There’s a line in One Hour Photo (a brilliant film starring Robin Williams) that says everything:

“And if these pictures have anything important to say to future generations, it’s this… I was here. I existed. I was young. I was happy… and someone cared enough about me in this world to take my picture.

That’s it.

That’s the soul of photography. Not for clicks. Just for presence. Proof of a life lived and loved. But we could. We still can. If we stop chasing aesthetic, and start noticing actual life. Once, taking a photo was a deliberate act. You paused. You framed.

Now? We snap photos like we scroll – automatically, unconsciously, endlessly. A coffee. A cracked mirror. A stranger’s dog we’ll never see again.

We’re not capturing memories. We’re archiving proof. Proof that we were kind of there. When has anyone attended a concert just to focus on the music, without thinking about taking photos?

We’ve stopped asking the only question that matters:

What are we actually trying to remember?

We don’t live the moments. We digitize them

Today, you don’t go to a cliff, a café, or a concert without documenting it. Not to preserve it. Not to remember it. But to digitize it. To prove it happened. To perform it for people who weren’t even there.

We don’t live the moments. We curate them.

We scroll through sunsets we never actually watched. Concerts we barely heard. Dinners we posed for but didn’t experience fully.

We’re not present.

“Most people don’t take snapshots of the little things… the used Band-Aid… the guy at the gas station… the wasp on the Jell-O… but these are the things that make up the true picture of our lives.”

One Hour Photo

Instagram doesn’t care about your photos. And it shows.

Let’s not sugarcoat it: Instagram killed photography. In a sense, it did — and here’s what I mean. Not intentionally, and not all at once, but through algorithm shifts, video dominance, and an obsession with virality over emotion.

Post a stunning photo – timeless, honest, human – and watch it die in silence.

Many of us have been there. Posting a meaningful image — lights and shadows, a quiet moment — and getting 11 likes. Meanwhile, someone uploads a 10-second Reel with glitchy captions and ambient music called ”how to romanticize your sad girl era”, ”what I eat in a day”, and boom. 84k views. 2k saves. No soul.

People don’t like photos anymore. They like motion. They like trends. They like dopamine.

Photography isn’t the end goal anymore. It’s just something to post.

If you’re a photographer? A visual storyteller?

You either entertain or you vanish.

What we’re left with isn’t memory.

It’s engagement.

When the last photo is a filtered one

Death isn’t something people like to think about. Especially not while taking selfies. But maybe we should. Because that filtered Snapchat photo – the one with glowing skin, bug eyes, dog ears – might be the last image you have of someone you loved.

And suddenly, it’s not so funny anymore.

It’s devastating.

We had thousands of chances to take one real photo. One that captured their laugh or ”ugly laugh”, their eyes. The way they tilted their head when they told a joke. But we were too busy tweaking. Too busy getting the angle right. Too busy editing for the feed. We weren’t with them, We were performing them. And then it was too late.

When real doesn’t perform

I know I’ll never trend on Instagram. And that’s fine. I’m not just that kind of person who does it. I don’t chase what’s popular. I don’t think in trending audio or aesthetic formulas.

I share things that feel real to me – even if they don’t fit the algorithm. I’d rather be honest than optimized. Present than performative.

But every time I publish a blog post and share it with care; choose the image, write the caption, let it breathe: I get like one like. Maybe two.

So I usually delete it. Not because I’m ashamed of it. But because the silence makes it feel like it never mattered. And I know, I know, I’m supposed to post anyway. I’m supposed to say I don’t care about numbers. But I do care. Not about popularity. About presence.

Because when you make something honest, something that actually meant something to you, and it gets swallowed by an algorithm and forgotten in 30 seconds… that sucks.

The effort feels pointless. The beauty feels invisible. The voice feels wasted.

So I archive it. Pretend it didn’t happen.

But the truth is:

It did. It always does. And that’s what hurts the most.

The strategy circus nobody asked for

At some point, posting a photo turned into a part-time job. Not photography or storytelling but “playing the algorithm.”

You’re told to:

Like 25 posts an hour before you post. Comment on 10 reels. Reply to your own caption. Post at a “magic time.” Engage for an hour after or the algorithm will punish you. And oh, don’t forget to save your own post, watch your own Reel three times.

All of this… just to maybe get seen.

I hate this.

I didn’t sign up to that.

I just wanted to share a moment.

And the worst part?

It works.

It works for people who treat their feeds like funnels. Who schedule their authenticity. Who hack the system and still call it creative.

But what about the rest of us?

The ones sharing quietly, intentionally, imperfectly?

We get buried.

Closing remarks

Despite everything, algorithms, engagement hacks, disappearing art, I still love photography. Not the kind that performs. The kind that notices. The kind that sees a shadow fall just right or captures a laugh no one else heard. I edit my photos, sure. I add light, warmth, sometimes a touch of mood. But I don’t fake rainbows in New York or drop in auroras that never happened. Because photography, to me, isn’t about fantasy. It’s about memory. It’s about truth, even if it’s quiet. Even if no one claps. I’ll keep my style. Because that’s what photography has always been for me, not performance. Just presence.

I chose this photo for a header – Big Ben rising behind a red London bus – for a reason. Time stands still in the background, solid and unbothered, while the world rushes by in front of it, loud and branded. There’s even a travel ad on the bus, selling a destination most people will only ever see through someone else’s Instagram. And that’s the point. We’re always moving, always posting, always promoting. But somewhere behind the noise, the quiet moments – like this one – still wait to be noticed. This image isn’t trending. It just exists. And maybe that’s exactly what makes it worth keeping.