Mariah Reodica, Philippines, HONOURABLE MENTION
For countless millennia, living creatures have used echolocation as a means of engaging with their surroundings. Different species occupy their territory on the audible spectrum: bats in ultrasound, baleen whales in infrasound, and humans in the narrow yet lush frequencies somewhere in between. By emitting sound and listening intently, spatial information becomes the basis for crafting a cartography of place.
However, the soundscape of the Anthropocene has introduced elements that collide in brash arrangements. We can now perceive sounds farther away and louder than ever before, carried not just by physical mediums but by information technology and our intricate social fabric.
My recorder captures this salient stream of the senses, albeit reduced into a handful of channels. The signal chain undulates, distilling spatial information. In exchange, I am now capable of playback. I savor sounds like candy.
Over a thousand field recordings are scattered across my devices: plainspoken errand lists on a commute from the office, interview recordings for research, fragments of musical ideas, and assorted soundscapes.
I’m on a jeepney, and a subwoofer large enough to occupy its seat is blaring budots — piercing whistles and radio skits over a relentless four-on-the-floor beat. It’s so loud, it’s beyond the dynamic range of my handheld recorder. A man is speaking to his doctor about a mystical soup that keeps him from aging. The old lady beside me chuckles above the roar of the faithful diesel engine, chugging away against all odds.
Now, I’m on the shore of Western Visayas, facing the fiercely blazing sunset over the Sulu Sea. The waves, cresting with rage from the open sea, crash defiantly against a newly constructed sea wall. The track starts mid-conversation, as a local ponders how recent beach developments portend an influx of tourists and what it might mean for their sleepy town. Two lovers giggle within earshot.
Here’s a filmmaker’s talk in a house, a casual gathering like a party. The place has been around since the 1950s, one of the lone houses left in a once-suburban neighborhood now packed with automobile sheds. I heard the roof caved in during a typhoon that brought hurricane-level winds a few weeks ago. Raindrops snuck into a basement filled with dusty instruments. The circuits became soaked and muted.
A brief interview with a security guard at the University of the Philippines’ College of Music. I ask her about day-to-day business and get curt replies. But when it comes to the adopted cats that live on campus, I can hear her smile as she fawns over her favorite calico.
A small but mighty song, one of hundreds on the record.
Even after the clip ends, the impressions linger and flesh themselves out. I’m in a textured mental terrain that unravels information beyond the reach of sight or touch. My maps of echolocation evolve as I tread through space and time.
A raucous clamor could pierce through the thickest of walls. These field recordings chime into a conversation of agency within an entire system of inter-echolocation. I’m always navigating between hearing and listening. I close my eyes, and I know right where I am.
