Photographs Lie. . .
Lessons From My Youth About Life.
Here’s the Good News. . .
No one’s cooler than you.
Here’s the Bad News. . .
You’re not that cool.
Here’s the Reality. . .
“Cool” is a figment of our collective made-up minds. “We” decide what and who is “cool.” We also decide who counts as “we.” You might say it’s the first incision in the dicing up of the world into pieces that matter and those that don’t. I once had a front row seat to how this all works.
I lived with this tragically cool artist for a year or so. I loved her a lot, probably more than I should’ve. She was exciting, enticing, dare I say, even ethereal. A manic pixie dream girl poster child. My one and only. If I’d been younger and dumber I’d have fallen harder for her shtick than I did her. She and her friends constituted a self-congratulatory mutual masturbation society whose sole purpose was to bestow “cool” accolade after “cool” accolade upon each other in order to sustain what today would be called an identity, but back then was just . . . well, whatever it was . . . it was a lot less complicated.
Alas, I’m happy (somedays sad . . . it depends on the day) to report I was sufficiently jaded and hardened by the time I met her and immune to the collective “cool” surrounding me. It was fun for a moment, but I’d learned to see through such silliness long before her bangs and bob graced my pillow.
Growing Pains. . .
I was in the 4th grade when I went from “cool” to “not cool.” I still don’t know what happened. One day I was “in,” and the next I was “out.” I don’t remember caring too much. I do remember being a little confused. And I know I wasn’t happy because I didn’t roll over and take it. Instead, I tried to shake things up a bit, either out of fear, anger, or some sort of innate defiance.
This was the 4th grade, so my options were limited. There were no grand gestures or inspired orations. I simply decided if I wasn’t going to get picked for Shane’s kickball team, then I’d be the other captain. No one ever wanted the job because it meant you weren’t going to be on Shane’s team. Low hanging fruit, for sure. But it gave me the chance to pick some of the best players and field a decent team, one capable of giving Shane and his followers a run for their money, on occasion. If those guys hated me for doing it . . . well, too bad.
Growing up is hard. I don’t know if things were harder then or now. It doesn’t matter since we only grow up once. During my time things were different, that’s for sure. And those differences made a difference. I feel lucky to have grown up when and where I did, (but you couldn’t pay me a million bucks to go back then and there.)
I grew up in the days before cell phones. Hell, I remember a time before grocery stores had scanners. Computers existed only in “labs.” There was no internet. “Social” was when things happened face to face. If you wanted to bully someone, you had to do it in person (which greatly increased your chances of getting punched). I still marvel at what we pulled off without anything that would pass for “technology” today.
Take your average Friday. You talked to your friends at school, or perhaps on the phone if it was summer, and made plans to go to The Hop. It was the obvious choice since it was held every week at the local skating rink, which is why they made you take off your shoes (and why I’ve witnessed more fistfights in socks than any man reasonably should), and everyone would be there. You agreed to meet at the mall beforehand. Let’s say at 7. And that was it.
You might not see, or talk to them again until then. You went about your day. You accomplished your chores, or worked your shift, or went skating, and then before you knew it, either alone or perhaps in a duo or trio, depending on whether you needed to bum a ride or were the ride to be bummed, you arrived at the mall and wandered around until you were all together.
You never knew who else you might run into, or where the night might take you. Most of the time you ended up at the Hop as planned and wished you were somewhere else; other times you ended up somewhere else.
Sometimes it was exciting, and sometimes it was terrifying. You might find yourself in the back of a car driving to Harrisburg to causally roll through the projects at 1 AM to see what was going down; or stopped on a bridge out in the back of Rush Township unsure if you wanted to know why the gypsies were burning tiki torches alongside the road; or running around an abandoned insane asylum scaring yourself to death for no other reason than it was there; or if you were really lucky, at a friend’s girlfriend’s best friend’s birthday party you weren’t invited to listening to the “muscle massager” you bought at Spencer’s Gifts as a present, from the aforementioned friend, periodically vibrate under the bookcase while some girl you never met before tucked her long blonde hair behind her ears as she straddled you out of nowhere. You couldn’t make this shit up if you tried, and you most definitely wouldn’t want any of it documented.
Perhaps this is why nothing really cool happens anymore? You can’t just be and let an experience unfold if there’s the looming possibility it might end up broadcast across the globe. Or, more to the point, if you’re constantly pausing to style each and every moment as if it’s the “coolest” thing a “cool” kid could ever dream of. All this does is ruin the potential for an authentic experience and annoy the shit out of everyone who’s relegated to a passenger on your ego trip. Perhaps, this is why “moments” these days amount to a bunch of people “duck facing” in “cool places.”
Things are Rough All Around. . .
I’m absolutely positive if social media had existed during my time with my manic pixie dream girl, or when I was in the back of Raleigh’s orange International Scout with the top off driving to Knoebels while he and Chuck simultaneously vied for Helene’s affections as “Jane Says” blared from the speakers, things would’ve been different . . . and not for the better. And I’m not trying to paint a rosier picture than reality. It’s just to say despite the many drawbacks of the past, it was better than today’s hellscape which has become a globalized version of the self-congratulatory mutual masturbation society.
I feel lucky to have avoided most of this nonsense. In addition to the crash course I received on the playground regarding the impermanence of “cool,” I was fortunate to learn another crucial life lesson from an unlikely place. It came in the form of a song from a band, Shelter, who were part of the “straight-edge” hardcore scene in the early 90s. It taught me that things are not always what they seem. “Photograph’s Lie” is on their first album, Perfection of Desire, and it goes a little something like this:
As I admire the smiles on the people in the photo I think "What am I missing this time?" I'm always racing, chasing, someone, somewhere That isn't mine Thinking that the grass is greener on the other side Thinking that in your shoes I'll be satisfied First admiration, then contemplation Tricking my mind...Cause I know that photographs lie Well photographs lie they fool my eyes They show me something that is not It's like fire that makes me desire What they have while they may want what I've got And this romanticism is like a prison 'cause life won't turn out to how it is foreseen So will any body care or just be there To pick up our shattered dreams Admiring you while you may be admiring me Photographs painting a false picture of reality And I think I'd rather leave it, just leave it as a blur Instead of lamenting over the past Of things that never were
This isn’t Shelter’s best song, or my favorite, but, boy oh boy, it has stuck with me more than most.
When I first heard it, I would’ve never guessed it would play such a pivotal role in my life over the past 34 years. For most of that time, the world wasn’t quite as big of a shit show as it is now, but even then, I quickly lost count of the number of times I looked at someone and said, “Photographs lie y’all,” (Yes, I was born north of the Mason Dixon, but “y’all” works y’all), in response to some lament from someone about how amazing someone else’s life is, how much prettier or thinner they are, how much luckier they are, how they must have it made in the shade, or on the flip side, how much harder they have it, or how much they’re suffering.
And it’s not just because I’m occasionally prickly. I mean, I am, but that’s not why. It’s because, it’s just obviously and painfully true. Pictures are nice, neat, and pretty, but almost completely made-up almost all of the time. Sure, there are exceptions, but they’re rare and increasingly so. Real life is never made-up. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it “brutish, nasty, and short,” but depending on the day, I could be convinced. However, even in these cases, it’s often quite beautiful, but never not very, very messy.
This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things. . .
I’m not the first, smartest, nor will I be the last to point out that social media has turned our society into a shell of its former self. And sure, everything you hear and read about: from the increase in political polarization, information/news bubbles, increased rates of depression, isolation, loneliness, anxiety, and exposure to social contagions are real and real problems, and blah, blah, blah. But I mean, come on, what are we going to do about any of that?
Nothing. The answer is nothing. But what we can do is deal with ourselves, and in particular the rot social media brings into our lives and hearts. We can wise up and get our asses out of the game. We can stop participating in the spectacle. We can stop giving it our energy. Or at the very least, we can focus on the truth and start to tell everyone, with our words and our actions, that “photographs lie.” But in order to do this, we have to believe it. And we have to know what we’re truly up against, otherwise we run the risk of wasting our time and energy.
In my day job, I practice Traditional Chinese Medicine (or at least I did before the world upended itself in a global pandemic reminiscent of The Leftovers). One of the most important things you learn in treating patients is that their symptoms aren’t the problem. Their symptoms are the things which bring them in the door, the things they (and I) want to go away, but treating the symptoms won’t fix the problem. The “thing” you need to fix is the disharmony leading to the symptoms. This is the “real” problem.
The same’s true for social media. The list of problems above are just symptoms. They aren’t the problem. We’re the problem. Well, not us per se, but our willingness to sell and buy a version of ourselves and others which isn’t real. We’ve come to accept a “cosplay life” as reality because we haven’t learned/realized/accepted (possibly all three) that photographs lie . . . always have, always will . . . but instead have actually decided to lean into and embrace the fantasy.
Two Sides of the Same Coin. . .
Everyone wants to be liked. Everyone wants to be accepted. Everyone wants to be appreciated. Everyone wants to be loved. Most of us spend our entire lives looking for these things from others (with varying degrees of success), which makes sense when you consider we’re social creatures at our core.
Our ability to bond and rely on each other is commonly cited as one of the things which set us apart from the world around us, one of the things which allowed us to survive while others floundered, struggled, or disappeared completely. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter, because we clearly need people now . . . as evidenced by our increasing rates of depression, anxiety, suicide, and general societal malaise.
It’s obvious, we don’t do well on our own, physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually. Being with others is in our nature. It’s who and what we are. It’s not going anywhere, and we haven’t been doing a good job managing it, or doing it in a healthy and positive way. There’s a world of difference between needing to be seen and needing to be “cool.”
“Coolness” is the currency of social media and it’s determined by one simple thing; our willingness to exploit and repurpose our lives for consumption . . . in other words, to “sell” ourselves. Our friends, our families, our kids, our lovers, our emotions, our struggles, our tears, our diseases, our spiritual practices, our breakdowns, our fucking food for God’s sake, are all raw material we repurpose as products available for the low, low price of “influence” and “likes.” Nothing is sacred. Nothing is off the table if it garners attention and admiration from any and all people willing to observe and “applaud” our “so-called” lives.
Somewhere along the way we lost the thread. We went from “living” our lives to curating them into pixelated experiences. We forgot that lives are to be lived in the moment, even enjoyed, rather than exploited for grade school popularity. This in turn has unsurprisingly eroded our relationship to reality and the people who make it up. It’s distorted how and what we value.
Things, people, places, and events no longer have value in and of themselves (admittedly a high bar even before social media), but they also no longer have value because they are “useful,” “good,” “beautiful,” “instructive,” or “wholesome.” The only metric is production to leverage position; how can I package this moment for consumption. Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage, and all men and women merely players,” and now we say, “If it’s not on . . . insert your preferred social media app here . . . it didn’t happen.” And what’s happening isn’t good.
But, I can only get so bent out of shape over this “selling.” After all, if you want to pimp yourself out and if people want to pay for you with their time and attention, then more power to you both. I think it’s a waste, but we’re all consenting adults. So, have at it. For me, the real problems start with the “buying,” and more to the point when we start to believe the shit we’re buying, or more to the point, treat the shit we’re buying as though it’s real.
I’m not so naive to think that this “buying” is something all that new and novel either. It’s a part of the social equation. It’s the acceptance part. And if the history of advertising is any guide, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that we’re willing to buy all manner of questionable thing. But there used to be a difference between advertising and life. We knew that advertising wasn’t real life . . . and for the most part our lives weren’t considered interesting enough to be something anyone would be interested in buying. Boy, do I miss those days and those simpler times.
It’s nearly impossible to tell the difference anymore. Again, between consenting adults, there’s not much to critique here outside of bad taste and questionable morals. However, when this “buying” crosses the line and we begin to see the curated, pixelated experience of others as if they were real and authentic, willfully ignoring what we know (because we do the exact same thing) has gone into crafting the fantasy, then we’ve begun to live in a simulated reality, a simulacrum if you will. And in this “Let’s Pretend” existence, we lose sight of the real life, with the real problems which live just behind the lens. It’s easy to paint a picture of happiness, but only if we turn a blind eye to the turbulence bubbling just below the surface, leaving us to chase an impossible standard.
Beyond the adulation and envy of other’s fake lives, the weakening of the line between real and “make believe” has further damaged our power of discernment to the point where many people are now willing, and/or unable, to appreciate the fullness and complexity of life, in particular when it comes the more nuanced issues of the day. This has led to what is the scariest thing, at least for me, and which I’ve started calling the “memeification of knowledge.”
In short, this is when the complex, robust, and nuanced problems, issues, conflicts, theories, positions, politics . . . okay pretty much anything of significance in the public sphere . . . is communicated as though an uncontested fact in a metaphorical 240 characters or less. This is not only an affront to the messiness of life, but an insult to the human intellect.
Basically, if something is presented on social media more complicated than a banana bread recipe, you should understand that whatever is being presented is partial, incomplete, and way, way more complicated than what you’re seeing. Your nods are reflective of your bias and not much else. Which is fine, we all have them . . . they just aren’t necessarily true, and they sure as hell aren’t reflective of reality. And I can hear it now . . . but thinking it’s “your reality” isn’t helping, because that’s not really a thing either. The only reality is this shit isn’t real, and we shouldn’t be behaving as though it is.
But, this is the world we currently find ourselves in, and to be honest, I find it quite distasteful and terrifying. The “selling” of ourselves and the “buying” of other people and their ideas have become so commonplace we struggle to see the difference between reality and the simulacrum we’ve created in its stead. We’ve bought into the illusion painted by what amounts to a photograph and decided to invest our lives into the world it portrays. Nothing, absolutely nothing, good can come of this. Case in point.
Smoke and Fuckin’ Mirrors, Y’all. . .
I’d planned to end this piece with a discussion of Oprah. Specifically, about how she’s apparently (as told to me by a driver) building a 55,000 square foot mansion/compound in Telluride with 30 bathrooms. I had a whole bit about how her shit smells the same, but that she can smell it in a different room everyday of the month. And how this is our image of what counts as success and how despite knowing how fucked up it is, there are still days and parts of me which wishes I had what she’s got.
It was going to be a bit of a stretch. But then I stumbled on this piece in the New York Times and I kicked Oprah to the curb. It’s a story about a number of different things. I’m fairly certain I could craft at least five different narratives from the article. I’m not sure which of them is true. Maybe all of them (on some level). Maybe none of them. In the end it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that it’s a real life example about what I’ve been trying to say from the beginning: all that glitters isn’t gold. However, you play it out, it’s a story about a family, composed of real people - a wife/mother, husband/father, and two daughters - who lived a life of appearances. She on instagram. Him in business. Together it resulted in a disaster.
He’s dead, by his own hand. She has a mountain of debt. And their two little girls will grow up without their daddy, forever effected by the decisions of their parents.
The life they built is gone, both in the real world and online. The instagram account, which sold that life, is gone . . . erased from existence. Was his/her/their pursuit of an adult version of this high school popularity contest to blame? Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll never know.
What I do know is two things. One, somewhere along the way, one or both of them got lost in a make believe world. S/he/They came to believe appearances mattered more than connection. More than love. More than life itself.
And two, regardless of the story I tell, he tells, you tell, she tells, they tell, we tell, it doesn’t end well . . . for anybody. Why? Because photographs lie y’all.