So anyhow, when I walked past this store in Utrecht I was happily surprised to see this guy repeating. Clones, eurika, but why him, I wondered? His line of sight picks up a rage of sidewalkers. One of him is probably looking at you -- he's picked you because whatever is slightly different about that one, sees what is slightly different about you?
And then, of course, her too. And this one caught the reflection of the far side of the street. You can see the opposing windows inside this one, and they repeat, like her. They also obscure or puncture the image while also giving it a strange dimension, like she is emerging from the seam of the two buildings.
Then, today I went to write in Amsterdam and I saw the same add and I decided it made sense to take the photos again. To record the reproductibility and its little game of difference.
Here, not only do the brunette clones have a pair of blond friends, but then, randomly and magically, the clone appears "in life" at the left of the photo. Perhaps that is not right, but is it virtually right? What are "her" rights, as a "real" person in "public" to not be compared, in image, to another image, in another "public"? I seemed to have crossed an ethical line.
And there he is again too, now with hair. Here the red baseball cap is reflected under an embedded and inverted red McDonald's sign. The store is called "Forecast" but you can read "recast" in bright blue within. In the upper left corner you can read "one" written backwards.
And here is a photo from the redlight district. I took it from far away, without zoom, because you are not supposed to take photos of the women in this area. (The ethics of this post, let alone the photos themselves, is something I'd like to discuss. I feel OK, but not great about it.) But here, virtually-speaking, we see a tall guy and a woman making arrangements through the window, which she has opened. There are the two little phallic concrete erections on the sidewalk and a vaginal canal below with a friendly duck swimming by. Perhaps, part of the uncanny panic this district induces (apart from the highly-contestable sexual politics going on) is simply the odd mode of imaginary consumption. You fall into the window, into where the clones (the images) are being reproduced in some, one suspects, totally non-sexual way. Lots of the men in this district look like clones too, packs of middle-age British men all in soccer jerseys and short hair, only too ready to reproduce their self-image. But, looking at it now, the scene above seems slightly different. It is daylight and they seems tentative. He doesn't look like a tourist.
