Until the work of John Cage, silence was thought to be part of an aural spectrum ranging from the loudest sounds to very, very soft ones and finally down to silence. In visual terms, it was the black to sound's white. But white is not the opposite of black. In fact, the two "colors" are completely unrelated. White, as we all know, is a combination of all the wavelengths of visible light. Black is not part of the color spectrum and, properly speaking, is not even a color. It is the absence of it. A painter can use the absence of color in the creation of a work of art. It is done all the time, and it is used on equal footing with other colors. Similarly, a composer can use silence in the creation of a musical piece. It is done all the time. What made John Cage's work so revolutionary is that he realized that, like black, silence was not part of the spectrum. It was a concept altogether dissimilar from sound - so dissimilar that it could not even be heard. Silence can be written; silence can be performed; but silence
cannot be heard. No piece that is written and performed with silences can ever be heard correctly because hearing silence is not possible in a world that is constantly moving, interacting, and changing. Even inside an anechoic chamber (soundproof room), a person hears the internal rhythms of the body. This has always been true, but the ear has been trained to ignore those sounds which are incidental to the sounds being performed. John Cage embraced ambient "noise" as an indelible and beautiful part of the universal soundscape (simply put, all sound in the universe) and brought attention to it in many of his pieces.
Most famous is his 4'33", a piece composed of three movements in which the performer, most commonly a pianist, sits in front of her instrument and does not play a single note. This focuses all attention on the so-called "silence" so that the audience can see that silence really doesn't exist. More importantly, the piece 4'33" proposes a simple normative claim - that a
concept of silence does exist. It then asks the question, can music be found in this silence? If, in fact, music can be found in silence, which is the very antithesis of sound and, therefore, music, then music can be found anywhere and the sources for musical inspiration are practically limitless. This brilliantly sets up the quandary that has plagued human society since the concept of art was created: what is art? Put in negative terms, what is not art? If one indeed finds
4'33" to have musical value, then the work of experimental artists can continue. If not, then it might be true that art has its limitations. Those limitations might have even already been reached.
Joshua Salaises' short film
"The Sounds of Music" posits a similar normative claim. At the beginning of the film, a man has his hearing taken away. In his new world, not only does silence exist, but it is the only thing that exists. He now faces the gloomy prospect of a life without sound. But the man realizes that sound can be constructed in two particular ways other than the aural reception of sound waves. Memory can serve as sound. If one desired to hear a particular sound, instead of recreating it physically, one could simply remember it and replicate it internally. If one thinks about it, this is an interesting paradigm. How is it that the mind can remember and reconstruct the precise frequency, pitch, and tonal quality of any particular sound at whim? This paradigm can easily be expanded to all other senses. How does the brain recall the buttery, creamy taste of cheesecake, or the pungent smell of a frying onion? The man uses another method to produce sound. He uses his other senses to inform the internal creation of sound. In other words, the other senses take over the job of the ear and help create new sounds. This is important because otherwise a person is restricted to specific sounds one has already heard. Though the man in the film has never heard those particular drops of water in the fountain fall, he can see how much water is falling, see the rate at which the water is falling, and see the way in which it is falling. He can guess quite accurately the sound that will be produced by that particular fountain. Even complex sounds like music and spoken conversation are apparently within grasp, though the film does not make it clear how.
So what does this ultimately mean? This film is exploring the same dilemma John Cage posits in 4'33" though from a different angle. This film asks the question: if the system that has been built around the production of sound is no longer accessible, can it be replaced by alternate forms of sound production? The implications of the correct answer, whatever it maybe, are the same as in Cage's dilemma. If indeed alternate forms of sound production can replace the interaction between the natural soundscape and the human auditory system, then a completely new panoply of possible soundscapes is opened to whoever dares to tread there. But if the alternate forms of sound production cannot replace that special interaction, then we will always need some aspect of the traditional form of sound production (i.e. using our ears to hear) in our continued exploration of the universal soundscape.
The film ultimately rejects alternate forms as "unreal." Despite their ability to replicate or create sound, they fall short of traditional sound production, not because they are necessarily unable to capture the multitude of sounds that the functioning human ear can, but because even if they could capture as many sounds, those sounds would not be real. What is real is unclear, though one can assume that what is required for "real" sounds is the same exact form of sound production that the man originally had. Any form of sound production that does not require the input of sound waves and the output of neural impulses is insufficient. How this affects people with altered forms of hearing, such as those with hearing aids for whom sound production is mediated by a machine, is another unresolved matter. What is definitively resolved is a belief in the superiority of the traditional human form of sensing sound. One could argue that dogs have a more powerful sense of hearing. Machines are also much better at capturing and recording sounds than the human brain. Should we not then look to try to replicate or incorporate aspects of those mechanisms in the way we absorb sound? These issues are not addressed in the film, nor need they be.
The film's intent seems to be for the audience to realize the importance of sound in the experiences of life. A man who loses his ability to enjoy the aural aspect of his experiences tries to find a way to replace that ability. But it cannot be replaced. His fondest memories and hopes for the future require the ability to hear. The implication is that we must cherish the sounds of the things, people, and places we love. Sound is an inextricable part of their identity, and we lose a part of them when we lose the ability to hear them. Our future interaction with them will be completely different from how we remember them, and it's because their aural presence is a powerful part of who they are.