The act of preserving a moment is facilitated by breaking direct connection with it. This is, quite possibly, one of the greatest paradoxes of our time. I am talking about photography. Both philosophically and technologically speaking, human beings have conjured a tool that physically preserves a visual moment. Though this capturing is motivated by some urge to retain visual evidence of an experience--for whatever intent--one may posit the inevitable nature of the act: we cut ourselves off from a direct experience. In other words, we put a device between an event and our perception of it. Through pausing to look through a lens and press a shutter--namely, putting forth any effort required to take a photograph--does this act reject, or embrace the present moment? Are our experiences interrupted, deepened, or remain unchanged when we decide to photograph them? In either case, photography has undeniably changed our relationship with the uniquely human fragments of sensory experience that we call moments.
I will begin by exploring the more cynical response: photography is a rejection of the present moment. It is an interruption, an infringement, on our direct perception of life. Susan Sontag critically advances this argument. With greater technological advancement and popularization of photography, Sontag observes a phenomenon: photography has converted experience into an image (Sontag, 9). In other words, our experience of an event is increasingly facilitated by the purpose of photographing it. Today, this is exacerbated by social media: capturing content becomes a major dimension of our experiences. Although Instagram was far ahead of Sontag’s time, she captured the trajectory of this ethos with quite remarkable precision. It imbues us with a feeling of incompleteness unless a photo is taken. At this rate, are we on a path to live more vicariously through our act of photographing, increasingly removed from a connection with the present moment? Currently, one could even posit that the sense of incompleteness may not be not resolved until the photo is posted online--some remain unfulfilled until an image receives 100, 200, 1000 likes and so forth, until suddenly, a connection with the present moment becomes replaced with an obsession of the social potential of our image. In any case, Sontag’s observation is certainly exacerbated by the urge to keep up with the digital cultures inherent on our social media platforms. “Everything exists to end in a photograph,” writes Sontag (24). The moments with our family and friends are interrupted by our need to document. We reach for our apps on demand when we witness something funny, surprising, or rare, rather than basking in the moment. We coordinate our outings according to what may be “capturable”, or “on brand” to a certain aesthetic. Cell phone cameras now replace the once sea of lighters that used to ripple across concert crowds, our camera roll applications becoming an “extension of our memories”. Indeed, Sontag’s observation is valid, and its accuracy unprecedented; but why does it infuriate her? What is so intrinsically wrong about desiring closure of an experience through photographs, the urge to record a moment rather than bask in its existence, or watching life through a viewfinder? What is at stake and how might reality deserve, or demand, our full presence? Perhaps the concept of the unphoto can address some of these pressing questions.
The unphotographable. This is a term coined and employed by creator Michael David Murphy. The essence of the unphoto is within the moments we resisted the temptation to use a camera, or simply did not have one; but instead, we used the power of words to describe the experience. The circumstances by which some have made these calls of judgement may prove as evidence that some moments that are too _______ to capture. Too, what? Well, that is the grand question. It is simply not comprehensive to suggest that either the most beautiful or most painful experiences are the ones left uncaptured. Our adjective of interest must go deeper; it must be more universal, more overarching, less polar. Perhaps moments are too intimate, too vulnerable, too emotionally and sensorily intense. Even so, the lines are blurred through our subjective interpretations. Although it seems that we appear to collectively agree on a certain threshold as a culture, there are a few outliers: consider photographer Doug Dubois.
Dubois captured intimate portraits of his father as he recovered from a tragic fall from a commuter train and his mother, as she suffered from severe depression. His images encapsulate the raw pain and anguish in his own family over the course of this twenty-five year photographic endeavor. This collective of work, titled “All the days and nights”, was met with great backlash and many questions. This reinforced the observed tendency of some unspoken collective belief that this act--this capturing and publicizing the pain and vulnerability of your family--is frowned upon. Dubois, however, felt empowered by his exposition (or, exploitation?), inspired by the words of Donald Atrim to the novelist’s own family: “I have a right to tell my story, and I’m sorry, but you’re in it” (Collins).
Doug DuBois — All the days and nights
Dubois’s work is a quintessential example of a narrative that may have been executed more “appropriately” or respectfully had it been approached from the unphoto angle, due to its personal, sensitive nature. In any case, I find that the decision to execute the unphoto is motivated by a few reasons--reasons that may cue us into the enigmatic reasons why watching life through the camera lens is at times irrational. For one, the camera is a tool--or perhaps, a weapon, in a more negative connotation--that inevitably transforms a subject into a spectacle. There are numerous occasions that we tend to agree, albeit with some exceptions--such as the case of Dubois--would be inappropriate to transform into a prospect. For instance, we tend to resist photographing the death of a loved one, the scene of a birth, or our close relative’s first kiss as a married couple. Perhaps we choose to presently participate in the personally significant occasion and therefore avoid creating a display out of the moment. Also, it seems that some moments simply require our full attentive presence. We may resist photographing because that moment provokes intense emotions within us, and our biological processes require that we direct our full attention and energy expenditure on processing such feelings rather than fumbling with a relatively less essential gadget. It seems more appropriate to capture, say, a near-death experience, or a traumatic situation, with words thereafter the fact, rather than pulling out a camera to document--but to each their own, I suppose. Overall, human beings--with our fascinating memory-preserving tool of the modern world--tend to both acknowledge and accept that many experiences are now being facilitated through its own capture. We increasingly watch life through the window of the camera lens, but we also tend to recognize when it’s inappropriate to allow this to occur.
On the other hand, some claim that photography is a way to embrace and cherish the present moment. American photographer Nan Goldin especially exemplified this belief. Through her work The Ballad of Sexual Dependency (1986), she explores a diaristic account of “underground” subcultures through her closest friends and family. Drugs, struggles of sexuality, AIDS, addiction, abuse--one may ask, how could anyone possibly desire to pause and dive into such heavy moments? Goldin demonstrated that photography helped her understand, cope, and survive such difficult life experiences, as they “took care of the past” and allowed her to “focus on the present moment” (Goldin, 145). This is quite the contrast from Sontag’s perspective, which argued nearly the complete opposite belief. Goldin rather saw the camera as a tool of liberation, allowing her to outsource the mental energy of retaining and coping with life’s intense memories. It also allowed her to preserve and hold onto her deceased sister, in perhaps the last tangible essence of her. With the past taken care of--moments and people, pigeonholed and processed--she was better equipped to handle life as it happened to her.
Rise and Monty Kissing, New York City, 1980
"Nan Goldin: The Ballad of Sexual Dependency" at Museum of Modern Art, New York
As exemplified by Goldin, photography allows us to put a moment on pause and explore it to greater depths. Any given moment beholds an infinite degree of secrets, layers, connections, and perspectives to uncover. The camera is a tool of preservation and analysis that allows us to make sense of such feelings, relationships, events, people, places, and life itself. It is a way to understand ourselves--the viewer--as what we discover through the image reveals much about the way we think. Consequently, this may allow for a finer processing of present life as it happens.
Nan Goldin has put words to my thoughts--through her, I feel deeply understood. There is an important distinction to be made here, however: Goldin seems to use photography as a tool to foster an understanding and appreciation of the present, almost as a way to make space for it. But truly, the act of photographing in itself can be a way to appreciate the present moment. Contrary to Sontag, I stand by the belief that photography is an act of paying the utmost respect towards a moment. It is an urge of respect, or interest so deep, that one cannot help but endow the moment with permanence. It means to be so compelled by a moment--for whatever beauty it emanates, or truth it evokes, however precious or disturbing it may be--that it is worth savoring. It is my way of saying, “dear present moment, I think you are so intriguing, that I need to keep you, forever.” If this sounds overly romanticized, that is the entire point. The camera is my tool to appreciate, to honor, to relish life itself. I build narratives that show how meaningful this life is, even when it may seem otherwise. I do not know a better example of presence than this very acknowledgement. For that reason, I find that photography is not an interruption of the present moment, but a way to make love to it.
Whether we purport that taking a photo is a rejection or embrace of the present moment, it is possible to reconcile each viewpoint by acknowledging that an eventual reflection on photos is an experience in itself. Are we better off because we have evidence of a moment? It must be so, as proven by the proliferating, increasingly democratized rate of taking and sharing of photos through the decades. We seem to evolve towards greater capture. Reflecting on photos provides tangible timeline, evidence of evolution of a subject. Yes, and so what? Why do we care? It’s quite indisputable that knowledge of history is valuable. Historical documented evidence of time passing, of existence occurring, directs our future actions and survival. Photographs provide us such documentation, constructing a timeline of who we are as people and members of a greater society. Akin to a visual diary, photos allow us to reexamine and process life in all its phases and evolutions. The act of reflection is an exercise in sharing, discussing, remembering, and even bonding with others. We connect a little deeper when we reflect with others, however subtle. We may never remember an occasion so clearly without the aid of photos. If Sontag is correct and the capturing an image is indeed a rejection of present experience, then the photograph is the souvenir rewarded by a brief sacrifice of total presence; a gift that is accompanied by reflection and reminiscence as an experience in itself.
With every photo we take, we are implying that the preservation of a moment is slightly more valuable than a fully immersed experience of it. For the most part, we have come to accept this--perhaps aimlessly and carelessly so--as we increasingly view the act of taking a photo through how it will contribute to our social media presence or portfolios. What remains to be solved is what exactly makes a moment so worthy--or contrarily, so unfit--to be captured. Some believe this momentary view of reality through the lens can be of immense benefit, as it may allow us to cope, process, remember, and extract meaning from life. Perhaps the concept of photography is the manifestation of our existential human angst--a desperate attempt to cling onto a fleeting, impermanence of reality. Mortal souls, mortal moments. The avid photographer is the memory-hoarder; and it’s permissible, it’s how we deal with our corporeal transience. Some moments simply beg for a tangible extension of their existence for whatever reason, and amazingly, humans have figured out the tools to do so.
Sources Referenced
Collins, Gillie. “Doug DuBois and the Photography of Family.” Guernica, 5 Dec. 2016,
www.guernicamag.com/gillie-collins-doug-dubois-and-the-photography-of-family-2/.
Goldin, Nan, et al. “Afterword.” The Ballad of Sexual Dependency, Aperture Foundation, 2012.
Goldin, Nan. “Nan Goldin. Rise and Monty Kissing, New York City. 1980: MoMA.” The
Museum of Modern Art, 2020, www.moma.org/collection/works/102156.
Murphy, Michael David and Quin, Myles. “Perfect Failures.” Upstreet, 2007.
Sontag, Susan. “In Plato’s Cave.” in On Photography, Picador, 1977.