Where Sound and Light Intersect: My Experience with Chromesthesia
Chromesthesia, a neurological phenomenon in which sounds trigger involuntary visuals, has greatly shaped my worldview. Using music as a tool to explore this condition became the way that I learned to understand myself.
Written by Kasey Clarke
A painting of visualizations of David Bowie’s Life on Mars by synesthetic artist Melissa McCracken. Image courtesy of Broadly
Music to me is not just music. That may be a sentiment that any music lover can relate to. For most people, certain songs evoke memories of karaoke at middle school sleepovers, or summer road trips, or teenage heartbreak. For me, every song produces that involuntary rush of emotion that comes with a memory, but it’s also accompanied by vibrant washes of color that intermingle as the music shifts. Every time I hear sound, I see it too.
I have sound-color synesthesia. This means that noises I process through hearing also trigger a corresponding visual. Visual effects from synesthesia occur in two forms: projective and associative. Projective synesthesia is more easily understood but it is also more inhibitory to daily life. It is a phenomenon in which sounds elicit chromatic reactions directly onto someone’s field of vision. Associative chromesthesia, the exact condition I have, is less straightforward.
Chromesthesia is the term used for a cross-wiring of the senses that has to do with visual stimuli. Associative synesthesia does not result in shapes appearing in an individual’s sight, but rather an intrusive recall of colors or forms provoked by sound. Although I don’t see colors in my actual field of vision, I imagine the associations reflexively in a way that is hard to ignore.
My chromesthesia is most prevalent when I listen to music. Human voices and percussive instruments evoke visceral, defined shapes or flashes of light. Ambient and synthesized noises produce vaguer, formless senses of color in the periphery of my mind. I visualize sound as geometric and organic forms that react to changes in pitch or tone. When these elements are combined into a song, it’s as if all the morphing objects are suspended together in iridescent liquid that ebbs and flows with the music. The more layered a song is, the more intricate and active my visualizations are.
Audiovisual albums such as Beach Houses’ “7”, Animal Collective’s “Tangerine Reef” and Bon Iver’s self-titled album are referential of synesthetic sensations and to some extent coincide with my own. These albums use videos to represent songs through abstract shapes rather than using a narrative or people like a typical music video would. As the songs shift, the visuals also warp and change, mimicking the sensation of listening to music felt by synesthetes.
Consistency is a main characteristic of observed synesthesia. Although synesthetes will recall the same colors with each time they hear a certain sound, research has suggested that each person’s experience is wholly unique.
A rendering created on Synesthesia Live, a visualization software available on Vimeo created by Austin artists and coders. Courtesy of Vimeo
The individuality of my chromesthesia is the best and worst thing about it. To some extent, it is comforting to have something completely to myself. However, there’s nothing quite as isolating as asking, “You know when you just aren’t in the mood for a yellow song?” to a group of friends and being answered with a set of blank stares. The period in which I realized my senses functioned differently was also a period of great frustration. I struggled to convey the emotions that I perceived through sound and color to others. The words I chose felt inadequate to describe the multisensory emotional units I had always processed information through. I resented being different. What use is having an experience if you have no way to share it?
Coming to terms with this loneliness has been intertwined with the journey of my self-discovery and the development of my music taste. As I entered the typical coming-of-age teen era and became overly preoccupied with my self-definition, I started to revel in things that were uniquely my own. Simultaneously, I became more interested in music. Learning to embrace my idiosyncrasies pushed me towards more unique artists across a wide breadth of genres. I was ravenous for new sounds and musical techniques that could create new visual combinations in my mind. Whether I thought the songs I dredged up in the depths of bandcamp were good or not, they taught me to see the merit in pursuing a completely new voice.
Chromesthesia has also stretched the ways I think about communication. The associations I perceive are so inherently real to me I couldn’t imagine life without them. I can think of a song and feel it like a weight in my hand. Even though there is no denying the visuals are there, I also know I could never pass them along to someone else. Trying to understand, in a very literal sense, that other people do not see sound in the same way I do has made me more empathetic to others’ experiences and more skeptical of my own perception. I can’t pinpoint exactly when I realized I was a synesthete; I just learned over time what was common of other people’s thought and what wasn’t. As head-spinning as it was to fathom that I sense a different reality, the disorienting truth is there is no singular, common perception experienced by everyone.
Regardless of the effect of chromesthesia, the driving force of my self-discovery has always been music. It was the vehicle I used to make sense of my perception when I couldn’t compare it to anything else. The colors I see are just an additional layer of the artistry that is already there, in which musicians can take their ideas, translate them into music, and deliver to listeners a piece of their lives.