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Mia: So, we’re tackling this brain-twister today: “Photography Presence vs. Absence.” Sounds kinda highfalutin, right? But basically, it boils down to this: when do we whip out our phones to snap a pic, and when do we just… soak it all in?

Mars: Exactly! It's that whole, Am I experiencing this moment, or just curating it for Instagram? kind of vibe.

Mia: Right, right. But aren't we *supposed* to capture memories? I mean, I love flipping through old photos, like, years later!

Mars: Totally. But I heard this story about a photographer—let’s call him Dave—who only ever took *one* photo of his hometown. Someone asked him, Dude, why just one? And he was like, I *live* here! I can't be present and document it at the same time. He intentionally avoided photographing his everyday life.

Mia: Whoa. Never thought of it that way. So, it's not laziness, it's a conscious choice?

Mars: One hundred percent. He figured, if he’s lugging a camera around, part of his brain is always composing the shot. He'd rather be fully immersed in what’s happening right in front of him.

Mia: Yeah, makes sense. But what about those blink-and-you'll-miss-it moments? Like, spotting a shooting star or something…

Mars: Ah, the classic “missed opportunity” dilemma! He told a story about seeing a deer wander into his yard. His first thought was, Damn, I wish I had my camera! But then he realized the awe, the gasp of seeing something beautiful, *that* was the real gift. The photo is a bonus, not the main event.

Mia: Gasp of beauty—I like that. So, the photo is almost secondary? Like a souvenir?

Mars: Exactly! And it really clicked for him when his kid was born. He’s in the delivery room, obsessing over getting the perfect angle, totally bugging the nurses. Then he realized, Wait a minute, am I even here for my wife? Or am I just staging a photo op?

Mia: Oof. That’s harsh. I'd be annoyed if my partner was more worried about the lighting than, I don’t know, my actual labor.

Mars: Totally! He started wondering if he was hiding *behind* the camera. He literally stopped bringing it when he hung out with friends. Didn’t want that barrier between him and what's going on.

Mia: But what about now? With smartphones, everyone’s got a camera in their pocket. Hasn’t that changed everything?

Mars: He’d say his old-school approach might sound outdated. But think about your last vacation. You've got a thousand sunset pics. But do you remember the smell of the ocean between the shots? The laughter with your friends before you hit record? The *spaces* between the photos are where the real memories live.

Mia: Wow. So those in-between moments—the goofy joke before you snap the pic—those are the good stuff?

Mars: Exactly! And the funny thing is, his only great photo from the birth was the one where the doctor hands the baby to his wife. He printed it, tucked it away. After the divorce, it kinda vanished—stuck in limbo.

Mia: That’s actually kind of poetic—this snapshot in limbo, like the memory itself is frozen.

Mars: Totally! It’s a trade-off, right? The presence you lose behind the lens versus the images you capture.

Mia: Okay, next time I’m at a concert, instead of filming the whole song, maybe I just put my phone down for a few bars and actually, you know, *listen*.

Mars: Exactly. Be there first; the photo can wait.

大纲

The Photographer's Question: A photographer at an exhibition asked the author why there was only one photo of Chapel Hill, despite the author being from there. The author's response: "Because I live there. I can’t do two things at once." He doesn't photograph where he lives.
Missing the Moment: The author describes a moment seeing a buck in his neighborhood. He immediately thought, "Oh, I wish I’d had a camera!" But then realizes that being startled by beauty is a unique human gift, and the photograph comes later, after the astonishment.
The Birth of His Son: The author recounts being in the delivery room, camera in hand, wanting to photograph the birth of his son. He was preoccupied with getting the right shot, to the point of frustration when nurses blocked his view. He realized he was more focused on the potential photograph than on being present for his wife.
Hiding Behind the Camera: The author reflects on whether he was truly "there" during his son's birth or hiding behind the camera. He realized that if his wife needed him, she would have seen him with a camera in front of his face.
Empty Spaces: He realized he was creating an empty space between himself and the moment when he raised his camera. He stopped carrying his camera to stay present with friends.
Smartphones and Memories: The author acknowledges that his views are outdated in today's smartphone era. He questions whether the constant taking of photos and "photogenic moments" may deform the way we recall the past and if the spaces between photos are the most fertile ground for memory.
The Childbirth Photo: Only one photo from the birth turned out well: the doctor presenting the newborn to his mother. The author printed it once and kept it private. After his divorce, the photo fell into "limbo."

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