Sonaur: Chasing Inspiration Over Product Process

“…a wind chime is basically a simple piece of generative music.”

In early October, I was out for my daily early morning walk with my dog. Earbuds in, podcast playing — not my usual political or tech commentary, but an interview with record producer and ambient music icon Brian Eno. I wasn’t looking for inspiration, but it was hunting me.

The interview was fascinating. Then Eno described a wind chime, and I was struck.

Each chime has a fixed pitch. The pitch never changes. What changes is the wind — when it blows, the direction, how hard, how often. You can’t say a composer authored a specific wind chime performance, only that they built the system from which it emerged. A wind chime, he said, is “basically a simple piece of generative music.”

That idea sparked something inside of me. Not a product concept per se. Not as a startup idea. As an expression of creativity, and a question:

What if I could build a digital version of that wind chime — something where real-world data acted as the wind, and sound emerged as a byproduct of conditions rather than pre-determination?

As soon as I got home, I wrote this into my Notes app:

“A digital art project — like a zen garden — where ambient tones are meant to exist in the moment of creation, not be recorded and replayed.”

That sentence wasn’t scoped, validated, or practical — but it tapped into my passions: art, technology, music, experimentation, serendipity. I couldn’t let it go.

Choosing instinct over process

Nearly every product I’ve worked on professionally began the same way: research, interviews, frameworks, problem statements, JTBD, MVP, synthesis, alignment. This time was different.

I didn’t talk to users. I didn’t define a problem. I didn’t write a brief. I didn’t ask whether anyone else wanted this. I needed it, and that was enough.

Above all, I felt compelled to make something that I wanted to listen to. I wanted to create an environment. Something encompassing that didn’t ask for attention or optimization. Something I could exist inside for long stretches without noticing repetition or structure. Something other artists I admire could also contribute to and benefit from.

I decided I would let my instincts guide me above process. I embraced the chance that I could end up with nothing more than a private experiment. I didn’t care. The first questions weren’t “what’s the TAM?” or, “what problem is this solving?” It was simpler and more personal: Can I build the sonic environment that I’ve imagined, and would I want to stay with it once it existed?

Building the first wind chime

I started with the most important piece: the sound.

I composed a small set of ambient samples — approximately five to thirty seconds each — designed to compliment each other no matter the order. These were the “chimes.” I gave the collection a name: Ethereal.

Using Tone.js, I built a system that randomly triggered those samples. No structure. No progression. Just spacing, overlap, and chance. At first, it didn’t work. Too loud. Too sparse. Too much at once… Then slowly, with enough adjustment to timing, volume, and crossfades, it started to cohere. Not as individual musical tones, as an atmosphere.

Once I could leave it playing for extended periods, that was a signal that I was on the right track. After achieving that, I introduced the wind, i.e., the data.

I mapped weather variables like temperature, humidity, wind speed, cloud cover, pressure, UV index, and precipitation to each individual sample and tuned playback behaviors. Weather data began triggering the samples. I spent hours listening and fine tuning. Walking away and coming back. Letting it run while I worked. Letting it play while I walked.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t just testing anymore. I was listening because I enjoyed it.

Silence, confusion, and a necessary correction

When I began sharing the web prototype publicly, the feedback was generous and immediately useful. Several listeners embraced the concept while sharing a similar sentiment:

“I thought it wasn’t working at first.”

The system intentionally allowed for silence. Musically, it made sense (wind chimes aren’t always ringing). Experientially, it broke expectations and the listeners’ immersion. Silence took people out of the experience. It didn’t feel like an intentional pause. It made them question whether the system was working. It felt like a bug.

Through the feedback I realized something subtle but vitally important: this listening experience couldn’t behave exactly like recorded music. Any moment that pulled the listener out of presence, making them second-guess whether the system was still playing, broke the spell. The palettes needed sonic continuity.

Early Sonaur web proof of concept featuring the Ethereal and Lush palettes

Discovering the foundation layer

Based on the feedback, and my own listening preferences, I built a second palette called Lush with an intentionally different structure. Instead of only the seven event-based samples, I added long, continuous foundation layers. These samples were slow-moving ambient beds that continuously played (aligned with temperature ranges), eliminating any prolonged silences. Shorter event samples still played, but they complimented the continual foundational sound.

The difference was immediate. I could settle into it. The samples stopped announcing themselves, stopped asking to be evaluated. The soundscape cohesively and continuously flowed. This was the experience I’d imagined when I heard Eno describe the wind chime.

A couple weeks after adding the Lush palette, the listening data confirmed my own feelings. Listeners were staying with Lush nearly ten times longer than the original Ethereal palette, even though Ethereal was still the default option. It was settled, I recomposed and relaunched Ethereal to match the same 10-sample foundation-layer architecture. From that point on, every sonic palette would follow the same principles. This was a big decision; creating this architectural standard has long-term consequences in future phases of the project.

A visualization of how variables from the weather API trigger the audio samples in the Sonaur sonic palettes

After recomposing Ethereal to match the 10-sample structure of Lush, I found myself staying with the experience longer and longer. The palettes, along with the natural variation driven by weather from any location in the world, created a sonic environment that offered the right balance of ambience and novelty without the predictive repetition where most “Chill” or focus music playlists breakdown. Once I had proven I could create the generative system and sonic environment I’d imagined, it was time to tackle the next challenge.

From web prototype to art installation

From the very beginning, I imagined this as an iOS app. The web prototype proved it could sound great, but it wasn’t something I could easily take with me. I wanted to start the sound, lock my phone, put it in my pocket, and let the world shape what I heard as I moved through it.

That meant rebuilding everything for a new platform I’d never fully worked in before: new deployment & testing process, UI & interaction model, AVAudioEngine. But constraints can drive creative decisions. I made hard choices to strip the interface down to the bare minimum required to support listening and usability. Fewer controls. Fewer decisions. Less visual noise. My goal: the UI needed to simultaneously disappear and be beautiful.

(Left) An early, directional design for the Sonaur interface for iOS, inspired by the iOS Weather app next to the final version 1.0 iOS app design (Right)

The iOS Weather app became an unexpected interaction design reference. Swiping between locations feels intuitive and tactile. That gesture became the model for swiping between sonic palettes. The final iOS UI remained remarkably close to my initial design concept.

When I said I didn’t follow a process, that was an exaggeration. I’ve been a professional product designer for so long, the process is second nature. I can’t ignore it completely. The biggest difference in this case was that I was guided purely by my own inspiration and taste — building an experience for my enjoyment above all. If the project resonates with others, fantastic. But my personal creative vision remains the driving force.

Where inspiration led

On December 1, I archived my first build in the App Store to test and share with a close group of friends & family. On December 31 — less than three months from listening to that interview with Brian Eno— I launched Sonaur, the first iOS app that I’d designed and built completely on my own. The fact that people all over the world are downloading and using it is a signal that sometimes the most honest brief is your own taste.

Sonaur brand & promo image for the App Store

Sonaur isn’t another chill playlist. It’s not a productivity tool. It’s an art installation — a sonic environment listeners can step into and stay with. Real musicians create the sounds. Real-world data shapes how they unfold.

As the project grows, I intend to keep it intentionally constrained. Fewer features. Deeper listening. More artists. More data sources. Endless variation.

I built Sonaur by relentlessly chasing an idea instead of following a roadmap. If the project resonates with you, I’m glad. If not, that’s okay too. I made it because I couldn’t ignore it.