Day 42
seen
Imagine you are in the room with the girl who is pulling on her panties and bra, kneeling by her bed in front of the mirror. She looks back at it over a perfect shoulder, camera in hand, feet curled under her bottom, breasts just hidden, just visible in lace. You, off to the side, notice her face adjust once, twice, eight times as she presses the button over and over. You can hear her knees and feet rubbing on the wood floor, as she adjusts and adjusts. When you see the end result, the picture, you don’t recognize her. She looks so self-assured, so electric, Platonic: the ideal girl. She is beautiful, but what you will remember is the way she laughed at you watching her try to capture the essence of herself in that moment. She has been seen, by ten thousand people, as an apple they all want to lick, kiss, cut and devour. She has been seen by you, who want to know her.
Imagine you are there, at the end of a long hike. She is sweaty and breathing hard. You both look out at the perfect vista of twenty or thirty snow-capped peaks. There is a green glow to the foreground of alpine trees below you in the adjacent valley, and beyond the clouds and the blue sky make the mountains look like the shoulders of women draped in chiffon. You take out your phones and take turns standing in front of this beauty. Ten thousand people see and are impressed by your accomplishment, by the view, by the effortless smiles. Also, you see each other, for a short moment, between shots. Pause now for a minute and notice that here, at the edge of the world, surrounded by nature, you have a companion, another person who wanted to see this with you, who stumbled and tripped up here to stand, with you.
There is being seen, and there is being seen. As images, some of us are seen by many, even millions of people. Also, we are seen by those in the room, by our companions, lovers, roommates, work mates. Today, we live in a cloud, an image in front of this mirror, on that mountain top, in the restaurants and bars behind the perfectly plated food and crafted cocktails. But we also still live in these rooms, and at the end of long hikes, and across the table from our dinner dates. We live in two places at once, and an impossible tension has been created; not because we in exist in two places, but because we are straddling the fence between being seen and being known. Yes, to be an image, or words on a page, or a drawing, or to visually share our amazing accomplishments, is to be seen—and that is one thing. But, to be known is to be held by the eyes in the room, to have the sighs and giggles and brush-strokes and pen-strokes be heard. To be known is to be pulled from the frame of that shot you were about to take of your perfect red lips, and to be covered by the blanket and held by the strong arms of the one who loves you.
