I entered the Siggi (yes, the yogurt company) writing competition a few nights ago. I got the deadline wrong (I thought it was the next day), so I wrote most of the 500-word entry in 10 minutes. But I’m trying to focus on trying rather than perfection, on beginning rather than telling myself I’ll never make it. So I wrote something. Is it amazing? No. But is it honest? Absolutely. And it made me think about how often I reach for my phone to scroll as an escape rather than a resource or inspiration. I do think phones—especially the social components like texting and social media—can be beautiful conduits of connection, but I don’t often use them as such. I’m often zoning out, escaping. But I don’t want to live a life I want to escape from. And therein is my dilemma. I was the happiest and phone-free-est I’ve ever been during the weeks I documented fans at the Eras Tour, but that doesn’t pay the bills. I sacrificed and lost money todo that. It was 100% worth it, but it wasn’t sustainable. So how do I create a life that both affords for me to live, but sustains me creatively, relationally, and emotionally? I think I’ll be answering this question over and over for the rest of my life, and I think the answer will change as I do. But for now, here is the answer, the first-draft essay that prompted my creative crisis:
I’ve had a phone since I was thirteen. In 3 months, that will be twenty years ago.
It’s the first thing I look at in the morning and the last thing I listen to before I fall asleep. As a child, I always thought my first and last interaction of the day would be a partner, but instead it’s this small rectangular piece of metal and plastic.
Twelve year old me also didn’t care about photography, so she never would’ve anticipated that it would become my career. But what twelve-year-old me didn’t realize is that while, yes, there’s a component of photography that is about skill and practicing, a large portion of the art is simply learning how to pay attention. It’s the art of being present and noticing, and I’ve always been good at that. I’d notice my 8th grade crush’s favorite song and cologne, my best friend’s favorite flavor of Chex Mix, the way sunsets are somehow more spectacular over parking lots. All I did was pay attention.
But I grew up and I got distracted, caught up in on-screen comparison rather than youthful curiosity. In the last year, I’ve began desiring to return to the best parts of who I was when I was twelve: hopeful, curious, willing to try new things, always paying attention—and coincidentally never on a phone.
Previously, I’ve made excuses to keep my phone close like: “What if I miss out on a job because I didn’t see it right away?” But if immediacy is the appeal of my artistry, am I really valued for my art or just for convenience?
Really, what makes my art special is now I see things. And when I’m looking down at my phone all day, I’m only comparing, not creating, not noticing. I want margin in my life, I want breathing room. I want to start noticing again. I don’t want to greet a screen first thing in the morning. I want to greet my barista or my roommate (or her cats). Anything breathing. Something real.
Because a tool of connection can just as easily become a conduit of isolation if I never look up.
And I want to keep looking up. I want to make eye contact with strangers across the room. I want to notice sunsets again. And more than anything, I want to create something beautiful, both through human connection and through art. I want to see what kind of art will come from my hands when I take them away from my tiny screen. I dreamed up a new photo project that involves documenting the people I know in the city I live in, all on film and paper, and if I dedicate the hours I spend on a screen into that art, over the course of the month, I think I can complete the project—and perhaps I’ll find more connection and part of my younger self, too.