I got my first digital camera when I was in high school. I was 16, and like early cell phones, it seemed to weigh 47 pounds. Often it was easier to carry disposable cameras around than to worry about losing or breaking my camera, which in hindsight seems as old as it was heavy. I couldn't recall the last time I really used a disposable camera, until I forgot to pack my now lightweight, travel-sized digital camera when I left for spring break.
At the end of every weekend, it seems that Facebook and MySpace overflow with an influx of new pictures. Shots from exotic vacations, artistic landscapes for photo classes, sober group shots before heading out to the bar, drunken sweaty shots of coeds writhing at the club and embarrassing half-clothed pics of roommates the mornings after dominate our news feeds.
We eagerly devour each and every photo, catching up with what everyone was doing, passively perpetuating our cyber-stalking until we can no longer remember what it was like to page through actual photo albums. Tangible photos, with no red-eye correction or airbrush possibilities, used to chronicle our lives; now, with our right-click-save mentalities, our snapshots are accessible to share with the world via cyberspace.
But when you're in college, what night doesn't feel like a series of snapshots, fragmented into moments of hilarity, fake posturing, heightened emotion and immense embarrassment? Looking back on last week's activities, it all seems to be captured in just a few shots. A symphony of smiles when our driver cranked up the music in our limo/taxi, my dumbfounded smile when I awoke to see my toes fully painted the next morning, frame after frame of pushing through a crowd with a drink in my hand and finally braving Sunday's light behind my shield of cotton pants, hoodie and sunglasses.
In fact, some of these moments were captured and eventually posted on the ubiquitous aforementioned Web sites, but the problem is that everything can't just be summed up in just a few shots.
Pictures may be worth a thousand words, but that doesn't mean these moments come even close to the whole story. The lighthearted photo of my friend and I dancing up on a girl fails to mention the inner anguish of the relationship that dissolved just hours earlier. The classic shot of me throwing my head back in laughter at the bar disguises the fact that my ex is just a few feet out of the frame, and I'm doing my best to pretend I don't notice his existence.
The limitation of these pictures is that they can only give us basic facts: who was there, what we were wearing and where we were. They only suggest what came before and what came after. Perhaps heartache preceded the event, or lovemaking followed; how would we know? Those kinds of pictures are not usually so widely shared.
Our relationships, like our lives, can also sometimes seem like a slideshow. We're so eager to document our connection to our significant others that we fill our minds with the happiest and most dramatic moments.
These are the highlights, with a few shots of scenery to fill the gaps between. Like our screen savers, after our relationships end and we pause for too long to think, these memories pop up before they eventually fade away.
This weekend I retrieved the pictures from my vacation. The scenery of the landscape seemed too exotic to be real, and the glossy print reflected my doubt that I had ever really been there.
But though the sights and sounds seemed a distant memory, I could remember each moment the pictures were taken. My smile didn't seem to hide any hidden meaning or buried distress. The naked eye would not have been able to see the anxiety pulsing beneath the surface, the veiled tension that my last rest stop before Adultville was coming to a close.
Maybe that's ultimately the real gift of photographs. They are solitary moments frozen in time. I may always remember the circumstances, the behind-the-scenes drama, but at least there is one moment captured to remember the fun.
And maybe if we're lucky, we might just forget the drama that came before or after the picture was snapped, and just be able to revel in our fleeting bliss. After all, computers have made it possible to easily airbrush our photos. Who's to say we can't do the same to our minds or our hearts?
