Not a copy. A return.
Imagine yourself in a vast architectural space. “Hey?” you send your questioning greeting toward the distant walls of the building, and after a second, you hear your voice return, slightly blurred and diffused by the hall. “Hey, ey, ey…” After a couple of repetitions, the voice seems to fade away.
We tend to think an echo is a slightly altered copy of the original sound. When you speak your words, the voice is your own, but when your voice is returned to you as an echo, it doesn’t belong to you anymore. It seems to exist outside of you, as if it had a life of its own.
But an echo is not a copy. It is the exact same wave that you launched with your voice. While traveling through space, the wave goes through gradual changes as it is shaped by the materiality and form of the room, as well as the distance the wave has to travel. An echo is the same sound — but an older, wiser, and more fragile version of itself.
In order to become an echo, the sound has to return to you. And by becoming an echo, your voice has become less yours. It now belongs to the space.