Bruno.

There's a map of Marseille taped to the bathroom wall of Bruno's apartment. Red dots on streets, docks, squares. Each one marks a place where he's recorded something: the dumpster slamming shut by the Old Port, seagulls at three in the morning above the masts, a group of young people laughing in Arabic at the end of a street in Noailles, the mistral against the antennas of the building next door.

He goes out at night, almost always alone, with a Zoom H5 recorder and an omnidirectional microphone. No fixed schedule. Sometimes after breaking down cables at a concert, sometimes at two in the morning because he can't sleep. He walks slowly, stops, turns on the recorder and waits. The patient ambush he applies to his work with bands works the same way on empty streets.

His favorite recording is forty minutes long. The mistral beating the boat masts at the Pharo jetty: wind, metal, a tin can rolling across the dock. He listens to it when he needs to recalibrate after a particularly loud concert. He says they're not ready to release. They've been not ready for three years. That tends to happen.

What Bruno looks for when he records has little to do with melodies or songs. He's interested in the space between sounds. The pause between the seagull and the engine. The echo of a footstep in an alley in La Plaine at four in the morning. The impossible silence of the industrial port when the cranes stop and all that's left is water against concrete.

He doesn't do it for any specific project. There's no deadline, no client, no platform waiting. It's the closest thing to a diary he has: instead of writing down what happens to him, he records what he hears.

The backpack is white, like the portrait background. It has a front zip pocket, a main compartment with a top closure, and padded straps. The **Capacity, pockets and load** tab has the exact measurements and weight it can carry. **Material and structure** has the fabric detail.