Immersive sound in the shrinking world
A growing awareness of the relationship between physical space and sound has led art exhibits to enhance the exhibition space with sonic ambience. Like malls and cafés, some art shows plug in ambient recordings to evoke an “immersive” aura, adding a whole other sensory layer to the visual display.
As indoor space is transformed into sonorous matter, more power is exercised by the curator on the tiny empire. This is what “immersiveness” boils down to: a dictatorship of space, under which the visitor cedes all control to the design.
A clothing boutique, a luxury store or an art exhibition offer more than products: they manufacture an “experience.” Immersion here is a mesmerization campaign, and is second nature to modern marketing, as more enthrallment translates to a more malleable clientele. And like exhibition text and ad copy, sound is among the first enlisted elements towards its making. This isn’t mere hypnosis: the patron is perfectly aware that none of these is real. What transpires, rather, is a willful exchange: “This space has entertained me enough so I probably should spend more (time, money, etc.) on it.”
We’re likely to see more of these, as developments in VR and stereophonic sound are bringing immersive technologies closer to the consumer market. Today, experimental studios use advanced spatial audio software and omnidirectional sound systems to generate speculative sonic environments. Moreover, with AI-generated music widely streamed by automated systems, immersion becomes more “real” as the spaces become more autonomous and wild, modulated by endless loops of audio data, performing for a barely listening audience.
I think immersion as diversion is not simply a product, but a growing cultural tendency. I see more and more people wearing earphones outside, listening to music or podcasts. Some people find it impossible to brave rush-hour traffic without some audio stimulus. It is now easy, and perhaps preferable, to retreat into portable cocoons, private spheres in the middle of a public crush, than to rawdog public life.
Perhaps it’s not just about an overabundance of sound, but rather a shortage of space?
Living space is scarce for most Filipinos. A 2022 survey revealed that over half of Philippine households occupied only 10 to 49 square meters, some barely the size of a billiard table. Globally, housing is shrinking and growing more costly, as investors look to squeeze as much value out of every inch. Urban poor communities also resist displacement unless decent relocation is assured, and more people flock to the cities due to the countryside’s stunted development.
In Manila, where around 40,000 people live per square kilometer, many play music loudly to reclaim personal space. Since sound expands the perception, this increasing dependence on sonic stimuli might have become a way to cope with gentrification and the contraction of living area. This prosthetic relationship with sonic stimulus—whether from a loudspeaker or a pair of headphones—may be a way to push against the tightening chokehold of unaffordable real estate and the undemocratic distribution of livable space: a way to carve out a sanctuary in a world that offers diminishing physical freedom.
Immersive sound, digital spectacles, and more sophisticated smoke and mirrors must thrive, but not at the expense of public parks, humane and affordable housing, and a hospitable world.
Speaking of immersion and space, I visited Corinne de San Jose’s show “Everyday is like Sunday,” where enchantment hovers like a ghost. In the piece “All 7,” seven spherical subwoofers are arranged into a heptagon. The subwoofers emit surface noise from vinyl deadwax, creating a rumbling sound that evokes the end of the world.
“Toning 1-9” follows the esoteric theme, as nine water fountains are infused with the “healing properties” of the solfeggio scale, referencing the “toning” practices of the local DJ Johnny Midnight. In the latter, the sound is imperceptible as it diffuses by way of conduction into the water itself.
One piece that I particularly enjoyed is “4 Magic Lanterns after Composition 1960 #10” where four separate photographs of seascapes are aligned at the horizon line.
I appreciate how the show segregated the pieces to prevent a listening mess. The piece “14 Stations,” for instance, can only be heard through a radio device that you have to request from the staff. The only listenable work here is “All 7” which lends a foreboding, subterranean vibe in the center of the show. There is not so much an immersion, but a field where one can flit from one zone to the next.
Meanwhile, in the show “Dinadala” curated by Meg Yarcia, I found a piece by Ken Bautista particularly interesting. In this piece, a motorcycle helmet is equipped with an intercom device. Visitors are invited to wear the helmet, upon which they will hear a story told by a woman worker on her way to work. Here, the headphone allows not just escape, but the opportunity to enter another individual’s lived experience. Sound is present, not to enchant the space/helmet, but to exorcise its opacity, to disassemble the wall between the listener and her broader world, and open a space for reconnection.
If sound can offer an expansion, then perhaps it can also desacralize? I’d like to insist that there is more to art than enthrallment and stupefaction. That whatever art is, it can also be used to sweep the cobwebs of mystification. Let the raw clearing speak of its own savage delights.
