Stop, Stare Off Into Space, and Listen
By John McVay
I am a newer resident to Nevada, and half of the time I have spent here has been in quarantine. This is the first time in my life that I have lived somewhere other than my previous home state of Arizona, coming to Las Vegas to pursue my Masters in Fine Art degree from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. The experience has been peppered with joy, stress, and periods of mundane waiting, hanging tough, and holding on while I linger and listen for things to change. I have been very conscious of the impact of social isolation from this quarantine moment on my overall well-being, and I'm sure I'm not nearly the only one who has been really deflated by the lack of social interaction in my life. The fear of infection supersedes my desire for connection, bullying my social impulses into submitting to the reality and threat of COVID-19. I stay inside as much as possible, forsaking all the places in public I used to go. Instead I immerse myself in the safety of home or possibly a few choice homes of friends that exist within a shared pact of precaution and avoidance of others.
Focusing my existence indoors, the banality of domestic life had been highlighted, amplified, turned on its head. My apartment was suddenly simultaneously my home, my art studio, my workspace, all of which I shared my partner, a multi-functional all-in-one habitat. I began to listen to small sounds inside the apartment more, like the hum of her fish tank or the drone of the air conditioner, circular fan, or refrigerator. I was always too busy getting ready to be somewhere else before the pandemic, I was always thinking five steps ahead of my current moment instead of taking the time to actually listen to what was going on around me all the time. These simple moments were inspiring to me, showing me that there is a value in slowing down, and that I should enter that headspace more often. The pressures of a jam-packed life can lead me to feel guilty about taking it easy sometimes, to feel like I’m wasting time or that I’m not being productive enough in my life (and that this is somehow a problem). Being inside for long periods felt like a blessing wrapped in a curse, a punishment for something I was falsely accused of, or a vacation from the hustle and bustle; I thought about the guilt that I was experiencing as a result of feeling like I was being punished for doing something wrong. Ultimately the increased time I spent inside led me to think about the sounds of my life and how these small auditory memories are reminders of my choice and personal agency in populating and crafting a space for my home. They are also reminders of the importance of being present in the moment and being mindful, despite the sometimes-overwhelming pressure of obligations outside the home.
I used the rush of my pre-pandemic life to distract myself from things I could change within myself for the better; it’s easy to avoid your personal problems if you’re too busy to ever have the time to think about them. I thought about my friends and family in Arizona, how I appreciated our time together, and how far away they felt from me. I thought about my relationship with my partner, and how I had been avoiding emotional work within myself that I now have time to work on. I thought about all the times I had blown someone off that wanted to spend time with me, or all the invitations to go out to events that I never followed through with because of anxiety. I miss being able to touch someone else’s shoulder or hand, to be able to see their mouth smile and laugh, to be able to hug a friend. This time in pandemic has felt like an incubation period of sorts, or like a vacation from the upkeep of social relationships to a degree. I used to think that I preferred to be alone, or at least to have large amounts of time to myself, but now that I have as much time alone as I can stand, I crave being around others, even if it’s just at a gross dive bar where I’m breathing cigar smoke and being forced to listen to country music. I’ll take it. I’ll consider a lot of situations I would have said no to before, driven by a fear of missing out, of squandering time, or of wasting chances that weren’t taken.
I have been reflecting on too many missed opportunities to see live music or to go to an art opening to encourage a friend and shoot the breeze with like-minded strangers. I miss watching live music in a giant crowd of sweaty people and swaying around in a mass of bodies where the movement is beyond your individual control. I miss being in a crowd of people on Fremont Street and overhearing snippets of the most ludicrous conversations imaginable while in the company of lots of strangers. I miss paying too much money for alcohol on The Strip and loving it anyway because of the experience. I miss the things that I used to take for granted, the things that I never thought I wouldn’t be able to do. I have some field recordings that I took on a microcassette recorder of various excursions around the city of Las Vegas, including visits to casinos and other tourist attractions. Now these miniature tapes feel like a time capsule or an old home movie; they feel so far away even though I made the recordings/memories less than two years ago. Two years feels like five years right now, the unfortunate side-effect of time slowing down to a grinding halt. We are in limbo. You can hear the gears in the clock as they struggle to advance. You can hear the fingernails of neighbors dig into their armchairs while they anxiously watch the television news for some sort of positive reassurance. When will it end? I guess none of us really know for certain, but I’m keeping my ears perked up and also to the ground, listening for the signal that social life can once again be an intimate experience.
Photo/John McVay.
John McVay currently works and lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. A recent transplant to Las Vegas, McVay has spent most of his life in Arizona, between Phoenix and Tucson. McVay is a student at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, pursuing an MFA degree, and he received a BFA in printmaking at Arizona State University.
McVay’s work examines the ways in which the media represents and idealizes, and the way that nostalgia functions in relation to the status quo. Control, disappointment, and a confusion of the self are some negative effects of capitalism that seep into our minds through our addictions and obsession with popular media. Recombining disparate fragments of print media artifacts and the detritus of bygone years, the work is the piecing together of childhood memories, making sense of the past from scraps of recollections and coming to terms with the control, disappointment, and confusion of present and future moments. How does the comfort of nostalgia guide or mislead from childhood to self- actualization?
Thank you for visiting Humanities Heart to Heart, a program of Nevada Humanities. Any views or opinions represented in posts or content on the Humanities Heart to Heart webpage are personal and belong solely to the author or contributor and do not represent those of Nevada Humanities, its staff, or any donor, partner, or affiliated organization, unless explicitly stated. At no time are these posts understood to promote particular political, religious, or ideological points of view; advocate for a particular program or social or political action; or support specific public policies or legislation on behalf of Nevada Humanities, its staff, any donor, partner, or affiliated organization. Omissions, errors, or mistakes are entirely unintentional. Nevada Humanities makes no representations as to the accuracy or completeness of any information on these posts or found by following any link embedded in these posts. Nevada Humanities reserves the right to alter, update, or remove content on the Humanities Heart to Heart webpage at any time.