Today’s human is not just a person — they are an exhibit, a representative, a unit within the sphere of endless socio-cultural exchange. The human is an object of observation. Yet at the same time, a person is not only being observed, but also becomes the observer — a watcher, a voyeur, whether they wish to or not. It is incredibly difficult to break free from this mutual web of surveillance without falling out of society itself. The moment one disappears from view, they immediately become suspicious. “Where are you?”, “Why haven’t you replied?”, “Are you alive?”, “Do you even exist?”

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Much is said about total state or police control — cameras everywhere, facial recognition, GPS tracking, marketing strategies for data collection, and so on. But few speak of our own willingness and desire to be observers ourselves. The ability to track friends and family through geolocation, the requests to call when you arrive somewhere — we protect our loved ones, just as we are protected by the police. “I just want to know where you are.”

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Walking down the street, descending the stairs of a building, passing through corridors at work, visiting new places, meeting new people — we constantly observe those around us. Often unconsciously, we try to read them, understand them, unmask them, draw conclusions — perhaps to make new friends, or choose an opponent for a fight. And we know others are doing the same to us. Stepping outside, leaving the room, we present ourselves to the world as objects of observation. Some may admire us like sculptures of a great master, others may hate us like critics at the first Salon of the Refused. Some may make long-term conclusions about us — take note, begin surveillance, wait for the right moment to approach us, to befriend us, or to capture and imprison us.

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Many compare life to theatre, but in the theatre, when playing a role, we always know there is an audience, a dressing room, that we can — maybe not immediately — retreat, use the restroom, escape from the spotlight. The lights will go out, the auditorium will empty. But in real life, the audience never leaves, and we are never off the stage. We are exhibits in an open-space exhibition. Rain and hatred pour down on us, along with curious glances and judgmental pointing. We are installations in a vast interactive show — we are actors in a reality program, and we are also the audience.

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Perhaps the only way — even for a moment, even for someone, even for oneself — to stop being an object of observation is to become the observer. To lock oneself in a dark room, cut off communication, leave no digital traces — but still find a way to connect to the surveillance camera in the hallway, to always check others’ social media and convince oneself that this makes one invisible. Or simply, even for a brief instant, pretend to be the observer — choose someone to watch, and observe them, until reason returns you to the world where someone is always watching you.