I get to the corner of 12th and Avenue B too soon, I’ve walked too quickly. Unable to stand idly, I cross the street four times — north, east, south, west. Can I do it again without someone noticing? I hope no one noticed. Someone probably noticed. I would notice. Maybe I’ll keep walking on 12th. I can’t remember what the map showed. Finally a relief: I’m told to keep walking east.
Audio tours are expected in certain contexts: museums, art galleries, historical landmarks. Here, being plugged in, stopping and staring, is the norm. Groups form and reform around selected pieces of art, listening together but separately. We are engaged in the same one-sided conversation, collectively looking at the same details. We perform as expected: standing, looking, reading, examining, thinking, moving slowly. Then we dissipate. New masses form around new pieces.
Standing mid-block, staring at the building across the street, I’m self conscious about standing, waiting, not looking at my phone. Why can’t I find somewhere to sit? I feel that people are looking at me. I know it’s a foolish thought; everyone is preoccupied with their own destination, phone, companion.
On the sidewalk, moving is the expected behaviour and behaving differently draws attention. New York is not a place for dawdling. What does it mean to “go slow” when everyone else moves so quickly? When we are alone and stop, are we obligated to engage—is standing and looking not enough? Phones provide a relief: she’s busy scrolling, he’s messaging his roommate. Benches and chairs imply reason for being somewhere: he’s resting his tired legs, she’s waiting for her lunch companion. We are visibly occupied.
What else is everyone listening to? I don’t know my classmates well enough to recognize anyone else on this audio walk. Would I feel less self-conscious in a group? Would it draw more attention: three people, standing together but plugged in to individual devices, staring at the same elementary school building? Perhaps it would attract others to stop and stare.
”Passing Stranger,” an audio tour by Pejk Malinovski, creates a museum out of the East Village. There are no wall labels indicating pieces within the collection and no stationary groups to become anonymous within. But there are also no admission fees, no hushed murmur of people whispering, no rules about standing too close to the art. This museum is always open and the exhibition will continue to change over time in unexpected ways.
I listen to Jim Jarmusch tell me about W.H. Auden. I want to ask questions but this is a one-way conversation. Perhaps in the future audio tours will behave like Siri. Perhaps it’s better just to listen.