Prologue
Iâm a literary voyeur. Like the wanderer who steps off the predictable path, I set out most days in the hope that Iâll encounter a new way of seeing the spaces in which I live. Iâm also a collector. Years ago, I began to collect sightings of readers, because I thought I might gain awareness of how our urban lives are mapped out in the books we choose to read in public, particularly on transit. Many people, for instance, read on transit to place a wall between themselves and fellow passengers; others donât know how to be alone in a crowd. For the rest of us, that commute is the only time we get to retreat into an extended private conversation with ourselves as we dive into anotherâs world.
A question began to persist: If Iâm a voyeur, are you, the reader, an exhibitionist? How do readers
perform
the private act of reading within the public realm, their preference for the written word on full display. The book becomes an invitation to look closer. And, just think, you have no idea what emotions may floor you from one sentence to the next, and when they do, Iâm there, watching. I began to imagine who each reader might be, and how the text they read would ultimately impact the spaces in which they live.
The reader sighting that started it all was at The Old Nick on Danforth Avenue. At the bar, a woman neared the end of a book. Visibly distraught, she placed the book down from time to time, only to pick it up again moments later. This continued for some time, until she stood suddenly, slapping her money on the bar as she readied to leave. She was so distressed, in fact, that I asked if she was all right, noting the title of the book before it disappeared into her bag. She said that this wasnât the right time or place to end the book, that when it came time to say goodbye to the protagonist sheâd need to be at home. After she left, I ran to the nearest bookstore where I purchased a copy of the book sheâd been reading:
A Complicated Kindness
by Miriam Toews. I read it that night in anticipation of the final pages, where I would once again meet this reader within the book that moved her so.
I began to look for readers everywhere. You may be the woman I see who, each week, is deeper into yet another book. You may be the man whose weathered copies of science fiction novels betray multiple readings. Itâs likely that the book you carry bears the splatter of last nightâs dinner or the crumbs of this morningâs breakfast, the vague odour of your bed sheets or your partnerâs cologne. Under my observation, the reader both reads and reveals a narrative, the act of reading in turn inspiring an act of writing.
My work is performed on Torontoâs subways, streetcars, and buses. In Toronto, transit riders are decidedly introverted. Courtesy aside â removing my knapsack so you can pass, standing up so you can sit, wearing fitted earphones so you donât have to hear my music â fellow passengers enter into an unspoken agreement that itâs not rude to sit in silence, gesturing only in the rare instant that youâre sitting on my jacket, or Iâm standing on your purse strap. Perhaps this is why readers feel safe to pull out a book, turning the average subway car into a cultural cocoon. With little effort, the average forty-five minute trip yields at least twenty reader sightings.
During downtown Toronto rush hour, shoulder-to-shoulder Iâm often able to note a bookâs title and author, and most often the page number at the time of the sighting. Armed with this information and only a brief physical description of the reader, I craft a fictional response to the entire scene, ending each sighting with a poetic short fiction about the reader and who he or she may be. The online blog
Seen Reading
â www.seenreading.com â is the forum in which I posted my reader sightings. To date, there are over seven hundred sightings, and the
Iâm a literary voyeur. Like the wanderer who steps off the predictable path, I set out most days in the hope that Iâll encounter a new way of seeing the spaces in which I live. Iâm also a collector. Years ago, I began to collect sightings of readers, because I thought I might gain awareness of how our urban lives are mapped out in the books we choose to read in public, particularly on transit. Many people, for instance, read on transit to place a wall between themselves and fellow passengers; others donât know how to be alone in a crowd. For the rest of us, that commute is the only time we get to retreat into an extended private conversation with ourselves as we dive into anotherâs world.
A question began to persist: If Iâm a voyeur, are you, the reader, an exhibitionist? How do readers
perform
the private act of reading within the public realm, their preference for the written word on full display. The book becomes an invitation to look closer. And, just think, you have no idea what emotions may floor you from one sentence to the next, and when they do, Iâm there, watching. I began to imagine who each reader might be, and how the text they read would ultimately impact the spaces in which they live.
The reader sighting that started it all was at The Old Nick on Danforth Avenue. At the bar, a woman neared the end of a book. Visibly distraught, she placed the book down from time to time, only to pick it up again moments later. This continued for some time, until she stood suddenly, slapping her money on the bar as she readied to leave. She was so distressed, in fact, that I asked if she was all right, noting the title of the book before it disappeared into her bag. She said that this wasnât the right time or place to end the book, that when it came time to say goodbye to the protagonist sheâd need to be at home. After she left, I ran to the nearest bookstore where I purchased a copy of the book sheâd been reading:
A Complicated Kindness
by Miriam Toews. I read it that night in anticipation of the final pages, where I would once again meet this reader within the book that moved her so.
I began to look for readers everywhere. You may be the woman I see who, each week, is deeper into yet another book. You may be the man whose weathered copies of science fiction novels betray multiple readings. Itâs likely that the book you carry bears the splatter of last nightâs dinner or the crumbs of this morningâs breakfast, the vague odour of your bed sheets or your partnerâs cologne. Under my observation, the reader both reads and reveals a narrative, the act of reading in turn inspiring an act of writing.
My work is performed on Torontoâs subways, streetcars, and buses. In Toronto, transit riders are decidedly introverted. Courtesy aside â removing my knapsack so you can pass, standing up so you can sit, wearing fitted earphones so you donât have to hear my music â fellow passengers enter into an unspoken agreement that itâs not rude to sit in silence, gesturing only in the rare instant that youâre sitting on my jacket, or Iâm standing on your purse strap. Perhaps this is why readers feel safe to pull out a book, turning the average subway car into a cultural cocoon. With little effort, the average forty-five minute trip yields at least twenty reader sightings.
During downtown Toronto rush hour, shoulder-to-shoulder Iâm often able to note a bookâs title and author, and most often the page number at the time of the sighting. Armed with this information and only a brief physical description of the reader, I craft a fictional response to the entire scene, ending each sighting with a poetic short fiction about the reader and who he or she may be. The online blog
Seen Reading
â www.seenreading.com â is the forum in which I posted my reader sightings. To date, there are over seven hundred sightings, and the
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