[Chris Ware / Cover of The New Yorker / Nov. 2 2009]

If I had to choose an illustration from 2009 that really resonated, it would probably be Chris Ware's cover for the Halloween issue of The New Yorker. On first glance, this drawing depicts the standard separation between children and parents in the midst of neighbourhood touring and candy collection – a diagram of festive spatial protocol. There is more to the scene though. Ware exploits a visual tension between the imagination-fueled masks of trick-or-treaters and the dull, irradiated glow of adulthood. It is not difficult to read which side of the scene is more energetic—illuminated with warm light—and contains a semblance of possibility versus a dutiful tedium. The right side of this scene is not so much the street as a platform as "every man is a peece of the Continent". Is this an indictment? Given Ware's tendency to keep his cards close to his chest, we can probably assume that the illustration is deliberately ambiguous.

The above detail of Ware's mise-en-scène provides a closer look at a gaggle of "wired" adults and it is clear that each of them is completely absorbed in their respective devices. When I first saw this image I was overcome with a wave of melancholy as it neatly encapsulates a phenomenon that has transformed the way we experience (or block out) urban space and those adjacent to us. Smartphones are immersive in a way that previous mobile technology wasn't and the paradigms and routines of desktop computing have been ported from the workstation and scattered throughout the city – brought out into the wild. Another facet of the appeal of Ware's illustration is the timeless quality of the drawing, it is resolutely contemporary and still seems to have accumulated a patina – is it possible to think about Norman Rockwell and the App Store at the same time? What about nostalgia for the present?

Ultimately, what interests me the most about this snapshot of (privileged) Americana is the manner in which it speaks to a personal curiosity of mine – one that is stirred every time that I am nearby a stranger who is "interfacing" with a mobile device. Whenever I find myself sharing space with someone who is enthralled with their phone or portable gaming system, I have a desire to know what they are doing. Sometimes these people are captivated with their machinations, others appear to be profoundly bored—it doesn't make a difference to me—I still want to know what they are engrossed by. I want to understand their gaze.

It took me a while to make the connection, but my reaction to the "mobile glow" of Ware's drawing reminds me of a plot device from Robert Aldrich's 1955 noir classic Kiss Me Deadly. Aldrich's film revolves around the adventures of misanthropic private eye named Mike Hammer and his gradual entanglement in the drama surrounding a mystery box. While the contents of this box are never explicitly revealed, the assumption is that it contains an atomic device or a wildly unstable material. For the purpose of plot development, all that matters is that the box is valuable and dangerous. Aldrich uses this seminal MacGuffin to tease the audience for the entire film and even in the climax, as the box is opened (pictured above), the camera is not granted a view into the box but a shot of the treacherous Lilly Carver's face and her horrific reaction to the material she has exposed herself to. Kiss Me Deadly builds and sustains suspense by denying the audience a view of the object at the centre of the drama — all we get is a glimpse at an otherworldly glow.

I don't have aspirations to identify connections between unstable, weapons-grade materials and mobile device-inspired introversion (that would be, well, difficult), what I do want to highlight is that, at least for me, the aesthetic of the glow in both the Ware and Aldrich work discussed here serve a similar purpose. Tension is cultivated by the public display of esoteric, illuminated objects that remain private. We cannot know what these vessels contain. This line of thought plays out in my head every time I find myself in a subway car with a dozen people who are staring into their smartphone/mp3 player/portable gaming unit – little to no eye contact or engagement, the vaguest mutual understanding of proximity, bodies clumsily butting against one another and a willful desire to escape. I'm not taking any high ground here as I am guiltier than most when it comes to these acts of cocooning. Truth be told, most of my mobile "interfacing" is unnecessary low-level knowledge work (sorting and scanning news, replying to less involved emails, strategy gaming) and despite my acknowledging the banality of these actions, I still have a nagging curiosity to know what those around me (appear) to be so engaged by.

A tangentially related "loose" quote dug up in the Essential McLuhan anthology (1995) – McLuhan on the telephone in 1964: "The child and teenager understand the telephone, embracing the cord and the ear-mike as if they were beloved pets."