Mechanical Reproduction

There's an article called "Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" by someone named Walter Benjamin. It's long. Here's the gist of it:

When you make a copy of an artistic work, it loses some of its zing, its wow factor, its "aura" (was the word Benjamin used) because what you're looking at was physically created by a machine and never touched by the artist's loving hands.

Benjamin wrote this article around the time photography was invented. To the people of that era, seeing copies was a bit of a shock. Until then, everything was a guaranteed original - there were no two ways about it. And as convenient as our modern lives have become due to technology, I think we've lost something in there as well. We've become lazy, disconnected, and... lonely.

Tonight I went to the park by my old elementary school where people were setting off fireworks for Victoria Day. As I crossed the field towards the promise of glittery pyrotechnics, I overheard a group of kids talking. They were all talking over one other, with no flow to their communication. I turned around to see that they were all on cell phones. Each kid was talking to someone who wasn't physically there, and no one was talking to each other.

Now, I did not grow up in the good old era where neighbours helped neighbours and people left their doors unlocked at night. I grew up in more or less the same world these kids did, except we didn't have the Internet or cell phones. And you know what? We got along fine without those things.

I find that we've come to rely too much on technologies to do our social planning for us. These devices are not our babysitters; they're our tools, and we're forgetting that. I am thankful for the Internet because it allows me to meet and keep in touch with people all over the world. I hate it because my childhood peers have me on Facebook, so we never hang out. You know why? Because technology has made it so convenient, that we could hang out "anytime." But guess what. "Anytime" is not on the calendar. It will never be "anytime." Technology giveth, and technology taketh away.

And so we are starved for contact with real people. Even a neighbourhood fireworks show - which used to be a real community event when I was very young - is interrupted and even overpowered by people on cell phones and Twitter devices and cameras. That's right, cameras.

I saw someone who never laid eyes on the fireworks at all. She spent the whole time filming, watching the whole show through a tiny distorting lens. I suppose she was willing to sacrifice the beautiful, uplifting, only-happens-twice-a-year experience so that she could upload a streamy, grainy, out-of-focus capture of the night onto YouTube. I wonder if her loneliness has made her so insecure that she needs recorded proof of everything she witnesses.

"I went to see fireworks at the park - " she'll tell a friend.

"PICS OR IT DIDN'T HAPPEN!!!!" The likely response? Maybe. Who knows.

But anyone who has ever seen a recording of a fireworks show knows that recordings suck. They pale in comparison to the real-life beauty of being there. And even if you could decently capture the sights and sounds, you'd miss all the other things that come with them. The humid air, promising summer. The smells of smoke and blooming flowers mingling in the night air. The subtle breeze, the wet feel of the grass, the tinge of orange on the horizon because the sun hasn't fully set yet. Most of all, you miss the experience of being there with friends.

Then again, you miss that even if you do see it in person. The friends aren't there anymore. They're on their cell phones. People don't watch fireworks together anymore. They stand in close proximity and maybe watch - alone.

When I was a little kid, seeing fireworks was a thrill beyond words. All the kids in the neighbourhood would take our places in the safe and heightened vantage point of the playground equipment. We were together, the Kids of the Neighbourhood; we had a place and it welcomed us. Down below, halfway across the field, lay a sand pit where our brave and daring dads would rig our street's collective pool of pyrotechnics, and they'd do all the dangerous parts because dads were brave and protective and they'd do anything for their kids. We had adults to look up to as well as a show to look forwards to, and I wonder if the kids today still have that.

When I was in my teens, fireworks became something different. New group of kids, and we did the thing ourselves. It was uniquely and positively Ours. A good ten or twelve of us chipped in 15 bucks apiece, and then one or two guys would drive out to god-knows-where and come back with a trunk full of deliciously loud explosives.

On the big night, we'd drive out to another god-knows-where location, and in a massive empty field, we'd battle wet grass and cut fuses and have the best damn time of our lives. We'd scream at each other and play music from the car and make video game sounds and joke about everything. My fondest recollection of this time was when a silver multi-ball launcher tipped over and exploded sideways across the field. The force of the projections caused the tube to spin, launching glowing blasts of light and curious fart noises in all directions. It became known in our circle as "the farting grass," which has since been immortalized in our memories. Well, mine anyway. I don't know if the guys remember it. I don't talk to them anymore. Walter Benjamin is laughing.

See, that was the other important thing about art before it could be duplicated. It was precious. It was fleeting. Just like moments in real life, especially childhood, which is why I worry about that kid with the camera. She will never capture the moment. She won't even have that moment in the first place.

If you love your friends, then their Facebook profiles should be insufficient for you. I challenge you to call them - actually call them, because you know Facebook-made plans always fall apart - and get together. In person. Without phones. If you want to invite more people, then invite them, but they have to actually be there. Get your friends, go somewhere fun and have a good time - sans cameras, sans phones, sans iPods, sans everything. Go live life while you have it. Enjoy your youth. Take the advice from an old-timer like me: youth is fleeting.