Stefano Fumagalli

On a crisp November morning, I went out for a run, leaving the city's slumber behind and pushing into the woods above. The sharp air nips at my cheeks and exposed legs as I climb a path that quickly winds upward, revealing a landscape that unfolds like a theater curtain. I watch the dawn's spectacle: golden rays first caress the mountain peaks, then lazily slide across rooftops and a lake already dotted with daring kitesurfers, illuminating every corner of the city below.

The climb starts to burn in my muscles. My breathing becomes more intense, transforming into a rhythmic companion to the wind whistling past my ears - a primitive, physical melody of movement. As the path weaves through denser woods, each step adds its own soundtrack: dry leaves crackle underneath my feet like tiny fireworks, offering that unique, soft resistance only an autumn carpet can provide. Occasionally, a rock sliding beneath me produces a grainy friction sound that seems to reverberate through my bones and into my teeth.

Despite the stopwatch ticking on my wrist and my training schedule buzzing in my mind, something forces me to pause. It's a bend in the path, exposed on a slope, opening like a natural balcony overlooking the valley. I allow myself a moment of stillness, letting my breath settle into its natural rhythm while absorbing the raw energy and beauty surrounding me.

The sounds around me begin to fade, as if someone were gradually turning down the world's volume. The distant river's roar, a lone bird's chirp, leaves drifting to the ground - all blend into a delicate background noise. My attention turns inward: my breath becomes a gentle breeze passing through me, air flowing like an underground river. My mind, finally free from its constant chatter, opens into a space of crystalline calm. My heartbeat slows, synchronizing with the silent pulse of nature around me. For a few precious moments, I feel completely integrated into the landscape, as if the boundaries between myself and the world have dissolved.

When I start running again, it's as if my ears have awakened from a deep sleep. Every sound reaches me with startling clarity, like I'm hearing the world for the first time. My hearing, purified by that moment of silence, catches nuances previously invisible. Sounds that once formed a monotonous background now reveal themselves as intricate, ever-changing acoustic landscapes. It's as if silence has not just cleansed my thoughts, but recalibrated my entire sensory perception, allowing me to experience the world with newfound freshness.

Today, I want to explore a paradox at the heart of music: silence - that seemingly empty space that can, as I discovered this morning, speak more powerfully than a thousand sounds.

As a musician, I've often reflected on this intangible presence that is far more than mere emptiness. It is the canvas on which we paint our notes, the white space between words in a book, the light streaming through a large window that gives architectural space its meaning. As a producer and composer, I've learned that silence isn't about the absence of sound, but a fertile ground of potential, a moment pregnant with musical possibility.

This awareness deepens when we step away from urban noise and immerse ourselves in nature. Here, silence takes on an almost sacred quality. It's no longer just a musical pause, but an act of respect - a way of truly listening to the natural world around us. As temporary guests in this environment, our silence becomes a form of reverence, a method of tuning into the complex symphony of nature.

"Silence is the element in which great things are formed," Leonard Bernstein once said.

In silence, we discover an unexpected sonic richness: the rustle of leaves, bird songs, water's murmur. It's a paradoxically full silence, rich with layers of meaning and subtle vibrations.

Yet we live in an era that's allergic to silence. Modern humans seem to suffer from an acoustic horror vacui: we flood every sonic space with background music, digital notifications, endless conversations, podcasts, constantly running radios. It's as if silence terrifies us - a sonic mirror forcing us to confront our inner selves, our deepest thoughts, our unspoken anxieties. Noise becomes our security blanket, a way to avoid genuine self-reflection.

This compulsive noise has consequences far beyond our personal experience. Outdoor music events are altering entire ecosystem sound landscapes. Animals, whose behaviors evolved in harmony with natural soundscapes, now face dramatically altered acoustic environments. Their reproductive habits, migration patterns, communication - all are being rewritten by our sonic interventions. The human cost is equally profound. Constant noise doesn't just rob us of mental clarity; it manifests in tangible health impacts. Epidemiological studies link noise pollution to chronic fatigue, reduced concentration, increased stress, and poor sleep quality. Our rejection of silence becomes a subtle form of violence against both environment and ourselves. The World Health Organization estimates that in Western Europe alone, over one million years of healthy life are lost each year due to noise pollution.

Silence also has a more severe, almost brutal face - that deafening quiet accompanying life's most dramatic moments, when words fail and the world seems to crystallize in a soundless instant. A silence more eloquent than any musical score, reminding us of our fundamental vulnerability.

As musicians and humans, we must learn to distinguish between different silences - just as a painter learns to recognize infinite color nuances. There's the contemplative silence of nature, the tense silence of anticipation, the sacred silence of reflection, the dramatic silence of pain.

Silence is ecology. It is respect. It is possibility. The space where music breathes, where thoughts take shape, where nature speaks its primordial language. In an increasingly noisy world, rediscovering silence isn't just an artistic act - it's a spiritual, mental, and environmental necessity.

"Silence is the only friend that will never betray you," Keith Jarrett whispers to his piano. In silence, we find not just the source of music, but a path back to ourselves and the world around us - a way to listen to sounds and music with rediscovered clarity.

References

• Battisti, C., et al. (2023). “Changes in bird assemblages following an outdoor music festival: A BACI monitoring from central Italy.” Environmental Pollution.
• Francis, C.D., Barber, J.R. (2013). “A framework for understanding noise impacts on wildlife: an urgent conservation priority.” Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment.

• Basner, M., et al. (2014). “Auditory and non-auditory effects of noise on health.” The Lancet, 383(9925), 1325-1332.
• Münzel, T., et al. (2018). “Environmental Noise and the Cardiovascular System.” Journal of the American College of Cardiology, 71(6), 688-697.
• John Cage, "Silence" , 1961