Act–Memory–Sense–Experience
The only things in this world that need no explanation are music and laughter. — John Cage
I Act
With help from the center post, it’s easier to get over the fence of that thin metal mesh that cages highways. A few steps later, after crossing the row of oleanders and reaching the roadside ditch, we find ourselves face to face with the guardrail; that last barrier that encloses the vehicles. Only one jump remains to the asphalt, a jump that isn’t so small and surprises us with its height. On either side of the road, the barrier of corrugated metal fades into the horizon. We start walking; we want to find a place to paint, and the night is already far advanced.
Stepping onto the highway asphalt feels strange; something constantly reminds you that you shouldn’t be there. You feel a chill under your feet, few have walked where we are, and it shows. The night is cold, but suddenly we find the mouth of a tunnel cutting the wind. Silence falls immediately, broken only by the echo of our steps. We pass through it almost daily, but we had never been aware of its scale; speed had distorted our perspective, and now reality overwhelms.
We are children trapped in the monotony of a small Andalusian town, wandering through the night searching for “The Sublime,” and we have found it. We start painting.
II Memory
We are on the break between what could be Drawing class and History class. We lie on the grass under a tree that casts shade; we are lucky our school has green spaces, and we make use of them. Everything is quite noisy, as break time usually is, but today there is distorted music coming from the parking lot. It is very loud and grabs our attention, especially because it’s turned up so high it sounds like it’s straining the speakers. It sounds awful, but it awakens our curiosity, so we get closer.
They are dancing, laughing, smiling with the biggest smiles they could manage. The car doors are wide open, and they place their hands on the speakers as they bounce with joy. Everything sounds awful; the metal of the car vibrates and distorts it all, but they are enjoying it. It is the group of friends who attend the special support classes for deaf students, and like us, they are on their break. Like many classmates, they are enjoying music, but unlike the rest they cannot hear it.
III Sense
We almost didn’t see it, and finding it was an accident; we didn’t know it was there. It was a room to the left as you reached the exit, hidden in darkness and with its entrance covered by a curtain. Only a small pile of shoes gives away that people were inside. Behind that curtain was OJAS by Devon Turnbull.
It is our first time in a listening room, and at first, the experience is extremely aesthetic: functionality and design taken to the extreme. But it is more than that. We sit on the beanbags and close our eyes; we focus on forgetting, and gradually the sound envelops us, transforming into an immersive experience.
Canceling one sense amplifies the others. We have forgotten the icy London streets waiting outside; the space of OJAS takes the spotlight. It has been built for the journey, and traveling is exactly what we are doing.
The vinyl ends abruptly, and suddenly we are back, like the bang of a car door closing after exiting. They tell us it will be a while before the next record is played, so we leave. We do not know exactly how long we were there, probably not long, maybe two songs, but time has been transformed, it has completely lost its logical form, and these minutes have forged an eternal presence.
IV Experience
The sun of a January afternoon bathes the asphalt as we travel back home. Exhausted, we stare out the window in silence, watching how the painted lines dance over the road and how the flashes of light, filtered under the guardrail, mark a repetitive rhythm. It matches what still resonates in our heads.
I can still hear the bursts of air coming from the huge wall of speakers, tied together with straps and chaotic wiring, under the vaulted ceiling of the chapel in that abandoned prison lost somewhere in the endless fields of La Mancha.
The music mattered, but even more than that, we sought to stand in front of the subwoofer box, we wanted to feel our bodies vibrate and our hearts adopt the rhythm of the bass. We could only communicate through gestures, and we all shared laughter, no dialogue was needed, everyone understood without needing comprehension.
Back in the silence of the car, the journey slows; now we are only moving 100 km/h.