Isolating Comforts

I hid myself here, in what seemed at once open and covert. My timing was strategic, a Tuesday morning rendered the space accessible, but it was my behavior, the awkwardness in my approach, which left it feeling restricted, if only to me.

I focused on the corners, noting the convergence of material and space. I was drawn to what was segmented, this fragmentation breaking apart the cohesion in the building’s content, in its design.


(I apologized for seeing it this way)


It all fostered seclusion, giving body to my isolation. There was volume now, a measure of my detachment. An amount which was tangible, a capacity I could discern. I was being directed to what was previously invisible, giving presence to the absence of my understanding.

It was in crowds where the solitude became threatening. I understood them as bulk, as a collective form, a singular composition in grammar and substance. The crowd was a composite, a combined and coordinated mass of figures impossible to individualize. Impossible to see beyond their function as a whole.

I was giving in to the anonymity of the world, taking this isolation as a luxury, inviting its ambiguity. I was the transgressor of established order. I was disparate, detached, existing in a thread parallel to that of the others. It was my inclination and desire for this silence which became the artistic means of revelation and discovery.

Why couldn’t I mimic their altruism, their selflessness that seemed absolute? Their names were always mentioned in reverential tones. Mine lacked the approval. So again, I refused to see their independence, feigning an inability to distinguish among them. The pronouns were evident ; I. Them.

We didn’t find solitude. We made it for ourselves.

Isabelle EymanComment