There is a reason that magazines send professional photographers on stories … or at least used to send them, when there were still budgets for on-site reporting. It’s not because writers can’t take pictures. One of the trade-offs I made, when I was an editor at Flying magazine and lobbying for overseas assignments, was that I agreed to shoot my own photos on those trips to keep their cost low. But although I did it, I never liked it—mainly because I quickly learned that the mindsets of shooting and reporting weren’t very compatible.
To write a worthwhile story, I had to focus on experiencing wherever I was: watching people, asking questions, listening, and being completely in each moment of life and action, whether I was in the air or on the ground. If I focused on really seeing what was around me, I picked up on little but really important details and insights that often changed or broadened my understanding about whatever I was writing about. It also enabled me to note details that allowed readers to get a better feel of what the experience was really like. As a bonus, I also quickly discovered that focusing intently on being in the moment is the secret to feeling really alive.
When I also had to shoot photographs, however, I didn’t have the luxury of that kind of immersion. That’s because figuring out what to shoot, and how to frame those images, requires stepping back from the experience itself and viewing it as a spectator; focusing instead on what would be most interesting or impressive for someone else to see. As a result, whenever I was focused on recording an experience, I wasn’t really present in that experience.
So every summer, when I see crowds of travelers walking around with cell phones always at the ready, intent on recording every meal, every landmark, and every possible photographic proof of being in a particular place (intensified if that place is distant or exotic in nature) … it makes me a little sad. Because I understand what they’re missing.
Don’t get me wrong. A few “happy snaps,” as one colleague used to call them, are wonderful memory-preservers. When my dad developed dementia, I went through all the old family photo albums and pulled out a collection of photos that I thought might bring back wonderful family times and put them together, with story captions, in a photo book for him. The book has been a godsend for both him and my mom: it helps my dad re-center himself when he gets confused, and it helps my mom smile again over the good times when the stress of caretaking gets too soul-draining and hard.
But when I look back at those photos, and remember when they were taken, I realize that we took them solely for ourselves. Meaning that we took them to help us hold onto and remember those moments, not so we could impress anyone else with what we’d done, or how great we looked doing it. Of course, before social media, the only way to publicize your images to the world was to become one of those often-caricatured “Come over and see our Africa slides!” people, or maybe once a year, subject friends and families to an overly preening “Look at me!” holiday photo letter. In a way, selfie-obsessed posting on social media is just that holiday-letter tendency enabled and encouraged into a 365-day-a-year habit. God help us all.
It’s no secret why social media is so successful at feeding that kind of obsessive approach to recording our experiences for the world to see. It’s not called “social” media for nothing. We are social creatures, concerned on some level with social standing. And the more we see images of people globe-trotting, standing on top of Everest, having “fabulous” experiences and eating “fabulous” food and presumably living more fabulous lives than we are … the more we fear being left out. Even without social media, advertising and movies did a great job of making us lust for some other and better fantasy image-based life. Social media just expands that fantasy image to include a lot more people. So if we’re not visibly there with them—“Look! See! I was there, too! I’m having a fabulous life, too!”—we feel like we’re the only ones not at the party.
But again, the more we worry about recording an experience in a way that will impress other people, the less we’re actually experiencing it. Which means not only are we missing all the learning, wonder, and joy that come from being immersed in a moment, but also, the less alive we’re going to feel along the way. By worrying about being seen by other people as we explore the world, we miss out on the very best gifts that come from actually seeing and exploring the world.
Beyond that, it’s accepted psychological truth that the more we focus on external acknowledgement (as in, how we stack up against and how we look to the world), the less happy we will be. Contentment, fulfillment and happiness come from doing things for our own sake, and for the internal rewards we get from doing them, not from what anyone else in the world thinks about us.
So … as we mark the Summer Solstice and the summer travel season kicks into high gear, a few thoughts to consider:
1. It’s easy for an image to look perfect. Life doesn’t usually work that way. And all of those people posting all of those amazing images probably weren’t really experiencing the wonder of those moments, anyway. So it’s okay you weren’t there.
2. If a photo reminds you of a lovely moment, that’s terrific. But you’re the only one who holds the key to unlock that memory from the image. What’s valuable will be lost on anyone you share it with. So why, exactly, is it so important to share it with the world?
3. Maybe there are people in the world living more fabulous lives. Maybe not. Happiness is an elusive prize. But in any event, how, exactly, does what anyone else is doing change your life? A woman who just ran a 100-yard dash at the age of 102 said her secret to happy longevity was seeking as many moments of joy as she could. Let everyone else’s striving go, and focus on experiencing—not recording for others—as many moments of joy as you can.
4. In trying to balance the right amount of memory recording with the right amount of immersion in an experience, keep in mind that: 1) nobody really cares what you ate, and 2) there’s a cost to every moment recorded. What’s more, regardless of how “impressive” an image seems, nobody else is actually going to be all that impressed. Any more than the neighbors really wanted to see the Johnsons’ slides of Africa. A touch of envy, if you’re on top of Everest? Maybe. But Lordy. If you’re going to go to all that effort to get there, focus on reaping the rewards for yourself, not others. Be in the moment. Breathe. Look around. Look for those little details that will stay with you always, and be open to stumbling on moments that will stay in your memory and heart far longer than any Instagram-perfect image of you from the outside.
One of my favorite images from all of my adventures, in fact, is of a moonlit, snow-covered field, high up in the Himalayan mountains. A friend and I were hiking up an unremarkable 18,000 foot peak in the shadow of Mt. Everest, and the night before we hiked to the top of it, we stayed in a stone hut at 15,500 feet. The hut had a dirt floor, no heat except a yak-dung-fueled stove, and a rough-cut door that quite literally had a wooden “bar” (as in, “Katie, bar the door!”) put across it to lock it at night. A short-lived blizzard hit soon after we reached the hut in the afternoon. But in the middle of the night, I awoke to silence. The wind had ceased and the sky had cleared. I had to go to the bathroom, which consisted of a drafty stone outhouse, across a field. So I bundled up, unbarred the door, and stepped out into the snow.
At 15,000 feet, high in the Himalayas, there was no light except the moon and stars, and no human or animal movement except my own. A carpet of new snow covered everything and dampened all sound into profound and enveloping silence. Halfway across the field, I stopped to take it all in. The density of the stars at that altitude, even in the moonlight, was dizzying. And the beauty of the remote scene … snow covering the land and dusting both the stone walls marking the field and the quiet stone hut to one side, the stars, the shimmering white of the fields in the moonlight, and the surreal depth of the silence there … literally took my breath away.
Where’s that photo now? There isn’t one. I didn’t have a camera with me, so that scene lives only in my memory. But that’s okay. In truth, no two-dimensional image could have done it justice anyway. The magic that found me in that field was something you had to be there to experience. What’s more, if I’d been focused on trying to record the scene, instead of simply absorbing it as deeply and completely as I could, the magic might very well have passed me by.
As a very wise biplane pilot I once knew put it, “You can’t manufacture magic. You just have to be there when it happens.” By which he meant being not just physically present, but fully present, with senses tuned to receive, not record.
Like so many things in life, it’s a balancing act. Photos have their place in our lives. I love having photos that bring back memories of wonderful life moments and experiences. But I also wouldn’t trade the moments of magic I’ve known for all the photographs in the world.
