As I sat in the UMMA lobby waiting for the rest of my Art History class to arrive, I pulled out my laptop to work on a paper. After a minute or so I had a disconcerting feeling that I was being watched. Slowly I glanced up and took at closer look at the words being projected on the screen in front of me and noticed a line of brief phrases that went a little something like this “adjusts clothes / sits down on bench / pulls out laptop / crosses legs…” I realized that these were all things I was doing and looked around, making brief eye contact with a girl who held my gaze, smiled, and returned to furiously typing on her laptop. Then I looked back to the screen: “smiles briefly / looks at the projector.” Then I knew for certain that I was being watched. So here I sit, writing about an artist writing about me, though not just me. She taps away at her laptop, fast brisk descriptions of everyone in the room, describing the environment, the people, everything she sees feels hears. Is this art? She’s writing about me again, about my typing. Little does she know it’s about her. We’re engaged in a symbiosis of using each other to create our art. Funny how that works.
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