Karl holds the head of a wolf in his hands. You want to pet the fur, but he abruptly turns it upside down. It is hollow. “You can look inside,” he says. His finger reaches into the depth of the ear, pressing towards where the tympanic membranes have been replaced by tiny microphones.

The lack of emotion is striking, yet his casual precision tells you that he is not entirely nonchalant. He holds it as if it was a medium-priced porcelain vase in a second-hand market. No, he holds it as if it was a recorder. Well, in fact, it is a recorder.

• 1991 in a wildlife park in Canada
• Karl Hans Frimmel and J. Ryan howled
• and the wolves were howling back to them