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!

Inauguration Day

As promised, I spent some time in Williamsburg yesterday afternoon to celebrate the inauguration of our 44th president, Barack Obama. Williamsburg was majestic as always, and my fellow hipsters indeed seemed to be in a festive mood--instead of their usual sullen and slouched demeanor, their heads were held high, and they even nodded (and occasionally smiled!) as they passed each other on the streets. It was all quite inspiring! Change I could indeed believe in!

I walked immediately to a dive bar I had read about online located near the Lorimer stop. As I approached, I saw a fellow hipster sitting outside the bar, which I found quite unusual, given the cold weather. He was perhaps in his early 30's, with artfully disheveled brown hair that he blew carelessly away from his face as I got closer, and was well-protected against the elements, having taken layering to an extreme level. He wore no fewer than 6 different shirt of varying thickness, with the outermost layer consisting of an oversized t-shirt which read "Special Olympics." The entire ironic package (including what I believe were tattered orange shoes that reminded me of those designed for skate boarders) was quite a remarkable example of hipster fashion, I thought to myself.

Cognizant of the new, more friendly attitude hipsters were taking towards one another, I greeted him, and inquired as to whether he was excited about the inauguration. He mumbled something that I couldn't quite make out in response, but I distinctly heard the word "Change" in his answer, and thus encouraged, I sat down next to him. He companionably made room for me, then mumbled something, of which I only caught the words "drink" and "cold." Thinking this mumbling was perhaps a new hipster trend, I quickly adopted his lingo, inserting the words "Obama" and "Inauguration" into a stream of gibberish. He seemed impressed by my quick grasp of the vernacular, and invited me in to the bar for a drink. Either that, or he asked me to buy him a drink, but either way, I was quite sure he wanted to go in to the bar, which was just as well since I was not quite as well-prepared for the cold weather as my new hipster friend. Concrete is cold!

I readily accepted, and he sprung spryly to his feet. I imagine you know me well enough by now, gentle readers, to guess that I felt quite proud of myself for having made such a successful entry to the hipster inaugural celebration! I held the door open for him, and he immediately procured a table in the mostly empty barroom. I headed to the bartender, and asked him for two hot toddies. He was, apparently, not as practiced in hipsterease (as I began calling it in my head) as I, and asked me to repeat myself three times before I finally abandoned the argot and asked him in plain Queen's English for two hot toddies.

When I returned to our table with drinks in hand, I couldn't help but notice that my new friend had fallen asleep! Undoubtedly, I thought to myself, he had been partying excessively before I had arrived (which would also explain his rather pungent breath), and the warmth inside the bar had lulled him to sleep. I mumbled to him that the drinks had arrived, and handed him the toddy, which he gulped down with astonishing speed. Before I could so much as begin to discuss the finer points of Infinite Jest or the latest Animal Collective album with him, he had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes again. Thinking this was perhaps the "hip" thing to do in mostly empty dive bars (after all, I told myself, one must conserve one's energy when one can if one plans to party all night), I plugged my nose, downed my toddy, and followed suit.

Before I so much as got comfortable, I was rudely shaken by the bartender, who told me, if you can believe it, to take myself and my "bum friend" out of his bar. At this point, the few other patrons, hipsters all, were looking at us with what I took for intense interest. Mindful of the audience, I rose to my feet, and indignantly defended my friend, explaining that he was hardly a bum, but rather a fine example of your modern-day hipster, and that not only did he likely have a home in the form of an artist's loft, but a trust fund to boot! Unfortunately, I explained all this in hipsterease, which as you'll undoubtedly remember, our bartender did not speak. All he seemed to pick up from my speech was the word "hipster," and it seemed that he took it for an insult, as he responded by saying, "I'll show you a fucking hipster, asshole," then he bodily dragged me to the door and tossed me outside, followed shortly by my new friend.

As we dusted ourselves off, I couldn't help but notice that my friend did indeed bear some of the mannerisms common to one who was homeless: the few-days growth of beard, initially taken for disaffected scruffiness, now seemed the result of having neither hot water nor a razor; the the ripped jeans not a fashion statement but a necessity; the odor coming from him not an environmental statement against deodorent's chemicals, but rather the lack of access to a shower.

Suddenly I felt like quite the fool, and apologized to the homeless man for having mistaken him for a hipster. He was quite gracious, and (I'm fairly certain) thanked me profusely for the drink, and settled himself back into his original position against the bar. Meanwhile, I began castigating myself mentally for the error, and hoped--futilely, as I shortly discovered--that the bar's other patrons were ALSO bums instead of hipsters, as that would have negated the impact of my gaffe.

As I started to trudge away from the bar, the door swung open and two hipsters (I was quite certain they were hipsters and not homeless people, as one clutched a laptop to his chest and the other wore a Swatch; fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me!) emerged. I squared my shoulders, ready to accept their abuse manfully.

"Hey," said the one holding the laptop.
"Hey," I mumbled back.
"That was hilarious," said the other, with no expression whatsoever.

At this point, I paused, wondering if they were perhaps playing some cruel trick on me. Either that or they thought I had intentionally invited the homeless man in as some sort of joke. Quickly deciding on a course of action that would suit either scenario, I simply shrugged, then turned to walk away.

"Was that, like, performance art?" asked the Swatch one. I turned again, a faint flicker of joy budding in my chest.

"Yeah," I said, quickly dropping the mumbling and instead adopting their deadpan deliveries.

"Cool."

I had garnered a "cool" from a bonafide hipster! Containing my excitement, I shrugged again, then asked, "What do you do?"

"I make hats," he said, pointing at his own, which had red crosshairs superimposed over a yellow truck.

"Cool," I said.

"So, like, did you advertise at all or anything?"

"No," I said, thinking quickly, "I want the audience to be surprised. You know how Found Art is just made up of random objects? Well, I want my audience to, uh, be found. I call it 'Found Audience.'"

Both sets of hipster eyebrows raised as one. "Found Audience," said the laptop hipster.

"Cool," said the Swatch one.

Needless to say, dear readers, I wanted to shout my joy to the world! Instead, I shrugged again, said "Later," then walked to the L train. Not only had I survived what could have been a fatal gaffe, I had carved out a niche for myself in the hipster world! I was a Found Audience Artist!

Williamsburg, at last!

Fortified against the cold by my new peat coat, and against my own insecurities by my introduction to hipster music yesterday, I boldly sallied forth for Williamsburg this morning. My plan: go to a local coffee shop, crack open a hipster-approved tome (in this case, Infinite Jest, which by happenstance, I had already been reading) and wait to be noticed by my fellow hipsters.

I don't need to tell you, dear readers, just how excited the prospect of venturing into the breeding ground of hip made me, but like a gladiator heading into combat, I steeled my churning emotions and affected a disaffected reserve. I was tested the instant I reached the L train subway platform at Union Square. Oh the outfits! Oh the conversations! Oh the genuinely disaffected looks! It was almost more than I could bear, and I very nearly left for safer grounds. Then I recalled my two muses who had set me on this improbable quest. Would they have turned and run at this majestic sight? Would they have hyperventilated when an elfin girl with a bowl cut and a sailor's top stood next to them? Or would they have issued a veiled jab at her clearly store-bought clogs, then, superiority firmly established, taken her back to their artist's loft to engage in ironically conceived carnal acts with her?

The answer, I told myself, was self-evident, and fortified by the thought of my hipster progenitors, I managed to remain on the platform, board the train, and exit unscathed at Lorimer (I could not, however, bring myself to speak to the ingenue who stood beside me. I am a fast learner, my friends, but not that fast!) Upon emerging from that dim subway station, I felt I knew somewhat of the dark yearning felt by Milton's Lucifer upon viewing Eden for the first time. I coveted all I saw, smelt and heard, and stood, transfixed, on the top step of the staircase. If you have not had the pleasure of visiting Williamsburg, I dare not expose the limits of my own prose in trying to describe it; if you have, then you have undoubtedly already been transported in your mind to that magical place by the mere sight of its glorious name: Williamsburg!

It took repeated jostling from the commuters behind me to finally beak me out of my reverie, and I began to walk to my pre-selected coffee shop. Telling myself, "Fake it until you make it," I sullenly ordered coffee from a tattooed, pierced, thoroughly unpolite barista whom I'm sure I would have found attractive had she not been so intimidating. To my great good fortune, I was able to acquire a table immediately, and, coffee steaming in front of me, I cracked open Infinite Jest, and began to read. Or rather, tried to read. I was too excited by my surroundings, and resorted instead to furtively spying on my fellow hipsters. None, thankfully, were also reading Infinite Jest (although I suppose it may have afforded a natural opportunity to converse!), but I did note with interest their reading material: three Lethems, one DeLillo, and two volumes of McSweeney's.

Suddenly, I became aware that a pack of lean hipsters who had already picked up their orders were lingering by my table on their way out. I must have caught their eyes! Nervously, I turned the page, and pretended to be reading, as I listened intently to their conversation.

"I fucking hate people who start reading books just because the author died," said one to snickers.

Disaster! Oh, they had cut me to the quick! The truth was, I had entirely forgotten that morning about the tragic end of David Foster Wallace; even I, with my limited understanding of hipster code, would have known better than to have brought him of all people. My next actions were, to put it mildly, unfortunate. If only I'd taken the time to properly think out a plausible excuse--that I had started the book prior to David Foster Wallace's untimely demise, for example, or that I was the assistant teacher in a course on modern literature, or better yet, stay silent and take my licking like a man--but instead, I found myself speaking, and, horror of horrors, indignantly!

"I am not reading Infinite Jest; I am rereading it, and given the horrific end David Foster Wallace came to, I doubt there are many fans of his who aren't rereading his oeuvre."

I have, you see, a rather sharp tongue when I feel I've been attacked, and the instant the words left my mouth, I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I longed to drop to the floor and cower at their feet, begging for forgiveness, but I quickly saw that our little tete-a-tete had drawn the attention of our fellow coffee drinkers, including the hyperhip barista, and I realized that my only hope of avoiding complete and utter humiliation was to remain on the offensive.

"Well?" I asked, manfully crossing my arms, even as I silently pleaded with my eyes for him to take pity on me. Sensing my weakness, he curled his upper lip disdainfully.

"Oh, really?" he said with a slow, studied drawl that was devastating in its hipness. "So you already know how it ends, then, right? What'd you think?"

Once again, I found myself foolishly reacting to his question as if he were, say, John, or another of my less hip peers, with whom I was having an ordinary conversation.

"I think," I started slowly, picking up pace as I continued, "I think it's an affecting meditation on man's need to be known for who he truly is, and on his struggle to survive once he learns, as he must, that such a thing can never take place."

This paused the hipster only a nanosecond before he responded, "That doesn't even mean anything. You obviously haven't read it at all." He looked at me disdainfully, then uttered one more word before he and his posse turned and left: "Poseur."

The swiftness of his strike left me speechless, and I focused all my energies on steeling my face, knowing that all eyes were upon me. With a trembling hand, I reached for my coffee and took a loud sip, attempting to signal to my peers--or more accurately, my betters--that the show, such as it was, was over. I hoped for nothing so much as a moment of quiet in which to compose myself before I retreated home, tail between my legs. My wish, predictably, was not granted. No sooner than I had turned my sightless gaze back to that loathsome book than I became aware of yet another figure at my side.

What horror awaits me now, I thought to myself, and hunched down further over the book, hoping to create such a miniscule target that he or she would not bother with me.

"I thought that was really insightful, what you said," said the figure next to me. I looked up in shock. She--for it was unmistakably a she--was swarthy and stout, and even through her overstuffed winter coat, I could see that she had entered the gargantuan stage of pregnancy. In short, she was tragically unhip by the standards of Williamsburg, but in that moment, I could not have been more grateful than if it had been Kerouac himself.

"That's very kind of you to say," I responded, "But obviously, I was quite mistaken. Why else would he have taken such offense?"

To my surprise, she laughed, then patted me companionably on the arm. "You're funny," she said. "Are you some kind of professor?"

"No, no," I answered, somewhat bemused, "Just an amateur enthusiast."

"Well, thanks for the entertainment," she said, then patting me again on the arm, she waddled majestically out the door.

Though I can scarce countenance it, it seemed as though this kindly woman believed that I had gotten the better of the exchange! I knew that her opinion would carry little to no weight in the hipster community, but did the other witnesses think the same? There expressions were, to a man, inscrutable, and for one wild moment, I considered whether I ought to canvass the shop to find out the truth, but quickly realized such a move would seem desperate. Instead, I nervously finished my coffee, then left for home.

The ride back felt quite different from the trip out, as I was drained from the day's exertions, but thanks to that fertile coffee shop denizen, I was if not optimistic, then at least satisfied with the day's events. I had survived a day in the wilds of Williamsburg, and if I had suffered a defeat, at least it had not been a unanimous one!