The flâneur--or in my case, flâneuse--wanders without a destination. She is a passionate observer who delights in getting lost in the crowd. She is easily distracted. If this is a form of mindfulness, then the flâneur's aim is to fill his mind with his surroundings until he, as a self, as a mind, disappears. But what if you are far from the metropolis?
What if you are exploring not a foreign landscape but the one where you live?
What if there are very few people to absorb your meandering consciousness?
No intriguing signpost to remind you, at the meta-level, of your mission?
No compelling graffiti or sticker art?
No arcades to poke your head into--no secret doorways with worlds beckoning just inside the window?
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| The St. Paul area in the Marais, Paris |
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| This is the intriguing Butte de Chaumont area in Paris, the 13th arrondissement |
To be a flâneur in the North Country is to be conspicuous. The landscape is the crowd that absorbs you, but it is mostly not-human. The squirrels take an interest in you. The birds scatter. The clouds become characters become Rorschach tests: is that a flag, a kilim rug, a dog's head, a minotaur, a minaret, a miming clown on a city street, or a storm coming in tonight?
If anyone is awake in the vicinity, you will be noticed. But you won't see them. They'll be behind a window, looking out. They will know if your dog is in a good mood today or not. They will know if you tucked your pants into your boots, or if you pick up after your pet. As a flâneur, you are witnessed more than you can witness, unless you take your time and try to see every little thing.
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| photo by Tara Freeman |
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| photo by Tara Freeman |
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| photo by Tara Freeman |
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| photo by Tara Freeman |
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