🫖 Hello darling readers. Apologies for the tardiness—I needed some extra time to work this one out. Last week, we peered through my neighbor’s window. Today, I’m sharing some stories about looking at my own personality from unfamiliar angles. Also, my friend Evana wrote a response to my piece on celibacy and Catholicism, and it’s a delight. Read a snippet of “Heaven is a place” & subscribe to arbiter of distaste to unlock all of her wonderful writing & pods! 🫖
The longest performance we must endure is the performance of self. It’s a drawn-out and inconsistent show. Sometimes, we clown loudly. Occasionally, we quietly exist. We know ourselves like the backs of our hands. Yet, in matters of self, we are hopelessly biased.
This week, I’ve attempted to peer through the veil. Both intentionally and accidentally, I’ve gotten glimpses of myself, captured through the eyes of others, and distorted by devices.
Dispatches from Ralph Lauren
I spent Friday night with one close friend and four people I had never met. It was a high school reunion for a high school that I didn’t go to. I was meeting them for the first time, but they were meeting each other for the first time since being eighteen. I assumed a respectful backburner. Dinner and a show. Saigon Social and Ruby McCollister’s one-woman performance, Tragedy.
Somewhere along the walk from the Lower East Side to Joe’s Pub, my phone captured 30 photos of the inside of my purse and a 3-minute video. Dispatches from Ralph Lauren. Visually, there was nothing remarkable. But, there was audio. And in this secret tape, an uncanny opportunity. By listening, I could discover how I come across when performing my personality to new people. It’s rare to have such unbiased footage. Hypothetically, I could subject it to Fielder-esque scrutiny, and change my very communication style in keeping with how I wish to be seen.
Certainly an exercise in insecure power. Though, in a world that is all mirrors, I take comfort in ignorance. Generally speaking, I’d rather be myself than know myself as a spectator. It’s difficult enough to listen to my own voice when I intentionally record it. Yet, much like a pocket-dial-turned-voicemail, this recording stoked my morbid curiosity.
The jingle of keys and change. The slosh of liquid hand sanitizer and bug spray. Loud sirens, car horns and revving motors. Three voices, and one of them is mine. My vocal register surprises me: more lax, nasal, singsongy, and Californian than I would expect. Everyone in that group was from LA. I wonder if I was code-switching to seem relatable. I catch myself spackling pauses with agreeable “yeahs,” and throwing away the ends of my sentences. It sounds like me, but it doesn’t sound like how I think I would come across. Perhaps, more precisely, it doesn’t sound how I think I should come across.
Theoretically, this recording is good data about how I perform my personality. Because it was captured accidentally, I wasn’t subliminally modifying my behavior for posterity. At the same time, it has its limitations. Ultimately, three minutes is no panoramic view, and our performance of self is subjective based on hundreds of intersecting circumstances. That Friday, my energy was low. I felt beaten by work and had a sore throat brewing. I rolled the dice, hoping that a night out would rejuvenate my social battery: instead, I retreated inward, feeling more awkward than usual as an interloper among old friends.
A Lover’s Prayer
A man was talking to God. He said:
God, why did you make women’s faces so beautiful?
God replied:
To make you fall in love with them.
The man continued:
And, why did you make women’s bodies so perfect?
God replied:
To make you fall in love with them.
Then, the man asked:
But, God… Why did you make women’s minds…. you know…. not so smart?
God replied:
To make THEM fall in love with YOU.
This joke occurred approximately three minutes into my conversation with Michael. He was holding my hand to his heart and gazing into my eyes outside of the 7-Eleven. His cup of hooch and duffel bag were sitting on the sidewalk nearby.
I didn’t have to stop to talk when Michael complimented my cowboy boots, but I was in a great mood and he was being kind. I permitted a hug and declined a kiss. I had just emerged from a job interview that went well, wearing a dress, a face full of makeup, and a hopeful flush.
In Michael’s eyes, I was a luminous woman wearing a gorgeous outfit. It’s nice to be seen that way. He said that I made his day. In a way, he also made mine.
Exposed
“I downloaded the dating apps for the first time in five years,” I said to a circle full of fifteen adults posed like cacti. “And, they’re an even bigger nightmare than I remember.” I paused for a sympathetic laugh. I don’t know what it is about weekly improv class that puts me in a confessional mood. Yes, my dear reader, I will eventually address the fact that I signed up for a beginner’s improv class, but TODAY IS NOT THAT DAY.
“Which ones did you download?” asked someone. “Hinge and Tinder,” I replied, “And, honestly, I think Hinge is way worse.” A classmate who looks like he would be a brand ambassador for Hinge appeared puzzled.
“I don’t know,” I floundered. “It’s just so earnest. There’s something inherently so embarrassing about choosing six pictures of yourself and crafting funny little answers to the funny little prompts. Just the thought of a man making a Hinge profile is an automatic ick. It’s a Catch-22,” I threw away meaninglessly.
The subtext, of course, is that I’m adjusting to being newly single. It didn’t take long after the breakup for “the apps” to become an intrusive thought. Would they be possible to avoid? Would they be a fun pastime? Would they wreck my confidence? I arbitrarily decided to wait a month to download them. I caught myself bringing them up in conversations with friends, clearly seeking verbal affirmation of how terrible they are. But like all toddlers, I knew I would need to bash the square peg against the round hole for myself.
The best part by far has been the chance to create yet another internet avatar. It’s a God game where you’re God and you’re also Adam. Create thyself unto thyself. My favorite part of video games growing up was always hand-crafting my characters. I think back to meticulous Sims and countless Miis. I cared much less about the action.
While picturing a man making a profile is pathetic, the process of creating my own profile was hilarious and fun. I don’t make the rules. Late one night, I impulsively forged an account, molding and rearranging and writing until I came up with something that felt fine. It was ironic and over-the-top, but felt like me or a version of me.
One of my fears was that the apps would fan the flames of my insecurity, making me feel like an ugly duckling in a sea of gorgeous people. I worried that they would plant worms in my brain and make me question my self-worth and make me feel sad and insane.
Thankfully, my self-worth remains perfectly intact. If anything, my preliminary impressions have pointed to an overactive sense of righteous indignation. How dare you be 5’6”? How dare you ask me to go bowling? How dare you casually call me “mamas?” How dare you assail my eyes with quirky, canned pickup lines?1
My exceptionally low threshold for annoyance is probably a sign that I’m not ready. I’ve had little desire to swipe and almost no energy to keep any conversations alive. The whole process feels sexless and barren, even when people are being overtly sexual. Oh, you want to flirt with pretty girls on your little phone? my inner monologue taunts.
Everyone knows that the apps are disenchanting. Of course, the crappy conversations suck. If I ever end up taking it seriously and actually try to meet people, I will surely get ghosted, catfished, and all of the other unsavory things that people also hate about dating apps. But, there’s something else that I didn’t foresee.
Joining the Tinder Cinematic Universe has made me feel exposed. It’s opened my eyes to a world of tomfoolery that I had willfully ignored for most of my young adult life. Dating apps are, ostensibly, a form of social media, and walking down the street, I’ve begun to fear that someone might recognize me from my profiles. I’ve become paranoid that any stranger might be someone I’ve snubbed on the internet by swiping left, ignoring messages, or being outright hostile. Something about being on the apps disturbs my peace, feels like an invasion. I’ve written my phone number on the bathroom stall, and now I’m mad that my phone won’t stop ringing. Hinge makes me want to bury my gold in the backyard.
Unrelenting
Ever the Zoomer, I know how to take a selfie. I have learned the precise angles and facial expressions that capture me as I like to see myself. In creating profiles on the apps, I was faced with the gruesome task of assembling photographs to purportedly convey my appearance.2 It struck me how I dislike most photos of myself taken by others, be they candid or planned. Selfies are controlled; candids are volatile. I often think my face is too expressive or that my features are too vague to look good when captured off-hand.
On Saturday, I hoped that a day of rest would abate my minor cold. Between bouts of languishing, reading a little, and toiling to write (this), I had an idea. What better way to see myself from a different perspective than to record a screen test?
For those of you who are unfamiliar, Andy Warhol’s screen tests are a series of living portraits, captured between 1964-1966. By and large, his subjects simply exist for the camera for three minutes in high-contrast lighting. It’s an unrelenting gaze, but his most compelling subjects don’t wither in the spotlight. While there are hundreds of these screen tests, the most enduring ones are of the downtown cool kids of yore. I like how this mosaic allows the viewer to compare some of the major ones:
I feverishly rigged a makeshift studio in the corner of my bedroom, pushing around furniture and precariously tilting lamps to stage some directional lighting. I propped my phone on a stack of books, with the screen turned away. Two years of Zoom meetings have taught me the detrimental effects of constantly seeing a mini thumbnail of my own face. I pressed record, took a seat, and tried to not to fidget for three minutes.
In “post” (lol), I made some adjustments in keeping with Warhol’s methods. I desaturated the video, and slowed it down to span four minutes. I altered the contrast, and removed the audio, and panned in so that it would only capture me from the neck-up. I was amazed at the difference these edits made in how I perceived the video. Crucially, they allowed me to defamiliarize how I usually see myself. A transferrence from subject to object. But, I don’t mean objectification in the negative sense. It felt like me, but also felt like someone else.
A screen test is not like looking in the mirror. But looking in the mirror is not like seeing yourself in someone else's eyes. I found this process to be oddly cathartic. Watching my screen test made me feel sympathetic toward myself.3 I liked the girl looking back at me. While I’m a thinking entity constantly sputtering and overusing the word “yeah” and struggling to put my thoughts on a page, I’m also—simply enough—just a living, breathing person.
5 songs for looking at things from new angles
“I’ve Seen Footage,” Death Grips
An homage to my accidental footage lol.
🎶 Creeps up behind me over my shoulder. Turn around try to see but its nowhere. 🎶
“Unchanging Window,” Broadcast
Spooky dreampop that sounds like walking through an uncanny dream world.
🎶 Frame this sky unchanging window, blown open by unchanging wind. 🎶
“Center of Gravity,” Yo La Tengo
This song sounds like getting grounded in NYC in the fall. I could go for a little autumn about now.
🎶 Whenever you’re next to be (ba da ba) / Center of gravity (ba da ba) / Can’t feel both feet on the ground. 🎶
“Story of an Artist,” Daniel Johnston
Daniel Johnston always makes me cry. This song is just too sweet. I imagine he wrote it about himself and not about himself, which I think ties in nicely to the theme of defamiliarizing the self.
🎶 You got me wrong, says he. The sun don’t shine in your TV. 🎶
“Nothing Relents,” Annie Blackman
I got to see Annie Blackman perform a couple of weeks ago, and she was fabulous. Her album released this April is a gem—give it a listen.
🎶 Think I’ve outgrown this corporeal form cause nothing relents, nothing relents, nothing relents anymore. 🎶
🫖 Well, that’s enough self-scrutiny for the day. Thanks for reading! I’m so happy you’re here. See you on Sunday. 🫖
To the man who called me a “baberaham lincoln:” BURN IN HELL!
Though these assemblages of photos are used to convey much more aren’t they? They are methods to communicate coolness, humor and a thousand other subtexts.
Not unlike looking in the mirror on mushrooms.