If you were in New York City within the past two weeks, I might have caught you on camera.
The Narrative Clip (previously called Memoto) is a wearable camera about the size of an iPod mini that clips onto clothing and takes a photo every 30 seconds. It has a 5-megapixel camera and works with apps on Android and iPhone, which group photos into albums automatically. I wore it to a cocktail party, on a run, out to sushi, on a walk through Central Park and at my desk for a full workday.
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Why would you want a photo of whatever's in front of you every 30 seconds? It's a question I've been trying to answer while experimenting with the Narrative Clip. But first, we'll take a look at the social implications.
The Narrative Clip is white and looks a bit like Tile, the tracking device that helps you find lost items. It looks, well, gadgety. And in a social setting, every person I spoke to asked what it was — sometimes immediately, sometimes after we'd been talking for a few minutes. But nobody in a public place approached me to asked what I was wearing (although I did notice a few odd looks).

The Clip can attach to a pocket or hem and photos are automatically rotated based on which side is up.
I felt a bit of guilt while wearing the Clip — after all, there are certain social norms that go with pulling out a camera, even a camera phone, and then framing a shot and snapping a picture. It's a clear, albeit sometimes nonverbal, process in which the subject of the photo is offered the opportunity to opt out of the photo. That wasn't the case if you were sitting across the subway car from me this week.
I'm glad the people I interacted with asked about the Clip and, for the record, none requested I take it off or delete any photos of them. I think, with the proliferation of camera phones, most people in an urban area expect they might inadvertently be in strangers' pictures.
And as for the nearly 3,000 photos I incurred after a full day with the Clip — rather than incriminating or unflattering, most were unusable.
I joked with a coworker who sits across from me that I'd have eight hours of her headshot after wearing the Clip. I was wrong — on the neckline of my sweater, the Clip only shot my desk; the frame was too low to capture any other action. At a party, I ran into the opposite problem. The Clip was attached too far to the side on my sweater and was shooting the ceiling, sometimes catching the top of peoples' faces.
On a run, the cord from my headphones cut into a few shots. When I walked through Central Park, even clipped to the middle of my coat, the Clip captured tops of trees and completely missed the ice rink I stood in front of for a full two minutes, hoping to get a good photo (you can double-tap the device to take additional photos). The Clip is a bit reminiscent of the film cameras I used as a child — there's anticipation in waiting until photos develop, or in this case, are synced, to see if you got anything good.
In the park I watched kids carrying sleds and admired snowmen, but neither event was captured by the Clip. I'm as guilty as the next person of missing out on a moment by pulling out my camera instead of simply enjoying sights, but as I saw others carefully frame a view to get the perfect shot, I wondered if this was sometimes part of the experience. Taking a picture is not just admiring something, but creating a diminutive piece that is your own.
It became clear, after a few days with the Clip, that it was not suitable for all activities. Wearing it at a desk job was truly a waste. Outdoor activities made more sense, as did a party, as long as the lighting is good (there is no flash). My second lesson was that there is a learning curve for the Narrative Clip — choosing the proper place to clip it onto your apparel, depending on the activity, makes a big difference in quality of the resulting photos.
I'm considering a challenge that someone at the party suggested: spending a day wearing the Narrative Clip on my back, because "you never know what's behind you."
The Narrative Clip is $279 and includes one year of cloud storage. Each photo is 640 x 480 pixels.

Manhattan's Lower East Side was empty on a winter evening.

Central Park in February is covered in snow.

A party for creatives and entrepreneurs at a gallery on the Lower East Side served wine and cheese.

This candid photo from the party shows a pair of designers who told me about Photoshop Wars.

On a run through Brooklyn, shots taken with the Clip were often cocked to one side or the other.

A sushi chef prepares rolls on the Upper East Side.