On looking and being looked at.
A man is watching a badly filmed video. The picture quality is poor. The camera operator zooms the long lens into focus, then shakily pulls back again to reveal the plastic dashboard of a white van. It is early morning. The light is dim, it’s drizzling, and nothing appears quite how he knows it to be. The forest is oddly compressed and the distant buildings of a courthouse seem transposed into the foreground. The open shrub land looks shrunken, but strangely picturesque… The man sees himself appear in the frame; a distant figure in a white anorak, head down, hood up, slowly walking towards the camera. Two dogs are running over to him. He stops and pets them, clips them onto leads, then heads off again, off towards the lakeside diner and out of shot. The action cuts to a second camera, which appears to be in a car near the diner, and then to a third, in another vehicle waiting out on the main road. He feels nauseous. A wave of revulsion runs through his body as he watches the video unfold; his private thoughts and feelings exposed on his face and by his body movements for all to see.
It is a couple of months since he discovered he’s being followed by undercover investigators. He’s read some of the surveillance reports and laughed out loud at their suggestive fabrications, but nothing has prepared him for the physical impact of watching himself through their accusing eyes. He doesn’t recognise the person they describe in their murky films and carefully composed reports. He is constantly on the look out for them now, but mostly they are invisible. He screens his windows, glares at strangers on the train. Dog walks are no longer a pleasure.
I’m on the sofa, looking at Vincent, who’s sitting at the far end, returning my gaze. His eyes bore into me. I stare at him questioningly for a long while, but I can see only the suggestion of my own reflection on the surface of his dark eyes. I wonder what he’s thinking… Our gaze is intimate, but the gulf between us makes certain knowledge impossible.
I took Vincent to some dog shows, hoping to learn which dogs and breeders were considered the best. I discovered that Vincent has a roach back and is unusually thin - even for a Whippet. His physique falls far short of the Breed Standard - a written definition of Whippet perfection. As a show dog Vincent was a poor specimen, but, as such, he no longer has to endure the scrutiny of expert, judgemental eyes.
A proper show Whippet is bred to be looked at. The breeders hope to produce a perfect dog, focusing on body form and fluidity of movement. Each puppy in a litter is subjected to a thorough aesthetic assessment: gender, colour, shape, size and movement all under scrutiny; potential for the show ring of prime importance. A show Whippet can be any colour or shade. There are reds and fawns; lemons, creams and golds; blues and blacks: plain, brindled or particoloured coats, in any combination. The potential palette is seemingly unlimited.
A breeder selects a blue fawn, stands it up, stretches its immature legs backwards and smoothes the arch of its back with her hand, totally absorbed in a peculiar, ritual examination. There is talk of the top line, the well-bent stifle; concern over the cow hock, the dog’s size, and number of testicles… much anatomical jargon. She is studying form, scrutinising the results of her careful mating, and already thinking about how to approach the next litter. The dog is graded, but nothing is certain. No one can accurately predict exactly how these young dogs will develop. The breeder selects the most promising specimens, grooms them for competition, prepares to show them off in the breed clubs.
When a Whippet first enters the show ring, it is placed on a table and posed in the ‘correct’ position for the judge to view it. All eyes are on the dog, which stands to order, looking forward. Although the judge will inspect various organs and limbs, it is the totality of these fragments, which make up the figure of the dog. The judge will circle the table, but always stops to take in the image of the dog from the side. It is as though there is only one possible way to view a show dog, only one position from which to see that much sought after ideal. This particular ritual is both familiar and strange: dog showing is an integral part of British cultural history, but the detached presentation of the show dog disturbs me. Before its incarnation as a show dog, the Whippet, a Sighthound, was bred for its acute vision - an attribute of great advantage to a hunting hound. This particular characteristic is no longer so vital to the dog, which has successfully made the transition from working dog to pet, but even now it retains an intensity and focus of vision that is entirely different to ours.
Vincent observes me closely, obsessively even; every slight action, every movement, every expression, scrutinised, absorbed, noted for future use. His look is intense. He is fully engaged with the physical things he sees, hears and smells in the world; totally unconcerned with image or visual ideals. He will happily watch me for hours, but a photograph, or even a mirror, holds no interest for him whatsoever.
The video is coming to an end. As the man and his dogs leave the open ground, a dog glances briefly in the direction of the camera. The man freezes the frame. He looks at it intently. The dog’s eyes meet his. He feels a positive connection, a satisfaction. He can’t be sure exactly what this is – there is a strangeness, an opaqueness even to this look – but one thing is clear: the dog’s gaze doesn’t reflect an impossible ideal. He feels affirmed. This look, this connection, this moment of uncertainty with an image of an animal, throws into relief his relations with humans. The dog’s look provides a release, a certain freedom not possible in an exchange of looks between humans, or even in the look between human and dog.
Jo Longhurst, January 2008