“Where Does My Agency Over My Image Begin and End?”

OONA: I’m interested in how we see each other. That’s why my appearance and anonymity play such a big role in my practice today. 

Back when I first started working with surveillance, I was researching lens-based media and how lenses contribute to othering. I was especially interested in how women and unhoused people are othered through the use of cameras, particularly CCTV. I came to understand that surveillance had become more an extension of exclusion than a tool of protection.

For example, where there once was a security guard physically patrolling an area to prevent unhoused people from loitering, you now have one person remotely monitoring eight locations at once. Exclusion is automated. I also came across studies showing that in CCTV control rooms, where cameras are manually operated, women were often tracked and watched. Surveillance acts like a literal extension of the male gaze.

I first requested access to my own surveillance footage from King’s Cross in London, where I was studying at Central Saint Martins. It’s a semi-public, semi-private space. They had signs saying you’re under private surveillance and offering an address you could contact to request your footage. So I did.

That began a much larger research process for me, realizing that in some cases you can request your footage, and in others you can’t.

OONA: A lot went through my mind when I realized that my every move is tracked and recorded by some private company that I didn’t agree to. In the case of King’s Cross, I was especially disturbed to learn that facial recognition software had been used by a private company without anyone’s consent or even awareness. Just walking through the area was treated as consent. That felt like a massive violation of privacy, bodily autonomy, and image rights. Eventually, after public outcry, they were forced to shut down the facial recognition system. 

Around the same time, I was also making many audio recordings on the Tube as a countermeasure to lens-based surveillance. There’s a fundamental tension in how surveillance works—especially on public transport—because it doesn’t really protect me. It can’t; it only operates in the past. The things I worry about most, like sexual harassment, assault, being followed, or being touched inappropriately, aren’t prevented by surveillance. CCTV cameras don’t stop someone from leering or yelling. They don’t protect me in the moment. They only exist to confirm that something happened after the fact, not to stop it from happening.

That has always bothered me. It ties into broader questions about how society treats women.

The second issue I have with surveillance is that it often does not register the things that actually happen to me. Verbal harassment, for example, is not captured or addressed. Not that I want to be listened to all the time, but the reality is that these systems are not designed to protect people like me. If someone takes a photo up my skirt or touches me inappropriately, the CCTV footage is usually so poor that it would not even prove what happened.

So who is it really for? It is not for me. It is for property. It is about maintaining a general sense of order, but one that does not actually protect me or the most vulnerable people in public space.

OONA: When I take the Tube in London, my body effectively becomes part of a system: tracked as data and reduced to information. In that moment, it feels like I’ve become state property in some way. That raises a deeper question: where do I, as a person, reclaim ownership over myself… my image, my presence, my data? 

My interest in surveillance is, of course, connected to the government because they surveil and because I see the government as one of the key structures through which systems of power operate. But what really interests me is the question of consent.

It is less about a critique of the government and more about asking: what have I agreed to? What have I unknowingly given up? Where does my agency over my own image begin and end?

OONA: It is a form online. You fill out your name, your address, a copy of your government-issued ID, where you were, what times you entered, and what platforms you used. I try to be really helpful and provide all the specifics, even a photograph of what I was wearing. Basically, you give them all this information in the form and explain why you want the footage. In my first form, I think I responded, “Because I want it.” I’ll have to check the original request. Now I don’t even bother putting in a formal request; they know me.  

Anyway, with one of my first requests, I made a mistake with the date. I submitted the wrong day on the form. David, who is the CCTV data manager and oversees the requests, reached out to me saying, “Dear so-and-so, sorry, we can’t seem to find your footage.” That’s when I started emailing him directly. Now, I just email him straight, which is kind of fun. This is why the whole series really became “Dear David.”

One time, I requested my footage, and he sent me a Dropbox or WeTransfer link. But the link expired. About two weeks later, he emailed me, saying, “Hi so-and-so, I see your WeTransfer link expired and you didn’t download the footage. Would you like me to resend it?” I replied, “Yes, please.” It was a Friday around 5 p.m., and he responded, “Okay, hold the line. I’ll have my team send it before we run out of time.” It was really sweet and kind. I was surprised by how much effort and sincerity there was in this whole seemingly humanless surveillance machine.

OONA: Now I usually email David directly. Early on, I didn’t really explain to him what I was doing or why. Back in 2019, when I first emailed him, I was performing without my veil and still figuring things out. I knew I had the footage and the idea, but I wasn’t sure how to use it or what I wanted to say.

For example, with the Dear David: I’ve Been Looking for You footage, I sat on it for over a year, unsure how to articulate it or how to connect the themes of feminist surveillance and consent with my artistic practice and my work as OONA.

When we exhibited together in Basel at the House of Electronic Arts earlier this year, I felt it was the right moment to reach out and show him that I’m a “serious” artist exhibiting publicly. It felt important that my work was being published and that he recognized its legitimacy. That exhibition, Body Anxiety in the Age of AI, truly marked the formal beginning of Dear David. So I emailed him a link to the exhibition and explained that while he knew me by my legal name, the internet and the art world know me as OONA—an anonymous performance artist whose work explores anonymity, privacy, and surveillance.

David was very kind and responded warmly. He said he had suspected I was an artist and was glad that he and TfL could support my journey. He was genuinely happy to see my work getting recognition. He even added a lighthearted note saying he wasn’t as tall as I would like. I like David.

OONA: OONA’s work focuses on body boundaries and why, in my lived experience, the female body is much more frequently targeted for boundary violations. How can I reclaim some of those boundaries online, and how can I reclaim them on the Tube?
So much of our identity is digital, and I explore what happens when I present a physical identity without showing my face. How do people interact with that? We’re so used to interacting with people whose faces we can’t really see on the internet. What is the tension there?
I don’t see myself ever becoming disinterested in anonymity, privacy, or identity. So yes, it’s long-term, lifelong.

OONA: Another scene in Fleabag comes to mind, and I see a direct connection to Dear David. It’s the feminist lecture where a woman asks, “Raise your hand if you’ve ever thought about trading five years of your life to have the perfect body.” Both she and her sister raise their hands. I really respect the show for its honesty in that moment. It speaks to how deeply ingrained this kind of self-awareness is, where the image becomes more important than the lived experience.
The link back to Dear David: Studies show that women often view their bodies from a third-person perspective—the same perspective that surveillance systems take. Women tend to be more aware of how they appear to others and focus more on their image than on their own first-person experience. Men, by contrast, are more likely to perceive their bodies from a first-person point of view. In other words, women practice self-surveillance. They monitor and track their own bodies, constantly aware of how they might appear in an image.
That said, this may be shifting with younger generations. So much of our interaction is now mediated through cameras and screens. While women were previously the ones most affected by the gaze of the lens, I think that’s changing. Younger boys and men are increasingly likely to experience body dysmorphia as they begin to prioritize their image over their lived experience. This suggests that self-surveillance is becoming more important than self-empowerment.
In my mind, there’s a clear through line between state surveillance, private surveillance, and self-surveillance. I’m interested in dismantling all of it.