Can you see me? I can see you.

*Image credit: Sofia Alvarez Manilla Hernandez*

Walking through the Barbican Arts Centre with the unblinking gaze of the CCTV camera as my constant companion, I am reminded of the dystopian reality in which I exist. It is a world where privacy is a distant memory. It hides in the corners of our streets, our workplaces, and even our homes, prompting us to reconsider the role of surveillance in society.

As technology rapidly evolves, the boundaries between public and private have blurred. In an era where we willingly share personal information online, the concept of privacy has taken on new dimensions. We find ourselves living in a world where our every move can be tracked, archived, and analysed. Tiktokers can find your exact geographical location or birthday through simple three-minute tutorial clips.

I stand at the entrance, my “head” screwed on as I take my first inspection of the space. The shutter of Dylan’s film camera solidifies my existence there. The very essence of this place, a monument to Brutalism, speaks of a world that values order and control above all else. You are stuck in a paradigm of knowing you are being watched but losing the cameras in the grandeur of the architecture, so you go on about your day.

My footsteps echo through the desolate walkways, a solitary sound in the silence of the surveillance infrastructure. The clunky metal case on my head emulates the bleak symmetry of the corridors, the uniformity that suppresses dissent.

Up the steps, to the left and I’ve risen above most. I scan my gaze up. The shutter of the camera clicks, I saw that.

The Barbican Centre stands as a relic of a time when freedom and individuality were sacrificed in the name of conformity and control. These concrete walls have witnessed the struggles of countless individuals, their stories silenced by the surveillance state: a testament to the ability to idealise obedience.

Emerging from the ashes of World War II, post-war London was a city in dire need of rebirth, reconstruction, and renewal. The spectre of austerity loomed large, as the nation grappled with economic challenges and the daunting task of rebuilding its shattered urban landscapes. The Barbican's stark, unapologetic concrete façade reveals an emphasis on functionality and is a direct reflection to the broader socioeconomic context of the era. The idea was to provide affordable housing in a centralised location, addressing the needs of the working-class population. The very essence of Brutalism sought to eschew the ostentatious and ornate architectural excesses of the past, instead embracing a utilitarian ethos that celebrated the functional and the efficient. It sought to provide the much-needed housing, cultural spaces, and communal amenities to a city grappling with overcrowding and urban decay. In this sense, the Barbican's utilitarian beauty was a direct response to the pressing needs of London's development as a capitalist oasis. Its emphasis on communal living and public spaces underscored the value of shared resources and collective experiences, aligning with the aspirations of the London City Council and government for its working population. When Right to Buy was introduced in 1980, however, almost all of the housing became privately owned. The juxtaposition of the once-public housing with the current luxury setting underscores the evolving landscape of our urban environments in London. Architects and planners sought to create a visually cohesive environment, with the dearth of visible signs of habitation, such as the prohibition of hanging laundry on balconies and storing personal items, insisting on everyone conforming.

I make my way down to the crowds keen for a closer look. I stand above others as I rise from the bench. The public's response is nothing short of Orwellian in its complexity. Their reactions are a tableau of discomfort, entertainment, and curiosity intermingling like characters in a dystopian narrative. Some passersby cast furtive glances, their eyes reflecting the discomfort born of the unknown. The camera on my head, a symbol of omnipresent surveillance, strikes a chord of unease. They quicken their pace as if hoping to outpace the all-seeing lens. In their wary gazes, I see echoes of a society conditioned to be perpetually watched, ever wary of my gaze.

Others, however, find a sense of macabre entertainment in my peculiar spectacle. They exchange knowing glances and hushed laughter, their amusement tinged with a hint of irony. To them, I am an unwitting performer in a grotesque show, a living embodiment of the absurdity of our surveillance culture. They revel in the spectacle of the absurd, the uncanny juxtaposition of the familiar and the bizarre.

This man double-takes as we cross paths, I then see him lock his gaze forward, just another perception through surveilling eyes.

Yet, curiosity is the driving force behind the collective gaze. Faces turn toward me, eyes widening with a mixture of fascination and bewilderment. Some prefer to ignore my presence, if they look away long enough I no longer exist. They are drawn to the paradox of surveillance turned on its head — a performer embracing the panopticon rather than succumbing to it.

In this amalgamation of reactions, one can discern the contradictions of a society under constant surveillance. The discomfort, the entertainment, the curiosity — they’re all threads in the intricate tapestry of our surveillance state. The individual performances enacted on a day-to-day basis are founded on the labels we choose to accede to.

In this Orwellian landscape, I, the artist with a camera for a head, become both a reflection and a critique of the society that surrounds us. The public's response, a manifestation of their own ambivalence toward the watchful eye, serves as a stark reminder of the complex relationship between the individual and the ever-present lens of authority. What performances do we all choose to enact, and what “free will” do we choose to suppress in fear of being judged or worse, held accountable for?

It was within this crucible of adversity that I'm reminded of Solomon Asch's conformity experiments positing that individuals conform to group norms to gain social approval or avoid social disapproval. Normative social influence preys on your every move documented by the eyes of the buildings that surround us.

Continuing my journey, I take my first glance through the glass inside; a gathering of citizens huddled around a piece of art, their hushed voices probably filled with trepidation as they cover their mouths, for the fear that their artistic interpretation is wrong. There is always one inflicting their interpretation upon others, I distinguish him through the simple movement of his animated mouth. It's not just me, the camera scrutinises their faces, searching for any signs of dissent or rebellion. In this world, even the appreciation of art is subject to scrutiny, dictating what is acceptable and what is not.

The only proof of my performance and presence are the establishment's CCTV tapes and records, the black and white film photographs I had developed, and the memory of the public. This performance follows an exhibition where the camera was hung from the ceiling, fully functioning and used as a live-streaming device. The body of the audience member entering the camera was used as the vessel subject and object to surveillance.

In Part II, I vowed to bring my piece and vision to life through direct surveillance of the public; their reactions an insight into the performance we all partake in to conform to societal norms. Through all of this, I indulged myself in the Glitch Manifesto from Rosa Menkemen; my exhibition piece made reference to her manifesto and I count my performance as a continuation of the glitch art in question. Although this started as an artistic observation and subversion of surveillance in public spaces, I am now an unwilling performer on this concrete stage to the surveillance of the Barbican and the City of London. So when you notice me watching you, don’t forget to smile. Go on, and put on your best performance.

The Eyes Behind Surveillance

Can you see me? I can see you.