13: Stillness & 'Sound of Metal'
On a great film, hearing privilege, and audiovisual overstimulation
This is your sign to watch Sound of Metal as soon as you can. I have so many thoughts about this film and the ways in which it pushed me to think beyond my lived experience while reevaluating the way I live in the process.
Sound of Metal follows heavy metal drummer and recovering addict Ruben—masterfully portrayed by Riz Ahmed—as he comes to terms with losing his hearing. The film provides necessary representation of the lived experiences of those who are hard of hearing or deaf, allowing viewers to witness and understand the multiple forms of language, connection, and community developed outside of verbal communication.
Beyond this, Sound of Metal fully immerses the viewer through the use of impeccably realistic sound design, allowing those with the privilege of hearing to come as close as they can to understanding what it would be like to lose their ability to hear over time. We settle into what initially seems like silence with Ruben in real time, suddenly struggling to understand his place in the world and the people in it just as much as he is. There are no subtitles provided until Ruben begins comprehending and utilizing sign language, truly allowing viewers to share in this extreme process of learning, change, and adjustment with him. In full, Sound of Metal provides fertile ground for reflection on one’s own hearing privilege.
The film makes the crucial assertion that deafness is not a handicap but rather a difference in human experience—that there is a difference between stillness and the silence that remains once one’s hearing is lost. In some of the most moving moments of the film, Joe, who runs a shelter for deaf recovering addicts, entreats Ruben (and the viewers) to find a sense of stillness within the perceived silence:
“I wonder… All these mornings you've been sitting in my study, sitting, have you had any moments of stillness? Because you're right, Ruben. The world does keep moving, and it can be a damn cruel place. But for me, those moments of stillness, that place, that's the kingdom of God. And that place will never abandon you.”
As a person with hearing privilege, this line hit me like a truck.
While I don’t pretend to be anything close to an authority the experiences of those who are hard of hearing or deaf or battling addiction, this sense of stillness being out of one’s reach in today’s world feels relatively universal. In watching Ruben struggle to find his own sense of stillness and, by extension, acceptance of himself and his current situation, I found so much fodder for self-reflection. Unlike Ruben, I am privileged to have a choice when it comes to whether I seek out sound or stillness. Yet, it is important to note that I have felt a kindred sense of fear of the latter, long mistaking it as silence just as Ruben does.
Over the past year, I have found myself seeking out constant audio and audiovisual stimulation to a concerning extent. In the deep, dark days of quarantine, I received notifications that my iPhone screen time reached depressing double-digit hour highs. From TikToks and YouTube videos to podcasts and playlists, I filled my life with sound whether or not I was actually listening. All that mattered was that I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. On reflection, I was clearly resisting reality, refusing to be present because the instability of the present was so frightening to me. This fear of the unknown and my overall directionlessness combined as I created an endless present for myself—one where I could just mentally check out instead of checking in with myself. I felt lazy but never rested, overstimulated but always vacant. My fear of silence kept me running from the possibility of stillness for a long time.
I made adjustments to my behavior when I started racking up the aforementioned scary levels of screen time, but I largely assumed things would be different once I landed a ~real job~ and had a ~structured life~ once again. It was especially concerning to me when that wasn’t the case. My first week on the job, I was constantly itching to multitask—to watch videos or blast music into my noggin while plugging away at work. I had to physically distance myself from my phone because the urge to consistently check it would break up my workflow. I wondered if there was something wrong with me given how much I couldn’t focus on one task at a time—on the present moment. I started interrogating why I needed to have a vapid YouTube video of someone speed-building houses in the Sims or commenting on drama I knew nothing about (I have great taste, I know) to play in the background while I did my makeup or made breakfast before work. I wondered when I last took in the stillness of the morning, waking up without my face glued to a screen. I was inevitably locked in for eight hours of screen time each workday—why was I so dead-set on taking on more in my free time? What effect did doing so have on my overall wellbeing?
These recent bouts of self-awareness have pushed me to make changes in the way I spend my days, and my screen time has diminished quite a great deal. I have quieter mornings and evenings, and I’m much more focused while at work, but I still find that moments of pure stillness are few and far between. Sound of Metal and the questions it raises have encouraged me to be more accountable to myself—to consider the ways in which I actively work to carve out moments of purposeful quiet, allowing myself to just be in an unmediated space.
I have been most successful with taking time away from my phone while I’m spending time with the people I care about. My friends and loved ones know that when I am with them, I am fully present. Hot tips: leave your phone on silent, keep it out of your hands, and place it face-down on a nearby surface when partaking in quality time. If you’re out with others in public, keep your phone in your bag or pocket. Focus solely on who’s beside you in that moment.
I have also found a great deal of stillness by exercising outdoors. The few days in early January I spent hiking and snowshoeing in northern Minnesota were especially quiet and meditative. It’s easy to embrace soundlessness when that’s all the wintry world has to offer. I have struggled when it comes to running and walking in winter as I find I need visual stimulation to make treadmill time bearable, but I look forward to fully checking in with myself during my runs as soon as it’s warm enough to be outside again.
I am admittedly terrible with finding stillness before I sleep and after I wake. I am so prone to reaching for my phone when bedbound. I am planning on physically distancing myself from my phone during these times, strategically placing more books in my orbit so I reach for them instead.
As it’s inevitable that I will consume some level of audiovisual content after hours, I am making an effort to do so in a mindful way—without multitasking. I have already implemented this with watching TV: I try my best to watch shows without a phone in my hand or a laptop on my… lap. I also want to be more conscious of what I choose to listen to or watch, trading out some of the content I use as a sonic crutch for content I’m genuinely interested in paying my full attention. Even better if I learn something in my extra screen time.
I’ve made some headway with reading and writing toward stillness this year, but I am very inconsistent—especially since starting my new job. Yet another quote from Sound of Metal is driving me to do better on this front:
“I want you to keep writing continuously without stopping until you feel like you can sit again.”
This idea of writing as exorcism is something that I have definitely believed in and felt throughout my life, and I look forward to putting it into practice once again to fully process my experiences.
If any of this resonates with you, I hope sharing the areas in which I am working to find more stillness is helpful as we both take stock of where we’re at and where we want to be.
Through Ruben’s journey, Sound of Metal makes the case that what we perceive as silence can be stillness—something that has presence, is valuable, and isn’t isolating or empty. Stillness isn’t loneliness: it’s time spent with yourself and your thoughts. It’s the sensation of being fully in touch with the world around you, quietly bearing witness to current happenings and the passage of time. It’s taking the care to attune yourself more thoughtfully to the people around you and the places you find yourself. It’s fully being one with the present moment, allowing yourself to unclench and just be. I hope we can all find some measure of quietude after enduring the constant clamor of the past year. After all, “that place will never abandon [us].” Please watch Sound of Metal, step outside of your lived experience, and consider the strength it takes to live differently and accept lasting change—maybe finding the strength in yourself to make change in the process.
I just applied to rent my very own first apartment (!). It’s not officially mine yet, but the wheels are in motion and your girl might be out of her parents’ basement sooner than she thought. This place really feels like me (parquet flooring and yellow walls!), so keep your fingers crossed :^)
90s powerpop/punk-pop girl groups. Very much obsessed with bratty guitar-driven songs by female-fronted bands at the moment. I highly recommend the songs “In The Sink” by Plumtree, “My Chinchilla” by Cub, and “He’s Kissing Christian” by that dog. They’re funny, irreverent, and perfectly capture the essence of what it is to crush on someone.
I am very lucky to be dating someone who appreciates museumgoing as much as I do! Given that we’re both committed to limiting our contact with others as the pandemic rages on, returning to Minneapolis’s art museums has been a godsend when it comes to safely switching things up in these times. The Walker Art Center and the Minneapolis Institute of Art are offering limited ticket runs so that people can ease back into shared museum spaces while masked and socially-distanced. Here are some of the exhibition offerings that truly moved me:
Designs for Different Futures at the Walker Art Center. This exhibition was wild. By presenting the varied works of artists and designers, it asks one to imagine the infinite number of futures before us—both utopian and dystopian. So much of the exhibition focused on inequalities and injustices of the present, offering potential solutions, raising questions, and emphasizing our potential for control or our utter lack of control when it comes to the fate of the world. Some especially moving selections: AI, Ain’t I a Woman?, a video piece by Joy Buolamwini on the racial bias embedded in artificial intelligence systems that consistently misgender Black women. Future Library by Katie Paterson is a public art project where 1,000 spruce trees were planted in Oslo solely to be felled in 100 years to produce just enough paper to print books written by 100 major authors (Margaret Atwood and David Mitchell are on board!) for the library—books that will be produced after most of us are dead and gone. “Ouroboros Steak (Raw)” by scientist Andrew Pelling disputes the claim that lab-grown meat is less environmentally destructive than traditional methods of raising animals (making animal cells in a lab requires collecting large amounts of fetal calves’ blood by slaughtering pregnant cows) by provocatively producing meat from human cells. Overall, an amazing interdisciplinary exhibition that asks you to be conscious and think bigger, far beyond your present experience.
Don’t let this be easy at the Walker Art Center. This exhibition showcased the diverse and experimental (often feminist) work of women and nonbinary artists from the Walker’s collection, drawing attention to institutional issues in the process. I was especially excited by “Untitled (Girl’s Boxes)” by Sharon Lockhart, Laura Owens, and Frances Stark—a multiple co-created by the three female artists over the course of a group exhibition. It consisted of various forms of their shared everyday correspondence, the three positioning the traces of their friendship as art in and of itself. This really inspired me as its project interrelates with and validates what us galpals are working toward here at Thanks, We Hate It.
To Survive on This Shore: Photographs and Interviews with Transgender and Gender Nonconforming Older Adults at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. In this contemporary portraiture series, Jess T. Dugan traveled across the United States to capture the portraits and voices of individuals whose activism and experiences influenced the course of LGBTQIAS+ history. I was especially moved by the gorgeous Duchess Milan whose equally gorgeous quote has stayed with me ever since:
“My mother said when you die, you stand there before the light, and you say, ‘Was I worthy of myself to know that I have liked me?’ Okay? I like me. Okay? And I will tell the whole chorus, honey. I don’t do nobody wrong, you know. I’ve dealt with everything I can, as much as I can. So just find that inside yourself and take time with that person. Faults, flaws, wishes, all of it, it doesn’t matter. None of us gets it all. Okay? But what we do have, we can polish. We can polish it, honey, till it blinds them.”