To Follow by Kelli Connell
What if you knew, in advance, that I’d be following you?
Maybe you’re aware of Sophie Calle’s Suite Venitienne. She meets a man at a party and after an elaborate hunt to find out where he is staying in Venice, she takes on the role of detective, or more accurately, stalker, as she follows and photographs him around the city without his knowledge. And though she feels like she is in love with him, it is his elusiveness to which she is drawn. It is the mystery of who he is, what he might be thinking, and what he will do next, that is the motivation of her pursuit.
And so, our own Suite Venitienne. We’d select a time and a loosely defined location. The main street would have enough couples and families with children and joggers and dog walkers to set the stage for our experiment. Unlike Calle’s love interest, you would understand that you were to be followed. I’d be on the hunt, eager to take in your presence from a distance, and yet, I’d keep you out of reach until I was ready to make myself known. Riding this thrill for a while, I’d do my best to not find you, at least not yet, while you walked, and wandered, wondering where I might be. Was I on the same side of the street walking in your direction? Was I in a shop alcove, waiting, my light tan shirt blending into the wall, as I hoped that I could be passed by, unnoticed? Was I ready to slip out from a shadow, counting for half a minute, before entering the street behind you?
I’d turn down a side street, hugging the sides of buildings, sliding my walking body into the recessed parking lots and beside the dumpsters as I moved, just in case you had decided to walk there, too. I wouldn’t want to be found looking for you just yet.
I’d walk between a narrow passage between two buildings connecting the alley to the main street. It’s too tight to stretch my arms open in there without touching the brick walls. It’s private, cool and dark. Quiet. It’s here where I would linger, wanting you to turn the corner and meet me in the hidden lane. How would we be? What would we do? Would you turn around or pass me? Would we walk towards one another and then simply stop, standing at the foot of ourselves, still and gazing?
When you don’t arrive, I’d enter the main street. And yet, I’d avoid looking for you by finding a bench in a park nearby. It’s here that I would write, sitting with the intoxicating anticipation of you, hoping that you would want to be found, or that you’d change the game, break the rules, and come to find me.
To Be Followed by Kennedy Frazier
I know you are following me. I can’t see you, but I know you are. I walk down the crowded
street and catch my reflection in the storefront windows. I expect to see your form just a few
steps behind me. But you’re not there. You’re not anywhere.
We laughed nervously in the beginning. You were prettier than I expected. And kinder. I rushed
over to our meeting spot fifteen minutes late, full of apology, and you offered me the other half
of your Italian sandwich. You’re so generous to a stranger. I’m usually one to politely decline,
but I was hungry (forgot to eat lunch again) and you were gorgeous (as already stated) so I took
the sandwich. You tucked a thin notebook under your arm as you watched me eat. Trust me, you
said. And, in between bites of pastrami, I realized I did trust you. Not completely, but enough.
I saw your Craigslist ad a few days ago. I was bored and scrolling through absurd posts. “Selling
Venezuelan tarantulas, pairs only.” And “Trading nudes for nudes.” Yours was sparse and
intriguing: “Searching for someone to follow.” It was a game with simple rules: I was supposed
to stroll through the Gale shopping district and you were going to follow me. I wasn’t doing
anything else with my Saturday and extra cash never hurts. It sounded easy online, but now,
rushing along the street, I feel strange. I feel like I am auditioning for you. Proving that I can
walk in public and appear normal. Am I moving too slow? Is my stride too short? Are my hips
swishing too femininely? What do normal people do with their eyes? Where do they look?
Certainly not at each other. I stop abruptly in front of the movie theater. Gaze curiously at the list
of upcoming films. Morph my expression into one of cool amusement. Ah, this film, fascinating.
I look at the titles without reading them. The letters are just shapes. I smile and nod. I look
discretely to my right, then left. Try to catch you sitting at a restaurant's outdoor table, a
newspaper perfectly covering your face, comically big sunglasses peeking over the top, but
strangers fill the frame. How did I lose you so quickly? Are you just that good at blending in? I
can’t even remember what you’re wearing. What are the rules again? What's the color of your
eyes?
I watch other people walk by and wonder if they’re in on it, too. Extras in the background of our
little game. I try to catch someone’s gaze, but no one looks at me. Stare straight ahead. A perfect,
neutral scowl. A faint, confident smile. A glare. A swagger. A timid step. We all know we are
being watched. We are performing for each other. Or maybe I’m just performing for myself.
Maybe you arranged this game and left me to wander down the street, weaving in and out of
shoppers for eternity, while you’re somewhere just out of view, laughing at me. I feel stupid.
Duped by a stranger. But you aren’t a stranger, not really. I googled you before responding to the
ad. I thought it was only fair: if you were going to watch me, I needed something from you.
Information, secrets. In my cursory research, I found more data on your life than I am comfortable holding now. I know you’re an award-winning writer. Mostly fiction. I didn’t recognize the titles, but you looked important in all your pictures. Behind a podium, no-teeth smile. I also know you’re gay. Clips of you at pride events. Reviewing the work of other queer writers. I clicked and found an interview, “My partner is my greatest inspiration.” I clicked some more and found your partner’s obituary. The memorial held at St. Lawrence’s. I started reading the elegy you wrote for her before I realized what it was. I slammed my laptop shut. I looked around my own empty apartment. All my partner’s clothes, dishes, artwork. Gone. Scrubbed
clean. Guilty and quiet for a moment, I sent you a short response: I’m free this Saturday.
In front of the movie theater, I’m overcome with an intense and immediate need to hide. In
between a grossly pink clothing store and another deli is my escape: an alley, slim and inviting,
with green potted plants peering from the lower windows. I slip down the alley quickly and stare
up at the brick walls towering over me. It’s almost like they’re drawing closer and closer
together, the deeper I go. I could be crushed at any moment. As I near the final edge of the alley,
I wonder if you’re waiting on the other side, primed to pounce out and scare me. I imagine
jumping instinctively, screaming maybe, but then we would embrace. You’d pat my head and
say, it’s okay, I didn’t mean to startle you. But you did mean to, didn’t you?
I approach the end hesitantly. Here it comes, the grand reveal. Narrow passageways are meant to
be portals. Every story I’ve ever read has taught me this. I inhale, brace myself, and turn the
corner. No portal, no jumpscare, no you. Just a teenager on their lunch break sitting on an upside
down bucket, smoking a cigarette and staring at the ground. I walk by quietly, smell the faint
stench of the dumpsters, and emerge from the alley onto a sidestreet. I’m still looking over my
shoulder. Why do I feel like I’m being hunted? I agreed to this. I try to breathe. It’s quieter here,
less shoppers. The sidewalk empties out. I spot an unoccupied bench, obscured on one side by a
full, leafy tree. I sit down with great relief. I’m sure I’ve lost you now. I can stop performing.
At a cafe once, I noticed an older man sitting a few tables away from me. He had his sketchbook
balanced on his lap and, every now and then, he stared in my direction. I had the dreaded feeling
he was drawing me. The rhythm of his gaze - looking up at me, then down at his sketchbook,
then up again - was almost too obvious. Perhaps he wanted me to catch him in the act. I thought
about confronting him, waltzing over to his table and ripping the sketchbook from his hands. Or
just staring right back at him until our eyes met, until he realized he’d been found out, guilt
washing over his face. But I decided to play the perfect, unknowing subject. I was working on
my laptop, but I was suddenly performing as a girl working on her laptop. A soft smile on her
face, she pauses to gaze pensively out the window. She twirls her hair through her fingers. Sighs.
Yearns for a different life. I think about that nonconsensual drawing of me living somewhere in a
stranger’s sketchbook. I wish I could say I didn’t care, but I wanted to know how he saw me. Did
he make my gaze sharp or downcast? Did he make me look thoughtful, anxious, sad? Did he
make me look stronger than I actually am? Or weaker. Did he make me pretty? I want to have control over how I am seen by other people. I want to give them a specific image, draw my own outlines and contours and say, this is me. No further questions. But I will never have this kind of power.
How do you see me? A girl sitting on a bench, waiting to be found. Is it cheating if I hide from
you? But you’ve been cheating this whole time. Hiding yourself. You could be anywhere, the
other side of the street, the stores I passed earlier. Maybe you saw me go down the alley and end
up here. Maybe you already left. I’m so frustrated I could scream. Why did you ask me to do this
and then disappear? Why are you allowed to see me, but I can’t see you? I stand up from the
bench. I am done waiting. I am going to find you.
Kelli Connell’s work investigates sexuality, gender, identity and photographer / sitter relationships. Her photographs are in the collections of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, LA County Museum of Art, and J Paul Getty Museum among others. Publications include Kelli Connell: Pictures for Charis (Aperture), PhotoWork: Forty Photographers on Process and Practice (Aperture) and Kelli Connell: Double Life (DECODE).
Kennedy Frazier (she/they) is a Chicago-based actor, writer, and musician. She studied playwriting and Arabic literature at Kenyon College, where she worked as a literary associate for the Kenyon Review. Alongside her artistic practice, she also serves as a behavioral health instructor and is passionate about using storytelling to promote hope and healing. She believes in the power of the arts to transform the way we care for each other.
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