfortunately, it’s still not enough. These issues must be addressed collectively—not just by those directly affected, who are already exhausted from fighting for change, healing from harm, and confronting everyday violence. Change needs to happen at a structural level.
What awaits you in the coming months?
I have several projects in the works. Right now, I’m finishing work on an installation created in collaboration with my friend Roxane Rajic, which we’ll be presenting in Bourges, France, as part of an exhibition.
I’m also working on a larger installation project called “Symphonie d’une combustion”, which is an instrument I’ve been developing for several years, involving water, heat, temperature sensors, and more. I’ll be presenting this project in 2026.
Apart from that, I have upcoming concerts and performances in France, Italy, and Belgium.
Interview Lucia Udvardyova
Photo Moritz Richter