Looking back at the work I have created during my BA Sound Arts course, I realise that much of it was designed for a very specific audience: my tutors, my peers, and the contained environment of a university gallery space. My first-year piece, which connected thread to a speaker so that tempo vibrated through the thread for the hard-of-hearing community, was exhibited primarily to fellow students. My second-year therapeutic sound installation, combining singing bowls, rain tubes, and electronically analysed frequencies for mental health, was experienced by perhaps fifty people. My final-year feminist critique of uneconomic labour was seen by a similarly limited circle. But if I step outside the BA bubble, how might this work be received by a wider public? And can I ever become like Kusama or Zimoun? These are the questions that will define my next five years.
How My Work Could Reach a Wider Public
My first-year vibration-and-thread piece has clear potential beyond academia. The hard-of-hearing community is not a niche audience—it is a substantial population. According to the World Health Organization, over 1.5 billion people globally experience some degree of hearing loss. My piece offered a way to experience music through tactile vibration, translated through physical thread. This could be installed in public spaces: museums, community centres, hospitals, or even music festivals seeking accessible design. The wider public, many of whom have never considered how sound can be felt rather than heard, would encounter my work not as abstract art but as a functional, empathetic intervention. That shifts the reception from “interesting” to “meaningful.”
My second-year therapeutic sound work addresses an even larger audience. Mental health is no longer a private struggle discussed in whispers—it is a global crisis. The WHO reports that depression affects over 280 million people worldwide. My combination of traditional instruments (singing bowls, rain tubes) with electronically analysed relaxation frequencies sits at the intersection of art, wellness, and healthcare. A wider public—particularly in cities like Hong Kong, Beijing, and London, where stress and burnout are endemic—would receive this work not as experimental sound art but as a practical tool for self-care. I could imagine my installations in corporate wellness spaces, therapy clinics, or public parks designed for mental restoration.
My final-year feminist work on uneconomic labour—the unpaid, invisible work disproportionately performed by women—addresses a political reality that resonates far beyond the art world. A wider public, particularly working mothers, caregivers, and social justice advocates, would recognise themselves in my critique. This work could be exhibited in public squares, metro stations, or community centres, not just galleries. The reception would be less about aesthetic pleasure and more about recognition and solidarity.
Can I Become Like Kusama or Zimoun?
The honest answer is: not exactly, and that is not the right goal. Kusama had a unique combination of obsessive compulsion, institutional rejection followed by late-career embrace, and a willingness to commercialise through luxury fashion. Zimoun had a self-taught technical precision, a minimalist aesthetic, and a decade of underground performance before institutional recognition. I am neither Kusama nor Zimoun. I am a multidisciplinary artist who moves between sound, textile, drawing, 3D design, dance, and now coding. My path will be different.
But I can learn from them. From Kusama, I learn that commercial collaboration does not have to mean selling out. If Louis Vuitton called, I would answer—not for the money alone, but because strategic partnerships can amplify a critical message to millions. From Zimoun, I learn that formal education is not the only credential. My sound art degree is valuable, but my willingness to teach myself coding for my graduation showcase is equally important. Zimoun’s career proves that obsessive curiosity and self-directed production can build an international practice.
What Area Can I Develop Into?
Looking at my existing body of work, three development paths emerge clearly.
First, accessible design and inclusive technology. My hard-of-hearing piece was a prototype. I could develop this into a product or installation series focused on tactile sound experiences for disabled communities. This would blend my sound art skills with design thinking, user research, and potentially product development. Companies like Google’s Accessibility Team or museums seeking inclusive exhibitions would be natural partners.
Second, therapeutic sound and wellness technology. My mental health piece was small in scale but large in potential. With further training in sound therapy, psychology, or human-computer interaction, I could develop sound installations for hospitals, therapy centres, or digital wellness apps. The market for mental health technology is growing rapidly. My artistic background gives me an advantage over purely clinical approaches because I understand experience, not just efficacy.
Third, socially critical public art. My feminist uneconomic labour piece could scale up. With training in curatorial practice, public art administration, or social practice, I could produce large-scale interventions in public spaces—sound installations in metro stations, textile works in shopping centres, or multi-channel audio in housing estates. This path would lead toward museums, biennials, and public art commissions.
Conclusion
My work can absolutely reach a wider public—not because it is “better” than other student work, but because it addresses real human needs: accessibility, mental health, and social justice. I will not become Kusama or Zimoun. I will become the first version of myself. And that version is heading toward accessible design, therapeutic sound, or socially critical public art. The BA Sound Arts course gave me the tools. Now I need to choose which audience to serve first.