If love belongs to the poet, and fear to the novelist, then loneliness belongs to the streepher. To be a street photographer is to willingly enter the world of the lonely, because it is an artistic exercise in invisibility. The person with the camera is not hiding but receding. She is willfully removing herself from the slipstream of life; she is making herself into a constant witness, someone who lives to see the lives of others, not to be seen herself.
Writing is often assumed to be the loneliest profession, but solitude should not be confused for loneliness: one is a condition we choose, the other is a condition that is forced upon us. A writer creates a world, and she is the ruler of it; the streepher moves through the world, our world, hoping for anonymity, hoping she is able to humble herself enough to see and record what the rest of us (in our noisy perambulations, in our requests to be heard) are too present to our own selves to ever see. To practice this art requires first a commitment to self-erasure.