Living in London, I’ve realized there’s a different kind of silence here — one that’s not about quiet, but about distance. On the tube, in cafes, even in queer bars, I often feel like I’m being seen without actually being noticed. It’s a strange kind of exposure — being visible, but never really audible.
What started to fascinate me wasn’t the conversations people were having, but the space between them. The clinks of cups, the slow hiss of radiators, someone’s breath too close to my ear on the Victoria line. These in-between sounds feel more honest than the scripted small talk we all perform.
That led me to a question I can’t shake:
What does it sound like to be watched, but not heard?
It’s not a technical question — it’s emotional. I think I’m interested in creating a kind of sonic space that reveals this tension. A space where passive background noises become painfully intimate. Where what’s normally unnoticed becomes the center.
I haven’t figured out how to build that space yet. But I’ve started to record small moments — footstep echoes, radiator pulses, the click of someone’s tongue before they speak but decide not to. These moments feel full of unspoken things.
Maybe that’s the kind of sound I want to work with: the ones that don’t ask permission to be felt.
Leave a Reply