I used to sleep with strangers every day. Male, female, old, young, fat, thin, it didn't really matter to me. I had a certain method and I stuck to it, writes Alison Healy.
Here's how it worked: I got on the train. Found a window seat. Adjusted the headphones. Tucked the hand under the chin. And fell fast asleep before the train reached the next stop. With RTÉ Radio 1 playing in my ears, I invariably enjoyed unsettling dreams involving the Morning Ireland team and Ryan Tubridy before being awoken by the bustle of Connolly Station. Then I'd skip off the train at the next stop, as fresh as a daisy and peppering to begin another day's work.
Of course I never slept alone. Frequently I woke to find all three passengers around me sleeping soundly. It was oddly comforting, as I gazed maternally at them. We were all in this together: strangers, sleeping contentedly, sometimes letting out an undignified snore before jolting awake and looking around guiltily.
But I never considered how I might look. Was my cheek squashed against the window? Did a line of dribble creep down my chin? Was my mouth hanging open, giving me the jowls of a basset hound? It never occurred to me. But now, thanks to the antics of an American woman, my innocence is gone. I can't sleep around quite as carelessly as I used to.
The finger of blame points to musician and artist Yvonne Doll, who has become the bane of every dozing commuter in Chicago. She moves through trains, photographing strangers sleeping. Not content with this infringement of privacy, she posts the photographs on her website www.sleepyurbanite.com
Chicago may be a long way from Dublin, but I can't help worrying that the idea might catch on here. What if you are trying to impress your new boss at work with your highly efficient ways, when he sees an online picture of you panned out at 8.30am on the shoulder of some uncomfortable-looking student? You may think that John in Accounts is beginning to find you surprisingly attractive and elegant, but would he think that if he saw you slumped against the window with your mouth gaping open and your four fillings on view?
What is Ms Doll's justification for her intrusive activities? She says, and I quote: "this project was born from the desire to create art on the fly and in all of the spaces in between lucid life moments. It's about stopping and looking and seeing the beautiful uniqueness of the everyday." She says the photographs show "how we all work way too much, how we don't get the sleep we need, how our daily lives exhaust us". And I thought I was falling asleep just because I stayed up too late watching Oireachtas Report.
Ms Doll's desire to "create art on the fly" has not been fully appreciated by some commuters. Bloggers have accused her of stealing people's souls, invading private moments and taking another chunk out of people's peace of mind. An irate Jake helpfully referred her to the Illinois Right of Publicity law and said he hoped one of her savvy "victims" would see a lawyer.
Yvonne Doll's work may seem innovative, but of course there's nothing new under the sun. In 1938, the US photographer Walker Evans took photographs in the New York subway with a camera surreptitiously hidden in his coat. The shutter release was concealed inside his sleeve. All I can say is that it must have been a very big coat, given that it was almost 70 years ago and technology had not yet embraced the delights of the digital camera. It appears that he only just about got away with it, as some photographs show a faint stirring of annoyance in the faces of his subjects.
Remarkably, Yvonne Doll has not yet been brought to ground in a football tackle nor had her camera phone hurled out the window by an irate commuter. But how long before some intrepid Irish commuter, claiming to be an artist, decides to copy her? How can we ever sleep soundly in our carriages again?
But, then again, I tell myself, surely it could never work here.
Picture the scene: A female commuter awakes to find a man standing over her with his camera phone. He looks vaguely familiar.
"Aren't you Tom Browne's son from the terrace?" she says. He nods sheepishly. She asks what on earth he's doing taking a photograph of her. "I find it invigorating to chronicle the beautiful uniqueness of the everyday," he says.
"You wha?" she exclaims. "Go 'way outta that and don't be making a show of your poor father, and him only after getting a new hip."
Suddenly the entire carriage is awake and looking menacingly at the aspiring artist.
He slinks away shamefully, getting off the train three stops early to cover his embarrassment.
Perhaps we can all go back to sleep, so.