Idea Formulation and Development

For my first bridge project I will be looking at comparing a certain sense as experienced in Hong Kong and New York. Below are mind maps of the most memorable things I have encountered using my five senses in both the cities.

Having noticed that I had quite a lot to note about the sounds in both cities, I chose to use this sense as my point of comparison. While both cities are incredibly similar – since they both incredibly fast paced, developed cities – they have different “personalities”. Hong Kong is very systematic and organised, whereas New York’s sounds all operate individually, just like its residents, as all sounds overlap each other randomly – making it quite chaotic in its disposition. A specific experience I will be focussing on is one that many people experience when travelling to different countries – telling the difference between different coins. In my video narrative, I will compare the sounds of the two cities and portray a dramatised, and slightly comedic, animatic of a girl struggling to pay with coins in a cafe. I will illustrate each shot on Adobe Illustrator and overlay the necessary sounds for each shot when putting the video together. Below is my storyboard I have made for this project:

Final Pieces:

Below is my final video that initially looks at the similarity of the busy streets of Hong Kong and New York, and then moves into a dramatised – and slightly comedic – portrayal of a foreigner struggling to pay with American coins in a New York cafe. Underneath the video is my first draft of the wiring that accompanies this piece.

Everyone generalises the sound of cities as the “hustle and bustle” of workers and traffic. Accurate as this may sound to most people, real city dwellers would know it is this, but also so much more. The “hustle and bustle” isn’t just the sound of workers and traffic. Each city has its own personality. Hong Kong’s mechanical operation brings to life the manmade technologies. Each sound systematic and concise, representative of almost every resident there. Every fifteen minutes comes the beeping of the shuttle bus doors as they open, a piercing cry to call its building’s residents on board. At exactly 7:30 in the morning comes the restless screeching of kids, excited to see their friends in school. Their exhausted parents and nannies drag themselves alongside them while letting out deep, elongated yawns, resemblant of wind passing through an empty cave. After the school buses leave, there is a split second of momentary silence, a calm before the storm, which is ruptured by the rattling of the garbage trucks and their incessant beeping as they come to a stop. Office goers make their way through Central’s many crossings, waiting for the 20 second window during which the traffic lights ring to notify them of their limited time to make a move. When the ringing starts, the hard soles of heels and loafers come into contact with the black and yellow stripes below them and a horse race ensues, their galloping causing a deep echo all down the main road. After this seemingly quick 20 seconds comes the whirring of car tires, and, impatient to get to the end of the road, they bark at each other, like seagulls, in short, sharp shrills, demanding space from one another. The sounds from the streets alternate between each other, like an angry but rehearsed dialogue.

 

In the cafes nearby, people use what little time they have to spare, on picking up a morning coffee, evoking a symphony of clanging pots, calling of orders, murmur of discussion amongst colleagues and crinkling paper bags, all overlapping the supposedly calming sound of coffee being poured into paper cups, while it’s steam rises and adds to the already humid air.

 

New York isn’t much different, but if Hong Kong is a symphony, then New York is a polyphony. It’s exciting disposition comes from the individuality of every sound, just like its residents. The beautiful violins that reside in the vocal cords of buskers in Central Park captivating passerbys like the mythical sirens at sea. The chaotic wailing of the ambulances and firetrucks painfully invading everyone’s headspace. The heavy breathing of the steam being released from its pipes. The soft tapping of feet from people who dance and sing along to the music blasting from the speakers in their pockets as they pass you on the street. With no order or organisation, the sounds create a chatty disarray, as if reenacting the daily friendly interactions between strangers in the city.

 

Letting the New York streets play its disorderly beat on my ear drums, I make my way to a cafe and pull on the door handle, which whispers softly as it pushes against the wind. As I enter, the beating in my ears tones down into to a soft dribbling of muffled chatter. The tune of a warm, colourful spring plays. The baristas’ morning greetings, which – being unaccustomed to the friendly forwardness of  New Yorkers – take me by surprise every time without fail, sound like the blooming of a flower – refreshing. Standing behind the counter, they are songbirds serenading customers. The top hits of the day playing in the overhead speakers are outdone by their vocal talent, which has the power to uplift anyone’s day by spreading their contagious joy and laughter that hitchhike sound waves.

 

Standing in line, the rhythm formed behind the counter is amplified. A hiss of steam. A clink of steel cups. A tickle as milk hits a deep brown surface. A wet slurping as the cream sprays out of its can. A swish as the zarf caresses its heated paper cup. A beep when the microwave is given a command. Hiss. Clink. Tickle. Slurp. Swish. Beep. Repeat. Cyclical and systematic, a memory of home.

 

In front of me, coins tap dance when they hit the countertop as people make their payment. My turn. Still unable to differentiate dimes from pennies and quarters from dollars – as any foreigner would be – my fingers twiddle around, a tone deaf musician playing windchimes inside my wallet. An impatient customer behind me starts tapping his feet, a metronome failing to guide me. A drummer in my chest increases pace, in fear of the metronome. My fingers sift through the coins faster, and the frantic metallic clinking amplifies. The metronome oscillates faster. The drummer follows. Each sound tries to overtake each other. A fight. They pursue mercilessly until suddenly, the metallic clinking of the windchimes stops and transforms into one swift beat on the snare, as I pull out a five dollar note and place it on the counter in a rush. Now the windchimes, the metronome and the drummer have stopped. The barista passes me a warm paper bag that crumbles and crackles like a crinkly leaf in autumn as soon as my hands come into contact with it. Spring returns again. The previous muffled chatter and flowers and songbirds – which had been drowned out by my fretfulness – orchestrate their way back around the room and into my attention. I take a moment to realise how that nervous rhythm was all in my own head. All in my own ears.