Invisible

“Invisible”

(written by Naomi Irvin, 2021)

If you had one superpower, what would it be?

I’ve always wanted to be invisible.

My mother used to tell me I’m a bit sneaky, but I don’t think so. I just like to see people how they really are, and no one is real when they think anyone is watching them. So I try my best not to be seen.

I like to watch people. People watch.

I love people. I love the way people hold themselves when they are thinking, or the way their walk changes when they’re in a hurry. I like to sit quietly and observe. I watch how they walk together, and how they look at their watch – or phone, not many people have watches now – and pretend they have somewhere to be to escape each other.

Each day I wander around the city with my little black book, recording all the mysteries of the world as it moves around me and doing my best to be invisible. People flash by me like schools of fish, similar shapes, colours, and speeds.

Sometimes I chose to move amongst the school, and although I never truly belong, I pretend to walk in their shoes. The shoes of the manager on his way to the job he hates, the woman going into a corporate building wearing her heels with single-breasted silhouette, the courier in his sneakers delivering the office basket of fruit. Everyone moving at the same pace, veering in and out of the foot traffic.

I like to stand still sometimes, interrupt their flow. Disrupt and see what happens.

But every day, I chose a place to sit where I will be unseen. I wear my old clothes, grotty with smears of grease and dirt, in need of a wash. This is my uniform of invisibility. The idea of making eye contact with a homeless person is more time consuming than most people like to admit.

People dread interacting with the homeless, and that is why it is the perfect subterfuge for me.

I am an artist. I feed my art with observations of the world from my place of invisibility. I record all that I see in my special book. The comings and goings. The smiles and sneers.

I know how people look when they are stressed, and when they belong.

I love to flesh out what I see and use this to create stories. Give people names and places. Create conversations. Arguments. Affairs.

Then I greedily take these back to my studio where I turn them out on to canvas – my paint brush giving the everyday greyness of the city touches of colour – breathing life into an otherwise bland cityscape.

That’s how I noticed them.

Five men, never quite appearing together as a group. Every couple of days, two would appear at a time across from my favourite park. Trying to blend in was probably their biggest mistake. I noticed they’d visit regularly, crossing from the park and pacing the street, checking for people and traffic, looking at their watches. Quick glimpses to each other communicating the unspoken.

They dressed differently to others. Or maybe, it was not that they dressed differently, but rather that they wore their clothes differently. Moved differently.

These men were like me – trying to be invisible. Except they failed.

I recognised them for what they were – outsiders. They had no purpose in their daily machinations. No true place or destination, seemingly disconnected from everything around them. With no haste, they moved at a different speed to others – their eyes looked at different things, unlike others who moved with glazed vision and no focus on their surroundings.

I noticed – but then again, I notice everything.

Their movements were contrived – none of them had any relationship with the streets.

Staying in the one area week in, week out for the next nine weeks, I became committed to watching these men. Anticipation was building from the pit of my stomach, that overwhelming feeling compelling me to watch and wait until something happened. I didn’t know what and I didn’t know when. I just knew that it was going to be something big.

My interest in these five men became an unhealthy obsession.

I started to lose control of my identity and was avoiding my friends and family. My every thought was carried on the breathy eagerness of wondering what was next. In my studio – my home – quick sketches were taped up on every wall. Drawings in graphite, charcoal, and water colour pencil covered every surface as I tried to capture every movement and controlled thought that flitted across their faces. I scribbled my notes in my little black book, a scrawl incomprehensible to anyone but me.

I forgot to wash and eat and filled the role of a vagrant more and more convincingly – I was terrified I was going to miss their big moment. Whatever they had planned, I was going to bear witness. It was simply a matter of time and patience.

My artwork changed. From abstract cityscapes featuring washes of coloured movement as humans, my work became more intense, the pent-up energy of waiting and imagining brought out focused close-up portraits of each man in an aggressively vibrant style. Watching each day, these men became like hungry caged animals to me, and that is what I painted. My art evolved in a way I hadn’t realised I was capable of.

I could recognise each man by his movements, his gait, and the tilt of his head. I knew them intimately and was successfully transferring this with my paint.

And then, one Friday afternoon, it happened.

There was no noise, no dramatic actions that would draw the attention of anyone but myself.

The realisation that they were about to rob not one but two banks at once took my breath away. I sat and captured every detail – my power of invisibility coming to the forefront and my obsessive nature giving the artist in me an unfair advantage.

I saw the energy of predators unleashed. This was no crime of opportunity, but a carefully orchestrated series of movements, and I was the only audience. It was beautiful.

Over the next three months, I poured myself into my artwork to ensure I had pieces for my first major gallery exhibition I had planned with a couple of friends.

I was fervently working, thrilled with the results. Never before had I captured something as rare and incredible as this robbery – yet unsolved and a point of mystery for the city’s police. I could have gone to them and let them know, share my recordings, but it never occurred to me. I was far too swept up in the excitement and almost felt I was an honoured member of the gang.

Opening night was fast approaching, and I had to select five pieces for the showing. I had thirteen paintings and took my time to choose the ones that leapt out to me and spoke of what had unfolded that day. Of my anxiety and excitement.

Our opening night was not as well supported as we would have liked, but for up-and-coming artists, we were happy. People were enjoying the exhibition and champagne, and the social elite were on display posing in front of various paintings for photographers. At least we would be seen in the social pages of the newspaper and local magazines.

With the show open for a month, I hoped the pieces of the puzzle would fall together and I’d sell at least one work. I’d sold pieces before, but this was a foray into a completely different world, and I was not sure how they’d be received by the buyers. Regardless, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

A couple of days later, my energy waning now my paintings were on display, and I found myself wondering what would be next. The emptiness of my days seemed endless. I was stuck to the couch, watching the reflections of light from the sun move across the ceiling, not bothering to answer the annoying buzzing of my phone.

There is only so long you can ignore the world, and then it chases you down.

Incessant knocking interrupted my depressive slump, and I opened the door to my excited friend Jane. She burst in and wouldn’t stop babbling. It took me a minute to finally understand what she was saying – all my paintings had been bought by one anonymous buyer. And they paid in cash.

She handed me an envelope containing a cheque for $20,000. My artwork had sold for twice this, with the gallery taking 50% commission. I was stunned. How was this possible? Never could I have imagined this.

Jane thrust a bunch of flowers into my hand and I saw the card stuck in the middle of the bouquet. It read “Thank you for your silence. We will be in touch, your admiring subjects.”

From that moment on, I had the spring back in my step.