Words by: Eilidh Somerville (she/her)
Does my desire to curate and produce an image that my friends will find most flattering make me complicit in rendering our experiences “impure”?
We live in an era where our experiences are defined by digital proof. ‘Pics or it didn’t happen’, if you will. As we capture our lives and ourselves through photography, it is an inherently human desire to encapsulate our most flattering selves to be suspended in digital form forever. Has capturing our lives simply developed, or have our experiences been warped through our own narcissistic tendencies at the cost of having good, pure fun?
Having gained possession of a digital camera through eBay a few years ago, it is my sacred duty within my friend group to immortalise our university experience in pictures. It comes with me almost everywhere, hanging from my wrist almost as an extension of my being. I search for the best lighting, seek interesting backgrounds, internally curse photobombers or stray souls wandering mindlessly through the shot, and bark instructions on how to pose in a way I intimately know my friends will like best when they eventually receive the files. In a businesslike manner, and hangover be damned, the photos are downloaded, uploaded, and distributed to our shared album, where my friends are free to critique, nitpick, and hopefully stumble across an image they deem acceptable. I am fortunate enough to have friends who will grab my camera and pull me out from behind the lens and into the realm of the subject, so that I too have proof of my presence. I straddle both worlds as an unseen figure in the pictures of mine that make it onto their Instagram grids. I am present in its framing; its moment of capture; its existence as an image.
Does my desire to curate and produce an image that my friends will find most flattering make me complicit in rendering our experiences “impure”? Is the solution to also photograph us at our worst, like with our head over the toilet, regretting that last round of shots? Or, to continue documenting the morning after, as we debrief in bed with matted hair and streaky makeup? Is the solution to not capture at all?
Humanity is a species plagued by nostalgia. We are bombarded with visual reminders of our past experiences – in the frames that decorate our family homes, or in the reminders that pop up on our phones, urging us to look at the photo we took “On This Day”, 5 years ago. Trapped within the continual struggle of the present, these images become rose-tinted monuments of our past selves, forever suspended in time and pixels. I doubt anyone would accuse their parents of having impure motives in capturing the milestones of childhood, and yet the over-consumptive capturing of our own experiences is becoming increasingly frowned upon. If the intent behind the photo is what renders the act morally pure or impure, does the act of capturing a moment really ruin it irrevocably for those experiencing it? Or, do the nostalgic ends justify the means?
The physical act of taking a photo is now easier than ever. We go about our daily lives with cameras in our pockets, able to silently and speedily snap whenever inspiration strikes. This ease is a contributor to the oversaturation of photos that characterises our lives: it is designed to be as uninvasive as possible, with new features such as “Night mode” to erase the obnoxious blinding of a flash. If any moment can be captured instantly, has the sacred act of encapsulating a moment become commercialised? Alternative means of photography, such as using a digital camera, or a film camera, force an awareness of the photo-taking process. The group must be assembled, the lighting must be accounted for, and the endearing (perhaps I’m biased) delay between the press of a button and the capturing of the moment forces active participation and acknowledgement. It is no longer a mindless snap, as the experience is the taking of a photo, rather than simply a photo of an experience. There is a purity in creating such an experience and the act of capture.
If I am to be accused of the crime of rendering our nights out impure with the flash of my camera, at the insatiable request of nostalgia that comes with capturing my friends and I living out our early twenties, then I accept the charges. Just as we love playing cards, or drunkenly eating noodles together when we get home, my camera and I are a staple of our nights out, or mornings after, as we go through the images together, debriefing the hazy memories the images evoke in the tequila-infused depths of our hungover minds. While I cannot speak for the intent in the broadcast of these photos, I know that these pure (or impure) memories are ones I would like to remember, and a visual aid never hurts.
