It’s over. The battle between modesty and narcissism has ended with the latter emerging victorious, fists bloodied but raised and clutching a mobile phone. Doubtless, Narcissus will shortly be posting photos of himself, a triumphant grin slathered across his stupid face, bragging to all of cyberspace about how he vanquished his foe once and for all. Forget about holding anything back or leaving something to the imagination. Give up altogether on wanting to foster a little mystery. The information superhighway is much like an international airport – everything, it seems, must be declared. And in a world of over-sharing, nothing strips away any remaining vestige of mystique quite like a ‘selfie’.
It’s over. The battle between modesty and narcissism has ended with the latter emerging victorious, fists bloodied but raised and clutching a mobile phone. Doubtless, Narcissus will shortly be posting photos of himself, a triumphant grin slathered across his stupid face, bragging to all of cyberspace about how he vanquished his foe once and for all. Forget about holding anything back or leaving something to the imagination. Give up altogether on wanting to foster a little mystery. The information superhighway is much like an international airport – everything, it seems, must be declared. And in a world of over-sharing, nothing strips away any remaining vestige of mystique quite like a ‘selfie’.
Let’s start with the word ‘selfie’. It sounds a lot like ‘wedgie’ and I suspect the similarities don’t end there. Photography is an extraordinary art form. But now, through sheer profligacy, if a picture says a thousand words, at least nine hundred and fifty of them are ‘why?’ The ruthless rise of the selfie has graduated from harmless distraction to the very thing that may bring human civilisation as we know it to come to an end (possibly). It’s as though the great cosmic evolutionary hot rod has been slammed into reverse. Rather than going forwards, the emergence of the selfie seems to be incontrovertible evidence that we, as a species, if not a pool of potential reality television contestants, are heading backwards.
It’s devolution, pure and simple. For those unfamiliar with the concept, devolution (or, if you prefer, ‘de-evolution’) is the process by which species regress into more primitive forms. The concept was set out in full in Charles Darwin’s rather unsuccessful sequel, ‘The Origin of Species 2: Electric Boogaloo’. The theory was further developed by a moderately well known musical group the Starland Vocal Band. (I challenge anyone to sit through ‘Afternoon Delight’ and not conclude that civilisation is unravelling). Devolution was also the central philosophy of the rock group Devo, best known for their song ‘Whip It’ and for wearing plastic flowerpots on their heads. I must now ask the one question I thought I’d never have to answer: were Devo right?
Humankind’s determination to dismantle thousands of years of progress is perhaps best exemplified by the ‘danger’ selfie. This is the self-portrait taken when the person holding the phone ought to be doing something more useful such as ducking or getting out of the way as quickly as possible to avoid catastrophe. Recently, major events such as the Tour de France and – for crying out loud – Pamplona’s Running of the Bulls have been blighted by gurning nitwits risking life and limb just to take their own photo.
Taking a selfie is, frankly, downright lazy and a little bit sad. If you were to upload picture of a watercolour or even a grey lead pencil sketch to your facebook page, you’d have my absolute respect. Even if you did a sculpture and the end results were a part human / part amphibian like the one in Lionel Ritchie’s ‘Hello’ video clip I’d still respect you. But, it seems, there’s no app for ‘amphibious sculpture’.
Getting your photo taken used to be a special occasion. At my father’s house, photos of earlier generations show them dressed to the nines, tens and elevens with bow ties and long dresses. Even more recently, on the day school portraits were done you had to ensure your tie was straight, shirt tucked in and your hair patted down. I did all these things but needn’t have bothered. Regardless of any effort to groom myself, the results were always dispiriting. I still prefer to blame the entire art of photography than accept the even uglier truth: this is what I look like. I had then and retain now an uncanny ability to close my eyes at the exact moment a photo is taken. Most photos of me resemble a slightly disassembled Mr Potato Head.
Consider this: these unflattering portraits have all been the work of trained professionals; people who have devoted their lives to the study of photography – of light, shape, form and composition. If their best efforts produce an image of someone who looks as though he’s just been dropped from a great height, what chance do I, as an amateur, have of taking a half decent selfie? And it’s here that the bitter truth becomes evident: perhaps this enmity I feel towards the art of the selfie is rooted not in snobbery but in good, old fashioned jealousy.
Here’s the rub – I have, from time to time, made several attempts at selfies. Without exception, they have all been disastrous. Accuracy seems to be a significant problem. A stray ear or side burn cannot, strictly speaking, be called a ‘selfie’ at all. Frankly, I am useless at it. This, I feel, explains everything. Maybe the fault is not with others but with me. The world, so it seems, has moved and left me behind. Life is like that. Sadly, there’s no way to cease the march of progress as time moves things ever forward. The only way to capture things exactly as they are and preserve them forever is, ironically, to take a photo. Even a selfie. I think I just might.