Month: June 2025

As this collaborative project comes to an end, I’ve been reflecting on what I’ve experienced—not just with Quest for Cup Noodles, but also in relation to my past sound design work.

Last year, I worked on a graduation animation film as a kind of “free commission”—a chance to practise and experiment. I wasn’t paid, but I didn’t feel uncomfortable. The director and I discussed changes, reviewed ideas, and even when she offered detailed feedback, I never felt it was overly demanding or intrusive. Our conversations felt like genuine artistic exchange rather than correction. It was collaborative in the simplest, clearest sense.

In contrast, this year’s project with Phyu was more complicated. There were many points of friction: miscommunications due to language and cultural nuances, unclear boundaries between artistic discussion and personal pressure, and differing expectations of responsibility and contribution. Even though the technical scope of the project was smaller than last year (only 1’30” compared to 5 minutes), it was much more emotionally exhausting.

At times, I felt reduced to a technician—asked to make repeated revisions for reasons that felt more about presentation deadlines than artistic needs. It challenged my patience and made me question what collaboration should feel like. The idea of “collaboration not commission,” which Hannah repeated often, started to mean something real to me. I began to understand that a successful collaboration requires more than just clear instructions or polite requests—it needs respect, timing, empathy, and trust in each other’s autonomy.

Still, I don’t see this project as a failure. In fact, it taught me more than my previous one. It exposed my discomfort with being rushed, my sensitivity to passive pressure, and my struggle with letting go of control. It also reminded me that not every collaboration will feel smooth, and not every creative partner will think the way I do. But these tensions are part of the process—they help define what kind of collaborator I want to be in the future.

Looking ahead, I still want to pursue sound design—especially interactive sound for games. But I want to be more intentional with the people I work with. I want creative relationships that are built on dialogue, not just delivery. I want to feel trusted and to extend that trust to others.

Tonight I attended a live performance titled Abyss by Bryan Wu and Jacob Zang. It was Jacob’s graduation piece as a dancer, with Bryan responsible for all aspects of sound. The entire performance lasted around 40 minutes, unfolding in a series of abstract chapters. Bryan not only created a pre-programmed soundtrack but also performed live using a modular synth, blending in real-time microphone input. There was a physicality to the sound—immediate, responsive, and alive.

The performance description struck me deeply:

“I got lost in the brightness, heard myself shatter in the silence… I left my body in reality, while my soul kept wandering. No beginning, no end. Only a quiet resistance as I slowly sink.”

Thematically, it reflected on chaos, longing, disillusionment, and resistance—a journey from birth to urban alienation, from containment to defiance. But what stood out to me even more than the narrative was their collaborative dynamic. The dancer and the sound artist weren’t just aligning cues—they were influencing each other moment by moment, sculpting the experience live. Their trust in each other’s instincts made space for uncertainty, and that space was full of possibility.

Watching Abyss made me reflect on my own project with Phyu. In contrast to this improvisational trust between Bryan and Jacob, our process was much more rigid and sometimes felt asymmetrical. While I understand our collaboration is shaped by different conditions (remote communication, time constraints, grading criteria), I still longed for the kind of mutual respect and creative freedom that Abyss demonstrated.

It reminded me that real collaboration isn’t just about assigning tasks or meeting deadlines. It’s about allowing the other person to surprise you. It’s about making space for uncertainty—and being okay with not having full control.

If I take something forward from both this performance and my own experience, it’s this: trust is the core of creative collaboration. Not just politeness or professionalism, but deep trust in each other’s intentions, voice, and process. That’s something I want to explore more in future projects—not just to produce a better outcome.

It’s two days before our final submission, and things didn’t go as I hoped.

I’d been waiting for a final meeting with Phyu to go over the animation and confirm sound details before I did the last mix. This discussion was important—sound mixing depends heavily on finalized visuals, and I wanted to make sure everything was in sync. But just before the meeting, she told me she had food poisoning and suggested we do the check-in over the phone instead.

We’ve tried online/phone meetings before, and they don’t work for this kind of sound-based project—you simply can’t hear properly through small speakers and compression. So I politely declined and suggested we both submit the current versions separately, since her sound isn’t being graded and my sound is assessed independently of her animation. She agreed… kind of.

What surprised me was that she asked me to redo the sound again in 2–3 weeks, before her screening. And even though I felt uncomfortable with that request—especially so close to the actual deadline—I still agreed, partly out of responsibility and partly because it felt like I should. But in truth, I don’t think I should have. Or at least, I should have been clearer about my limits.

Throughout our collaboration, Phyu has politely—but persistently—pushed for repeated revisions, sometimes even when her animation wasn’t finalized. I had already finished the first sound draft, yet she asked for minor, often unnecessary tweaks, especially to prepare for a presentation where sound wasn’t even graded. I understand wanting to impress during a pitch, but being asked to repeatedly rework things that depend on visuals she hasn’t finished felt… unfair. It’s not about workload—it’s about being asked to spend time on things that aren’t ready, or won’t be used.

Her tone is always polite, but the pressure is still there. And while I know she’s not trying to make me uncomfortable, the impact is real: it made me question whether my time, boundaries, and creative process were being respected.

This whole experience reminded me of what our tutor Hannah said: “Collaboration is not commission.”

That line has been echoing in my head. At times during this project, it has felt less like a collaboration between equals and more like fulfilling someone else’s vision under their timeline. And when that happens—even with the best intentions—it becomes hard to feel creatively invested.

Still, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned the importance of clear communication. I’ve learned to recognise when politeness masks pressure. And most importantly, I’ve learned that setting boundaries isn’t unprofessional—it’s part of being a professional.

As I wrap up this submission, I feel a mix of relief, frustration, and pride. I may revisit the sound again for her screening, but if I do, it will be on my own terms, not just out of obligation.

After our recording session, I initially thought there wouldn’t be much left for me to do. The plan was for Phyu to finalize the animation timing, and I would then make detailed adjustments to sync and refine the sound accordingly. However, what followed turned out to be the most frustrating part of the collaboration so far.

Phyu sent me the latest version of the animation with most of the in-betweens in place and asked for the voiceover file. I sent it, but she replied that she couldn’t hear the lines. To clarify, I then sent her a version with only the voiceover track—but after that, she went silent.

This wasn’t the first time. I had also sent her a more developed version of the audio, with everything generally edited. Again, she disappeared. (We use Discord to communicate, and it shows online status—every time she stopped responding, her status would switch to invisible.) When she finally reappeared two days later, she messaged me not with feedback but with corrections and another meeting request—as if we had never paused communication.

This version of the project she returned to me had been directly edited using my audio file, with increased gain levels that caused clipping and distortion. I understand that people often prefer louder audio for clarity or impact, and that some sounds can be hard to describe with words, but the decision to directly edit my file without discussion made me feel disrespected. Not because of creative disagreement, but because the collaborative process seemed to be replaced with silent corrections.

That’s when something Hannah once said in class really echoed for me:

These phrases suddenly made more sense. I realized how much smoother collaboration can be when both sides remain open, curious, and communicative, rather than falling into a dynamic where one gives instructions and the other executes. I’ve noticed that when I feel proud of my work and there’s room for mutual discussion, I’m open to feedback—even to disagreement. But when the feedback feels like a top-down correction with little explanation, it starts to resemble a commission rather than a collaboration.

That’s not what I signed up for—and it’s not what I want to create.

Despite the emotional turbulence, this experience has helped me think more deeply about what true creative collaboration means. It’s not just about merging skills—it’s about building trust, navigating conflict with care, and creating a shared language when words (and sounds) fall short.

Recording session!

This week, Phyu and I booked a session in the recording room to capture both foley sounds and voiceovers for The Quest for Cup Noodles. I’ve always found this space a bit overwhelming—mostly because of the technical setup. Waking up all the equipment—microphones, interfaces, monitors—can feel like a battle before the actual work even begins.

Originally, we had a creative plan to use an online Animal Crossing-style text-to-speech adapter to generate character voices. The idea was to evoke that playful, gibberish-like speech typical of games like Animal Crossing. Unfortunately, when we tried to run the code, it didn’t work. With limited time and no working alternative, we made a quick decision to record our own mimicked versions of the sound style instead. It wasn’t exactly what we’d planned, but it actually led to some spontaneous and fun results.

The session itself got off to a rough start. One of the biggest obstacles was a technical misconnection between the composing room and the recording room, which meant that Phyu and I couldn’t hear or communicate with each other properly. I couldn’t send her instructions, and she couldn’t hear any playback. Thankfully, Lou and Annie stepped in to help troubleshoot. After some time, Lou finally diagnosed the problem—but by then, we only had ten minutes leftin our scheduled slot.

Desperate to make the most of it, we asked the next person who had booked the room if he could give us a brief extension. Luckily, he agreed, and we managed to record everything we needed within that short window.

For the foley recording, we used whatever props we could find in the studio. A piece of fabric was used to simulate the sound of someone stretching in a chair, while a metal desk lamp gave us a satisfying metallic clunk to represent the click of a door lock. This part of the session reminded me how much fun it can be to work with everyday objects, especially when sound design calls for a bit of inventiveness and abstraction.

Despite all the complications, this session taught me a lot—not only about sound recording but also about problem-solving under pressure. It also reinforced a recurring theme in this collaboration: things rarely go according to plan, but that’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes, the improvisations end up being more memorable than the original idea.

One of the biggest concerns I had going into this project was the background music. In my previous animation collaboration, the director had brought in a composer specifically for the music, so I was responsible only for the sound design and foley work. This time, however, Phyu didn’t manage to find a composer, and after some discussion, I decided to step up and give it a try myself.

To be honest, my background in music is quite limited. I’ve never written a full piece of music before—at least not something I would confidently describe as having real musicality or harmony. My previous experiments with sound involved sample manipulation and learning the basics of DAWs, but that was more about sound design than composition. While I can play instruments, I’ve never learned how to structure or compose music from scratch.

That made this a huge step for me.

The style we were aiming for was pixel-art-inspired—a retro, slightly nostalgic but light and healing video game vibe. For the supermarket scene, where the protagonist helps an elderly woman as if completing a game mission, I created a short 8-bar loop with a basic drum pattern and lead melody. Then I experimented with automated reverb to give the piece a more playful and slightly surreal atmosphere, aligning it with the quirky visual style and game-like narrative.

Surprisingly, the clip worked really well with the scene. It complemented the timing, mood, and character logic in a way that made the moment feel cohesive and engaging. This success has given me a small but meaningful boost in confidence—I realized that even a simple composition can be effective when it supports the story and visual rhythm.

Looking ahead, Phyu and I are planning to use a drum-and-bass-inspired sound for the final scene. It will be more energetic to match the climax of the animation.

Although music composition is still unfamiliar territory for me, I’m glad I took this leap. And even if my tools are still simple, they’re starting to feel more expressive in my hands.

This week marked a turning point in my collaboration with Phyu. After sharing the first sound draft, she expressed her appreciation for the work, and we agreed to meet in person to discuss revisions—particularly sounds where we had differing opinions. Although our collaboration has been respectful and polite, I found myself occasionally feeling uncomfortable or even slightly offended. This led me to reflect more deeply on how cultural background, communication style, and past experiences shape our perception of collaboration.

Up until now, most of our communication has happened through text messages, and this has proven to be more complex than I expected. Not only is English a second language for me, but I also find the interpretation of emojis challenging. For example, when Phyu used the emoji while asking about our meeting location or progress, I felt uneasy. In my cultural context, that emoji often conveys frustration, annoyance, or sarcasm—whereas I later realized it’s generally used much more casually in English-speaking contexts, to express awkwardness or politeness.

One moment that stood out was when Phyu checked in about the progress a few days before the agreed date—during spring break. Although she reassured me that she wasn’t trying to rush me, I still felt pressured. Rationally, I understand that I’m new to her, and without regular updates, she might feel uncertain about my reliability. But emotionally, I felt like I was being judged before I’d missed any deadlines.

This discomfort made me look inward. I realized my reaction wasn’t just about Phyu’s message—it was rooted in the educational environment I grew up in, where even small mistakes were often exaggerated by teachers or parents. I was taught that being late or underperforming could have catastrophic consequences—like ruining the whole class’s achievements. Those early experiences have left a lasting mark, and I now see how easily I can feel regressed when I sense similar dynamics, even if they’re not truly present. I’m grateful for this collaboration with Phyu because it’s helping me become more aware of these emotional patterns.

Despite the internal tension, I delivered the work on time, which brought a real sense of relief. Ironically, we couldn’t meet in person as planned because Phyu’s class was canceled, and she decided to stay home—just like her animation’s protagonist, who rarely leaves the house! We had an online meeting instead, which helped us resolve a few key issues, though some topics remained unclear. One thing I noticed was that the discussion still felt somewhat one-sided: Phyu mostly shared her own thoughts without asking for mine, and while I didn’t strongly disagree with her suggestions, I felt more like a service provider than an equal collaborator.

That said, I recognize this may not be intentional. Interdisciplinary collaborations are tricky—especially when each person is used to different workflows and communication norms. We’ve now scheduled our next meeting to take place in the recording studio, where we’ll work on foley recording and voiceovers together. I’m hoping that being in the same physical space will open up a more fluid, co-creative dynamic.

This week, Phyu shared the finalised plot for her animation project, The Quest for Cup Noodles. We went over our key production dates and outlined our next steps: she would prepare the first animatic, and I would begin working on my first sound draft.

Phyu had thoughtfully prepared a detailed written description of the scenes and her ideas for the sound, which I appreciated. However, I found myself reflecting on the nature of collaboration. For me, collaboration is not simply about executing another person’s vision—it’s about contributing creatively and making shared decisions. If everything is prescribed in advance, it starts to feel more like a commission than a partnership.

With that in mind, I deliberately chose not to follow her notes too closely, and instead responded to the visuals and narrative in my own way. I based my sound decisions on my personal interpretation of the scene’s pacing, emotional tone, and the physicality of the character’s movements.

Despite being only 1 minute and 30 seconds long, this project has proven to be more challenging than the 5-minute animation I worked on last year. The shorter runtime doesn’t reduce the complexity—in fact, the rubber hose animation style introduces a new level of difficulty. The stylized and elastic motion calls for more dynamic, exaggerated foley, and sometimes even inventive or surreal sound design that goes beyond realism. This has really tested my imagination and flexibility as a sound designer.

When I sent Phyu the very first rough sound draft, I felt surprisingly nervous. It almost felt like I was handing in an assignment to a teacher rather than sharing work with a collaborator. This reminded me that early creative stages are vulnerable, especially when working across disciplines. But it also showed me how important trust and openness are in this kind of process.

Here’s the Padlet Phyu has been using to document the progress of The Quest for Cup Noodles. It’s a helpful reference for tracking our evolving collaboration.