Mary Bergin.
The Library of Congress says the first photo selfie was taken in 1839, when Robert Cornelius of Philadelphia tried to stand motionless in front of his camera for at least 10 minutes.
That was 174 years before “selfie” was added to the Oxford English Dictionary as word of the year. Now selfie stations pop up everywhere, including national parks and landmarks. Add selfie museums, trails and guided tours (“Let’s Take a Selfie” is a three-hour Boston port excursion for Norwegian Cruise Line).
We’ve come a long way? Yes, and no.
Our household of two has minimal see-how-we-were-there evidence of our frequent travels, which I guess makes us an anomaly among First World digital scrapbookers. I barely know the iPhone mechanics of taking a selfie and don’t own a selfie stick.
It’s never been my habit to solicit/take/post many photos of myself. When my work shifted to full-time travel writing two decades ago, I quickly realized the practical need to seek relevant images to illustrate text and earn extra money. But adding myself was rarely necessary or wise.
Another big-picture influence is my life partner, who likes his photos “pure” — without people in them. When the two of us take hundreds of images to document one trip, odds are excellent that less than 10 will be of one or both of us.
Tourists who take selfies at relatively ordinary locations, for proof they’ve visited, amuse and amaze me. At truly extraordinary sites, my impatience and irritation grow as I jockey for uncluttered shots of natural or man-made beauty.
But thanks to a photography museum in Sweden, I’ve started to acknowledge the selfie beyond its narcissism and annoyance.
I didn’t expect to enjoy “The Selfie Matter,” a recent art installation at Fotografiska Museum in Stockholm, yet spent more time studying it than any other exhibit there.
One anchor was The Longest Way, a five-minute video of 1,400 selfies by Christoph Rehage, edited from the 30,000-plus he took while walking across China for a year. The German photographer appears front-and-center in each frame, one perfect alignment after another. It was a fascinating and fast digital flip book of always-changing landscapes and personal appearance.
Museum signage described selfies as “a language of self-expression, a canvas where you’re both the artist and the muse” and “capturing the human spirit, one image at a time.”
The beeps and flashes of self-timers on cameras have long counted down the seconds between primping, posing and shutter clicking. Before that, the work was a matter of paint and brush.
From “The Selfie Matter” intro: “At least since the Renaissance, those with means (like wealthy patrons or the actual artists) have made themselves part of the art they deem important. So perhaps taking a selfie with a famous painting is no less strange than having yourself painted into the background of it; it’s just that the former is available to everyone these days, and not just the elite.”
So that desire — to see, be seen, decide where we belong and document it — existed long before the quick-shot world of today. There’s much to still be appreciated about slow photography too, regardless of each frame’s real or perceived blemishes.
Consider Shane Balkowitsch, a former oncology nurse who is better known for his time-consuming, wet-plate photography.
The self-taught ambrotypist in Bismarck, North Dakota, uses technology from the mid-1800s to produce portraits on glass that don’t fade with the passage of time. The subject sits stationary for 10 seconds while a chemically coated glass plate in a boxy camera is exposed to light.
The result is one image that captures one face and expression for a lifetime and beyond.
Hundreds of Native Americans know the photographer as the “Shadow Catcher” and have sat for a portrait. Dozens of his works are archived internationally, with the Smithsonian and in repositories closer to home. His subjects have included Swedish activist Greta Thunberg, entertainer Jon Batiste, boxer Evander Holyfield.
And now me.
My name was chosen at random to model during a demonstration of the process at his studio. Had the cameraman asked for volunteers, my hand certainly would not have been raised. Not the way I’m wired. Not a relaxing experience.
A back-of-head brace helped me stay still as others watched. I was told to not smile and, if blinking was necessary, to do it quickly.
The result? I look old, tired and raw. That said, I respect the history, process and how far technology has advanced.
“They tell a tough kind of truth, don’t they,” a photographer friend offered afterward. Indeed they do, but — despite my wrinkles and other stark flaws — this one remains special and sure won’t get buried in a digital heap of flash-and-forget memories.
The frame may not be worth a thousand words, but it’s a solid example of how less represents more.
Mary Bergin is a Madison-area journalist whose writing and photography have appeared in many regional and national publications.
