the voyeur

Children are known for staring. I think we slap their pointing fingers down and scold their wide eyes because we are jealous. Think how we’ll slow down to gawk at a car wreck or a house on fire, knowing that our identities are screened behind tinted windows.

Or, if you’re a conscientious driver, think of reality television.

If you’re just conscientious all around, you might be boring. Consider it.

I am a conscientious driver, and I don’t watch reality television—but that’s only because I don’t believe it’s real reality. But I am a voyeur. I peep through windows. My favorite time is at dusk, but any time is fine with me.

About six years ago, when I was in Venice, I was walking a little after midday along the edge of town…that’s the great thing about Venice, you know—the edge of town is really an edge…and on the other side of me, there was a house with four windows on the upper story, all of them with shades pulled down except for the one farthest to the left. I was looking up at the Moorish design of the bricks, when at the open window, a naked man appeared. I couldn’t see him all, just from the waist up. He stood there for a moment, like a watcher at sea; I fumbled for my camera. Just as I raised it, he saw me. He jumped up, his arm extended above him, and down with him came the final shade. And that was it.

So I learned that voyeurism is better done when it is dark outside. First of all, the people in the houses are going about their business—sitting down to dinner, engaging with their televisions, transfixed by something open on their desks, talking on the phone—so they are less likely to look out their windows. Even if they do, second of all, they are the ones in full light. Like being on the stage, their own lights blind them. You, alone in the dark, are hard for them to pick out.

When I first moved to this town, just before my freshman year, I would wander through the back streets of bright-colored clapboard houses, around dusk, and I would look into the lighted windows. I didn’t lurk—not often. I don’t want to invade anyone’s privacy, and I don’t want to interrupt the scene by making them uncomfortable with the sensation that someone is watching. I saw some beautiful things. I saw brown-faced women hoisting enormous copper skillets and slopping their contents onto their family’s plates. I saw a young, beautiful couple embracing in a front doorway while a car idled beside the porch. I saw a man hammering together a bed frame in his upstairs—I sat on the curb opposite, under a white rose vine, and listened to the petulant strokes of his hammer and the Charlie Parker record he was playing.

You should know that the word voyeur means “a person who sees”, not “a person who looks.” So though we have vilified the word to indicate peeping-toms with prurient motives, there may have been a time in the golden past when seeing was just as refined a sense as tasting or hearing. If you can be a connoisseur, or a saveur , why can't I be a voyeur? The material is much cheaper and more widely available—it’s all around. If you're going to see something, why not look at it?

If you can’t enjoy, at least don’t begrudge the children.
(first published 7/6/07)