memorized exterior

I leave my apartment, wave thoughtfully to the doorman and fall through the day. The doorman will smile, religiously, although I have begun assuming he is inspired by an effort to draw attention away from what he has to say. I will never know what he is thinking all the afternoons I pass him—collecting my newspaper or guiltily neglecting the boxes filled with popcorn kernels that he constantly reminds me about. “In an hour, I promise!, I’ll be down to collect them”—but I won’t be, those popcorn kernels stick to my hands and make me want to throw up. I won’t know what he thinks about me when he sees the same face that signed in the night before, leave the following morning. He may not think of me at all. He may just smile because he has forgotten my name or because he has been told it is part of his pay (I doubt that, he is too genuine). I won’t ask and in truth, even if I did, I still would not know substantially more. Inside the Whitney Museum, I trace the edges of an exhibit in the backroom. I try and take my time because this is, in fact, what I came and have been waiting all summer for. But it is difficult spending too much time when the room is so small. I wonder whether the room is smaller than the photographs hanging at eye level and wrapping the walls like lace on the outside of a package. Six minutes go by—max—and I stand in the center of the room, trying to take in something more. I watch people watching me—they do not know I see them seeing me, but I do. They think I am interested in the exhibit, perhaps writing descriptive notes furiously for an article I am assigned to write—maybe for a job where you receive three cents for each word or maybe just for a course in school. They think I am moved, either personally or critically, but they do not know how under whelmed I feel. Instead, I stand there, less aware of my physical presence and more aware of my mental digressions. I realize how invested in curiosity I am by this doorman of mine. Then I realize how little I actually care, and admit that maybe if I continue this thought long enough, I will have something to write about—some point that will lead me into a more substantial perspective. I leave the exhibit and am emptied on to the third floor. The room is lined in mirrors, doors hang from the ceiling, opening and closing with a thrashing sound. Allegedly this is art. I don’t fight its title—just think what a big umbrella things seem to fall safely under nowadays. I do not have any desire to remain neutral and I most certainly do not have any desire to be a pompous muser. While at the Armory Show, I finally spoke over some pretentious observer who, baffled by the chosen work, claimed his own was just as good. I said I believed art—photography especially—was less about the one incident that was framed and more about the story and scenes that evolved around the photograph—the moments that were not captured—the mystery saved for the mind. Art says more about the eye behind the lens or canvas, than it does about the subject captured, depicted, established. My photography does not hang in the exhibit because I did not take advantage of the opportunity to do so—I did not seek out the sensational these scenes have extracted. Photographers need to be applauded and respected for the fact that they are explorers, opening their eye and leaving it open so viewers can see through it. I enter a space that projects the movement it is enclosed by. I do not see myself, but being that is a plea for instantaneous gratification of this generation, I am told there is a time delay—and all of a sudden I begin appearing before myself. I do not recognize my being there—how natural I am—how flawed and perfect. The images chase each other in circles around me and I try to follow their direction, their speed, twisting through time and slicing space with my effort. All the while, I wonder whether my doorman realized that I was wearing the exact same outfit I had worn yesterday. I wonder whether he thinks I did not see anyone yesterday and therefore, can continue to wear the same clothing until I do. I wonder whether he thinks I am seeing someone different today than I did yesterday, and this means I am living two separate lives. I wonder whether he begins to think that all the boxes that are being shipped to me are actually filled with the same leopard “thongtard” and red mini skirt that comes high above my navel. Or maybe he thinks I just do not care what I wear, when I wear it and how often I have it on—and maybe that is why he smiles. I stare into the screens and see two of my past selves chasing after each other. I am smiling in both. A woman standing next to me tells me how I am appearing everywhere and looking so good. “No, your image is appearing everywhere. Look!” and I point at her double. “Oh, wow, I guess I hadn’t seen myself.” I wander out of the exhibit and think about all the times the doorman and I have smiled to each other. Why? Because I think we both know we just get it—no one truly sees his self or memorizes his exterior.