Smartphones are amazing. And alarming. They allow us to do so much, yet limit how much we can do. Since the appearance of the first iPhone in 2007, we’ve experienced a cultural shift the size and speed of which rivals anything in recorded history.
In the space of a few years, these shiny little computers have become ubiquitous across the culture. As recently as the year 2000 they were nonexistent. In 2010 they were a novelty. By 2020 there will be virtually no productive adults in society without one.
Of course this current state of being has been oft-repeated and much discussed over the last decade. It’s a conversation not about to go away any time soon. I won’t belabour the point by listing the endless conveniences offered or distractions created by these devices. You’ve heard it all before.
With this massive cultural shift comes questions around norms. How do phones change the rules of social behaviour? It seems every other person has strong opinions in this area. You’ve heard many of them: no phones at the dinner table, don’t acknowledge your phone in the middle of a face-to-face conversation, don’t break up by text message. These three particular examples enjoy broad social consensus because they appear to place higher value on actual human interactions over virtual ones. A good thing, to be sure.
I guess the suggested norms that I’m most resistant to argue that the mere presence of a phone is enough to degrade so-called “real life” experiences. You’ve heard these suggestions, too: writing with a pen on paper is more intimate than typing on a device, reading paper versions of religious texts is more meaningful than reading those same texts on a screen, walking on a beach at sunset is more wonderful without the option of snapping a picture.
In the age of organic, phones are GMO.
This is the religious orthodoxy of what I will call the school of real-life purism. These self-appointed defenders of real life are often – although not always – Luddite in their attitudes to technology in general. Nature good, technology bad. Pen good, keyboard bad. Conversations good, FaceTime bad. And so on. These critics feign a sort of low-key, casual ignorance around technology, but press them enough and you’ll unearth a strongly held distaste for devices of any kind.
For the most orthodox of the screen-free variety, it boils down to this: technology is stealing away our very lives. It’s tearing at the fabric of our human existence. In somber tones they lament the day when missing an exit on a freeway in a strange place might cost a stop at a gas station to ask for directions. Look what Google Maps has cost us in human interactions, they protest. They’ll shake their heads at all the transit passengers with music in their ears, mourning all those lost conversations between strangers. They’ll decry the death of the newspaper, assuming that journalism is disappearing instead of evolving.
Some of these arguments have a small seed of validity, just enough of a semblance of truth to make us feel guilty about our use of devices. But it’s easy to romanticize and overstate the qualities of life before smartphones. I remember well the transit norms of yesteryear, and they didn’t include an expectation to strike up conversations with strangers on the bus. No, Grandpa didn’t start the day with his head buried in a screen. But he sure liked his morning newspaper. Contrary to what you might think, recent studies show that modern dads spend more quality one-on-one interaction time with their children than the dads of 50 years ago. It seems technology hasn’t destroyed us just yet.
One of my favourite points of contention with the most orthodox of these real life purists is their supposition that to be fully present in a moment demands the phone be put away. (Thankfully my wife isn’t one of them.) I love photography. I enjoy the thrill of the capture. And I like seeing the captures of others. And so when I’m on a paddleboard at sunset, when I’m biking the seawall, or when I’m hiking a mountain, you’d better believe I’ll have my phone with me.
Does that mean I’m somehow less present in the experience? I think not. In fact, I like to argue that my loves of photography and Instagram makes me more observant, more curious, more easily delighted by the small details of everyday life.
My personal rationale is simple: I use technology to amplify experiences. I use technology to document them. To comment on them. To organize them, share them, and recall them conveniently. Ask a no-device purist what they did in March of 2012 or August of 2014. If they’re human, that mental recall might be tricky. But without checking to be sure, I know my chain of daily photos will tell me exactly where I was, what I was doing, and what was interesting during those months. My digital footprint is recording the story of my life.
No, I’m not advocating for a mindless embrace of all things digital and shiny. Clearly we need to defend human relationships where they are threatened by digital activities. We need to discriminate in terms of our application of screens. We need to be mindful of how our devices shape our time and money expenditures. We need to focus on applying technology in ways that solve problems, create beauty, and build relationships.
But let’s not make the false distinction between technology and so-called “real life.” Let’s not treat technology as more powerful than the medium that it is. The humans are still in charge, and it’s still entirely possible to be fully present, to fully experience relationships, to remain fully alive in the Digital Age.
Tim Cavey 