If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one around to take a photo, did it happen?
I’ve just returned from a family holiday to Oman, the highlight of which was 2 nights in the desert. We were initially concerned that deserts don't tend to have a lot going on, aside from sand. What would the kids do for two days? But we needn't have worried; there was a stunning beauty and stillness in the endless dunes and pastel colours launching into the horizon.
"I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams..." - The Little Prince
I brought an old camera with me to capture the sights, with a lens which worked well in high and low light. I was keen to capture the colours from the hot days into the chilly evenings. But, well, then I started rolling down the dunes with my daughter, and I buggered up my camera.
I spent quite some time trying to fix it, ruing the loss of a set of potentially world-class photos (ok, maybe not). But then, I thought: I already have some. I have enough. Some is enough.
The rest of the day, I wrestled with the desire to capture every moment versus simply enjoying it.
It's a common feeling, this need to capture every moment on camera. We feel like we have to provide proof that something happened, as if the act of capturing the moment is just as important as experiencing it.
A selfie with David Beckham
Years ago I went on a field trip with David Beckham to Papua New Guinea (yeah, interesting choice of location). Beckham was one of my heroes as a kid. I support Manchester United, and Beckham's rise coincided with the height of my interest in football. I used to make my poor little brother stand in full-sized goals in the park while I tried to curl freekicks into the top corner a la Beckham.
Becks was kind, shy, and eager to ensure he was doing what was required of him. The trip went well, and I didn’t have one of those ‘never meet your hero’ moments.
And then I got home: "Show us a pic then!".
I was asked maybe 50 times to provide selfie evidence I had met him. My word, apparently, was not enough. Problem was, I didn't ask him for one - I didn't feel it was appropriate and, well, I've never asked anyone for a selfie in my life, despite being long-limbed and anatomically primed to take a good selfie.
I admit it crossed my mind to ask for one, mainly because I knew people would ask to see it. Right before he left he sat in his car waiting to go to his plane, and I was metres away, and my mind was again wrestling with the choice of chasing a photo or just leaving him be, knowing the experience was enough. I didn’t ask, and afterwards I faced months of disappointed reactions.
Collector of Memories
Whilst in the desert I happened to be reading a book about two other legendary Manchester United players, Duncan Edwards and George Best in Best and Edwards, by Gordon Burn. It's an engrossing read, touching on post-war England, the rise of the football celebrity, the tragedy of the Busby babes dying in a plane crash, and how genius goes to die.
Towards the end the author visits a well-known football memorabilia collector to track down some of George Best's old boots. The collector is odd, to say the least.
He has no interest in football jerseys, medals, or clothing. Instead, he collects scraps of paper - programmes, magazines, photos, posters. Small items which together create a nuanced picture of a moment in time in the history of Manchester United.
"The scratchier an old film or audio tape, the clearer to action in a way. Because it's not in competition for our attention with a thousand other pieces of action. Because it's something that's preserved and unique." - Don De Lillo
I understand this perspective. In fact, I wrote about this a while ago by way of an old wine cork transporting me back to memories of carrying my young daughter around a vineyard in France.
Sometimes, the abundance of images can be overwhelming. Photos can be too clear, too literal, leaving little room for the imagination to add depth and meaning to the moment. In a world where we are bombarded by an endless stream of photos and videos, the value of a single image is diminished.
Added to this, we’re also able to reframe reality instantly. iPhones create bokeh, can edit and crop images for you in two touches and can colourise and saturate to perfect eye-bleeding levels to stand out on Instagram. They even capture the moments before and after you take the photo thanks to ‘Live view’ to ensure you never miss the moment and don't miss the moments around that moment.
As a kid, a family holiday would produce maybe 30-60 photos, five of which were good and one may be good enough to be framed. Now we return 300 - 500, with 50 or more very good photos. But with the ability to instantly edit, reframe, and move back and forward in time, something feels a bit lost in this tsunami of images.
We can retake photos over and over again and get instant feedback, and with each re-roll of the dice, meaning begins to diminish, falling behind the demand for some form of pure aesthetic. How many times do you see people pretending to walk past a building or do that fake, distant look off into the hills? Creating moments for the lens, rather than using the lens to capture the moment.
It’s funny to think that back in the day the standard way of taking a family photo was all standing in front of something and smiling. Such photos weren’t particularly interesting, but they had a simple function: one image to show people were in a place at a certain time to act as a memory aid. I remember how we used to make fun of the Japanese tourists for their strange poses and peace signs. Today, such posing is the norm, and beautiful composition is the priority.
For many, it seems like photographic evidence of an experience trumps the experience itself, turning us into collectors of memories, rather than creators of them.
Ban photography?
So we should stop photography Simon, is that what you’re saying?
No, of course not. Photos are a very nice thing. I've always loved photography and I don't plan on giving it up. But putting some limits on it might be helpful.
For instance, if I'm out on some dunes with my daughter, I could resolve to take some photos for ten minutes at the start and the end and put the camera away for the rest of the dune rolling session. This would have saved my camera and ensured I was completely focused on the moment rather than wondering if I was missing a good shot.
The other way to go is using old analogue film cameras. It's slow and expensive, not for everyone. But it's an option, and I do think being limited to 33 photos focuses the mind on capturing one or two key moments rather than 400.
And finally, we should always consider why we’re taking the photo in the first place. The answer usually goes one of two ways:
It’s to capture a moment in time: a few photos are enough.
It’s to show off to friends and impress people: this won’t make you happy; consider point 1.
The best photos capture moments in moments. I have some lovely, well-composed shots of my kids on the dunes but the best ones are the messy moments when they’re giggling and rolling down a dune with a gob full of sand. They’re poorly framed and blurry for the most part, but those are the ones we'll look at and laugh about in the years to come.
Real tends to beat pretty in the long run. Having both together is the jackpot.
A phenomenal piece of writing on a subject that's very close to my heart. Thanks for writing this.
This is so thoughtful, this reminder of the difference between the enjoyment and retention of actual moments vs. attention for a set of contrived movements for an audience.