‘Every activity has its own rhythm, and that rhythm shapes the songs.’

Lucia Udvardyova: Who is Mary? How did you get to know her, and why did you decide to make a film that focuses on her life?

Lucie Páchová: When I was in Uganda in 2019, I heard recordings of the music of the Acholi people, which gave me a sense of direction. I found a second-hand bicycle so that I could get around on my own and reach people living in the villages. After cycling north for a few days, I was passing fields between villages when one of the women working there greeted me in English and invited me to join them digging. So I got off my bike and picked up a hoe.

Afterwards, Janet took me to a spot under a big mango tree where her group was rehearsing for a dance performance. They were dancing in a circle, and I found myself joining in. In the middle stood a woman playing a large drum with immense joy and energy. When she set off for home, deeper into the bush, I couldn't help following her. That woman was Mary, Janet's mother.

I ended up staying with them for several weeks. At that time I wasn't filming much; I made only occasional sound recordings. I was far more captivated by their way of life, by everything they did, and by the way songs were constantly woven into everyday life. Whatever Mary was doing, she was often singing. I watched the way her movements were connected to her voice, to her work, and to the environment around her.

I became close to the whole family, even though Mary doesn't speak English. Back home, I tried to learn their songs. When I returned four years later, I sang them back to her, rather comically, I think. They welcomed me as a long-lost sister. The second time, I stayed longer. I tried to share more fully in their daily life: helping with work, becoming more a part of the community, even though I still felt clumsy and very much an outsider.

When I gradually began taking out my camera, a simple one that could also record basic video, I often struggled with the ethical dilemma that I might be reproducing the familiar narrative of the white voyeur, fascinated by Black "exoticism," stealing images and sounds.

But for Mary and her family, this was not an issue. I explained why I was recording, and they didn't mind me using my camera and recorder. They shared themselves with me just as they were, and I am grateful for that. I tried to approach things with humility, respect, and gratitude for being allowed to be there. Above all, I was learning from their extraordinary ability to focus completely on the task at hand, on work that is essential for survival: fetching water, collecting firewood, digging in the fields every day, etc.

Udvardyova: We follow Mary and the Acholi community in Northern Uganda through their everyday lives - farming, digging, cooking, planting, grinding nuts- but also dancing and playing music are an inextricable part of their lives. Can you talk about what you encountered, and what you decided to include in the film, and were there parts you decided not to include?

Páchová: I actually didn't go there with the intention of making a film. I brought a camera mainly for taking photos, while my primary interest was sound and sound recording. The everyday life, as you mention, was incredibly intense and grounding because, although there was a certain daily routine, every day was unpredictable. You felt much closer to life in all its challenges, uncertainties, vulnerability, and fragility. The dependence on nature- on the water level in the well, the fertility of the soil, the weather, the rain,..- that requires a constant state of attentiveness and engagement, even when you know you are only a visitor.

Slowly, I felt compelled to record not only sound but also images, because I realised that her singing was inseparable from her body and her movements. Her singing was never separate from movement; it encompassed joy and hardship. In every task she performed, she was astonishingly fast, agile, and precise. She was constantly in dialogue with the land: reading the soil, knowing what to plant, where and when, predicting the day termites would emerge from their mounds, and managing the needs of her family at the same time.

She is an important figure within the entire community. People look to her for knowledge about farming, cultivation, or self-sufficiency. I captured not only Mary but also other members of the family, her grandchildren, or her daughter Janet, who explained many things to me and translated the songs

Udvardyova: The everyday activities Mary is tirelessly embarking on create some sort of rhythm of the film - accompanied by field recordings of insects and the omnipresent music. You are a sound artist and musician - can you talk about the sonic aspect of this film?

Páchová: Sound is actually the primary element for me, even though I still struggle to compose it in relation to the image, since film editing is still unfamiliar territory for me.

The sounds of insects are always present in the background because Acholi homes are simply surrounded by fields and wilderness. There is no clear boundary between the home and nature. I felt completely immersed in the soundscape, especially at night and in the early morning. The sounds constantly changed with the weather, the humidity, and the temperature, but these subtle shifts revealed themselves gradually. I also believe that what you hear in early childhood shapes the way you perceive the world. I don't think we simply learn to filter these soundscapes out. Hearing remains a tool for survival. And there you can quite feel it.

Other sonic details fascinated me as well. A stone used to grind peanuts sounds different from one grinding sesame seeds or termites. A hoe striking the ground sounds different as well! It produces a different sound depending on whether the soil is dry, wet after rain, or freshly tilled. Every activity has its own rhythm, and that rhythm shapes the songs. Sometimes the music is somehow more present in the movement and rhythm of the body than in the sound itself.

Then, of course, there is the music of the Acholi people. And the Acholi language and its intonation. To me, their speech often sounded very sharp and rugged, sometimes even confrontational. I frequently sensed tension or conflict in the air, even when there was none.

Dance is also deeply present in everyday life. As soon as people begin to sing, they dance—and vice versa. The two are inseparable; they are the same practice. Understanding this was particularly important for me. It ultimately had a profound influence on my own work, and on the way I think about and approach music.

Udvardyova: You've been engaged in sound art, contemporary composition, experimental music, multimedia composition, video, and dance, but also researching collective improvisation formats, listening practices, and the social dimensions of folk music and experimentation. Where do you place film in your practice?

Páchová: For me, film is a medium I have great respect for, but one I have not yet truly explored. I wouldn't even describe Mary as a film—or even as a documentary. I'd rather call it a video, or perhaps an audiovisual composition, partly because of the footage's low quality. But perhaps it doesn't really matter what we call these things.

I try to approach images in a way similar to how I approach sound, while being aware that images are far more complicated because they are, in many ways, literal, descriptive, and explicit. To be honest, I would have liked to edit Mary more experimentally, but I held myself back. I felt I needed to remain humble toward the material, and above all toward Mary herself. I wanted her personality, her own rhythm of being, to remain at the centre, rather than turning the film into an unnecessary aesthetic exercise. Above all, it is a tribute to her.

I think I approached the filming itself in a rather conventional, almost student-like way, holding a DSLR by hand without a tripod and using the cheapest lens. But actually, if I were to go back, I would probably let Mary's granddaughter and grandsons use the equipment much more, involving them in the process if they wanted to participate. We did some sound recordings together that turned out to be fun.

I am aware that it is strange to arrive as a white visitor and record another culture solely from my own perspective. From where we stand, it seems more important to share these technologies and the necessary know-how with local communities, especially young people, who have far fewer opportunities to access creative tools than we do.

At the same time, it becomes more complicated because there is also the question of post-production. The village has no electricity, only a few solar panels, so using laptops or other equipment is not easy. And that brings another question: what is the point of letting children handle a recorder, a camera, or a laptop, especially if I am simply going to leave afterwards? From there, the questions only multiply. Does it make sense to provide them with this equipment? Wouldn't that simply become another instrument of inequality?

Udvardyova: Can you talk about the aspect of your research that focuses on the social dimensions of folk music and experimentation?

Páchová: In general, what interests me is the moment when music triggers a peak experience, an experience that is difficult to put into words, almost trance-like, those powerful moments that stay with us for years and sometimes even change the direction of our lives; they are transformative.

Folk music seems especially close to this because it embodies a long lineage of transmission from one generation to the next. Countless people have left their imprint on it over time; it carries something powerful that words cannot fully capture.

There is also the aspect of ritual and celebration that is essential. Folk music is, in many ways, the essence of the joy of gathering, of simply being together with like-minded people. That, to me, points to a fundamental reason why people make music at all: they want to connect. Although they struggle to connect in reality. And then there is that wide range of emotions that folk music communicates; it is, in a way, an intimate and at the same time shared, collective experience.

In a way, I also think of free improvisation as a form of folk music. I imagine people have always played with the sounds around them, experimenting with the objects in their environment. They listened to their surroundings, responded to other species, and related to one another through sound. In free improvisation, we relate to each other in many different layers. Those relationships simply reflect our social capacities, which are expressed more profoundly than in spoken communication.

In contrast, what does not sit comfortably with folk music in my view is the stage, the separation between audience and performer, the elevation of one over the other, and the idea of competition. That is where it becomes political. In fact, I encountered this model in Uganda as well.

One vivid memory I have is that Mary once told me that when she was young, people sang, danced, and made music every single evening. During the day, the community would work together in one person's fields. In the evening, they would share drinks, sing, and dance. The next day, everyone would work in another neighbour's fields and then dance again in the evening. Music happened in the same way as work: we work together, we dance together.

Udvardyova: Are you working on or planning any more music or sound-focused documentaries?

Páchová: I would very much like to complete a short audiovisual work about a semi-abandoned village in southern Bulgaria and one local grandma. I first visited the village in 2011, and I have been returning ever since. At first, I mainly recorded sounds there, but over time I began taking videos as well. I want to give this idea the time it needs because what interests me most is the gradual transformation of the place over time, and how that transformation is reflected in its soundscape.

For many years, the village was slowly being reclaimed by the wilderness, slowly swallowing the abandoned houses. After the pandemic, however, more and more people began to appreciate having a piece of land in the countryside, somewhere off the beaten track. Running alongside this is the story of the elderly people who have either passed away or are still living there, whose lives remain imprinted on the place.

In other African countries as well, I have encountered many remarkable female musicians whose work deserves far more attention. Of course, I would love to return to Africa one day. But as I mentioned earlier, in light of our colonial history, I find it problematic to make films about African cultures from such a privileged position, as we tend to present it as something romantic, exotic, fascinating, and ethically uncomplicated. On one level, there is something deeply uncomfortable about that.

I feel it is more important to place these tools in the hands of local people, especially when friendships have developed, so that their own voices, perspectives, and ways of seeing the world can be heard. In Uganda, I met many talented people whose artistic voices deserve an audience.

In any case, I really value the opportunity to share my encounter with Mary and the Acholi community through this audiovisual work. I am aware it is a cultural privilege.