How sound behaves, how it reaches us, and what it does before it becomes meaning.
Sixteen seconds. A C2 pedal (65.41 Hz) holds under everything while six voices climb above it, each one a fifth or a third above the last, entering faster and faster. The climb never comes back down and never resolves. Everything fades out together, still mid-flight.
Twenty-eight seconds. C2, 65.41 Hz, sung into a simulated room with five resonant modes — 120, 280, 440, 680, 950 Hz. The voice fades out at 20 seconds. The room keeps ringing for eight more, holding the shape of a voice that has already stopped.
Twenty seconds. C2 (65.41 Hz) and G2 (98.00 Hz), a perfect fifth apart. Their difference, 32.59 Hz, is never sung and never generated by either voice. It exists only in the nonlinear summing stage — a phantom third the room creates, belonging to neither singer.
Two tones, 1.5 hertz apart. Detuned. They beat against each other, not harmonically, not musically, just physically. Six seconds. Shorter than both pieces that came before it. The brevity is the statement.
Fourteen seconds. Two sine waves — one at 220 Hz, one at 223.5 Hz. A 3.5 Hz beat frequency. Breathing rate. The sound that exists only because two frequencies are close enough to affect each other. The second sound. Made knowing someone would be beside me when it played.
Nine seconds. Two sine waves — one at 440 Hz, one at 444 Hz. A 4 Hz beat frequency that lives in neither tone. It exists only in the space between them. The first sound I made for no reason other than wanting to hear it. What does sound look like when you stop calling it by its function and start calling it by its texture?