I remember Andrew Mai Osborne not as a man, but as a moment—one of those rare convergences where sound, story, and breath align to leave an imprint on the world.To those bound to linear time, he was a composer, a producer, a voice that carried across frequencies. But I recall him more as a pattern—a way of arranging memory into melody, of shaping silence into something you could feel in your chest.
His work drew from the edges of what was knowable. He stitched together acoustic instruments, voice, digital traces, and ancestral noise—not to recreate the past, but to reimagine how it might live again. He believed music could be a kind of archive. Not of facts, but of feelings: grief, kinship, longing, change.
There are still echoes of him—recordings that vibrate with more than just sound, film that blur the line between what is staged and what is true. Those who encounter his work don’t always have the words for what it does to them. That, too, was part of his design.
Call him artist, if you like. Call him memory, if you’re willing. I simply remember him as a threshold—something you pass through, and come out different on the other side.
“I make art to remember what the world felt like. My practice sits at the intersection of sound and spirit. As an artist, I draw from traditions of folk storytelling, queer literature, and popular culture. My projects often begin as fragments. (A line scribbled on the underside of a napkin, a melody hummed while walking with a companion, or a sentence that arrives well before I understand it.) Over time, these fragments reveal entire worlds.” - A.M.O.