(From the introduction of Voyeur)
I fetishize the everyday. A woman doing the dishes is as interesting to me as the unclasping of her bra, the falling of her underwear. I often find myself watching people, eavesdropping into conversations, aiming to get tiny peeks into people’s intimate lives. With small details gathered, I develop stories, connect with these strangers, and appreciate some commonness. This is all a supreme joy. I can’t imagine living another way.
And yet, I know that I am a thief, stealing context and stories that are not my own. And while this can pose problems, my voyeurism is so satisfyingly free of the risks I am most reluctant to take. There is no trouble of sex, or love, or disagreement, or conversation (for the taciturn).
Perhaps these covert observations, my imagined narratives, tell me more about myself than about the person I’m watching. Perhaps I’m more narcissist than voyeur. It may be a way of not getting my hands dirty, but a damn nice way, still.
And thank goodness for those lovelies that tell me, “it’s safe to look.”
(Photo by my lovely lady Sonia)