Contemplative Field Recording: A Personal Introduction

I remember walking up to the photocopier before any of my colleagues arrived, ready to prepare resources for my lecture that morning, a lecture that was to be ‘mock-steded’ (a mock Ofsted teaching assessment). My heart was already pounding, my thoughts were clouded, I was struggling to stay focused and was tired, very tired. At some point during the photocopying, my body abruptly took control and I gave in to the urge to get out, to flee and escape the overbearing weight of being assessed and graded… again. From that moment onwards it has felt like a switch in my brain has been flicked, on or off, I’m not sure which. I left everything as it was, as if I had simply disappeared. I went out to the car park, opened the car door, collapsed into the seat and drove, pulling over only to tell my wife that I was coming home. In the weeks and months that followed I was plagued with panic attacks in the early hours of the morning, paranoia, anxiety, low mood and a general feeling of being broken, symptoms that will be familiar to many. After a visit to the doctor, I was signed-off and a few good friends took me out for coffee, listened while I talked things through and helped me to make sense of what had happened. I appreciate now how fortunate I was to be surrounded by the kindness and support of family, friends and colleagues. The doctor prescribed a short stress-management course and, while half-listening to the guidance, I used the opportunity to draw a flow-diagram diagnosis, working backwards from situation and symptoms towards the roots of my predicament.

Over time I began to understand what had gone awry. On my side, I was a generally well-meaning, conscientious, naively people-pleasing lecturer, buoyed and encouraged by small achievements and positive feedback. But I was bored after thirteen years in much the same role, desperately countering this by inventing new projects to keep me interested, with all the busyness that entails. Then there was the guilt of not having time for my wife and three young children and the energy to be present with them when I did, a guilt that ate away at me, underpinning the more obvious stressors. On the work side, I was employed by an institution that was saturated with a fear of educational and financial failure. Doing more for less was an imperative if we were to boost student numbers, keep our jobs, oh…and help our students learn (the latter sometimes coming across as an after-thought at staff briefings). Again, this will be familiar to many teachers and others who have suffered stress and breakdown.

Understanding the roots of my breakdown helped me to restructure my life, my priorities, and generally grow a little more self-aware. The gnawing anxiety was a lot harder to shift and still shows-up when life gets out of kilter. I had a meditation and mindfulness practice before the breakdown, and after, it was a bit wiser, more self-compassionate and created pockets of space for me to heal. It was, perhaps, the simple practice of listening and field recording that supported me the most and kept the anxiety from becoming overwhelming. Maybe it was because it was so immediate, accessible and engaging. It felt more enticing and easier to initiate than spending time on the mat or walking mindfully. Field recording was something I had taught in lectures for many years as part of music creation and sound design lectures. However, I was always recording for a particular purpose, with a particular outcome in mind. Now, as a freer, creative practice, it felt vaguely purposeful without the pressure of needing to secure a particular sonic result. I came to see that field recording gave me a focus that moved my attention away from rumination and anxious thoughts. It gently pushed me to explore soundscapes, often restorative green spaces and historic quiet places where I could sit and listen with a calm, spaciousness. Field recording rekindled that child-like fascination in small sounds, hidden sounds, everyday sounds, as well as rarer more surprising sonic gems. It also got me out of the house and offered some gentle exercise. In listening back and working with the sounds in the studio, I learned to appreciate their inherent sonic qualities. In sharing the recordings with others I connected with friends, colleagues and enthusiasts, all of whom related to them in different ways and, in turn, shared their own listenings and insights. I became part of a community of field recordists, artists and sound studies scholars. Field recording  became integrated into my life. My wife and (now teenage) children don’t bat an eyelid when I appear, or disappear off, adorned with a recorder and a rucksack of microphones. In fact, they often point out particularly tuneful gates, strange noises emanating from appliances or promisingly novel soundscapes for me to record, even if it is accompanied by a rolling of eyes at being complicit in my “sound nerdery!”

Field Recording in Ubiarco, Spain (image credit: Sarah Bentley)

I never intended field recording to become a contemplative practice. It just happened, that in not wishing to feature on a recording, I would sit very still, listen and, quite without thinking, return to follow my breath as I did in meditation. Grounding myself in this way seemed to help me listen without getting too carried away in thinking. I have since noticed many other parallels between my sound art and contemplative practice which I’m looking forward to sharing with you in coming posts. When I first started field recording my focus would be on what was going on around me, the soundscape amplified and documented in all its layered diversity. Over time, I began exploring what was going on inside, the way my body, thoughts and feelings responded to what I was hearing. My practice started to experiment with sound art practices as contemplative exercises, developed through research and tested out on my students, workshop participants and in meditation groups. Until now, I have not had the impetus to develop them into fully-fledged and structured practices that can be shared with others as well as explore the thinking that underpins them. However, recently I have had the privilege of working with patients under palliative care at the Royal Berkshire Hospital in Reading, and through some personal and challenging encounters have been prompted to get on with this, to begin the process of consolidating my understanding and sharing my learnings, a process that begins with these articles.

a recording made at a field recording workshop with Jez Riley-French, using a pair of contact microphones on a water outlet we found at South Hill Park Arts Centre in Bracknell, UK, (circa 2011).

So, in the posts that follow, I’d like to share some listenings with you and reflect on how the practice of field recording and contemplation can sit with each other and support one other. Through this grounded approach, the ‘theory’ element can arise naturally from the practice of field recording; embedded and embodied. I’d like to involve artists and contemplatives from a range of backgrounds in these conversations, so that these posts are informed by a range of disciplines and traditions. If you are a field recordist, you will likely already appreciate some of the ways in which listening and recording can cultivate focus, still the mind and perhaps feel contemplative. I would welcome your input. However, this is not an endeavour solely for ‘specialists.’  So, whether or not you have an artistic or contemplative practice and however you connect with your sense of hearing and vibration, I’d encourage you to reflect on your listenings and get involved.

The simple beauty of listening, field recording and contemplative practice have been an indispensable support in my own journey. I hope these posts with their listenings and reflections are able to offer some practices, insights and encouragement to listen to the soundscape within and around us with more awareness, curiosity, care and with a deep sense of privilege. After all, quite miraculously we are here, conscious, the universe listening to itself.

Richard.

Whatever brought you here, you are very welcome.

Thank you for listening and do consider sharing your experiences, reflections and wisdom in the comments below or by emailing me at: richard@anoisysilence.com