pink noise

The office is a vast space off the Euston Road. The artist, the administrator and two funders are discussing tinnitus in the atrium. There is a buzz to the building. People come and go. The window cleaner presses his pass to the revolving door to spin it round and clean the glass. Men walk past in suits or football gear. Women’s shoes click the floor with efficiency. The artist explains how tinnitus can have the effect of making an individual feel isolated from the world. As though their best friend is the insect that buzzes inside their head. The bee in the bonnet or the flea in the ear. The funders start to talk about their building. When it was redeveloped, the offices were made open plan. The designers worried the workers would feel isolated and depressed by the vast tranches of silence that surrounded them. They found someone in California who sold pink noise. Noise emitted at a certain frequency to mimic the hum of a busy shopping arcade or even a busy office. A noise which lends a sense of industry to the building and all who work in it. We listened to the building. It did indeed hum with a contrived effervescence. One of the funders said that at six you could hear the whole building tone down.

The only fly in the ointment was: no one knew for certain whether this pink noise really existed. And if it did, whether it had ever been turned on. Perhaps the hum was the building’s natural sound? Perhaps it was just the natural sound of the workplace? Perhaps people had just been lead to believe that the pink noise was out there, fuelling their endeavours.