Face Collection
I have a folder on my computer that contains 271 photographs of Dua Lipa’s face. Just her face. Not in context, not at events, not with other people—just the closeups where you can see every angle. I sorted them by date, then I re-sorted them by lighting conditions. I’m not proud of this. I’m also not ashamed.
It started innocently enough. A production still from a video shoot. A candid from a magazine spread. Then paparazzi photos, screencaps from interviews, behind-the-scenes material from her record label that somehow ended up online. The face itself is interesting—there’s a specificity to it. The jaw, the way her eyes track. The slight flatness of her expression most of the time, like she’s used to being looked at and has decided not to perform anymore. It pulls you in.
I know what this looks like. I know I could be watching her performances, reading interviews, understanding her as an artist and a person. And I do some of that. She makes music, obviously—”New Rules” and the rest. But that’s not why I keep saving images. Somewhere between an art form and an obsession, I just wanted to know the shape of her face from every angle.
There’s something about celebrity that does this. It gives you permission to stare at someone long past the point of normalcy. You’re not studying a stranger; you’re consuming content. It’s mediated, public, somehow acceptable. But mediated or not, you’re still staring. You’re still building an archive of another person’s physical form. The justification matters less the longer you do it.
I don’t particularly want to meet her, or feel some sense of connection that isn’t there. I’m not fantasizing about being in her life. It’s almost the opposite—I want the distance. The photos are enough because they don’t require anything from me. I can look as long as I want. I can save and organize and arrange. There’s a control in it that real encounters would destroy.
Sometimes I open the folder just to flip through them. Nothing happens. I don’t get excited. It’s just looking at a face I find put-together in a specific way—the way her face is together. And then I close it and move on with my day. I think this is just something people do with images now, especially with people who exist primarily as images. You collect them, arrange them, return to them. It’s mild. It’s harmless. It’s also completely ridiculous, and I’m aware of that too.