Walk 6: With(in) Daily Life

The other day I was in Los Angeles, and I made it a rule for myself to hold eye contact with everyone I interacted with. I kept thinking it would wear off after the first few interactions, but the discomfort kept renewing itself in weird, subtle ways.

The day itself was packed. My girlfriend and I started at the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures. It’ was a place that I really excited to go. But even there, in an environment that already encourages observation, the eye contact thing made everything feel off. In one of the exhibit rooms, I made eye contact with a museum employee standing by a glass case. Normally I’d give a polite nod and move on. Instead, I held the look. Just for a second or two longer than normal. She looked back, then dropped her gaze, then looked back again as if checking to see if I had a question. I didn’t. I just nodded and moved on. It felt like I’d broken some kind of invisible rhythm. It was really uncomfortable. In a city where everyone’s half-looking past each other, it felt like I was holding up a mirror, even though I wasn’t saying anything out of the ordinary.

The real test came that night at The Weeknd’s concert. There were people everywhere. While we were in line for merch, I made eye contact with a couple behind us, one of them immediately looked away like they weren’t sure what I wanted. Inside the so-fi stadium, was even more complicated, I had never been there before so I was getting to adjusted to that as well. I tried holding eye contact with strangers we passed but it got awkward fast. One girl looked at me with the look as if we knew each other like, and a guy just stared back blankly until I had to look away. But the strangest moment was when I turned to look at my girlfriend. We’d already been talking, but holding eye contact for just a second longer made even that feel oddly charged as if I was seeing her in the middle of chaos, fully present for a moment we’d normally drift through. There’s something about concerts though I thought was interesting for this assignment, everyone is packed together, sharing sound and space but no one really wants to look at each other. We all want to feel connected, just not seen.

By the time The Weeknd came on, I was ready to disappear into the music and let the performance go. Five hours of eye contact sounds easy, but it messed with my head. It’s like I was asking people to be present with me for just a beat longer than they wanted. And you’d be surprised how resistant people are to that especially in a place like L.A., where looking past people is just part of the pace.

After the concert, walking back to the hotel, I looked at the reflection of my own face in a store window and realized I’d been more “on” all day than I expected. Not in a performance sense, but in a hyper-aware, ultra-present way. That little decision to hold eye contact had shifted my whole experience of the day. Nothing huge happened. But everything felt a little bit off. And maybe that’s the point.

Writing 3: Witnessing Each Other

Jennifer Whitney’s account of the Infernal Noise Brigade pushes beyond the documentation of a protest tactic and into the realm of aesthetic theory through action. The band’s deployment of sonic disorientation wasn’t just support for protest logistics it was an attack on the passive. INB was calculated and performative, aimed towards rupture. Their method embodies a critique of traditional activism’s reliance on rational appeals within a public sphere. Rather than address power through speech, INB bypasses it with affect. What they offer is not just music, but a reconfiguration of the political field itself: transforming participants into performers and public space into a temporary zone. While INB claims to decentralize leadership and empower the crowd, their rigorous coordination and tactical precision also suggest a tension between radical spontaneity and elite organization. Can a tightly rehearsed band still claim to dissolve the spectacle, or are they simply creating a more seductive one?

This tension becomes sharper when read alongside Krzysztof Wodiczko’s Projections. Like INB, Wodiczko intervenes in public space to disrupt normalized narratives but through radically different means. His large-scale architectural projections of marginalized voices do not invite chaos but rather they compel quiet, even uneasy attention. Where INB mobilizes collective noise, Wodiczko demands a collective stillness yet both confront the viewer with stories that dominant systems aim to suppress. The comparison reveals an important assumption underlying both practices that aesthetic experience can be politically transformative when it reorganizes our relationship to space, presence, and audience. INB removes the line between performer and observer through sonic immersion. Wodiczko, by contrast, confronts viewers with voices they cannot ignore, creating a temporary collapse between monument and memory. What both artists reveal is that effective political art must not simply convey a message, but can alter the mode of reception itself. Neither artist tries to persuade through argument; both seem to seek towards recondition perception. And in that reconditioning emerges a space where scripted roles dissolve, and the potential for radical imagination begins.

Walk 5: I Walk in Your Name

My girlfriend and I were in Los Angeles for a few days. But in the middle of our trip, I knew I had this assignment to do and I thought it was a nice opportunity to use Los Angeles to walk in someone else’s name, for a cause outside myself. 

I asked my mom what kind of walk I should do. She didn’t hesitate to tell me, “Take the bus. Take several buses. That’s what I used to do when I couldn’t afford a car. That’s the walk I want you to take—for every woman who never got to travel any other way.” And just like that, our transit from Union Station to the hotel became the assignment.

We traveled from Union Station in downtown L.A. to Trend Hotel near LAX using public buses. It was long, slow, and required three different transfers and a final walk along wide, exhaust-heavy roads. 

We were technically on vacation. We could’ve just called a Uber (even though it was like 4PM and it would of cost $80!) and been at the hotel in 30 minutes. But instead, we did it her way. We sat, stood, waited, and transferred.

What surprised me was how different the city felt when seen through this slower, more vulnerable lens. 

My girlfriend who grew up taking the public bus every day moved with a calmness I didn’t have. She knew how it works, how far to walk for the next stop, how to time the rhythm. I realized how much I’d taken for granted in my life from parents who picked me up, AC cars, & quiet rides.

For me, it was eye-opening. For her, it was just how it’s always been.

It was just a bus ride during vacation. But under the surface, it carried so much more. It was a ride in my mother’s name. A moment of learning with my girlfriend beside me, someone who’s lived this kind of movement her whole life. I arrived at the hotel physically tired, but mentally awake. That, I think, was the point.

Project 1: Ephemeral, Site and Social Space

Held Briefly is an ephemeral sculpture made by freezing dead flowers and melted candle wax into a block of ice, then placing it on artificial grass under the sun. In less than an hour, the piece transformed completely. The ice melted quickly in the Arizona heat, the wax re-solidified into soft shapes, and the dead flowers were almost more alive in appearance. What was meant to preserve began to shift, soften, and dissolve.

The work reflects on the illusion of preservation. The idea that we can pause decay, hold beauty still, or suspend meaning in time. As the sculpture melted, it revealed that the act of freezing wasn't a way to stop time, but to briefly frame its passing. In this disappearance, the piece offers impermanence not as erasure, but as quiet transformation.

Writing 2: Scales of Social Space

 In Michael Bull’s essay No Dead Air!, he explores how iPod users reframe the city through mobile listening, turning daily commutes and walks into curated experiences of solitude, mood management, and control. Bull argues that iPod users are not just listening to music, they are reorganizing their environments into emotionally manageable spaces. With access to millions of songs at their fingertips, listeners construct what Bull calls privatized auditory bubbles, soundscapes that allow them to reimagine public space as personal space. Bull draws from Adorno and Lefebvre to situate this behavior as both symptomatic of alienated late capitalism and potentially oppositional. Some users listen to playlists that create temporary escapes, choosing music that mirrors their emotional state. My thoughts to this piece is a mix of recognition and skepticism. I agree that mobile listening creates emotional autonomy, I’ve used music the same way but on the other hand, this is how privatized control can also lead to disengagement from the shared world. The illusion of control over public space might actually deepen social fragmentation, reinforcing an everybody for themselves mentality that tech culture often celebrates.

Bull’s analysis of aestheticized solitude provides a valuable perspective to understand Style Wars, the 1983 documentary about New York City’s graffiti subculture. In the film, young graffiti writers also reclaim public space through aesthetics, but their interventions are public, visible, and disruptive rather than private and insulating. While Bull’s iPod users seek to minimize contact and smooth over urban chaos, the writers in Style Wars impose their identities onto the city’s infrastructure, asserting presence in a world that otherwise erases them. One compelling contrast lies in their assumption. iPod users believe the city is theirs to ignore, to turn down like the volume on a song. Graffiti artists think the opposites that they must fight to be heard and seen, tagging as an act of resistance. The iPod aestheticizes the city from within a bubble but graffiti aestheticizes it from without, confronting the public with it’s style. Both practices are attempts to fill in the empty space of urban life, but only one demands recognition from others. Bull’s iPod users are alone, controlling the sound as well as their emotions. A graffiti artist must navigate confrontation, collaboration, and even conflict. If Bull sees mobile listening as a kind of sanctuary, Style Wars reveals a counter-view that some seek not to escape the city’s noise, but to add to it loudly.

Walk 3: Social Territory

 I grew up in Tucson Estates, far enough from the city that made everything feel distant, not just physically, but socially. Streets are wide and quiet, and neighbors keep to themselves. And the city’s cultural energy always felt like something I had to drive toward, not live inside. That distance shaped the kind of places I still go to, places where you can be around others without the expectation of talking, performing, or even being noticed. 

Now I live off by South Nogales Highway, another direction on the edge of town, close to the airport and freight tracks. It feels like a continuation of that outer-world energy. Full of gaps between houses and noise from the industrial surroundings. It’s a strange in-between space, neither suburban nor rural, not quite city but not entirely separate. 

I’ve been almost everywhere in Tucson not just to visit, but to work. I help my dad with tile, and through that, I’ve been inside homes and buildings across Marana, Oro Valley, and Sahuarita. I’ve seen every edge of this city through the lens of labor, laying tile in spaces that aren’t mine, moving between job sites scattered across the desert grid. That movement gave me practical knowledge of the city’s shape but also deepened my sense of emotional distance. The more of Tucson I’ve seen, the more I realize how spread out everything is how little invites you to stay, unless you’re needed there. 

Unless you’re in downtown, Tucson is a city of stretches. This map tracks the few places I return to often. Zia Records on Speedway, Cinemark at Tucson Marketplace, and the two homes I’ve occupied Tucson Estates and by South Nogales Highway. But it's separation feels natural. It mirrors how I move through the world, not rushing from one thing to another, but drifting between quiet zones, places where I can breathe, think, and absorb without being interrupted. These sites form a soft, unsocial network that moves between creative worlds and homebodies, between physical labor and artistic work, between cultural passion and social retreat. 

In Tucson Estates, the cultural silence was foundational. There was no source of entertainment outside of the home space, just desert, roads, and silence. But that silence created room to develop an internal world. Even now, when I visit, I feel how the quiet patterns of that place are embedded in me. It trained me to observe more than speak, to linger without needing a reason. 

My current home sits closer to the city but still feels like an edge. Planes pass overhead; trains echo in the distance at night. It’s a space in flux where there’s industry, a nearby casino, and a lot of infrastructure, but few places meant to gather. The neighborhood doesn’t have plazas or hangout spots. It’s mostly transition. It’s where I live, work on projects, and prepare to enter other worlds. 

At Zia Records, the store is filled with culture, but no one bothers you. The joy is in flipping through soundtracks, movies, & miscellaneous items. You’re surrounded by other people, but barely any words are exchanged. It’s one of the only places where you can be completely present without being social. Every aisle contains someone’s interest. It serves people like me quietly, searching, and culturally invested. 

Cinemark at Tucson Marketplace is even more odd. It’s deeply social in concept but practically silent. You sit with strangers and have a collective experience, but there's no interaction. I can go alone or with someone and still leave with my thoughts untouched. The theater isn’t a gathering space in the typical sense. It’s a place where internal life is temporarily shared.  

What connects these spaces is that they offer quiet presence. They allow people like me to exist in public spaces without becoming public facing. I like to absorb culture without being absorbed into a scene. These places give that, yet they’re fragile. As cultural spaces are increasingly designed for visibility, they start to lose their gentler edges. The ones that remain subtle are rare. 

It’s a map of grey zones, where culture meets privacy, where social life exists without interaction. It’s a personal geography of a life spent halfway in the world, and halfway in my head. 

Walk 2: Desire Lines

 

For Walk 2, I decided to explore my neighborhood again, believing that this familiar area would offer the best chance to observe desire lines, those unofficial trails made by repeated footsteps. I already knew some of these paths from seeing people use them while driving home or leaving the area, but walking through them gave me a perspective I hadn't grasp until now.

I began to understand why people take these shortcuts: they’re quick, direct, and often more intuitive than the official routes. Some of them surprised me, like the ones that run parallel to paved walkways. Even with a sidewalk just inches away, people still choose to carve their own route. It made me think about how movement isn’t always about efficiency, but habit, instinct, or comfort.

Whether it was a thin dirt trail cutting between patches of grass or a worn strip of earth next to a concrete path, these desire lines told quiet stories about routine, resistance, or maybe just convenience. In some cases, the trail seemed to serve no obvious purpose, but it was there all the same — evidence of people choosing their own way.

One of the most striking moments from this walk was at the edge of a large, empty plot of land that people used to cut through. I always knew this area as a shortcut, it is the easy way through an area with no proper sidewalks, and I’d seen people walk or bike through it. But now, it’s been completely fenced off in all directions. A couple of days ago, I could hear the sounds of the fences being put up, the clanging of construction that made it clear the space was no longer open for passage.

And yet, the trails are still there, this particular pathway now serves like scars or fading memories. No one can walk through it anymore, but they remain visible, at least for now. It made me think about how desire lines are not just physical traces, but temporal ones too. Even when access is denied, the imprint of movement lingers. It’s a quiet reminder of how people once moved freely through that space and maybe a suggestion that, given the chance, they still would.

Writing 1: Ephemeral/Site

 In Laurene Vaughan’s Walking the Line: Affectively Understanding and Communicating the Complexity of Place, the act of walking is reframed as a mapping method, not through data points or grids, but through embodied sensorial experience, as a performative and creative act that maps the lived experience of a place. Vaughan’s analysis of artist Richard Long positions his walks not as journeys from one location to another, but as performances that transform movement into meaning. Richard Long’s practice, where the walk itself becomes the artwork, is not about conquering the land, but about responding to it, “treading lightly” while making sense of distance, terrain, and time. This idea that the body can inscribe knowledge onto a landscape softly, and non-invasively resonated with me because it suggests that we don’t have to claim land to understand it. We can simply move through it, attentively, and that alone can generate insight. 

This same sensitivity is deeply present in Rivers and Tides, the documentary about Andy Goldsworthy. Watching him construct sculptures out of sticks, leaves, or ice, only for them to be swept away or decay, reminded me of Vaughan’s notion that artistic engagement in that place is not about permanence but presence. Both Goldsworthy and Long seem to accept that time, weather, and terrain are not obstacles; they are collaborators. Both artists share an assumption that knowledge of place comes through touch, rhythm, and time spent “being with” the land rather than viewing it from above. Goldsworthy seems less concerned with the final image than with the process: the rhythm of the tide, the crack of melting ice, the wind displacing his materials. Like Long’s annotated maps or lines traced across vast distances, Goldsworthy’s temporary installations become records of human interaction with the ever-changing world. In both cases, there’s a profound humility, a willingness to be changed by the environment instead of trying to change it. 

Both the article and the film helped me rethink how we define place. It’s not just about location but also the relationship, the dynamic exchange between body, time, and terrain. While maps traditionally flatten and fix a place in time, Long and Goldsworthy offer alternative “maps” that reflect temporality, vulnerability, and even failure. Their work shows that to truly engage with nature, one must be receptive, not only observant. For me, this opens up a powerful idea, maybe knowing a place is less about measuring it and more about being moved by it. Their practices don’t just depict landscapes, they are conversing with them, messy and deeply felt.