From silence art to company success

From silence art to company success Audio 6 March 2025 Instagram Linkedin Mathilde Pottier Designer & Founder It is the 29th of August 1952, you are lining up to see David Tudor, a promising new pianist. On this sunny day, you’ve decided to stay inside Woodstock’s Maverick Concert Hall, so as not to miss the performance you’ve heard everyone talking about. Your turn arrives: you can take your seat. Then the musician enters, ready to play John Cage’s composition 4’33. The pianist begins by closing the piano lid. At this point, the only sounds coming out of the room are the whispers of people and the squeaking of chairs. After looking at his watch for a while, the musician opened the piano lid again and closed it, thus ending the movement of the first piece. Some people inside began to feel irritated and left the room, as they realized that the piece would have been as noisy at the end as it was at the beginning. The John Cage’s 4′33 long composition The oriental beginnings In the early 1950s, in midtown Manhattan at the prestigious Columbia University, a professor is about to change the life of one of his students. He is Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki, a Zen Buddhist essayist who landed in New York after teaching in Japan and London and traveling through Europe. His student is John Cage, a young man who arrived in New York in the early ’40s penniless and searching for professional opportunities. Despite his early successes, his new romance with the Mercier dancer Philip Cunningham led him to seek new horizons. And so, between Ananda Coomaraswamy and Gita Sarabhai, John gradually discovered and familiarized himself with Eastern philosophy and art. So it’s unsurprising that he became interested in Master Suzuki’s lectures, and the importance of listening to silence. This is the sound of silence 1951 Harvard campus; within the walls of the university, a room into which no sound can penetrate fascinates all researchers of novelty. John Cage, the Californian composer in his late thirties, was one of them. At that point in his career, he had already published several musical works and was looking for experiences to create new ones. Like all other musicians, he was used to playing with sounds, but not with silence, perhaps because he had never heard it. That’s why he was excited to experience silence. Surprisingly, the experience he had was far from his beliefs: “I heard two sounds, one high and one low. When I discussed this with the engineer in charge, he informed me that the high sound was the activity of my nervous system, and the low sound was the blood circulating through my body.” The silent prayer Years later, the musicologist Makis Solomos explained: “4’33” was originally conceived in 1948 under the title Silent Prayer, but at that time the idea of silence was part of a desire for asceticism or meditation, as James Pritchett explains. The 4’33” we know today is very different, because in the meantime the anechoic chamber experiment and the realization that silence means listening to all possible sounds that don’t depend on us”. John Cage couldn’t keep his original idea after the anechoic chamber experience. He needed a title that didn’t have any religious connotations. He also thought of a neutral title that would not give any advice on how the experience should be felt. “4’33” was perfect; there is no indication of how the experience should be felt or what the experience is about. The only clue the title gives is the duration of the composition. The rest has to be created and understood by the audience. Silence as a tool for Self-Reflection Choosing silence to think better Reflective silence occurs when sound is voluntarily suspended in order to focus inward. This technique does not rely on a specific posture or environment but on the deliberate choice to remain quiet for a period of time. It can take place during daily activities or in dedicated moments set aside to observe thoughts and sensations without distraction. Without the pressure to speak or respond, internal movement becomes more noticeable. Thoughts appear more distinctly, and the individual can begin to recognize patterns or preoccupations. This practice encourages a different relationship to time, one that is slower and more attentive. Silence does not provide answers in itself, but it allows questions to emerge more clearly. It is used not as an escape, but as a tool to access a layer of thought that often remains hidden beneath constant stimulation. Reflection becomes more available when noise is suspended. Laurenz Kleinheider An invitation to self-consciousness Once there is silence, something usually begins to move. Thoughts appear repetitive, some surprising. Emotions may arise for no clear reason. This is the core of reflective silence: allowing things to arise without rushing to stop them. You don’t have to act or judge. You just stay with it. The mind may wander, and the body may feel restless, but over time, patterns begin to emerge. The important thing is not to produce answers but to notice what is taking up space inside. Sometimes, silence brings calm, sometimes, it brings tension. Both are valuable. Some choose to write during or after to keep track of what has emerged. Others just sit or walk. It’s not about doing nothing- it’s about doing something subtle: listening without reacting. Over time, this process becomes easier. You learn to sit with yourself more honestly, and you notice what matters beneath the surface noise. Crowded minds, quiet needs Silence is not something that most environments encourage. In many parts of daily life, especially in cities and workplaces, silence can feel out of place. Conversation fills gaps, notifications break pauses, and even being alone is often accompanied by sound. Yet there’s a growing sense that this constant flow leaves little room for reflection. Individually, more people are trying to take small breaks – moments without screens, walks without music, time to think without talking. These

Ticking like Hans Zimmers, a company technique

Ticking like Hans Zimmers, a company technique Audio 6 March 2025 Instagram Linkedin Mathilde Pottier Designer & Founder It begins with a sound. Not a melody, not a note – just a ticking. A minimal, repetitive gesture measures time, marks it, and divides it. For centuries, people have listened to this sound to organise their lives. In houses, in towers, on wrists, the ticking has always been there. But what happens when this signal – originally meant to reassure – becomes something else entirely? In the hands of a composer like Hans Zimmer, it is no longer just the background noise of time passing. It becomes a material, a tool, a method. It is stretched, compressed, distorted, and repeated. Likewise, it creates tension, urgency, and sometimes discomfort. From the mechanical rhythm of old clocks to the controlled chaos of Dunkirk, ticking evolves. It is no longer passive. It shapes perception. Whether in music, cinema or watchmaking, ticking reflects how we experience time – not as a neutral flow, but as a presence that we can hear. The Hans Zimmer’s ticks tocks compositions The Hans Zimmer’s story In the late 1970s, a young German musician was exploring the possibilities of machines in a small London studio. His name was Hans Zimmer, born in Frankfurt in 1957, and what interested him was not so much melody as the texture of sound. He began by tinkering with synthesizers, mixing electronic sounds with traditional instruments. In 1988, with the Rain Man soundtrack, he established his signature sound: electronic layers mixed with classical orchestrations, creating an unstable, sometimes minimal soundscape. From his early successes, he developed a working method centred on the construction of blocks of sound. He collects raw materials – springs, breaths, engines – and assembles them in repetitive sequences designed to create a constant tension. The Lion King, Gladiator and his collaboration with Christopher Nolan have consolidated this style. Zimmer thinks of music in terms of editing: duration, rhythm, saturation, and editing. The Dunkirk’s ticks and tocks In 2017, Hans Zimmer was working on Dunkirk. An idea soon emerged: to integrate the sound of a clock into the structure of the music. He asked Christopher Nolan to record the ticking of his watch and then reworked it. The sound is compressed, shortened and made drier. It becomes a rhythmic element, but above all, a psychological one. The ticking doesn’t mark time: it speeds it up, ruins it, makes it threatening. Zimmer integrates it into the soundtrack as a central motif, combining it with continuous layers and muted textures to create a tension that never lets up. This ticking is then gradually and imperceptibly accelerated until it creates an almost physical sense of urgency. It no longer follows the action: it conditions it. The viewer is not watching a scene under pressure but experiencing it. For Zimmer, time is no longer a frame. It is a dramatic tool in its own right. The ticks and tocks companions One tick is not enough. Repeated in the same way, it quickly wears out. Hans Zimmer knows this, which is why he never uses it in isolation. To keep the tension up without tiring, he combines it with other sound textures to create dynamic contrasts. He combines it with heavy, often muffled percussion that alternates with the dry, regular rhythm of the ticktock. The result is an unstable beat, like an irregular heartbeat. Added to this are strings under tension, mainly violins and violas, which slowly build in intensity, bringing a more organic emotional charge. At times, he also manipulates the sound of the ticking clock itself: reverberations, echoes, filtering, so that it sometimes seems distant, oppressive. Nothing is left to chance. Each sound is calibrated to fit into a moving whole. The ticking is no longer a mechanical noise; it becomes a living motif, linked to the inner state of the viewer. People relationship with the time’s sound A history of mechanics Before electronics, we listened to time. For centuries, mankind measured the hours using simple but rigorous mechanisms, all based on the same principle: a regular movement, a repetitive sound. Ticking dates back to the 13th century, with the first European mechanical clocks. The heart of the device is based on the escapement and the balance wheel, the alternation of which creates an audible rhythm intended to mark time as much as to feel it. In the 19th century, Maelzel’s metronome applied this regularity to music, providing musicians with a reliable guide to tempo. Even today, some mechanical clocks, kitchen timers and digital applications still use this sound marker, synonymous with constancy. Ticking has become a cultural code associated with precision, control and the structured passage of time. In homes and on church steeples, it marks not only the hours but also the collective imagination. Andrik Langfield An invitation to self-consciousness Before electronics, we listened to time. For centuries, mankind measured the hours using simple but rigorous mechanisms, all based on the same principle: a regular movement, a repetitive sound. Ticking dates back to the 13th century, with the first European mechanical clocks. The heart of the device is based on the escapement and the balance wheel, the alternation of which creates an audible rhythm intended to mark time as much as to feel it. In the 19th century, Maelzel’s metronome applied this regularity to music, providing musicians with a reliable guide to tempo. Even today, some mechanical clocks, kitchen timers and digital applications still use this sound marker, synonymous with constancy. Ticking has become a cultural code associated with precision, control and the structured passage of time. In homes and on church steeples, it marks not only the hours but also the collective imagination. The ticks tocks as a stressful source In a quiet environment, the ticking attracts rather than guides the ear. This mechanical, regular sound attracts attention without releasing it. In a bedroom, waiting room or library, it ends up being a distraction. It interferes with thoughts, disturbs concentration and

Communicating with the “Daily” short story, your company tip

Communicating with the “Daily” short story, your company tip Audio 4 March 2025 Instagram Linkedin Mathilde Pottier Designer & Founder New York. City of the world, city of stories. Since 1851, it has also been home to The New York Times, a newspaper born of a simple but bold ambition: to inform with rigour. First printed for the streets of Manhattan, over the decades, it has become a global reference. Witness to conflict, revolution, progress and decline, its columns have seen history in the making. But with the advent of digital technology, the newspaper isn’t clinging to the past: it’s transforming itself. Podcasts, newsletters, interactive storytelling – news is changing voice, format, and pace. The Daily, with its calm voice and structured narratives, is the most striking example. It’s no longer just about informing, it’s about involving, telling and making people feel. From Manhattan to the smartphone, it is no longer just the news that counts but how it is experienced, communicated and felt. An editorial evolution, but above all a human one. From New York to great stories The New York Times beginning In 1851, a daily newspaper was born in New York with a clear ambition: to inform with rigour. The New York Times quickly became a global reference, driven by rigorous investigative journalism and a precise editorial line. For more than a century, it has been a witness to major events, from wars to elections, from scandals to social progress. But the advent of digital technology has upset the balance. Paper is in decline, usage is changing. The NYT is not resisting: it is adapting. It has invested in digital, rethought its business model and focused on quality content to build loyalty. Interactive infographics, personalised newsletters, narrative podcasts: the newspaper is inventing new formats without compromising its high standards. This shift towards editorial innovation is not an abandonment but a rethinking of continuity. Remaining a pillar of journalism also means knowing how to move without giving in, to evolve without getting lost. The news arriving differently In 2017, the New York Times observed a shift. News is no longer just read in a newspaper or on a screen. It’s listened to on the move, while cooking, and between meetings. Faced with the rise of audio formats and narrative podcasts, the newsroom is looking for a new entry point. The idea is not to summarise the news but to embody it differently. The challenge: a short, daily podcast with a recognisable voice, that of Michael Barbaro. The tone is set, the format is immersive, and the treatment is demanding. The project is called The Daily. It is aimed at those who want to understand without reading, who are looking for substance in a fluid format. More than a relay, it’s a new narrative channel designed for mobile, personal, fragmented use. It’s another way of staying informed, without abandoning complexity, but by changing the way we access it. The recipe Each episode follows a carefully planned sequence designed to capture, explain and retain. First, a short, direct introduction: a question asked, a mood set, a few seconds to set the scene. Then comes the heart of the story: a story told, often by a New York Times journalist, sometimes by a first-hand witness. The narration is fluid, punctuated by pauses, snippets and silences. The tone is calm, but the emotion flows. Gradually, the facts take shape, and the issues become clearer. We don’t recount the news, we tell it as it happened. At the end of each episode, a summary puts the events into context and provides the necessary perspective. The listener comes away with a clear understanding, but also with a feeling and a memory. The Daily transforms information into personal experience, making the complex accessible without oversimplifying it. A different way of informing: more human, more intimate. Humans and anecdotes relationship Our brain retains a short story better than anything The human brain is not an Excel spreadsheet. It’s not wired to store numbers, dates, or hard facts. On the other hand, it is wired to store stories, images, and emotions. When we listen to a story, several areas of the brain are activated simultaneously: memory, of course, but also centres linked to emotion, empathy, and imagination. This overlap makes the information more vivid and, therefore, more memorable. A statistic fades, and an anecdote remains. Saying, for example, that the sea level is rising by 3.3 mm a year leaves little trace. But telling the story of a family forced to leave their flooded home at every high tide creates an immediate connection. The information becomes concrete, embodied. That’s why storytelling is a powerful vector of understanding: it allows the brain to feel what it understands and, therefore, remember it better. Nong The short stories powers A well-formulated idea can be persuasive. But a well-chosen anecdote can change an opinion. In everyday life, as in the public sphere, short stories have a powerful influence. They bring an argument to life, conveying it not as theory but as a shared experience. Managers, advertisers, and journalists all know this: a story holds attention where argument can bore. In a debate, an anecdote creates a point of identification, a moment of pause into which the audience can project itself. A concrete example: in a political speech, a candidate can evoke a meeting with a citizen, a simple but emotionally charged scene. Far from being statistical, this narrative makes the message more human, closer and more credible. Anecdotes don’t prove anything – they make people feel. And that’s often where the strength of an idea lies. The virality of short stories in the digital age On social networks, the short story circulates better than the hard fact. Numerical information can go unnoticed. A well-written anecdote, on the other hand, is shared, commented on and remembered. That’s what formats like TikTok, Instagram Stories or Twitter promote: content that’s quick to read and easy to share. Personal stories replace analysis. It grabs