One glorious Friday evening. All of your friends on unsocial media start blabbering on about this new film/series you’ve got to, must watch. Immediately. It’s a must-see, a work of genius, a masterpiece. You prize your friends’ opinions so you go on and you watch it, and it’s an absolute disappointment (or luckily, you simply agree). But, what has happened?

Aside the fact that an average individual might be satified by anything the system spoon-feeds them, the machinations these sort of streaming services produce are quite worrying. By alluding to their products ever so often, ever so subtly, not only we lose our true sense of free will, of allowing ourselves to choose what to consciously watch, which information to take in, but we also authorise a third part to tell us what we want to consume, and how. In fact, it doesn’t sound much far from a conventional television broadcast, does it.

Society already lacks a true sense of critical thought, so, removing one’s power of choice seems to be the final straw towards a life of lethargic, poorly-made “decisions”. Granted, you can still choose from a myriad of provided material, but how many of us do it? How many of us simply accept what is trending, in the spotlight? Moreover, is it truly a choice to choose from a catalogue containing 371 Netflix originals (as of 2019) and only 50 titles produced before the 1990s (as of August 2020)?

It seems that not too far from now, we will be facing the definite shaping of our thoughts and personal choices, say, electoral ones, based on what has been permitted for us to choose from and watch during our free time. (Pop) Culture has always been an element to help us define who we are and also how we want to be, as much as it has also been a standardisation/assimilationist tool, “this is how we should now look like and behave”. Stranger things, stranger times are coming. Choose your own adventure, really.

As if connected by wires are those who produce art under effects of pot. When this art arrives to the eyes of other cannabis users, the secret and in-between lines reveal the unchained story hidden like a treasure, which only linked by the same plant both art maker and art consumer can share and comprehend and acknowledge an artwork in its totality. Those are mysteries that speak only one language and one language only: waves of perception and consciousness, part of the world’s ancient cultural heritage.

The relatively recent internet-related phenomenon of timelines raised one of the effects which could be considered as part of the social media evil: the ephemeral behaviour.

Timelines in social media as Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Tumblrprovide as much news, updates, statuses as possible within a few scrolls, however, this apparently inoffensive social service seems to give far more information one could ever take.

That being said, people receive a lot of unwanted data and then, with their brains filled excessively with today’s never-ending details, they move from one post to another, eventually deleting what had just been seen in order to declutter and free up space in their minds. Similar to the process of a memory card — yes, welcome to the 21st century.

To put it in a nutshell, timelines showcase the worst in us: memories (as well as news, people, art) become shallow; grieving is sharp and concise — not more important than any morning meal; and feelings are neglected, irrelevant, unconsidered. After all, one must keep on living, keep on going further and farther, even if not really knowing where they are heading themselves to.

When it concerns art, specifically an artwork recently completed, it is most important to keep some distance and allow oneself to “forget” one’s own work and then return with not only fresh eyes, but also critical and contemplative ones — as those of a person who never had artistic ambitions or pretensions. This way, both maker and work can grow to a fuller potential.

On my most recent trip to Brazil, I decided to start collecting documents and photographs from my family as another lap within my long-lasting project of trying to learn about my heritage. I have been working on it for the past seven years: trying to build my family tree in the midst of a rather blurry past. It is like that of many other Brazilian families, deprived from their roots, especially when those families are poor and/or black — but that is a conversation for another time.

While digging into the archives of cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents’ siblings, I have encountered, in my aunt’s possession, a few photos that immediately drew my attention: prints featuring my parents at a younger age and some that even included my sister and me. To my surprise, I had never seen those images. On the back of a particular photograph of the four of us, printed on Kodak standard paper, I have even found (in my mother’s distinctive handwriting) the following message: “Sé Square, in front of the cathedral”. At the bottom, a subtle “to [my sister] Abigail”. It turns out that these photos were not with the said sister. Rather, they were found under guard of my father’s sister, Nice, much southwards — on the other side of the country. When I discreetly quizzed her on why this photo was there, she, visibly embarrased, replied: “your mother gave it to me”.

I did not believe her for a moment.

And I was not bothered, either. My mother would probably have furtively stolen it back had she seen it there, I bet she would have. I, for one, understood it as a little secret that occurs amongst Brazilian families for a long, long time. The illegal yet innofensive act of stealing photographs so they can be added to the culprit’s archives has almost turned into a tradition. The silent, mutual understanding that comes when one sees their stolen image in a frame or an album, either because the crime was forgotten or by sheer sloppiness, is also part of the experience.

I had many questions regarding the entire process. Why steal, why not ask for a copy? What is the motivation behind it… impatience, control, love? An undiagnosed kleptomania? In today’s context, it must be reminded here that print is a dying phenomenon within families. The advent of Mark Zuckerberg’s evil triad of Facebook, Instagram and Whatsapp is gradually strangling quality and physicality of family photography. Decades before that, however, it was not so easy nor cheap to produce a good copy of a photograph, let alone the risk of losing the original forever with back and forth correspondences between long-distance relatives. I am aware I might be nodding to the stealing of photographs, and this is a correct read. I find such a behaviour amusing, to say the least. The entire point for a photograph’s existence, besides its obvious historical and commemorative functions, is the distribution of images amongst people. It is a product and proof of our existence and it only achieves its purpose and potential by its sharing with others.

My aunt Abigail probably would have been happy with that photo had she received it back in the late 90s. It would have made her happy, it would have possibly strengthened the sisterly bond between my mother and her, but I doubt this photo would still be achievable and in good conditions by now. Owing to my aunt Nice’s little mischievous act, I managed to see such a beautiful and essential moment of my close family. In this case, the act of stealing denoted a strong desire to keep a memory safe and sound, rescued to be timelessly preserved for future generations, or just a nostalgic onlooker like me.