Sylvia Lim’s music behaves like something photographed at the point of dissolving. Or the fading resonance of a harpsichord’s last dissonant chord in an empty room.

The London-based Malaysian-Australian composer builds each of these six pieces from a handful of unstable sonic materials – harmonics coaxed from two piano keys in the title track, a cotton-bud-prepared guitar in same but different – and then simply listens, following where the fragility leads rather than imposing a design on it. It’s an aesthetic closer to Giorgio Morandi’s bottles than to any compositional system: reduction as a way of seeing more, not less.

The performances match the conception. Ben Smith’s account of flare holds those two piano keys in a kind of suspended argument, harmonics blooming and receding without ever quite resolving – Bachelard’s intimate immensity in miniature, vastness disproportionate to the means. Grafting, for violin, bass clarinet and cello, is the disc’s most quietly arresting piece – Heather Roche’s bass clarinet seems carved out of Mira Benjamin’s and Natasha...