By Rufina Lopez
On a classically beautiful June day, I celebrated my birthday with friends, swimming in the sun and enjoying a delicious cake. That evening, fueled by the day’s joy and love, I decided to lay in bed and write about my death.
It’s not as morbid as it sounds. On my birthday, I remind myself how lucky I am that I’m still here. I reflect on questions like: What experiences do I still want to have between now and when I die? How can I make them happen? If I were on my deathbed right now, would I be satisfied with how I’m spending my time and energy? What would I change?
I like going through my photos during this process. They tell the story of my life visually, showing what really matters to me. Last year, I did a deep dive into my phone’s camera roll and noticed something interesting: My way of seeing and capturing the world has actually changed pretty drastically over the last decade.
Ten years ago, my photos weren’t as crisp as they are now, but they did the job of capturing personal stories and connections. There are embarrassing photos of fire hydrants in sepia tone that I thought looked artsy and cool. There are landscapes I couldn’t even place on a map now. But mostly, these photos are filled with the faces of my friends and family.
Over time, my photos transform. The “stupid but sweet” snapshots start to give way to something different. There is a new focus, an attempt to present an aesthetic, an idea, an editorial “look.” Many of my photos no longer even feature people. Instead, they’re dominated by images of myself alone, or empty landscapes. What has replaced the people? Objects.
I traveled constantly for my job, and shared shots of my lavish-looking trips, where everything was expensed for work. Behind the scenes, I was underpaid, broke, lonely, and burnt out. Yet, it looked cool and glamorous!
When I see these photos now, I’m not shocked by the disconnect between the photos and my actual life at that time. After all, I had consciously shaped it that way. Back then, I was highly aware I would get more engagement and likes on Instagram if it was just me in a photo. A random boyfriend or friends in the frame? Meh. But just me, or my face? All of the likes!
By now, we’ve all had the conversation about how social media creates a highlight reel that doesn’t reflect what’s actually going on. But that’s not what I’m focused on. I’m more interested in how, even after deleting my personal Instagram and ceasing to take photos for performative sharing, the way I document my life with my phone continues to evolve in peculiar ways.
My camera roll still resembled a curated archive, as if I were crafting a personal “brand” or “aesthetic,” striving for marketability or commodification. There were photos of empty places that I thought looked better without people, way too many pictures of myself, and an emphasis on the things I consumed rather than the people I loved.
Many of my “aesthetic” or “lifestyle” photos end up looking dumb. Some are striking and elegant, but vacant. Even during evidence of happy times with friends, I saw I would focus on taking photos of something else. A lovely night at a dear friend’s house resulted in a photo of just the table. A day spent museum hopping with friends and having a picnic in the park left me with just one photo of a diving board. I was struck by the amount of meals I shared with friends that resulted in images of dinner plates.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been to dinner with a friend, and they pull out their phone, making me blush and push my hair out of my eyes, only to then point the camera at a plate and slip it back in their purse. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a group of humans tagged as a bowl of olives and a mezcal negroni. I’m not even hurt when this happens; it feels societally accepted at this point and I’m actually a little camera shy. But if you really think about it, doesn’t that say something about our priorities?
As a result of what I’d been consuming and focusing on, my behavior began to change. One look at my camera roll, and you can definitely see it. I’m still trying to make sense of why this happened. But here are some ideas:
I ended up becoming what I absorbed, despite my intentions. I’ve worked in marketing for years, meaning I was constantly immersed in consumer culture. When advertising does a good job, it disrupts healthy brain regulation and hijacks emotions. I was absorbed how people sold things and in turn, I thought about how to sell myself. A chic, empty corner of a hotel; a designer handbag on a midcentury chair — these were the kinds of aesthetic lifestyle images I was consuming.
I discussed my photo realization with a friend, who shared a story. On his first school field trip to New York, his mom gave him a disposable camera and said, “You can take photos of the buildings and the Statue of Liberty if you want, but remember to mostly take photos of your friends. That’s what you’ll really be happy to see in the future.”
If you prefer taking photos of buildings and have an eye for photography, that’s great — it’s all about your personal values. For me, people are important and connection makes me happier than anything else. Photos of faces mean more to me than pictures of a perfume bottle next to a fake Rolex.
How much have things really changed? What will our photo albums look like compared to those of past generations? Will our ancestors scratch their heads at our obsession with capturing every little moment? (Or will they likely still be doing the same thing?) And when I’m gone, do I want my family to remember me through a collection of selfies and fancy hotdog pics?
I cherish every photo I have of my parents and grandparents. My sister has a great attitude; she jumps in photos with her kids when they ask, even if she’s not feeling her best, because she knows it’s about creating memories for them, not about her vanity.
I’m genuinely baffled by the purpose behind my performance and what to do with this deluge of photos, like an assortment of yoga mats in serene settings, proving my elusive tranquility (so tranquil that I compulsively snapped 27 shots!!!). I don’t need to manufacture and sell myself or others on the story of my life; I can simply experience it. I’d rather not wake up one day and realize I’ve spent it obsessing over myself and my stuff.
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