The Allure of Invisiblity

Genre: Lyric Essay, Photograph by Pierre Debroux

Humans (pre-ghosts) have long been allured by the invisibility of ghosts (post-humans). I write this in the most vague sense. I mean not to say that we are all chasers of spirits, but merely to observe that there is a breed of humans (mostly gaunt and with a urge towards Polaroid photography) who wish that we possessed an enchanting invisibility. I understand this attraction. I am attracted to ghosts; moreover I want only to be one. This has been a constant in my life and only recently understood after being haunted by Philip Vlasov.

I am a Ghost. I want to be photographed out of focus. I want to escape the first-person. I carefully arrange my things in my carefully cleaned apartment; I savor the possibilty that someone might enter without my presence and want to know more. And because I understand this attraction, I am able to comprehend the itching desire for Ghosts to strive towards invisibility within our daily living. It is in our art. It is in our writing. It is in our endless attempt to be seen and chased but never caught in the physical.

The essence of ghostliness is the subtle note. In a photograph: a room the corner of a room occupied by a single, worn shoe; a bed made for sleeping but unclear for who. The messes, the imprint of where someone was and the question of what they were doing. Anonymity is pre-ghost's attempt at invisibility. I, perhaps like you, came to New York to find anonymity. I came to a place where everyone could see me, but few knew whom I was and what I was doing. I came to make fleeting eye contact with strangers on the metro. I came to give my name, but not my phone number. I came in contact with the photography of Pierre Debroux after a strangely anonymous interaction with Philip Vlasov. And with this interaction came to ponder our desire (the aforementioned three - Pierre, Philip, me) for invisibility (I am, but you can't see).

Vlasov, Creative Director of Vogue Russia, keeps a loose schedule around his office. He leans back with his hands behind his head, often. He throws his head back and lets his hair fall, often. His hair is gray though he is just thirty-two. He searches Myspace profiles, searching but unsure for whom. I imagine him sitting amongst modern furnishings, leaning back in his gray, leathered chair. He leans forward and into his computer screen examining the profile of a 23-year-old writer living in Brooklyn. Perhaps he only examines the photos. Or perhaps he is thorough and looks further; reads my written words in their vague absurdity. Nonetheless, he chooses to make contact with me. Not a message with words in return, but a simple request that would link our profiles, allude to some sort of relationship.

"Do you really want to add Bowen Ames as a friend?

Click "Add" only if you really wish to add Bowen Ames as a Friend. "

And still, Vlasov, perhaps with the throwing back of his head, clicked 'yes.' Yes, he is sure. Yes, he really does wish. In lesser circles this might be a bold gesture. But Philip and I know the allure of requesting the friendship of another Ghost. If done properly the profile is just this; it is a ghost town, a quiet remnant of where a human once was. I upload. I type carefully arranged words beneath "About Me." Still, I am not here. I am the profile of Bowen Ames. Requesting my friendship is to request the hypothetical. The pending possibility that the Ghost me might peruse your hypothetical. And I do.

"New Friend Request"

"Philip Vlasov wants to be your friend!"

Impossible, the Ghost muses. Philip Vlasov would never use an exclamation point. Philip Vlasov leans back in his chair, mussing his pre-maturely gray hair. I examine his profile and find it's true. Philip Vlasov knows the allure. Photos, just four. He is concealed for the most part. Exceeding and excessive photos of the pre-ghost diminish invisibility. It is a ghost’s nature to limit the angles at which you can see him. It is his nature to be shot in black and white. The ghost writes in no or limited captions. Beneath the second of Philip's photos he writes, "On board Mouna Ayoub's yacht Phocea. Photo by Bettina Rheims."

The ghost keeps few friends. The friends he has are names without faces, but grandiose titles. In the photo Mouna Ayoub, most certainly a Ghost herself, has the allure of her name but veils her eyes behind large black sunglasses. She is the French socialite and Businesswoman of Christian Lebanese origin. You have never met her; she is invisible except to the camera. She herself has no origin, though she is often the guest of the Cannes film festival. When she was 20 years old she converted to Islam to marry Nasser Al-Rashid, a 40 year old businessman and advisor of King Fahd. The ghost is drawn to tragedy made into fortune. After eighteen years of marriage she left Al-Rashid (too human for her) and Saudi Arabia. She made a fortune in real estate. In the photo Philip and Mouna Ayoub sit at a table set for twenty and attended by two. Ghosts order dinner for many and invite only few.

Looking onward, I examine the hypothetical friends of the Ghost of Philip Vlasov. I find myself examining the profile of Photographer Pierre Debroux, Male, 98 years old, Belgium. At a hypothetical ninety-eight, Debroux writes nothing of himself. He too is a Ghost. I contemplate if he and Philip are more than hypotheticals, if perhaps they've passed each other in an empty room. If this were true, I'm sure no words were exchanged between the two. The ghost makes fleeting eye contact and is silent too.

Debroux's photos capture exactly his, mine, and our sentiments on invisibility. A bed made neatly in a space that discretely is without recognatives. No one will sleep there. Not even Debroux. Ghosts don't sleep, they saunter through hallways. They stand numbly in vestibules, smoking a cigarette. They pass through the interspace between profiles making gestures to other unresponsives. They are gay but date no one. They take photos with no subjects. They create profiles with no photos. They do not smile. They are always in waiting. The allure of invisibility is, to them, a response the blaring fact that they are visible and no one is looking. The subtleties of their exchanges bring them both pleasure and frustration in that it can never go beyond vaguety, cheerless flirtation. Any more would to be human, and humans are without subtelties. They know too little and speak too often. It is the ghost's silence that makes him seem austere.

And so "Accept Friend Request," but make no contact. Go to a bar and make sideways glances, but no conversation. Your reward is in what others suppose, a larger and greater fortune than you may possess - the allure of invisibility.