Losing my selfie

Have you ever been grateful you’re not good at something? This year I decided it’s probably best that I’m terrible at selfies. Truly, absolutely awful.

But I’m not anti-selfie. I love getting selfies from my college kids because it gives me a glimpse of them in their natural habitats. But when I turn that camera on my own face and then look at the resulting picture, I immediately cringe away, as if I’ve just seen a festering wound. Delete, delete, delete.

I don’t have the smartphone skills of a Gen Z kid, so maybe I’m doing it wrong. Somehow, I always end up with crazy eyes and bad angles. My arm isn’t long enough to snap the picture at a more forgiving distance.

But perhaps my selfie-incompetence is actually self-preservation. Earlier this month, Slate magazine published an article about a 2022 study published in the Journal of Travel Medicine. According to the study, “there were 379 selfie-related deaths worldwide between 2008 and 2021. That’s more than four times the number of people who died by shark bite in the same period.”

Judging by news coverage, you’d never guess that vacation selfies pose a greater risk than sharks, right? But the explosion of social media has put cool selfies in greater demand. Sometimes tourists visiting national parks will waltz right up to a massive bison as if he’s Uncle Frank at a family reunion. The problem became so prevalent that the tourism board in Jackson Hole, Wyoming developed a new Instagram filter called “Selfie Control” to help people realize when they’ve walked too close to a wild animal.

Thankfully, most of us aren’t going to die by posing with a panther or saying “cheese” too close to a cliff. But I wonder what else we may be losing. What happens when photographing the moment becomes more important than the moment itself?

I saw this play out in front of me when Tom and I visited London for the first time this summer. Tom wanted to tour a historic fort. I wanted to read on the nearby park bench, glancing up to marvel at the magnificent Tower Bridge less than a half mile away. This ornate bridge covered in granite and stone has two soaring towers connected by a glass walkway, and it has been spanning the River Thames for 130 years. So Tom toured the fort, while I read my book and enjoyed the view.

Because of my ideal spot, I saw many people stop at the river railing to get a photo of themselves with the iconic bridge in the background. Typically, it only took a few minutes, and then they’d wander off to see other landmarks. But there was one couple who stayed and stayed.

Dressed in a crisp white summer skirt and blouse, the beautiful young woman stood by the railing and smiled as her boyfriend took several shots. Then she stepped over to him to evaluate the pictures. Judging them inadequate, they tried again. After the failed second attempt, she gave him tips on how to hold the smartphone just right, and I was sure the third try would be the charm.

It wasn’t. I lost count of the number of tries, and this snapshot session took more than 30 minutes. She turned this way and that, tipped her chin down, then back up. Hand on hip. Arm out to the side. Hair over one shoulder. Big smile. Subtle smirk. Meanwhile, the bridge struck the same pose in every shot.

I assume this couple was newly in love because the young man snapping pictures was endlessly patient with the process. After two rounds of this kind of picture palooza, my loving husband of 26 years would’ve said something like, “This is ridiculous. I’m going to see a fort now.”

I bet the girl got at least 100 gorgeous pictures that day. But she spent the whole time with her back turned on the beauty. She lost herself in the glassy surface of a smartphone, analyzing photos she’ll barely look at a year from now. Will she remember this lovely landmark? Or will it fade into the background like a pretty but pointless prop?

I will always love photography and the thrill of capturing a meaningful shot. But that day on the bench has taught me that the picture is not the point. Life is the point. We can’t get so busy documenting it that we forget to truly love it.

Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.