On Looking: Eleven Walks With Expert Eyes by Alexandra Horowitz Page A
Authors: Alexandra Horowitz
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we wear, even on the social sidewalk. Indeed, we have many coencentric circles of personal spaces, plural. The Swiss zoologist Heini Hediger, elaborating from studies of animal behavior, proposed that the personal zones around us fall into a few categories. Those with whom we do not mind “inescapable involvement”—as our loved ones—can broach the closest zone and get nearer than eighteen inches to us. At that proximity, we can smell them, feel the heat of their bodies, their breath, hear the small sounds they mutter or emit. We can whisper together. Most social interactions take place in a comfortable zone about one and a half to four feet away—closer in some cultures (Latin American) than others (North American). Friends can waltz through; acquaintances can hover on the edge. We have a social distance up to twelve feet from our bodies for more formal transactions, or for those we don’t know well. Beyond that is a kind of public distance in which we use our “outdoor” voice. All of these zones are artificial, varying with differing relationships, based on context and the physical setting—but we have a bodilysense of the reality of these spaces. Violate them, and we may feel stressed and anxious.
Kalman minded people’s spaces, but she seemed to see personal space as an indication that there was a person in that space to engage with. Of course, the persons had to be willing to be engaged with. We make judgments about people—their trustworthiness, their intelligence, their beauty—in glances that take less than a third of a second. All those quick glances aimed at Kalman and me must have added up to many seconds’ worth of judgments over the duration of the walk. (Apparently, we were judged to be basically nonthreatening.)
These engagements and our path-veering led, ultimately, to various curious episodes. Our first foray off course was into the halfway house. It did not identify itself as such—but its entranceway distinguished it from the austere residential buildings on either side. In the vestibule there was but one sign. Not an identifying placard—at least, not directly. “Please remove your hats on entering the building,” it read.
Kalman immediately looked for an informant. She inquired of the weary, uniformed man sitting behind the window at the facility’s entrance about the sign’s provenance and meaning. We were clearly the first to ever so ask. He looked at us with a long, steady gaze. I looked away, but Kalman happily persisted. As they chatted, I looked around at the anteroom of the building. This space was roughly seventy feet as the crow flies from my own living room; I had never been inside. The same is almost certainly the case with all of the buildings in the vicinity of your own home. Though we become accustomed to the look of our neighborhood from the street, it is but the skin that we see. Though this building looked residential, the entryway revealed its business core: Plexiglas set off the guard’s post; the elevator was of the industrial varietal, and a handful of visitors stood in solemn observance of itsslow travel. The room was unlovely but eye opening. We went no further. Back outside, my vision was changed: I noticed that more than a usual number of people edged the tree pit outside; cigarette butts by the curb now indicated to me the presence of many people forced to go outside to smoke. I imagined that every hatless pedestrian was headed into that building, probably feeling a little naked of pate.
• • •
As we left, I swung around to watch the building click from its old, familiar face to this new one, informed by what I now knew of its inside. The door settled into its jamb. Through a window I could see the guard’s eyes following us. So much for being invisible. When Kalman wanted to get the guard’s attention, she looked him in the eyes. Now we were the subject of his gaze. This may seem trivial: gaze and eye contact are the most simple of acts.
Kalman minded people’s spaces, but she seemed to see personal space as an indication that there was a person in that space to engage with. Of course, the persons had to be willing to be engaged with. We make judgments about people—their trustworthiness, their intelligence, their beauty—in glances that take less than a third of a second. All those quick glances aimed at Kalman and me must have added up to many seconds’ worth of judgments over the duration of the walk. (Apparently, we were judged to be basically nonthreatening.)
These engagements and our path-veering led, ultimately, to various curious episodes. Our first foray off course was into the halfway house. It did not identify itself as such—but its entranceway distinguished it from the austere residential buildings on either side. In the vestibule there was but one sign. Not an identifying placard—at least, not directly. “Please remove your hats on entering the building,” it read.
Kalman immediately looked for an informant. She inquired of the weary, uniformed man sitting behind the window at the facility’s entrance about the sign’s provenance and meaning. We were clearly the first to ever so ask. He looked at us with a long, steady gaze. I looked away, but Kalman happily persisted. As they chatted, I looked around at the anteroom of the building. This space was roughly seventy feet as the crow flies from my own living room; I had never been inside. The same is almost certainly the case with all of the buildings in the vicinity of your own home. Though we become accustomed to the look of our neighborhood from the street, it is but the skin that we see. Though this building looked residential, the entryway revealed its business core: Plexiglas set off the guard’s post; the elevator was of the industrial varietal, and a handful of visitors stood in solemn observance of itsslow travel. The room was unlovely but eye opening. We went no further. Back outside, my vision was changed: I noticed that more than a usual number of people edged the tree pit outside; cigarette butts by the curb now indicated to me the presence of many people forced to go outside to smoke. I imagined that every hatless pedestrian was headed into that building, probably feeling a little naked of pate.
• • •
As we left, I swung around to watch the building click from its old, familiar face to this new one, informed by what I now knew of its inside. The door settled into its jamb. Through a window I could see the guard’s eyes following us. So much for being invisible. When Kalman wanted to get the guard’s attention, she looked him in the eyes. Now we were the subject of his gaze. This may seem trivial: gaze and eye contact are the most simple of acts.
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