The selfie is as old as the medium of photography. One could argue even older, as the self-portrait before it played a similar function in artists lives before one could ever dream of rays of light captured on crumbly paper. Framed on the wall of your great grandfathers' wall. A present from his grandchild, a human face made flat on a flat wall. A memory made real by a visitor, one last time inquiring about who and when what and where. But then forgotten, left alone. To fall into a box and then die in that box. Left in a storage unit. Sold. Burned.
The selfie.
The human face, as seen by the human eye is nothing short of an obsession. All who cares about living, care about the face they live in. The curse we are born with. DNA. Selfie. DNA. All the same but in a slightly different angle. Different light. Different day. More of them. Allways more, never less. That is the way of the selfie, a movement that never can stop. That only will stop with the dismantling of the self.
Defy it.
Mirrors all around us. All of us surrounded by them as they blacken, as they capture us in every position, shared willingly or by force, embarrassing moments we now never can forget. And why would we, these precious moments? Time will savor them, make them great, forgettable.
Reclaim it.
Stolen by the masses, stepped on, made insignificant by every click of the camera, every touch of the phone. Towers of selfies never seen again.
Make selfies great again.