Creators always exercise their power of observation, and the best can leverage their skills to produce great masterpieces of art, music or literature. But observing one’s surroundings means that someone is the object of study. And some people hate being watched, or realizing a passenger sitting across from them on the train is sketching their likeness in a little notebook.
At some point during this process every artist experiences awkwardness while (quietly) people-watching. When I do this I try not to seem like a stalker, because God forbid I make eye contact with the person I’m drawing.
Just two days ago O. and I took a trip down to New York City to look for work. New York City — or any big city — is a sensualist’s dream come true. There’s continual noise, movement, and action everywhere. I can’t escape it, but I find moments of peace within the cacophony.
During one such moment, O and I rushed to find our jackets so that we could leave our hostel in Brooklyn. As O ran back inside to grab his scarf I found myself alone, staring from the charcoal railing of a rickety staircase at the buildings and rooftops of all heights, lit by the light of the morning sun in a hazy overcast upon softer yellows. It was a painter’s dream, and I found my fingers itching for a brush, a sketchbook, my notepad — anything at all to record the moment.
Within New York City I found many other inspirational beats: the girl sitting on a stoop sipping a cup of tea, her foot pointed down at a perfect diagonal to show white socks over loafers, the dark chocolate countertops in a small corner coffee shop, its long tables receding into the darkness of the back of the room, the hunched old woman who stepped onto the subway and curled up against the rail and the doorway as if trying to make herself even less noticeable. Most striking of all was Brooklyn at night, down by the bridge as it towered over the center street, its pillars visible between the buildings as the cars were lit up by the billowing red of their brake lights.
Such things hold the eye and grip at my (artist’s) heart. When I don’t have a manner on-hand in which to record such things, I feel as if I’ve left a masterwork behind when I continue down the street. I know I always have the choice to toss whatever I’m doing with my day and plunk down to draw whatever, but there are some problems with just sketching at will in public. Often, I’m caught and I feel unsuspecting subjects become wary as they catch my eyes shifting that way. I tense up a bit. My pencil stops on the paper, forming an accidental mark.
Last year, for a photography project, I broke in my new camera on the streets of New York. Along our jaunty walk, O watched as I took photographs of everything; buildings, shadows playing upon the walls, and people. New York ignores me and most others with a camera. And I play the part of the gaping tourist, taking in the sights as quickly and greedily as I can see them.
I’ve met people who don’t care or see the difference between a professional photographer and a flash-happy tourist.
Once, a woman shouted at me, stomping up with hands clenched, her face an angry, glaring mask. “Don’t take pictures of people,” she seethed. “It’s rude!”
I wasn’t taking pictures of anyone specific at the time, but as I had my camera out and in hand, she made that assumption and then confronted me. This drew a few stares but for the most part, nobody seemed to care. So I continued down the block and pulled my camera out again. I had a job to do, and no one would stop me.
From the piles of photographs that I took, I hoped that I could capture a few passing seconds — a frame or two — of gold.
Now I know it’s best not to be furtive. If I sit down and start drawing the person on the bench across from mine, my intent is obvious. And the angry old lady taking shape on my page can get up from her bench, march across the park, and ask me just who the hell I am … and does she really look like that?