The new generations have escaped this scourge: slideshows of the returnees from their vacations.
The very word “slide” —from English, with the same pronunciation — has fallen into disuse. In Portuguese it would be slide: photo on transparent film that was placed on the projector to be displayed on large screens. Very useful in classes or lectures; a martyrdom on the wall of the neighbour, the uncle, the brother-in-law, accompanied by the enthusiastic narration of those who lived, or pretended to live, those joys.
Current generations have escaped the post-trip slides, but not their sadistic essence. This has just been transferred to the cell phone screen, in the fantasy world of social networks.
There is an advantage in the new times: no one has to submit to the festival of ostentation, just ignore the social network. The bad part is that it’s all instantaneous.
But… who doesn’t look at the nets? They are the perfect ring for the meeting of two very popular perversions
humanities: exhibitionism and voyeurism. All wanting to be seen in the center of the arena, and at the same time, all snooping about other people’s lives.
Before, this moment happened in the dark of the neighbor’s house, only after the trip; today, it’s daylight, and all day.
In addition to hating to show off my personal life, even more so to rummage through someone else’s, I have a good reason to avoid this freak show: I’m a terrible photographer, probably the worst I know.
And, as ostentation requires images that provoke fits of envy and hatred in those who follow us (and, if they follow, they deserve them), it is not possible to do so with terrifying images such as those that, despite the cell phone camera taking care of pretty much everything, I perpetrate (only for my private files).
In fact, someone famous managed to outdo me — and in public — in photographic incompetence. It was the American TV presenter (and also magazine and book editor) Martha Stewart. In their programs and publications on cooking, setting the tables, decorating parties, everything is beautiful, impeccably finished.
But about ten years ago she decided to get on Twitter. And, a little clueless (because of her age — she is now 80 years old — or lack of advice that a celebrity usually has), she started posting pictures of what she ate. Commotion on the internet: how is it possible that she, just her, showed pictures so horrible they were disgusting?
That’s why I don’t fall into the trap. I know that shooting properly, even for non-professionals, requires a certain talent and intuition that I don’t have. I cite a proof, although it seems cowardly, because it is a gigantic photographer.
I was walking in New York in 1990 with Sofia Carvalhosa, my daughter’s pregnant mother, now singer-songwriter, Marina Melo, my friend Ronaldo Bastos, a composer who is part of the history of our music, and at the time the double of another walking companion, the photographer Bob Wolfenson.
Suddenly Bob said “I’m going to photograph you”. He took my “camera” (the plastic, disposable ones); he activated the “flash” (a small light, in broad daylight); he started to walk backwards, facing us, and clicked. A SINGLE CLICK.
Weeks later, film developed, we saw the photo. In this single click, we were almost in the air, light, loose. Zero ostentation: legitimate happiness, captured in every millimeter of the step above the ground, in every wrinkle of joy in the eyes.
I could never do that, even if I trained my whole life. That’s why my name isn’t Bob; he is so good that he makes equipment his own body: the sharp eye, the precise finger, not to mention the shiny head (in this case, I mean his lush forehead, more effective than any studio reflector…).
