July 4 Reflections

Like dread smothering a child’s spirit when a promising and wide-open Sunday morning is perverted into going to church, I fucking hate patriotism. What precisely defines this banner-waving devotion? Certainly, “the love of one’s country” merely rephrases the initial notion, though part of that easy and insufficient description adds “vigorous support”, and here’s where one recognizes its boisterous display. Grim-faced white males swerving pickup trucks with American flags planted in the bed and fluttering in the hot winds, they will thump their chests and grunt the loudest. 
        But how does one love a country? Loving the craggy, fog-enshrouded cliffs of Northern California’s winter coastline is at least specific, as is loving chocolate ice cream, or loving this particular human being. Try scooping up the worn strips in the barrel of American platitudes: land of opportunity, the American Dream; we have freedoms that other countries don’t; we’re a nation of laws, not men (a good one to remember these days); we’re the leader of the free world,  and so on. One could drape any or all of these taglines across most of our fellow First World countries, and for these reasons immigrants don’t just stream to our shores, but also to France, England, Germany, the Netherland, and the citizenry of these countries don’t value “freedom” any less than we do. So what is it?
        Why fly the flag? To remind yourself and others that you’re an “American citizen”? Shall we raise another flag symbolizing we too have blood running through our veins? Patriotism nowadays resembles rooting for the winning home team, cheering to feel a raucous solidarity with fellow fans, that invigorating flush of glory as a return investment for a riveted faith in the players for a game played once a year, July 4th. You love the home team, even though the players rarely call their civic location home. They’re all recruited from elsewhere. But what about everyday patriotism, one’s political commitment? This is where the platitudes disintegrate, the picture loses focus. 
        The most forthright and strident folks in this country who in self-aggrandizing tones vociferously declare themselves American patriots are white nationalists suffused with suburban, clean-sheeted, superficial christianity: and that’s what I fucking hate. They see themselves as the real Americans, and have long steeped themselves in a mythologized past of American greatness and rightness from their origins up to the 1950s and 60s when people of color dared to raise the question of their guaranteed civil rights.
        For what precisely does “Make America Great Again” mean? I’ll tell you. A coded call to re-cognize and present exclusively a whitewashed American mythology whose origins and evolution were divinely ordained by and for the white race, its destiny manifest. Patriotism is nationalism, and gravely insulting to we Good American Continentals, sharing our hemisphere with our brothers and sisters in Central and South landscapes of this land mass. What a joyous diversity of political and social perspectives and cultures and genders and sexualities and histories and languages and art and literature and music and dance we can gather and celebrate! Patriotism as performed and expressed is the myopic and sneering boast to ignore those diversites and historical realities. Patriotism is petty, unimaginative, and boldly expresses resentment that other peoples besides white christians dare lay claim to respect and citizenry in our lands, and woefully lacks the necessary nobility and humility, especially considering our dark and dreadful past. 
        Death to that pettiness. Long live the Ghost Dance.

From the pen of Frederich Nietzsche

Sils-Maria, 14 August, 1881

To Peter Gast,

…The August sun is overhead, the year is slipping away, the mountains and forests are becoming more hushed and more peaceful. Thoughts have emerged on my horizon the likes of which I’ve never seen--I won’t even hint at what they are, but shall maintain my own unshakable calm. I suppose now I’ll have to live a few more years longer! Ah, my friend, I sometimes think that I lead a highly dangerous life, since I’m one of those machines that can burst apart! The intensity of my feelings makes me shudder and laugh. Several times I have been unable to leave my room, for the ridiculous reason that my eyes were inflamed. Why? Because I’d cried too much on my wanderings the day before. Not sentimental tears, mind you, but tears of joy, to the accompaniment of which I sang and talked nonsense, filled with a new vision far superior to other men.

If I could derive my strength from myself, if I had to depend on the outside world for encouragement, comfort, and good cheer, where would I be! What would I be! There really were moments and even whole periods in my life (e.g., the year 1878) when a word of encouragement, a friendly squeeze of the hand would have been the ideal medicine--and precisely then I was left in the lurch by all those I’d supposed I could rely on, and who could have done me such kindness. Now I no longer expect it, and feel only a certain dim and dreary astonishment when, for example, I think of the letters I get: it’s all so meaningless. Nothing’s happened to anyone because of me; no one’s given me any thought. It’s all very decent and well-intended, what they write me, but distant, distant, distant….

Worlds of Montaigne: Long Day's Reading into Night

 

When the uncle of an old friend passed away--most likely from drink, or complications therefrom--Alex kindly bequeathed to me works from the library of Leonard Mack Evans, the uncle. Quite a few books by and about Oscar Wilde, hardcover Modern Library editions of Faulkner novels, and a 1957 Stanford University Press hardcover edition of The Complete Works of Montaigne, Essays, Travel, Journal, Letters. I remember Alex handing me this in particular, knowing how touched I'd be, though unfamiliar with the 16th century writer but by name. I knew the newly deceased as Uncle Len...no, that's not right: I think Alex referred to him as my uncle, Len. His father's brother, and a great influence on the young Alex into adulthood. Classical music, theater, literature, philosophy. 

Len, droll, rather heavyset but carrying his bulk quietly and with restrained nobility, once announced to me, then a graduate student in Philosophy for chrissakes at San Francisco State University, that no one should read Nietzsche until at least forty years of age. I was twenty-eight years in 1989, my father had died that February, and Len's admonition thundering in the cold air of the apartment Alex and I rented on the border of Oakland and Berkeley may have been before or after a three-year love of my life of left my heart with no forwarding address or reason on a late afternoon Sunday, May 14th, two weeks before Finals, but I'm long past forty now and, yes, Len was right. The great German philosopher engaged with the historical and philosophical currents of his time, and of the philosophical systems that came before him. The eagerness of a youth in his 20s to pose defying and radical will easily misread Him. Twenty years of homework is needed. I see that now. 

During my hours of sorrow over love lost, Len quite sincerely and in tender confidence suggested as a remedy to grab a bottle of wine and sit on the beach, drink, and gaze out across the ocean. He said he often felt comforted at night hearing the far off whistle of a train.

Len would visit us in our apartment from time to time, and I would listen to Alex, a concert pianist, and he discuss literature and music. Len delighted in Delius. Other gay friends of Alex would drop by. Alex one afternoon declared "I feel like I'm in a Noel Coward play, someone should be mixing martinis!" Allusions, literary references, serious but loving engagement with the arts! An intellectual salon I didn't know I hungered for growing up in South Sacramento, but hungry and dissatisfied I escaped west. Or rather, I was pulled.

I believe I am older now than Len was when he died. I still remember my favorite quip Alex told me Len used for boorish guests at a gathering who've outstayed their welcome: "Forgotten, but not gone." Yesterday I grabbed Montaigne off the shelf, and began reading. The French essai means "an attempt". Let's read together, Len. This, my attempt at gratitude.

Selfie is Believing: Reflections on Narcissus's Waters - Part 3 - Parents and Tourists Edition

Fifteen minutes into the future, you will experience the real only if you remember to record it. Documented, posted, shared, gunning for the viral.  

Friend, let me join you at your daughter’s preschool performance of a mundane and flimsy-scripted Nutcracker, gazing proudly through viewfinder for later viewing on smaller and smaller screens. Your child in glorious pageantry dancing her sugar plum fairy across the stage will be a digital reproduction of an evening you won’t remember because you were there only to hold up your device to capture moments in her fleeting childhood. Why did you want to capture your daughter’s performance? Perhaps it was important to her, and therefore to you, because she had been practicing for weeks, telling you excitedly about her part, showing you her twirl and costume, sharing anew the tale of the Nutcracker and the Rat. She wanted to know that you and Daddy/Mommy would be there. When the lights dimmed and the magic commenced, dozens of devices held aloft, you and the gathered parents videoed this evening’s performance because it was an important event—but evidently not important enough to pay attention to the performance itself while it was unfolding before your eyes.  

You missed it.  

 

Or rather, you captured the performance, either partially or whole depending on your arm’s level of endurance holding up the device, so you could look forward to—well what, exactly? View it in the future in its greatly reduced capacity for reasons not strong enough then to sway you to experience it in the present?  

 

Perhaps you wanted to forward it to me, because surely I get as much delight watching your daughter perform as you did recording it. Perhaps you wanted to upload it to Facebook, and monitor your wall awaiting the “likes” and effusive comments. We agree: she is just too cute…my, how she’s grown.  

 

Perhaps years hence when she’s a teenager averting her gaze and mumbling listless responses to your humblest morning greetings, you’ll sift through your saved files to watch her more innocent and loving times—what you didn’t see the first time around. And under the clutter, this is the driving reason, isn’t it: to remember. To scoop from its ceaseless flow a cupful of time’s deluge. This is your daughter when she was young and beautiful and didn’t resent you. It was your daughter back then, too, when she was a sugar plum fairy, and that magical evening would never come again, though so many days and evenings were still to come, and many of these you recorded  as well—blessed technology!—but the flood kept rolling, didn’t it? Where did the time go? After receiving from your daughter a somewhat halfhearted goodbye hug—she fell limp, pulling away too soon, you thought—and waving as the Uber took her to the airport for her flight to Prague to live with an indie filmmaker, you return to your digital recordings. There she is/was. You did it: you captured that wonderful evening long ago. She loved you so. Look at her smile. How wonderful the real thing would have been.  

Ask an ambitious mountaineer why he (or she) desires to ascend Mount Everest, the mountaineer may cleverly remember to answer “Because it’s there” and we nod, grin admiringly, sharing the aptness of this stock response. But that’s not the reason to ascend Everest, is it? You could brush aside the mountaineer’s unintended evasion and lay scrutiny: No really, why? Next response might come “Because I want to” or “Because I’ve always dreamed of doing it” which are variations on the original evasion. You persist. If at this point the mountaineer isn’t annoyed at your dogged pursuit, you may get a shrug. He may not know the reason. Or he may. But because the mountain exists isn’t a reason to climb it. The chair I’m sitting on right now also exists, but I doubt the mountaineer wants to climb it. Giraffes exist. After his descent from Everest, will our brave mountaineer scale them?  

 

If we can record it, we should record it. By recording it, we don’t have to bother experiencing it in the boldly deemed real time. Recording it is certainly much less work. We don’t have to attend to what we’re seeing or hearing, just whether we’re getting the footage we want and whether the device has enough power. We are relieved of the dreaded responsibility of living in the present, and more importantly, reflecting on the meaning of the experience. Thank goodness. We can use our minds more constructively: putting the recorded footage on Facebook, for instance. 

 

Look, your daughter has sugar-plummed her way offstage! You may stop recording now, and continue watching the delightful play. You have missed seeing your daughter, but she’ll return soon. Here she comes again: stop experiencing and start recording, quick. Well done: you have succeeded in missing more cherished moments in your daughter’s life. 

 

I had a friend who, when asked by strangers if he would be so kind as to snap a photo of them standing in front of a waterfall, or statue of grave statesman on horseback, or slow melting sunset, would kindly refuse.  

 

Make sure you take photos! You will often hear this as you bid goodbye to friends and family before embarking on any adventure or vacation. They want to see what you’ll see. You may meet some really fun people. Let’s say you do. You have such a great time with them, you make sure to document the four of you together to commemorate the amazing time you had. One of you approaches a stranger to ask him to take a photo of the four of you (careful whom you ask). Click. You’re all captured smiling gleefully. Back home, showing the photo to friends, you try to convince them how absolutely cool and amazing these people were. It should be apparent from the photograph. It’s not. But we all nod heartily and say “Wow, sounds like you had a great time” which isn’t entirely insincere.   

 

I was in a bar in California. My friend and I had more than a few drinks. A young woman arrived with a hand-held video recorder and began filming another young woman behind the bar who busied herself wiping down the counters (her employment). I waited for the bartender to do something or say something, well, significant, or out of the ordinary, or flatly just worth recording. She didn’t. Excuse me, I slurred to the video recorder, why are you filming her? Unwavering in her concentration, the woman peer onward and replied, “Because she’s my friend.” I persisted, probably a little more impatient than a few drinks before—okay, she’s your friend, but why are you filming her? “Because I want her to be famous,” her tone annoyed that I didn’t grasp the obvious. Well, of course I persisted again (I suppose I should have just asked if she knew any giraffes). As my friend pulled me off the bar stool toward daylight, the woman finally looked away from the device. “God, what’s wrong with you!” 

 

I was simply trying to understand why people find it necessary to video-record the everyday. I walked along a North Carolina beach one afternoon and passed a father with iPhone recording his two daughters splashing in white foamy waves. They were too small and too young to evince any talent; they’d bend their squishy little legs and gather up water and let it drop, that’s pretty much it. When I returned direction twenty minutes later, young father was still there to record daughters repeating their fun. I suppose I shouldn’t be prejudicial: perhaps he wasn’t filming them, but watching porn. 

 

The Venus de Milo, or Aphrodite of Melos, graces the Louvre in Paris, solemn, demurring her gaze, a sensual masterpiece of ideal Hellenistic beauty. Famous, it is mobbed by visitors because they’ve read or heard it’s famous, and here they are, a family bubbly, finally in Paris after a long and expensive flight from Ohio. They’ve read the guide, planned their few hours, and behold! In the marble flesh in this hallowed room! A fawning wonder blooms on their faces, expectant, as if waiting for the Venus to dance. Father wobbles the camera to frame, cocking his gaze down to focus. Happy to oblige,  : a stranger offers to take a photo of the whole family in front of it. Duly documented, it is forgotten, and the family searches out the next famous work of art in the guide. They’ve got photographic evidence that they indeed saw this famous statue. Thank goodness, because they can’t really afford numerous trips to Paris on their salaries.  

 

When they get home, they can prove to their friends they were there—the Eiffel Tower, the padlock love adorning the bridges across the Seine, their affable French waiter—and verify that, in Susan Sontag’s words, fun was had.  

 

Gather round the laptop. Look here. Click. Enlarge the jpeg. Ohhh, we say reverentially. You narrate: yes, that’s the famous Venus. Wow, we say, you really saw it. Click. Hey, that’s you guys next to the Victory of Something. That proves beyond doubt that you saw this famous statue! I guess you liked it so much you also bought a large cardboard glossy reproduction of it. Fifteen dollars? Whoever took that photo is a real professional. No, I know you’re not a professional photographer, you’re an accountant. So why did you take the photo when you also bought this expertly glossy reproduction? You just wanted to. I see. Rest assured, I don’t doubt you actually visited the museum and saw first-hand this famous statue; no reason to lie about a thing like that. Although here on your bookshelf is an art book you grabbed from the bargain rack at Barnes & Noble before your trip. Doesn’t look like it’s been opened. But here’s the photo of the Venus. Another scintillating professional job. But hey, you now have your own photo of the famous statue. But tell me, the Venus is famous for its sensual expression of a Hellenistic ideal of beauty, so what did you notice about it specifically? But I thought you said you saw it, and this photo of you and the kids proves you were there. You just took the photo, is all. So you spent thousands of dollars and flew all the way to Paris and visited the Louvre which houses this famous statue which, let’s face it, you probably won’t visit again, and you were right there in the presence of this masterpiece of ancient sculpture, and you didn’t even look at the statue except to take the photo, the same photo you already own within this heavy art book you bought on the bargain rack at Barnes & Noble? The real work of art you simply ignored? 

Well, at least you have a memento... 

Selfie is Believing: Reflections on Narcissus's Waters - Part 2

 Maybe you’ve heard this one...

I’m not religious, but I am spiritual. Sincere people with little need for ego-promotion voice this banality. Approving nods will greet the speaker who, after a few glugs of wine, feels emboldened to stake a claim in that most serious of public territories. Religious, of course, reeks of adherence to orthodoxy propounded by ancestors, dull repetition of belief claims and Lord hear our prayers on Sunday mornings gathered in churches like penned herds, and the singing of hymns. Add to this sad litany the history of conversion of native peoples on sword point, the lack of fun, and knowing that religion is popular with conservative suburbanites, and religious lacks the means to express the charms of one’s unique self.

Religious is earthly and dogmatic, while spiritual is airy and accepting.

Near as I can figure, attaining spirituality in this incarnation means being really nice to everyone, remaining attentive when an acquaintance is aggrieved about something and holding court on a plastic chair on the screened-in porch during a friend’s party, offering encouragement when another friend (same party) is mildly boasting about his own vaunted spirituality, and giving the old college try reading Buddhist or Hindu scriptures while ethereal ragas undulate from the dank living room into that screened-in porch.

Or perhaps you’re agnostic (which sounds less committed than atheist), merely questioning the existence of God, when really you don’t spend much time questioning anything. But you’ll generally find acceptance in polite company.

Narcissism is the strength of this personal conviction where little commitment is demanded or expected. Emanating from this passion within and for oneself glows a mild contempt for the religiously gathered, although Buddhist monks colorfully assembled get a pass, so smiling and gentle they seem. This contempt hasn’t grown after a sustained, charitable study of founding texts, let alone learned commentaries. Indeed, hearsay and selected snippets pieced together make up the dismissal of the traditionally religious.

And being “spiritual” requires as much self-sacrifice as helping clean up after your friend’s party.

Selfie is Believing: Reflecting on Narcissus’s Waters - Part I

Imagine: Christ apocalyptically returns to gather the chosen. Crowds gather where’er he roams. Clouds part, golden rays lighting upon the last word in love, the faithful rush into outspread arms but pause midleap, twirling around while whipping out their iPhone 7s, pose cheek to softly bearded cheek, and snap a photo, only to walk away and immediately post to Facebook with the caption: "Saved!"

The thought may alternatively repel or seduce depending on one's faith in humanity, but the holiest of photo ops needn't be taken as irreverence. We capture moments to remember. Recording special moments digitally is as natural today as crying with Molly when Sam ascends to heaven at the end of Ghost. But in earlier times we had fewer choices to "capture" a scene or event: painting, poetry, story, song. Each required a certain talent--not to mention time and labor--to render the experience memorable. Even with photography's advent, the thing captured either seemed worth capturing, (Yosemite Falls in winter) or creative expertise rendered it worth seeing (Mapplethorpe's calla lilies). Perhaps you wanted to immortalize little Cindy's birthday, or her graduation, or her wedding: into the photo album it's glued. Photography memorializes the unique. With iPhones--hand-carried, packed in purses, or tucked into back pockets like pistols--recording the experience goes hand in hand with living it. More than that. We don't record to remember: we record to post. More than that. Posting is performing for an audience. Exhibitionists need voyeurs.

Recall a cringe worthy Oscar night gambit: during the 2017 awards the hapless Jimmy Kimmel hushes the crowd, dims the Dolby Theater lights, and ushers in from side stage door unsuspecting tourists who believed they were visiting yet another Hollywood landmark. When the lights flood the theater, the audience erupts in applause, and the tourists file in eyes wide, mouths agape, led by their camera phones in hand or mounted on selfie sticks. At this point, ushered by Kimmel into the presence of those front row Hollywood stars in the flesh, they who offer so much delight onscreen to inspire a costly bus tour in hopes of catching a passing glimpse of one ducking into a Starbucks, you’d think the cameras would drop. No, the tourists kept their camera phones aimed like lasers on the politely smiling celebrities, choosing to record this dreamed-of moment over the actual experience of the stars in their glittering presence. Through the magical medium of film these actors charm and inspire, and now the veil is rent. Ecce homo, Denzel Washington! But the camera phones continue panning and jostling for posterity. Perhaps the sheer unreality of being thrust into the presence of celebrity triggered the need for digitally recorded proof. More likely, any experience beyond the mundane gains validity only if posted on social media (even the mundane often makes the cut).

A reality mystifies and saddens: in early December 2016 CNN news online reported on an 18-year old Texas teenager, Brandy Vela, who committed suicide in her bedroom after suffering from a long history of cyberbullying. They targeted her weight, called her fat and ugly. She was neither, quite beautiful with sparkling sky blue eyes and welcoming smile. Partway through the video, Brandy’s 22-year old sister painfully, tearfully recalls confronting Brandy in her bedroom, finding her against the wall with a gun pointed at her chest, and pleading “Brandy no, Brandy no!” The video jumps from delightful photos of a cheerful Brandy to an interview with the sister, a brother, and an unidentified young woman. At one point, the camera has panned out to show the three sitting in a front yard. In a dull tone emptied by grief, the brother offers to the imagined bullies, perhaps following the story, an eerie and confounding “I’m glad you got what you wanted…I hope this makes you happy.” Then with a voiceover naming Victor Vela as Brandy’s older brother, the camera zooms on the two young women on a bench. Both are scroll thumbing iPhones while the brother gazes blankly downward.

It’s entirely possible the women are cherishing the many social media memorials and posts of condolences, and their shock and grieving buoys them sadly along. But the all too familiar faces bowing into flashing screens for the next entertaining moment seemed an unsettling reminder of the terrible draw. Having undergone such an immense tragedy spearheaded by trolling bullies on social media, one wonders how the women could bring themselves only days later to sail again those pirated seas. More distressing, how did this bright and well-liked high school senior succumb to the ubiquitous trolls? Anonymous, faceless, hiding behind fake identities, cowardly—the angry epithets are always tossed, imagining the perpetrators tuning in here and everywhere to feel the sting of the barbs. But why did Brandy believe the taunts of people she most likely didn’t know? Why didn’t she turn the machine off? Easier said than done, comes the retort, but that only cuts ice with earlier generations. The emotional lives of Brandy’s generation flow imperceptibly between unrecorded (“real”) life and a many-windowed recording interface of social media: messaged, Instagrammed, Snapchatted, tweeted and retweeted, a swirling hyperreal “life”.

The buzzword often used to brand the draw of pervasive social media is narcissism. Even “buzzword” is apt, connoting information frantically exchanged. It's true a  mild whiff of narcissism emanates from Brandy Vela’s (or any other teenager’s) updated Facebook cover photo every month or so, her candy-colored lips puckered teasingly. But it seems prudish to point a finger. Narcissism is normalized, as Brandy and everyone else got swept up in the unrelenting demands for self-validation. Notice that her legion of faceless bullies hounding her to suicide practiced a sinister strain of narcissism: emboldened to derive malicious pleasure from verbally attacking another anonymously without consequences. No doubt desire for the mirrored image is old as myth. Yet it is worth remembering that Narcissus, tired and sweaty from hunting (in Thomas Bulfinch’s retelling), had come upon the clear fountain

with water like silver, to which the shepherds never drove their flocks, nor the mountain goats resorted, nor any of the beasts of the forest; neither was it defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh around it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun.

Narcissus had stumbled upon a backpacker’s idyllic spot in the wilderness. When the youth bends over to lap from the waters, he suddenly sees a beautiful water spirit living in the fountain. Gorgeous locks of hair, ivory neck, rounded cheeks, “the glow of health and exercise.” Reaching out to embrace the spirit, Narcissus discovers the crystal lover also reaching out to him. So enthralled is the beguiled lover, he forsakes any other nourishment except devotion. Kept from embracing his beloved, he sheds tears, ruffling the mirrored surface and causing the spirit’s presence to fade. Narcissus entreats it, “Stay… Let me at least gaze upon you, if I may not touch you.” Meditating on this divine vision, Narcissus’s body pales, loses its strength, and he dies a husk. Even unto death, his shade crossing the Stygian waters gazes over the side of the boat. The water nymphs mourned his passing, yet when they came for his body to burn upon a funeral pyre, it was gone. Narcissus is transformed into a flower by the water’s edge, its heart purple, gathering round itself white leaves.

One could suggest Narcissus’s faith never wavers after his initial glance at the beautiful vision. As the myth is given, the youth never realizes he gazes upon his own reflection. Recall Kahlil Gibran’s tale of the mirrored sphere hanging in the heavens: when the earth was born it fell and shattered into millions of pieces, such that when any man picks up a shard, he can look into it and rightfully claim I have found the true religion. Perhaps the myth of Narcissus speaks to the folly of ever catching sight of the divine beyond projecting our images in space and time, as John Lennon noted.

A long cultural moment arose a few generations back when narcissism gained legitimacy as accepted social norm. Christopher Lasch in his acclaimed and controversial 1979 “The Culture of Narcissism: America in the Age of Diminishing Expectations” noted the American identity’s shift away from a romantic but laudable American sense in “historical continuity,” the idea of belonging to a succession of American generations evolving from a deeper past giving birth to a future. When Lasch was writing, the Me Generation was thriving. He saw American liberalism/Progressivism chipping away at the long-standing pillars of patriarchal authority (weakening the Freudian inspired “social superego”) which into the 19th century manifested collectively as fathers, teachers, and ministers.

Breaking from those traditional overseers one could foster organic egalitarian communities. Instead, groupings splintered into self-absorbed strivings for the merely personal and permissive: self-realization instead of social responsibility. Individualism saw the world as a wilderness through which a path is carved and society built. Narcissism gazes upon the world as mirror. The advent of social media, and the devices that keep its blood flowing, fosters the illusion of community, but a community skewed: performers awaiting applause. But because so little time, interest, or effort is invested in the performance—one can anywhere record and post anything on social media—so the gratification, no matter how superficial, must be immediate, occurring in and relevant to only the present, like a soap balloon rising on a breath. Only the fleeting moment sacred. Lasch’s prognosis of the culture of narcissism was lives in a state of restless, ongoing, unsatisfied desire. And the man died before Facebook.

But gazing enraptured at our own image isn’t the current narcissism. Consider a common strategy most often employed by young women shooting for Instagram model stardom. A profile pic showing the profiler taking a pic of herself while looking into a (usually) full body mirror in their bathroom. Nearly out the door on a Saturday night, she pauses, captivated, at the mirror. The background: shower curtain and toilet. The image we see is the person looking intently into the face of her device, which is pointed at her own reflection in the mirror. The shot is snapped and quickly uploaded onto her chosen site(s). Scrolling late one evening, we find ourselves gazing on a photographic image of the person looking into the face of her device through which she is gazing at her own reflection in the full length mirror. She is not looking at us, her supposed intended audience, but admiringly at her own image which is reduced in her device and which itself gazes into the mirror. So we are given her posed photographic image only as she poses for a device snapping an image in the mirror of herself posing in front of that mirror. And she wants everybody to acknowledge it with likes, an act of effortless validation. One can forgive Narcissus in the end, truly alone, enchanted...

...Is the selfie a longing for a lost aura, that inner presence of self-respect abiding when no one is looking? Experiences worth having have always been worth recording, the journal, the photo album, but these were usually reserved for one’s own remembrances. Now it seems experiences aren’t valid unless recorded and shared. Fans live-stream blurry and shaky footage of a U2 show from their nosebleed seats to bask in our admiration that they scored tickets and attended. Upload your Cobb salad and mimosa to Tumblr and Sunday brunch is proven. Can I just meet an old friend for coffee, or must I capture a smiling selfie to demonstrate to friends that I have an old friend? Recording and uploading to social media is now required if experiences are to wear the aura of authenticity.

I employ aura here slightly modified from Walter Benjamin’s use in his often referenced if archaically titled “Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” from 1936. He defined it as what surrounds an object viewed at a distance, or how we experience an object’s uniqueness. In the natural world, we gaze in erotic wonder upon a beautiful face. Children are drawn to the aura of the starfish at low tide upon a barnacled rock buffeted by briny sea winds in summers, delighting in the creature’s five-pointed iconic geometry, and with terrible difficulty try to pry it from its home (how tenaciously the creature holds onto the rock, abiding in the tidal rhythms, suggests the necessary embedding of the starfish’s unique place in its natural context; kids, leave the damn thing alone).

The aura’s fate in a work of art in the era of technical reproduction was Benjamin’s interest. Ancient cave paintings possess auras suggesting their shamanic power, so deeply in the earth were they drawn and difficult to access. Animals were sketched to capture their spirit for a successful hunt, not to spice up the prehistoric hovel. An idol’s aura possessed authoritative power which the devoted worshiped and marauding usurpers defaced. Witness headless statues littering ancient sites. Iconoclastic paintings of saints were veiled, the power of their aura witnessed only by the holy, or those in charge of the temple. Indeed, in 2010 I knelt before the icon of the Virgin, the Shaghoura, reportedly painted by St. Luke the Evangelist, housed in the Our Lady of the Patriarchal Monastery in Saydnaya, Syria. Its beauty, however, was curtained off with a stern nun keeping the line moving. To dissolve the power of the iconic saintly image, the eyes are scratched from the face. Think of the negation of female power in the 6th century image of St Paul and St Thecla in the Grotto near Ephesus, Turkey. As John Dominic Crossan notes in his study of the Apostle Paul, both male and female figures iconographically depicted on the cave’s wall were of equal height, therefore of equal importance. Paul and Thecla were painted right hands raised in a gesture signaling their authority (also equal) as teachers. But through the centuries Paul’s figure remained untouched, whereas Thecla’s raised hand was erased, and her eyes scraped white, her spiritual authority silenced and blinded.

In his essay, Benjamin reflected on the unprecedented change in works of art that were reproduced technically rather than manually, noting what he called “the decay of the aura” of authenticity. Works of art have always been reproducible for various reasons, whether creating replicas, woodcuts, printing, or lithography. But pictorial reproduction—photography—was something entirely different. In every other work of art reproduced, the original exists from which copies were made, and so retains an aura of authenticity—that enduring presence in a specific time and place, its unique cultural and historical tradition in which it was created, leaving traces when it deteriorates, ages, or changes ownership. One can manually reproduce a painting and attempt to pass it off as the original, but close analysis can unearth the forgery—and so the original maintains is authentic heritage in and by that difference.

But Benjamin argues that with photography, “the work of art reproduced becomes the work of art designed for reproducibility.” If one can reproduce from the negative any number of copies, all identical depending on the technology, it’s pointless to ask for the “original” photograph—the original is the negative, the shadowy brown chrysalis awaiting wings. Photographs can still retain aesthetic value, of course, considered works of art.

The blurry and shaky footage of U2 rocking out on a tiny stage a hundred yards away with negligible sound quality will have few tuning in for the duration. The Cobb salad looks like a salad. And it’s your old friend with whom you’ve reacquainted: why bring us into the picture? Posting brings us delight, and the likes, thumbs up, red hearts, and laughing tears streaming emojis garnered keep the fiber optic strands of friendship humming. Or that's what we tell ourselves. The aura of authenticity slipping away seems to be the inherent value of lived experience. Our moments lack validity unless we record and share, shimmer with meaning only when we assure ourselves that others can view the posts.

Selfie is believing...