Hello tourist
Posted on Jan 22, 2008 in ambulatory | Permalink
C’mon, pilgrim. It’s the first thing that came to mind…
I, along with other Directors of the Think Tank that has yet to be named, have struggled with the dilemma of a rooted practice, that persistent problem of exporting to an unfamiliar place a mode of working which relies so heavily on an intimate knowledge of place. And, of course, as an artist-tourist here in Alexandria, I am facing this dilemma again. Really, how does one drop in on a city for such a brief period of time and make something, communicate something, do something of value? Is it enough that the small circle of artists, students, and lecture attendees I’ve met here see the work and respond to it? That we begin a conversation? Would it be realistic to expect anything more? Place in place of. Meaning, between places or between states. What is the difference between “in” and “of”? Meaning, liminal: “occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.” Yes, that is a place to be.
I am an American artist-tourist. Riding out into the desert on a camel to pose for the photo opp. Wielding my tiny (not so tiny?) bit of American hegemonic might with a wave of the hand. Conquering ancient pyramids. Paying too much but not caring because it feels like play money anyway… You saw me on the street and waved, or amicably said Hello! trying out the word for the first time to actually see if it really communicated anything at all. You smiled and wanted to know my name, where I am from. When I stopped to take a picture of that thing that did not seem worthy of taking a picture, you stared and maybe shook your head as I walked on. Or you wanted me to take your picture, but I didn’t, and you didn’t ask me to.
We always looked each other in the eye when we passed. Sometimes I imagined the expression on my face—aloof or serious, friendly or jovial, too eager to please—but who’s to say what I really looked like. I wanted you to like me, to not feel threatened by me, to respect me, to not despise me, to be interested in me, to leave me alone, to know me, to understand me. I tried to understand you. I looked at you. I looked through you to the past that is crumbling around you. You translated the inscriptions on the walls, and they spoke of God, or rooms for let, or things for sale—or maybe they meant nothing at all, merely drawings that pretended to be letters and words and language.
You tried to run me down in your car. No, you didn’t, but it seemed like you did. You jostled me in the street, blocked my way on the sidewalk, dumped soiled water under my footsteps. You taught me how to avoid the cracks and holes and trash in the road. I followed you for a while and then crossed the street, setting off on my own. I hailed a taxi and held up five fingers. We found the place together. I ceremoniously placed the bills in your hand and you unceremoniously accepted. I got out and walked down the same street that you walk. Through the same square that you walk. Turned the same corner that you turn. I am thinking C’mon Pilgrim because sometimes we move in the same direction, looking for the same things. And sometimes not. But today we walk the same streets. So c’mon.