Last September, an experience was held at IRCAM that might surprise some people because, despite a highly rigorous scientific protocol, it straddled the fine line between the arts and wellness – if not medical care. Gathered in Studio 5, around sixty volunteers entrusted the Irma Ensemble to give them an “acousmatic massage”, under the supervision of Laurent and Vincent Isnard. Divided into two equal sections, one comprised of people familiar with this type of artistic practice, the other of people who could be described as novices, this group provided precious information on how to introduce this practice in the field of artistic expression and patient care. Amongst them was yours truly, the author of this blog, acting as a “special agent”, totally “embedded”.
Here I am.
At last.
I must admit that since I was told about this artistic research residency and this week-long, large-scale experiment for the first time, I have been wanting to be a part of it. And now, here it is. Lying down on a mattress, blindfolded, bathing in a calming atmosphere, the silence barely disrupted by the soft brush of some cloth, I wait. I know the protocol. We were just reminded of it. But I must confess: I don’t really know what to expect or how I’m going to react. Or most precisely, how my body and mind are going to react – as one, or separately.
Experiment device © Deborah Lopatin
In truth, the experience started a few days ago. I was invited to fill in an online form about my living and listening habits. Have I already participated in a similar experience? Do I find certain sounds unpleasant?
On my way to IRCAM, I wondered if I was going to recognise some of the other volunteers. But I didn’t. As we were talking, I realised that some hadn’t really heard of IRCAM and its activities before. My group has an equal number of men and women, all between 20 and 45 years old. Once we have all signed the consent form, we are asked to fill in a first questionnaire, to indicate our current emotional state. Each of us is also recorded saying a simple sentence. Then the performers ask us to close our eyes and they lead us gently by the arm towards a mattress on the floor.
Finally, it’s starting. Very softly, the speakers play quiet sounds of paper rustling that come to caress our ears. Then what seems like sand pouring into a container. Later, I think I recognise a whale’s song, joined afterwards by a few prepared piano notes. The sounds however quickly lose their identity and mingle together to create something that is probably unique to my own imagination but that I can’t really control. From what I perceive, I imagine the sound of water rushing along the hull of a sailing boat, heard from the inside of the cabin. But my listening habits get temporarily the better of me and I find myself analysing the structure of the musical speech, from which I distinguish two main parts, as well as several sections identified by different material typologies.
Unfortunately, approximately 20 minutes later, because of the time when the experience is held (early afternoon), the calming sound environment and the fact that I’m lying down with my eyes closed, I start to fall asleep. I don’t think it lasts very long however – no more than two or three minutes. When I realise what is happening, I force myself to move around, repositioning my body both to make myself more comfortable and to keep from falling asleep again. The first session comes to an end. The sounds, while spatialised, were only coming out of the speakers, so the only sense that was stimulated was the hearing. We are invited to get up and out of the room to fill in a second questionnaire, this time more detailed, regarding our emotional state and our impressions. We are recorded a second time saying the same sentence – I believe to compare the tone of our voice before and after each session, and assess whether the experience had any impact on us, consciously or not. I wonder briefly if these recordings are intended to be analysed using AI later on.
The second performance gets me literally dumbstruck, in every sense of the term. I can’t move anymore: my muscles are relaxed to the point of numbness. Yet at the same time, all my senses (except of course for my vision) are alert, attentive to any sound, any breath of air that caresses my face, any pressure variation at the surface of my skin. The sounds are exactly the same as before – or at least follow the same partition – but are for the most part, when their nature allows it, played live by the performers, creating at times a great sense of proximity between us. The impression is striking: I’m immediately captivated by their softness and textures. At times, the sound is supplemented by a tactile experience. Not really a “massage” per say, but light touches, on the lower legs, the forearms… whose nature and delicacy are reminiscent of those of the sounds.
Ensemble irma © Deborah Lopatin
While the first performance sparked my curiosity and opened up my imagination (going beyond just the sounds), the second makes me feel much more grounded in the present moment. I don’t think about the past (except to focus on analysing the musical form) or the future (except to think about how I don’t want it to stop anytime soon). I’m in the moment, attentive to my immediate environment (between six and sixteen feet). While the pleasure I got from the first performance was mostly intellectual, the second – which really is about the acoustic massage itself, the way the Isnard brothers developed it – is a pure physiological delight, almost carnal.
As I am leaving, after filling in the last questionnaire and repeating the same sentence once more, I start thinking, by an unexpected association of ideas, about those scientific studies[1] that demonstrated that we are never sensitive to our own tickling – even when made by a machine that is mechanically or digitally monitored. What does that have to do with anything, I wonder? I don’t know. Yet I have the feeling that this concept of “acousmatic massage” has an irrevocable human dimension, a sense of communion, of caring for others.
I also wonder if too many parameters of the protocol aren’t being changed from one session to the next, regarding both the sound production and the tactile dimension[2]. Moreover, the fact that the two sessions are occurring one right after the other, meaning that short-term memory is still processing the first session when the second arrives, might also jeopardise the feel of the moment. We know for a fact how much listening to the same piece over and over again can help us get a better appreciation for its complexity and beauty… An interesting experience then, not only for the artists-scientists working on it, but also for the test subject that I was on that day.
Jérémie Szpirglas
[1] Blakemore, Sarah-Jayne, et al. “Why can't you tickle yourself?”. Neuroreport, 2000, vol. 11, no 11, p. R11-R16.
Harris, Christine R., and Christenfeld, Nicholas. “Can a machine tickle?”. Psychonomic bulletin & review, 1999, vol. 6, p. 504-510.
[2] Vincent and Laurent Isnard later told me that the order in which the different test conditions were coming up changed depending on the group. Half of the participants started with only the audio and the other half with the audio and the contacts: “We were expecting that kind of habituation effect which we need to learn to control; it’s part of what we are currently analysing from the collected data. It’s a standard experimental process to test different conditions (in the same way we compared “newbies” and “experts”).