At a recent dinner party, some friends and I mused about the people who have seen us through our windows. On a level akin to scholars or philosophers, we casually discussed some of the most basic theories of voyeurism. What is the likelihood that the person across the alley or avenue has looked in on us in our most vulnerable moments? What exactly have they seen? What do they think of us? Do we care?
Our answers varied pretty widely, some declaring that it doesn’t matter — let them look! — while others insisted on closing curtains in self defense. I maintain the belief that these mystery window neighbors are probably not gazing in my direction. Plus, if someone has happened upon a glance into my most confidential quarters (as a general rule, very few people are allowed into my bedroom), the chances of running into them again in the outside world are probably slim to none.
What I did not contribute during this specific dinner but am daring to divulge now is a habit and skill which I have recently developed of deep (though transient) observation. While it could be perceived as something similar to those suspected window-watchers, I ensure you that it is entirely innocent. It is a necessity to writing, and assists me in moving through life with a little bit more intentionality. I am simply and ever so slowly becoming more hyper-aware, noticing my surroundings in a way that allows me to fade into them, becoming one with the world around me. I am noticing patterns, and piecing together details.
There is something deeply intimate about this practice, particularly in the watching of strangers. It is because I can learn a lot this way, admittedly at times more than I feel I am entitled to know. It could be something as simple as the caffeine habits of someone who comes into my café job two to three times per day, or an overheard phone conversation on the street. Someone is fighting with a spouse, another person wonders if their friend is in need of help. I don’t know these people, nor their spouses and friends, but for a fleeting moment it feels like I do. And then, just as abruptly, it feels like perhaps I shouldn’t.
As I have grown gradually more comfortable with this act of watching, I have become equally aware of the fact that I am being seen in return. This, of course, is much less comfortable. I start to wonder which of my details have been studied by strangers, how much do how many people think that they know about me? How accurate are these interpretations?
The beautiful and terrifying truth is that I will never know. That is, unless they tell me. They must be willing to break the silent barrier of stranger-dom to say something like “you look familiar,” or “hey, don’t you work at [redacted] coffee shop?” (the subtext being “hey, I’ve noticed you, even if you haven’t noticed me”). It is a slightly unwelcome and yet somehow reassuring reminder that I am not, in fact, invisible. Try as I might, I have unsuccessfully blended into the wall or bench or sea of people behind me.
This fear of being seen is not isolated to the streets of Brooklyn, nor to the windowpanes across my backyard. It extends here, to this digital page. It is one thing to write into the privacy of a notebook, or to experiment with a new cooking style when I am my own taste tester. It is another thing entirely to transfer those words and flavors into public. To open myself up to the perceptions of the very world that I so deeply enjoy perceiving. To say willingly, though a bit reluctantly, “here I am. Watch me. I dare you.”
As difficult as this act of exposing has proven to be, it is also something that I find myself getting better at. While there is always a lingering anxiety about what others will think of my work or my thoughts, I am learning to care a bit less. I am metaphorically throwing open the curtains and allowing the peeping toms to have their way with me.
At a concert the other night, I watched as some friends of mine stood up on stage under bright spot lights. The room was small but full, and the audience stayed quiet, listening closely. The singer closed her eyes and opened her mouth wide, and the drummer kept his head down. I studied the guitarist’s face as they all became lost in the music, and then found myself gazing around at the crowd. Here was a collection of people, both strangers and vague acquaintances, who had agreed to be surveilled in their own way. Nodding and swaying along in a comfortable sea of anonymity, were we not all observing and being observed? And where is the harm in that?
Of course, most people in the bar were not looking around the way that I was. They were focused on the band, perhaps with an inkling in the back of their minds that someone, somewhere was noticing the way they moved with the rhythm (in this moment, I suppose I serve to validate that notion). In such a setting, I find my own instinct to observe begins to dance a fine line. I must ensure I pay enough attention to the main act — the performers who are practically begging to be looked at — while not ignoring the often equally interesting bystanders. When I am surrounded by folks like me who are trying to vanish, it feels somehow important not to let them.
Much like yoga or reading or playing tennis, the act of seeing and being seen is proving to be a practice. And a difficult one, at that. It requires patience, and a bit of trial and error. Baby steps composed of internal reflection and external guidance. It is not as simple as looking, but begs for a more comprehensive action — it is not enough to cast your eyes upon something, you must allow it to say something. To implant an impression. To embed a memory. To leave you wanting more, or maybe wishing you knew less.
As I write this now, sitting in the coffee shop that I frequent perhaps a bit too much, I realize that my caffeine habits are also public knowledge, try as I might to conceal them. Though I come here in an attempt to be unseen while my mind is free to wander, the baristas have probably noticed that I speak quietly. They may recognize that I always come alone, and am afraid to get up and ask for things like napkins.
When I look up from my page I am suddenly aware that the man sitting next to me was here the last time I was, reading the same book that sits on his table now. If the theory of unspoken intimacy stands, this means he might know that I come here to write. It is also true that he will probably never know what exactly it is that I am writing about.
The stranger inside of me hopes to keep it that way.