I Regret What's In My Camera Roll
I Regret What's In My Camera Roll
And no, it's not a think piece on nudes.
Last week, I celebrated my birthday on a classically beautiful June day with my friends, swimming in the sun and enjoying delicious cake. That evening, fueled by the day's joy and love, I decided to lay in bed and write about my death. (Your girl knows how to party.)
No, it’s not as morbid as it sounds. On my birthday, I reflect on death—not to be sad, but to give myself a yearly check in and remind myself how lucky I am that I'm still here to eat cake. 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 took a super 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 ten years.
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 from seemingly unremarkable but unforgettable times together.
Over time, my photos begin to 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 become dominated by images of myself alone, or empty landscapes. What has replaced the people? Objects.
Sometime around 2016, I was at the peak of my "Instagram girl" era. I traveled constantly for work and was sharing shots of my lavish-looking trips, where everything was expensed for work. Behind the scenes, I was underpaid, broke, lonely, and overworked. Yet, it looked so 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 that 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, that got low likes. But just me or my face? All of the likes! So, I starting taking and posting photos of just ME.
When I posted a photo of a bustling city with lots of people, it got low engagement. But a photo of a place so exclusive, it seems only billionaires could access it— even if two tiny Japanese men were secretly up in my armpits, using iPads to capture the exact same shot? High engagement. By now, we've all had the conversation about how social media makes us perform and create a highlight reel that doesn’t really reflect what’s actually going on. But that's not exactly what I’m focused on now.
What I'm interested in exploring is how, even after deleting my personal Instagram and ceasing to take photos for performative sharing, the way I documented my life with my phone continued to evolve in increasingly peculiar ways.
Years after I deleted my personal social media, 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 many photos of empty places that I thought looked better without people, way too many photos of myself, and a heavy 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. And 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, poised over the abyss:
I was struck by the amount of meals I shared with friends that resulted in images of dinner plates. I heard myself on my deathbed thinking, “What the hell? There were so many times where you were laughing with a friend, and all you took a picture of was this mediocre beet carpaccio? Where is a smile, where is a human face?”
Does it even sound that weird? 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?
“The camera always eats first” is what my chef friend always says when we go out to eat. But I’m not a chef or a food professional, so I don’t stay up late trying to recall the taste of a sizzling hot fajita plate photo from 2019. And no shame to those who do! Because the point I’m trying to make here isn’t actually about pictures of food at all.
It’s that, as a result of what I’d been consuming and focusing on, my behavior really started to change over the years. If you look at my camera roll, you can definitely see it. I'm still trying to make sense of why this happened. But here’s some ideas:
I ended up becoming what I absorbed, despite my intentions. Working in marketing for so many years meant I was constantly immersed in ads, social media, and consumer culture. When advertising does a good job, it disrupts healthy brain regulation and hijacks emotions. I was constantly absorbing how people sold things and in turn I was thinking about how to sell myself. Eventually, anything and everything could feel like a commodity.
I followed a lot of "creative" people online who had an eye for design and celebrate the thoughtful details of life (or just a sponsored dinner party?). I’ve come to realize that the biggest voices online are often those skilled at commodifying their entire lives. They will post fewer photos of other people and more of themselves, things they consume, and isolated looking scenes. Many of the images I saw daily were actually about selling and commodification, even if it wasn’t glaringly obvious.
A chic, empty corner of a hotel, a designer handbag on a midcentury chair—these were the kinds of aesthetic, lifestyle images I was constantly exposing myself to, so my focus naturally shifted to those things.
You could really swap out my images for anything, whether it's a message from a mommy blogger or a rugged man explaining how to go off-grid. If we're bombarded with a particular perspective and directed where to focus, it's natural to begin viewing our own lives through a similar lens with this repeated exposure.
It’s easy to absorb other people’s values without realizing it. 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. I forget this when I’m not paying attention.
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?
It would be fascinating to compare very old photos with today's, observing how people prioritized capturing experiences and moments with others over material possessions. It makes me consider the legacy we shape for future generations.
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. So in that same spirit of selflessness, I leave my future ancestors with this stunning photo of my hand on a $21 Erewhon smoothie…
Storytelling is not living. I read a John Barth interview where he mentioned "the horror that comes from the literal or metaphorical equating of storytelling with living, with life itself." It reminds me of how I felt when I deleted Instagram.
Will my existence lose its validity without an audience to narrate it to? What am I afraid of relinquishing by not “capturing” my life? Is anxiety driving me to take these pictures, influenced by seeing others constantly shaping their lives into a perpetual storyboard?
I don't need to manufacture and sell myself or others on the story of my life; I can simply experience it. I'm genuinely baffled by the purpose behind my performance and what to do with this deluge of photos—a barrage of yoga mats in serene settings, proving my elusive tranquility (so tranquil that I compulsively snapped 27 shots!!!).
Why am I engulfed by a sea of commodities? How did I become so focused on stuff? Is it because we can't get enough, or because companies just won't stop pushing it on us? It's the old chicken-or-egg debate. Yes, I worked in marketing, and it affected how much I thought about buying and getting people to buy. But sometimes I wonder why pictures of me looking totally alone got more likes on Instagram, even before the platform became a giant shopping mall. And then why did it happen to me too—why did I find myself liking pictures of shoes and plates more than those of happy families?
Is consumerism ingrained in my very being, or does an algorithm steer me toward materialism? Why do we admire empty spaces as status symbols, yet criticize the rich for seeming disconnected from society and living exclusive lives? Perhaps a snapshot of a lavish hotel room holds more allure because it promises something tangible, unlike the depth of a long-nurtured friendship, which eludes easy capture. Do I crave only what I can touch, what's commodified? Is it because the intangible aspects of life are difficult to grasp and often shrouded in mystery, deemed mundane, and lacking immediacy in a world that demands instant gratification but still acts like everything will last forever?
Because it won’t last forever, not even for long. I'm constantly struck by the brevity of life. Let me not wake up one day and realize I've spent all my time obsessing over myself and my stuff.
What will you dedicate your priceless (yet unlimited) camera roll to during your time here? And what will people see in those photos when you're no longer around?
🍒Total Rec
Total Rec is free for all readers.
If you appreciate the time and effort that goes into my newsletter and want to show support, consider becoming a paid subscriber or making a one-time donation here:
Brilliant, as always!! I’ve always been deeply self-conscious of the way I look (and photograph) so I capture so few pictures of myself. That itself is a tragedy because I’m writing myself out of my own history. But also I take fewer pictures of people in my life unless I can capture their best angles and “candid” shots that are anything but.
I will say a lot of that changed when I had kids (not that this is an answer) but now my camera roll is filled with giggly videos of them chasing squirrels, etc. Now if only I could allow myself the same experience…
PS- Happy Birthday from a fellow Gemini (June 4!)
Has anyone else noticed the cool girl/guy/person “trend” of BAD photo dumps? I first noticed Gen Z (much younger family members and kids of my coworkers…yikes) posting carousels of not-at-all aesthetic pictures that seem to be intentionally random/unflattering. They are usually accompanied by a 2 or 3 word caption that is not at all descriptive of what the carousel contains, and the photos look like they were taken with a shitty camera instead of the super deluxe iPhone you know they are using. More recently, I’ve seen celeb accounts doing the same thing. Does this have a name? Am I just the last person on earth to wake up to it?