Written by Jude Kaddoumi
It was a captivating Tuesday evening.
The glistening shore looked like it would stretch on indefinitely, extending as far as the eye could see. With the villas arranged neatly to my right, the sea opened out generously in front of us, calling for nothing more than to be admired in its vastness. Nearby, my sisters Aya and Sama appeared to be there, then not, drifting in and out of my attention. I stood a few steps away from them. My phone rose up to the sky as it captured the sun into the last of the light.
As the atmosphere grew in its coolness, the sounds of joyful screams and laughs of those around me grew louder. Above all, however, I remember the screen. Two long TikTok videos, one long sweep after another, capturing the moment.
Suddenly, I snapped back into reality.
My sisters had left the beach, and a newfound quiet had settled over the shore. The sunset faded into the horizon… the moment dimmed into nothingness. That was my cue to head back inside.
I couldn’t help but wonder whether I had just let the moment slip away.
I’d like to think that this instance was simply an exception. It was not, and I doubt that I am alone in having experienced it. Today, psychologists are looking deeply into this.
In 2014, psychologist Linda Henkel observed students at an art museum tour, having them photograph some artworks entirely, some in detail, and to observe others without photographing. The next day, it was made clear that the students had retained few of the artworks that they photographed. Interestingly, when capturing them in detail, they remembered pieces just as well as they did the artworks that they didn’t photograph.
But the camera isn’t always the problem. In 2016, Kristin Diehl, Gal Zauberman and Alixandra Barasch found that people who photographed experiences often enjoyed them more than people who didn’t, because the camera kept them engaged with the world around them.
The difference seems to be where our attention flows: through the lens, or at the screen? Both studies focused on photographs, not videos, but the lesson remains the same. That evening, I was not engulfed by the moment, looking to capture its most worthy parts with an eye of discernment. Instead, the screen had engulfed me, forcing me to capture everything.
The videos did not hold much weight to me. I posted both to my private TikTok, knowing that they would reach a tiny audience. What’s interesting, though, is that my first instinct was still to document the moment. To make evidence of it. Paradoxically, it felt as though the videos were going to complete my experience, rather than the inverse.
When reimagining that evening, I often see a blur. An unforgettable evening turned forgettable.
Even for a minuscule audience, a part of me had slipped away and into my screen, witnessing the moment through borrowed eyes. The screen retained the very sounds, hues, and sights that I failed to remember. That evening, along with the studies, suggested to me an ambition far more human than ridding myself of the phone entirely. The phone can remain, but should be repurposed in a way that enriches our experiences, rather than takes away from them. Sometimes, it is as simple as living the moment first, and digitally capturing a part of it that feels worth preserving.
