“Pics or it didn’t happen!”
A slightly outdated phrase, one we don’t really use as much anymore, but a sentiment that is still very widely held.
We oftentimes feel the need to capture our lives. If we wear a good outfit, we need proof of it. If we travel somewhere neat, we need to record it. When the Gators won the basketball natties last year, obviously, we needed videos of Midtown — for the archives, for the lore, for future us to look back and say, remember that?
We want visible proof of our actions and memories. To memorialize them. To prove that we were there.
Yet, in constantly recording everything, the line between doing things to do them and doing them for the sake of capturing them becomes blurred. We step slightly away from what we are actually doing and experiencing. We frame it. We adjust it. We preserve it. And some argue that in doing so, we are no longer fully living in the moment.
I am the photo friend.
I am the friend people ask to send all the camera pictures to after an outing. The friend to contact when someone wants Instagram photos. I am the friend who tries to capture everything.
Recently, I started to really evaluate what it means to capture something while also being present.
Several random conversations contributed to my contemplation.
One friend jokingly referenced that internet audio — “I think you’re only here for the zipline” — to say that I was only at a football game for the photos. She’s not entirely wrong. I got bored midway and found more joy in editing aesthetic shots of football players than in trying to understand the difference between a touchdown and a point scored.
Another conversation was about creating a “phone pile” when hanging out, stacking phones in the center so no one scrolls. A noble effort toward intentionality.
And in a discussion about social media and performative culture, a peer expressed concern with how people are constantly striving to document their lives: they focus more on getting a good photo out of it than enjoying what’s actually in front of them.
But, is doing any of those things really influencing presence?
It depends.
In the era of instant sharing, there’s a double-edged sword to wanting to capture a moment versus fully immersing in it.
On one end, existing in the moment without the distraction of a camera allows us to savor beauty, noise, and emotion fully within memory.
I, for one, think that capturing it can deepen presence.
While you may be looking through the eyes of a device rather than your own, you are often paying attention in ways you weren’t before. In trying to capture the beauty of the street along which I venture, I notice the way sunlight hits the roof at just the right moment. I look longer. I search for details. I slow down because I am actively trying to see.
For me, my camera is not a crutch. It is a magnifying glass to the world before me.
Likewise, when I leave an experience with good videos or photos, I feel a buzz of happiness that I don’t think would be there without them. The moment lingers. It stretches. It echoes a little longer. We are able to revisit something that otherwise might have faded, preserving the memory.
And beyond pictures, there are other ways of capturing. Writing. Art. Noticing.
As I write this, the weather is warming, and the UV is on the up. I’m sitting in a neon orange chair in the center of Honors Village, amidst what seems to be over thirty fellow college students who have somewhat of the same idea.
There are, of course, the guys participating in what I deem the collegiate spikeball epidemic — a net seemingly spawning near shirtless men without fail anytime it’s over sixty degrees out.
Others are lying on the turf grass, basking in the sunlight. Some are still in their swimsuits despite the UV being down to three. I imagine they simply enjoy the feeling of the sun kissing their skin.
Some sit alone, just as I am. Doing homework. Listening to music. Scrolling. Reading. A lot of people are studying. It’s a nice place to study.
A girl sits a few feet away with no device in front of her. She’s just taking in the scene. A community of people at the same place, at the same time, simply because the sun is shining.
It’s a joyous sight. People are smiling and living within whatever bubble of their life exists here.
And I can’t help but wonder.
Is me pausing from this moment before me to write it down, to describe it and capture the feeling it evokes, cheapening it? Or enriching it?
Some may argue that writing and taking a picture on your phone are different when it comes to presence. That one is somehow better than the other.
I think that’s unfair— being present is subjective.
At concerts, I find it odd when the person before me has enough storage to record what seems like the entirety of the show. But, I’m equally perplexed by those who don’t lift their phone once, who take it in entirely without any urge to photograph or video.
We all operate on our own habits and consequently appreciate moments differently.
For me, capturing deepens memories. For others, moments feel richer without the pressure of trying to catch them at the perfect time.
I don’t think the person who watches the sunset and doesn’t take a photo is superior to the one who takes thirty. I don’t think the person who goes on a trip and doesn’t tell a soul is any better than the one who posts about it all over their socials.
Somewhere along the way, we created the idea that for enjoyment to be real, it needs to be private. That presence must be secret to be authentic.
Recently, I watched the film “Perfect Days,” and one line stayed with me:
“Next time is next time. Now is now.”
Now is happening whether we document it or not. The sky will fade. The spikeball net will be packed up. The music will stop.
I don’t think presence disappears just because it’s documented.
Sometimes documenting a moment isn’t stepping away from it.
Sometimes it’s the reason you noticed it at all.
Sometimes it is just another way of saying:
I loved this.
I wanted to keep it.