Between the years 1938 and 1941, Walker Evans surreptitiously photographed riders on the New York City subway. The resulting book is the recently re-released Many Are Called. In the foreword Luc Sante wrote, “The subway is a neutral zone in which people are free to consider themselves invisible; time spent commuting is a hiatus from social interaction. Since the protocols of subway-riding advise turning your gaze inward, you can take off the face you wear for the benefit of others...”

That inward gaze was a self-contained contradiction. It was a way of being alone together. It was a kind of communal separateness, a community of individuals respecting one another’s private space.

After looking at the photographs in Evans’s book, my own next subway ride was a study in human interaction (or lack thereof). I was curious: has the “hiatus from social interaction” changed in the past 65 years? Is this retreat into a personal zone the same as it was more than a half century ago?

The facial expressions I saw looked quite similar to those in the book, especially the inward gaze. Of course the clothes and accessories were different; in particular, the ubiquitous hat was replaced by two thin wires coming from each ear, joining in a V at the chest, then disappearing into a pocket or backpack.

But there was another, more subtle difference. When the train stopped and we all resumed our conscious place in public, the people with the iPods were still in their private space. Sure, they were no longer in that daydream zone, but neither had they rejoined the public space. They retained their separation. When they reached the top of the stairs and regained cell phone coverage, they (and many others) speed-dialed and retreated further still.

 Like the subway riders in 1938, we are still individuals who lose ourselves in thought in the most public of places. But as we add new and enhanced technology to our daily wear, the gaze has shifted to a more distant place.

Now, as I encounter the ubiquitous technology, carried as faithfully as a previous generation wore their hats, I wonder: How does our personal technology affect the ways we occupy, experience and participate in the public sphere? Do we use personal technology as a form of retreat—intentional or not—from the physical, public space?

Rewind: the Sony Walkman
As we look for the latest version of the iPod under the Christmas tree, we should pay homage to its truly radical grandfather—the Sony Walkman. The Walkman was the mark of a new way that we, as individuals, occupy shared public space.

The Walkman was introduced in 1979, a time when boom boxes were growing in popularity. Boom boxes, for those of you who don’t remember, were big, heavy, battery-powered one-piece stereo-sound systems with loudspeakers. Although the Walkman was not created in direct response to the boom box, it’s instructive to make the comparison.

The boom box was intrusive; it was rude, loud, in-your-face and antagonistic. But it was also inclusive; its sound was meant to be shared by anyone who wanted to listen. It could turn a city street into a neighborhood dance party.

The Walkman was the opposite. It was, in a sense, a polite gesture. It was small and unobtrusive. But it was also exclusionary. It spoke for its wearer, saying, “This is my personal space: Keep out.” It was a retreat in two senses of the definition, i.e., noun and verb, a place to escape to, but also a backing away. One used it to shut out the world. It was a respite from aggression, a sort of passive-aggressive stance. “I am removing myself from you, but quietly.” The iPod (like the Walkman) directs the inward gaze to a distant, solitary space.

Fast forward: the cell phone
The cell phone represents the next step in retreating from public space. The inward gaze has been redirected outward, toward a distant shared space.

Unlike the Walkman (or iPod), the cell phone does not provide a solitary space.

On a cell phone call, we retreat from the current environment by removing ourselves from those within physical proximity and joining others elsewhere. We “travel” to some non-existent location; a simultaneously shared mental space.

Last December, I printed readers’ responses to my question, “How has the cell phone affected your lives?” Overall, the responses were angry comments about the self-centered nature of the cell phone users’ intrusion into the public space. People wrote about the cell phone caller’s sense of self-importance, and the disregard for his or her neighbors.

In this way, the cell phone is an aggressive retreat from the public space because it is both intrusive and exclusionary. The cell phone user’s neighbors have to listen to a party that they have not been invited to attend.

Jump ahead: “converged devices” (aka multimedia phones)
After I started writing this column, I looked again at Evans’s book. This time, I was attracted to the photographs of subway riders whose gaze was not turned inward but was, instead, focused outward—in particular, to a newspaper. A number of the images were of people reading the paper, some of which showed the headline loud and clear, like the Daily News “PAL TELLS HOW GUNGIRL KILLED.” (All caps of course.)

Although these passengers were alone, they were not “in retreat.” Instead, they were participating members of a shared public space. They connected to strangers through a common item, a newspaper headline about a current event that they were all aware of, that they all discussed.

Like those subway riders of the late 1930s, you’ll find that common focus in any subway car today; many people simultaneously reading the same real estate ads, the same editorials, the same words at the same time. Like their common inward gaze, they have found a communal separateness, alone together.

But today you will also find a different, more solitary outward focus, an intensified retreat that comes from the concentration an individual aims at his or her “converged device.” That’s industry-speak for what we consumers refer to as multimedia phones: feature-loaded devices that include Web browsing, e-mail, still camera, video camera, TV broadcasts, games, contact lists, calendar, music, podcasts, GPS, text messaging and so on. Even deep in the subway, without a cell phone signal, there is more than enough to keep you entertained, productive and removed.

As with a newspaper, one’s focus is directed to an object in real physical space. However, like the Walkman and the iPod, it’s a device that draws its user away from a shared community. While others on the train may be using the same gesture of thumbs hopping around on tiny keypads, there is no shared content.

With this personal technology, we occupy an efficient, comfortable and entertaining private bubble. We are also more and more mentally removed. Our attendance in physical surroundings becomes more solitary, less shared. We are alone and separate in public.

© 2006 W. Richmond