I'm sitting in the airport terminal with my husband and three kids, all of whom are anxiously awaiting our Disney vacation. We've only had this adventure scheduled for eight months and have been counting down with my phone app. Don't think we weren't happy when we hit single digits.
I like to people watch. Always have and probably always will. My best people watching happens when there is a lot of sitting around involved -- like in a doctor's office waiting room or at an airport gate (especially when there is a big delay.)
It's easy to ignore what's going on around you, and to let people and events fade into one gigantic blur. But if you take a moment to observe, to really stop and give people some attention, you could learn a whole lot.
Costco has an amazing selection of food, clothes, appliances, furniture and just enough walking stereotypes to keep things interesting. Here are just a few examples of folks I saw on my last trip to Costco.
The man was gorgeous. I stared shamelessly and smiled as I allowed my fantasies to ramble. His skin was tanned and he had rugged features with a strong, cleft chin and clear, blue eyes. The cut of his expensive three-piece suit accentuated his broad chest and shoulders.
By recording the city's daily nothings I aimed to capture an invisible pulse so easily ignored. In the end I captured much more. Sure, it's nothing more than the daily New York stampede, but it's exactly that monotony that makes it amazing.
The first date -- They probably met online and are visibly nervous. The one who arrives earlier doesn't know whether or not to order so they skip the line and anxiously check their phone and pretend to be doing something important.
Reading a person's body language, listening to what they say to one another and how they say it and noticing who is talking to whom about what can give good information about them and their relationships.
We always seem to be rushing. Rushing to the office, the store, the train, the post office, the restaurant, the gym, even yoga class... those pockets of time when we're not in an active state of rush seem to be fewer and far between.
The real art is right here in the elevator, on the floor, in the record of the passage of time and people, their footprints, drippings, crumbs, spittle, flecks, tracks, stains and movements. When did we begin bubble-wrapping art?
On a more serious note, to the dad from New Jersey smoking a cigar while pushing your daughter in a stroller: Will you be my muse? You pushed me to the next level. After I judged your behavior, I was in the zone. Nobody and nothing was getting passed me.