What is it like to live with distance?
3 June 2024
I experience distance daily. I live in a city apart from my parents, brother, sister, and extended family. I go to a low-residency graduate school. I work remotely for a technology company. I have lived in many cities and made friends scattered across those same cities and others. I have consciously and unconsciously built distance into my life.
Remote work keeps me at the job—flexible hours, no commute. The low residency model made school possible, so I didn’t uproot my family to pursue my studies. I can see my parents and brother if I drive 1 hour and 45 minutes west. I have an every-other-week call with my family over Zoom. I chose these distances, and I feel them. I feel the distance when I think of my sister, and I can’t ask her to come over for dinner because she lives 1200 miles away. I feel the distance when my almost thirteen-year-old daughter adds more activities with her friends.
I feel the distance when I am overwhelmed with daily activities – grocery shopping, answering emails, looking at my schedule, picking up the out-of-place items scattered around the house – and choose to disengage by chilling on the couch. These distances manifest physically, emotionally, and cognitively.
What is distance?
Distance is separation. Distance is caused by physical separation, lack of shared experiences, communication barriers, and mental disengagement.
First, I will address the obvious: physical separation. From a phenomenological perspective, sharing an experience with another person requires physical presence, allowing us to form relationships in space and time. When two people are in different locations, they cannot share a real-time, embodied experience. I might be standing next to a 200-year-old Oak tree in my neighborhood, feeling the rough bark, seeing the broad branches, smelling the tree and its leaves, and recognizing that it has grown in this place many more years than I have been alive. My brother, who lives 95 miles away, does not have this embodied experience with me because he is physically distant. Similarly, I miss the opportunity to sit and chat with my closest friends at the studio, after work, or after school, because they are physically elsewhere.
Someone else can visit the same site at a different time and have a similar experience. My brother could visit my favorite Oak tree tomorrow. Although our experiences would be separated by time, we have engaged with the same physical phenomena and could share our experiences. When we talk about the tree, we create an experience that connects us to the tree and adds a connection between us. Experiencing the same phenomenon at different times and then discussing it can collapse the distance between self and others.
Communication is essential for sharing experiences and reducing distance. However, language barriers can impede this process, literally and metaphorically. Even when we share a language, our different vocabulary and meanings may create a missed connection. If standing next to the Oak tree has emotionally moved me and triggered thoughts about the cycle of time, erasure of local history, or environmental issues, I might share that with my brother when I see him or send photos on our phones.
Art forms such as music, visual art, and poetry are languages. Sharing my reflections on Instagram, for example, helps collapse distance. To collapse distance, I can use multiple modes of communication and intentional aspects of each: specific word choice for clarity, audible words with modulated pitch, visual imagery, and personal narrative.
Technology can both collapse and increase distance. Technology collapses distance by enabling shared experiences across time and space. Technology can extend the body’s sensory inputs and outputs, like voice or video communications. Its effectiveness depends on how well it can replicate or enhance the original experience and the audience’s openness. I can reduce the distance with my sister by texting or calling. But sometimes, that only highlights a yawning physical gap between us. With my cohort at school, I find it emotionally easier to reach out because our connection is more active. I can send and receive quick text or images – asynchronous and easy. I live at varying distances from my neighborhood and environment. I know my neighbor’s names and interests. We chat. I know the trees, plants, and buildings on my regular walks. But sometimes, I’m overwhelmed with many things to do and decisions to make that I don’t take a walk. I drive instead or don’t leave my house.
Technology has the potential to both collapse distance and increase distance. When I talk with my daughter, she adds distance when she holds her smartphone. She is less engaged (body language), and I notice the distance. When people are in physical proximity, adding technology may increase distance.
High-fidelity audio and large-scale visual projections can create immersive experiences that evoke a powerful sense of presence. For instance, multichannel sound art installations, such as those by Janet Cardiff, can significantly diminish the perceived distance between the audience and the artwork. Consider her work The Forty Part Motet, where listeners hear multiple voices from individual speakers, mimicking the experience of standing among singers. While digital platforms facilitate real-time interaction and sharing, they often offer a limited sensory experience. To truly reduce distance, technology must enhance the overall experience rather than merely transmitting a partial representation.
(Note: In my studio work, I use technology to decrease the distance between two people who can not see or touch each other. If those two people were side-by-side, they could potentially coregulate and influence each other’s physiological functions. However, in the case of my studio project, technology is adding the potential to coregulate.)
Living with indifference
I notice indifference around me. Whether conscious or unconscious, body language may signal distance or indifference: lack of eye contact, crossed arms, or a flat conversation indicates an emotional distance. Parents look at their phones while standing outside waiting for the school bell to ring and for their kids to rush out the doors. I admit sometimes I glance at my phone while I wait. But most often, I just stand and wait.
Indifference, or lack of interest, may be undesirable in family, social, or interpersonal settings. Someone who does not show positive or negative emotions towards events, people, or activities might be indifferent. This absence of emotion can be a protective mechanism or a genuine lack of feeling. Not participating in activities, whether they are social, family, or community-oriented, can also be a sign of indifference. This non-participation suggests that the individual does not care enough to be involved or engaged. I am indifferent to these activities because they’re not a priority.
A lack of curiosity signals indifference. Someone who shows no interest in learning, exploring, or understanding new things is exhibiting indifference. This absence of curiosity indicates a disengagement from the world and a lack of wonder. I might see this manifest on a walk if my daughter did not notice the sights we pass, like the giant clover patch or the broken robin’s egg. There is plenty to see once we are on a walk, but prompting the walk may take some coaxing.
I want to distinguish between genuine indifference and feigned indifference. Feigned indifference is pretending not to care as a means of self-protection, whereas true indifference is a genuine lack of interest or feeling. Not communicating or participating due to fear of rejection or fear of failure is not indifference but a response to previous negative experiences. Genuine indifference arises from a complete disconnection or lack of relationship with the subject. I notice feigned indifference in my kids when their friends' actions emotionally hurt them. I ask them about it, and they say they don’t care, but I know it’s not true.
Indifference is desirable in some religious and philosophical contexts. In Buddhism, for example, non-attachment is about letting go of worldly desires and attaining inner peace. Similarly, Taoism’s principle of wu-wei, or effortless action, encourages letting go of excessive desires to achieve harmony. In Christian mysticism, "holy indifference" involves letting go of personal desires to align more closely with God’s will. These forms of indifference are not about disengaging from life but finding a deeper connection with the spiritual realm by shedding materialistic and ego-driven attachments.
Digital lethargy
Are my self-selected distances the same as indifference? Indifference is a lack of interest, feeling, or curiosity. I’m rarely indifferent. To an outsider, my lethargy may appear to be indifference, but it’s probably something else: overwhelm or, more specifically, digital lethargy—exhaustion from the constant demands of digital technology.
Digital lethargy is part of my life. Most days, I am working, creating, or using a screen for eight hours or more. The number of decisions I must make those days feels endless – from tiny to large (accepting autocorrect suggestions, booking a meeting, filing or deleting an email, negotiating the specs for a project). Mentally exhausted, I scroll Instagram or Reddit at the end of the day. I might post listings on an art opportunities site because it doesn’t take much brain power and feels useful. Maybe I’ll read something from Hyperallergic and sit on the couch.
I have a smartphone. I order groceries online. I make I share and consume art and stories on social media. I have 3,466 unread email messages in my personal inbox. Is that a protest against digital capitalism or just overwhelm?
My lethargy is not from physical exertion, like the spent feeling after weeding the garden. Lethargic activities follow a pattern of doing, and they bring a slight sense of accomplishment—“one less thing to do” or something I can cross off my mental to-do list and feel semi-productive.
What is it like to exist in a moment of lethargic time? It’s a set of contradictions. I feel guilty. I should be productive. I should do something useful. I enjoy the heavy, slow time of doing what I want online instead of what I must do. I remind my kids that being bored is OK. But I am not bored. I am exhausted.
I know the actions I can take to rekindle wonder: go on walks, journal, practice mindfulness, read widely, connect with people I care about, and view art. Spending more time on social media doesn’t foster wonder. However, embracing periods of inactivity and taking time to reflect on everyday experiences does. Wonder reduces my emotional and cognitive experience of distance. Perhaps following my curiosity can also collapse physical and temporal distance.
Remote work keeps me at the job—flexible hours, no commute. The low residency model made school possible, so I didn’t uproot my family to pursue my studies. I can see my parents and brother if I drive 1 hour and 45 minutes west. I have an every-other-week call with my family over Zoom. I chose these distances, and I feel them. I feel the distance when I think of my sister, and I can’t ask her to come over for dinner because she lives 1200 miles away. I feel the distance when my almost thirteen-year-old daughter adds more activities with her friends.
I feel the distance when I am overwhelmed with daily activities – grocery shopping, answering emails, looking at my schedule, picking up the out-of-place items scattered around the house – and choose to disengage by chilling on the couch. These distances manifest physically, emotionally, and cognitively.
What is distance?
Distance is separation. Distance is caused by physical separation, lack of shared experiences, communication barriers, and mental disengagement.
First, I will address the obvious: physical separation. From a phenomenological perspective, sharing an experience with another person requires physical presence, allowing us to form relationships in space and time. When two people are in different locations, they cannot share a real-time, embodied experience. I might be standing next to a 200-year-old Oak tree in my neighborhood, feeling the rough bark, seeing the broad branches, smelling the tree and its leaves, and recognizing that it has grown in this place many more years than I have been alive. My brother, who lives 95 miles away, does not have this embodied experience with me because he is physically distant. Similarly, I miss the opportunity to sit and chat with my closest friends at the studio, after work, or after school, because they are physically elsewhere.
Someone else can visit the same site at a different time and have a similar experience. My brother could visit my favorite Oak tree tomorrow. Although our experiences would be separated by time, we have engaged with the same physical phenomena and could share our experiences. When we talk about the tree, we create an experience that connects us to the tree and adds a connection between us. Experiencing the same phenomenon at different times and then discussing it can collapse the distance between self and others.
Communication is essential for sharing experiences and reducing distance. However, language barriers can impede this process, literally and metaphorically. Even when we share a language, our different vocabulary and meanings may create a missed connection. If standing next to the Oak tree has emotionally moved me and triggered thoughts about the cycle of time, erasure of local history, or environmental issues, I might share that with my brother when I see him or send photos on our phones.
Art forms such as music, visual art, and poetry are languages. Sharing my reflections on Instagram, for example, helps collapse distance. To collapse distance, I can use multiple modes of communication and intentional aspects of each: specific word choice for clarity, audible words with modulated pitch, visual imagery, and personal narrative.
Technology can both collapse and increase distance. Technology collapses distance by enabling shared experiences across time and space. Technology can extend the body’s sensory inputs and outputs, like voice or video communications. Its effectiveness depends on how well it can replicate or enhance the original experience and the audience’s openness. I can reduce the distance with my sister by texting or calling. But sometimes, that only highlights a yawning physical gap between us. With my cohort at school, I find it emotionally easier to reach out because our connection is more active. I can send and receive quick text or images – asynchronous and easy. I live at varying distances from my neighborhood and environment. I know my neighbor’s names and interests. We chat. I know the trees, plants, and buildings on my regular walks. But sometimes, I’m overwhelmed with many things to do and decisions to make that I don’t take a walk. I drive instead or don’t leave my house.
Technology has the potential to both collapse distance and increase distance. When I talk with my daughter, she adds distance when she holds her smartphone. She is less engaged (body language), and I notice the distance. When people are in physical proximity, adding technology may increase distance.
High-fidelity audio and large-scale visual projections can create immersive experiences that evoke a powerful sense of presence. For instance, multichannel sound art installations, such as those by Janet Cardiff, can significantly diminish the perceived distance between the audience and the artwork. Consider her work The Forty Part Motet, where listeners hear multiple voices from individual speakers, mimicking the experience of standing among singers. While digital platforms facilitate real-time interaction and sharing, they often offer a limited sensory experience. To truly reduce distance, technology must enhance the overall experience rather than merely transmitting a partial representation.
(Note: In my studio work, I use technology to decrease the distance between two people who can not see or touch each other. If those two people were side-by-side, they could potentially coregulate and influence each other’s physiological functions. However, in the case of my studio project, technology is adding the potential to coregulate.)
Living with indifference
I notice indifference around me. Whether conscious or unconscious, body language may signal distance or indifference: lack of eye contact, crossed arms, or a flat conversation indicates an emotional distance. Parents look at their phones while standing outside waiting for the school bell to ring and for their kids to rush out the doors. I admit sometimes I glance at my phone while I wait. But most often, I just stand and wait.
Indifference, or lack of interest, may be undesirable in family, social, or interpersonal settings. Someone who does not show positive or negative emotions towards events, people, or activities might be indifferent. This absence of emotion can be a protective mechanism or a genuine lack of feeling. Not participating in activities, whether they are social, family, or community-oriented, can also be a sign of indifference. This non-participation suggests that the individual does not care enough to be involved or engaged. I am indifferent to these activities because they’re not a priority.
A lack of curiosity signals indifference. Someone who shows no interest in learning, exploring, or understanding new things is exhibiting indifference. This absence of curiosity indicates a disengagement from the world and a lack of wonder. I might see this manifest on a walk if my daughter did not notice the sights we pass, like the giant clover patch or the broken robin’s egg. There is plenty to see once we are on a walk, but prompting the walk may take some coaxing.
I want to distinguish between genuine indifference and feigned indifference. Feigned indifference is pretending not to care as a means of self-protection, whereas true indifference is a genuine lack of interest or feeling. Not communicating or participating due to fear of rejection or fear of failure is not indifference but a response to previous negative experiences. Genuine indifference arises from a complete disconnection or lack of relationship with the subject. I notice feigned indifference in my kids when their friends' actions emotionally hurt them. I ask them about it, and they say they don’t care, but I know it’s not true.
Indifference is desirable in some religious and philosophical contexts. In Buddhism, for example, non-attachment is about letting go of worldly desires and attaining inner peace. Similarly, Taoism’s principle of wu-wei, or effortless action, encourages letting go of excessive desires to achieve harmony. In Christian mysticism, "holy indifference" involves letting go of personal desires to align more closely with God’s will. These forms of indifference are not about disengaging from life but finding a deeper connection with the spiritual realm by shedding materialistic and ego-driven attachments.
Digital lethargy
Are my self-selected distances the same as indifference? Indifference is a lack of interest, feeling, or curiosity. I’m rarely indifferent. To an outsider, my lethargy may appear to be indifference, but it’s probably something else: overwhelm or, more specifically, digital lethargy—exhaustion from the constant demands of digital technology.
Digital lethargy is part of my life. Most days, I am working, creating, or using a screen for eight hours or more. The number of decisions I must make those days feels endless – from tiny to large (accepting autocorrect suggestions, booking a meeting, filing or deleting an email, negotiating the specs for a project). Mentally exhausted, I scroll Instagram or Reddit at the end of the day. I might post listings on an art opportunities site because it doesn’t take much brain power and feels useful. Maybe I’ll read something from Hyperallergic and sit on the couch.
I have a smartphone. I order groceries online. I make I share and consume art and stories on social media. I have 3,466 unread email messages in my personal inbox. Is that a protest against digital capitalism or just overwhelm?
My lethargy is not from physical exertion, like the spent feeling after weeding the garden. Lethargic activities follow a pattern of doing, and they bring a slight sense of accomplishment—“one less thing to do” or something I can cross off my mental to-do list and feel semi-productive.
What is it like to exist in a moment of lethargic time? It’s a set of contradictions. I feel guilty. I should be productive. I should do something useful. I enjoy the heavy, slow time of doing what I want online instead of what I must do. I remind my kids that being bored is OK. But I am not bored. I am exhausted.
Wonder
I know the actions I can take to rekindle wonder: go on walks, journal, practice mindfulness, read widely, connect with people I care about, and view art. Spending more time on social media doesn’t foster wonder. However, embracing periods of inactivity and taking time to reflect on everyday experiences does. Wonder reduces my emotional and cognitive experience of distance. Perhaps following my curiosity can also collapse physical and temporal distance.