I was cruising Google Maps this morning, looking at the building in Brooklyn where I grew up, and noticed an interesting anomaly: the satellite view of my old building and the adjacent one are taken from different angles, producing a kind of Escherian paradox that violates the basic tenets of photographic perspective.
Of course, on a rational level I know that the maps data are assembled from millions of individual pics, and that although the seams are "invisible," the algorithm's not (yet) smart enough to account for the distortions and contradictions between its constituent elements.
But on an experiential and emotional level, I personally find the image very jarring. Google Maps and the like give us the false promise of a God's-eye view, a vantage point far above the more pedestrian "street view." As any student of art learns, the perspective an image offers us tells us something about ourselves, or about the positions we're supposed to inhabit. I think the reason so many of us like to look at our childhood homes on Google Maps is to gain the distance, detachment, and illusion of total understanding that the God's-eye view offers; it presents a welcome counterpoint to the confusing, subjective and incomplete memories we keep from our earlier years, and allows us to distance ourselves from the power of those memories.
I'm pretty sure that's why I find this image so unnerving; it punctured my sense of remove, and reminded me that I'm not God -- in fact, I'm not even that far from the location where my childhood took place (about a mile and a half, as the crow flies). The good news is, the view from my new apartment offers a more consistent and convincing angel's-eye view (32nd floor -- not quite God height, but pretty darn high), and I can actually see the old place from my living room window.
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