Less than zero

What does silence really sound like? Step inside an anechoic chamber to find out.

Marisa Taylor | July 2008 issue

I’m a musician myself, so Cage is on my mind as Hafter heaves open the door of the chamber, which is about six feet wide and resembles some sort of meat locker. Dim light emanates from two bulbs dangling on either end of the ceiling. My ears immediately feel plugged, as if they’ve been stuffed full of cotton, probably because the walls and ceiling are lined with rows and rows of fibreglass wedges that absorb all sound waves.

The floor of the chamber is covered in wedges too; we’re walking on a springy suspended floor made of cross-hatched wire, with tangles of electrical cords and the same pattern of wedges spanning the actual floor of the chamber a few feet below us. I’m teetering all over the place on the wires, as my boots have kitten heels. I begin to hear a high-pitched ringing in my ears. It’s eerie in here.

As I try to focus on what Hafter is telling me about the architecture of the chamber, I notice my chest starts to feel tight, out of nervousness. What surprises me is our voices don’t sound muffled. For some reason, I’ve pictured our mouths moving but no sound coming out, like we’re in some kind of a sound vacuum.

After a few minutes discussing his research, I tell Hafter I hope to hear some of the auto-emissive sounds I’ve read about. He’s skeptical, because the anechoic chamber isn’t completely attenuated, meaning that it doesn’t totally shut out noises from the outside world, though it does come close. But if I stay still and quiet, he says, “You’ll hear breathing. You’ll hear stomach gurgles. You’ll hear all kinds of stuff.”

On that note, he leaves me to sit down in the lone chair in the chamber and promises I can stay inside the thing for as long as I want. The longest time he’s ever been inside is probably half an hour, but it doesn’t bother him. He’s used to it. “Call me before you come out because I don’t want you to fall,” he says, concerned about my wobbly boots. “Light on or off?”

“Um, on,” I say, giggling nervously.

Before I know it, the door has slammed shut and I’m alone in the dim light. Hafter can hear me from outside the chamber if I speak, but I can’t hear what’s going on in the rest of the laboratory. While it’s comforting to know I can just yell and I’ll be fetched immediately, something about the isolation feels disconcerting.

I try to remain still and quiet, as Hafter has instructed. I become conscious of my own breathing—it sounds loud, clumsy, like Darth Vader. The tightness in my chest has increased and spread to my upper arms. I sit and wait for five minutes, 10 minutes, and still I’ve heard none of these so-called auto-emissive sounds. Why can’t I hear my heartbeat? This is what it must feel like to do hallucinogenic drugs, I think, waiting for the effect to kick in.

After about 30 minutes, I realize I’ve zoned out into some kind of a meditative state, just listening to the rhythmic sounds of my own breathing. I hear an occasional single or double pulse in either ear; perhaps they’re adjusting to the lack of noise? Or is it my heartbeat?

I’m hyper-aware of my body: the occasional gurgle from my stomach, the wheezing sound the air makes as I breathe in and out of my nose. I sense my body temperature has risen slightly, and think how good cool liquid would feel going down my throat.

Some minutes later—at this point, I’m not sure how many—I become a little dizzy. My ears are stifled, like I’ve put on a pair of fluffy earmuffs. I feel completely solitary, as though time has stopped. The scientists know I’m in here, and all I have to do is yell, I tell myself, but I can’t help feeling paranoid. The ringing in my ears and the tightness in my chest are getting unbearable. The pulses in my ears are more frequent, my breath more wheezy.

Unlike John Cage, I don’t feel inspired. In fact, I’ve never felt so alone.

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