A Portrait of the Found Audience Artist as a Young Hipster

Well, dear readers, yesterday I discovered something remarkable: Found Audience Art, created in a panic by me just a few days ago, had taken on a life of its own. Or at least, that's how I interpreted the new signs springing up in Williamsburg like so many Spring flowers. They were unadorned, plain sheets of paper bearing the printed message, "Have You Been Found?" and they were stapled to trees, taped to street lamps, and hung in the odd window.

At first, I thought it a mere coincidence, but as I saw more and more of them (at least 30, dear readers!), I grew increasingly hopeful that they referred to my new art form. Wishing for confirmation, I stopped at one such poster and pretended to look at it more closely. Within seconds, a baby-faced hipster joined me! I nearly asked him if he knew what the poster meant, but fearful of projecting ignorance instead of hipness, I remained silent, thinking rapidly. How to signal that I knew exactly what it was, approved of it, and wished to initiate a conversation about it? Obviously, saying those things were quite out of the question--from hard experience, I have learned that one does not approach a hipster in such a direct manner. Then it dawned on me; acting quickly, I nodded once at the poster, said "Cool," and turned to go, pausing ever-so-briefly before doing so.

"Yeah," said the young hipster next to me, halting me in my tracks. It had worked! "It's like, the newest thing."

"Indeed," I said.

"At first, I thought it was like some sort of corporate marketing campaign--it's not, though" he added quickly, "and I was like, that's totally lame, but then I heard about Found Audience."

"Genius," I said, and I confess, dear readers, I began to preen a bit.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool."

"So, have you been found?" I asked.

Obviously, this young man was, like me, just starting down the road to hipsterdom, as his face all-too-clearly telegraphed his embarrassment at having to answer, "No."

I knew that the hip thing to do would be to snort, then walk away, asserting my superiority, but my tender heart went out to him, and instead, I nodded, staying where I was. He just barely managed to contain a pleased smile (which made me, I confess, quite proud of him. He was learning so fast!).

Then he asked me the logical follow-up question.

"No," I said, to his obvious surprise. "I find; I am not found."

His little brow furrowed, and, pleased with my riddle, I turned, and walked away majestically. Or at least, I tried to, but a patch of ice hindered my exit, and instead of exiting majestically, I slipped stupendously. Limbs flailing, I groped for the pole, tearing off the "Have You Been Found" sign, then falling onto the sidewalk.

I got up as quickly as possible, surreptitiously rubbing my rump, which had born the majority of the impact, then slipped, again, on yet another patch of ice, lurching this time into a female hipster. Groping for purchase, I latched on to her shirt with my free hand, and very nearly righted myself before her shirt tore. I caught only the merest glimpse of bare flesh before I returned to the ground, this time hitting my elbow. The pain was quite severe, dear readers, and I confess to rolling around on the dirty road, yowling in pain.

By this time, needless to say, the progress of my fellow hipsters had all but ceased as they watched the spectacle before them. I could scarcely blame them; why, the sight of a half-naked hipsteress along would have been enough to make me stop, and with the addition of a rotund hipster moaning on the ground in agony, I expect only the blind and deaf would have kept moving! As the pain slowly subsided, I realized that I was still holding both the shirt and poster in my hands, and became acutely aware of the infamy such an embarrassing display would provoke.

I had, I knew, only one option, and extracting a pen from my coat pocket, I held the muddied poster in front of my face, and changed the text to read, "Have You ^(Have) Been Found," then rising (carefully!) to my feet, handed it, along with the scrap of shirt, to the hipstress, whose arms were now crossed protectively over her chest. She accepted them wordlessly (looking a bit shocked, I must say), and I bowed with as much of a flourish as I could manage, then picked my way slowly, but nonetheless with a certain regal dignity, towards the subway station.

I held my breath as I walked away, hoping against hope that I would hear a light patter of applause swell behind me. Alas, this did not happen, and I quickly drew the conclusion that I, along with Found Audience Art, were finished before they could properly have begun. My squalid trip home was wholly depressing, dear readers, and I might have even succumbed to tears had it not been for a conversation between two hipsters that I overheard at Union Square.

"Check it out," said one hipster, holding up his cell phone to his friend.

"Cool," said the other. "Found Audience is deck."

Now, had it not been for my dear friends over at How To Impress a Hipster, I would have been sure that "deck" meant either "lame," "embarrassing," or "tragic," and might very well have died from this confirmation of my worst fears; instead, my heart, like the Grinch's, grew three sizes in that moment, and for the rest of my trip home, I felt like the returning conqueror!