Can you imagine the overwhelming number of photos that today’s twenty-somethings will be able to show their kids in thirty years?
I grew up hearing Mom and Dad say, “I remember that picture; where did you find it?”
I would listen to their descriptions. They recalled the event because someone else took the photo, and they were engrossed in the moment rather than being tasked to document it themselves. The photo was simply a prompt to jar their memory and the story behind the image.
Was it better? I can’t answer that. Photos were singular, a simple snapshot in time, creating an opportunity for conversations and, subsequently, questions.
My son heard, “I think I have a picture of my 1970 Plymouth somewhere.”
I’d rummage through an old red Dexter shoe box and discover I no longer had the photo. “Well, I can tell you that my Fury had a paisley patterned vinyl roof, and we will never see that come out of Detroit again, thankfully. Here’s your baby album and Mom and Dad’s wedding video; I can’t play it for you since we don’t have a VHS player. You’ll like this; this is your mom and me in Beaufort, North Carolina. Check out those shorts. We went to the beach that day. I don’t recall what year that was, but you weren’t here yet. I do know that.”
“Dad?”
“Yes, son.”
“What is paisley?”
I digress.
In 2050?
“This is the sandwich I got in Paducah, Kentucky, that I told you about; this is the couple we ate with. Oh, here’s a selfie I took with our server.”
While it may be more visually appealing and entertaining later, I miss multiple details when grabbing my phone instead of staying in the game and paying attention.
We’ve become more visual than conversational. Instead of a narration about an epic event, we demand photos and proof. I do it, too.
The storyteller then fervently scrolls through their phone to find one of sixty-three photos of a single event. The extended pause becomes a catalyst for both of you to look through your phones to reciprocate the sharing.
Soon, it turns into a duel of mutually displayed photos, with the participants searching for more pictures until the task becomes cumbersome and silly.
Is there a lesson here? Probably, but I don’t have a photo. I’ll dig around.
Do what’s best for you, but conversations and clear descriptions can be memorable, too.
The Kinks knew this in ’68—
“People take pictures of the Summer,
Just in case someone thought they had missed it,
Just to prove that it really existed.
People take pictures of each other,
And the moment to last them forever,
Of the time when they mattered to someone.
Picture of me when I was just three,
Sucking my thumb by the old oak tree.
Oh how I love things as they used to be,
Don’t show me no more, please.” (Ray Davies)
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC