The Object Identity Crisis

We exist in a world of things: distinct objects and concepts that carry in their being an essence or nature. This is often how we relate to them; we see chairs for their utility, not their blunt material structure; we see them as chairs. We grasp things to the degree that we can distinguish them as discrete individuals, by either their role in our lives or the particular quality they have. Things that are purposeless, functionless, or indistinct we perceive as chaotic or hollow. We, as ordered and pattern-seeking creatures, function best in a world of recognizable things. This facilitates a healthy and productive relationship to a world that makes sense; we feel an affection for things that exist for a reason and fit neatly into their contexts. We have a special taste for objects whose design exemplifies their purpose, function, or character. As such, it is no surprise that we see such perfectly satisfactory concepts and designs as typewriters, bicycles, mercury thermometers, gramophones, fountain pens, teatime, and telephones. This aspect of things provides a special insight into why the world feels so empty of late. Things, as distinct objects with an essence or personality, are disappearing.   

For the sake of consumerism and efficiency something very peculiar has been done to the physical things that make up our lives: They have begun to melt. The concrete and unique identities or essences of things have been on the decline for decades, and this has become utterly rampant at present. For the sake of expediency, sleekness, convenience, and profit many of the peculiar objects we associate with modern life have begun to collapse in on themselves in the amalgam of digital nothingness. It is for this reason that so many things today feel unrealized, vacant, and dull; it is for this reason that gadgets only a decade or so old have begun to resurface for their “retro” charms, and it is why our vocabulary and pop-culture imagery still features such anachronisms as a flashlight icon to represent the phone’s light, a mechanical gear to represent the “settings” app, and a paper envelope icon to represent email. These archetypes are buried deep, and they have lingered, at least in spirit, long after their physical manifestations have been reduced to iPhone apps.  

Consider the camera, which has existed in some form for nearly two centuries. It has seen many upgrades, and in a very real sense, the mechanism of a digital camera is in no way related to that of a daguerreotype. And yet, a wood and paper box camera and a digital point-and-shoot still share some innate essence; they are both cameras. They both exhibit some “camera-ness”: They exist to take photographs, and their design reflects this function. They both feel like cameras. This is why a digital camera, which operates and functions much more similarly, in the purely technical sense, to a smartphone camera, seems to share far more of its metaphysical nature and quality with a Polaroid from fifty years ago. What the smartphone app that takes pictures lacks is the essence that makes cameras cameras. When one uses a film or digital camera, one actually possesses and uses a camera; despite the higher digital resolution, the smartphone is but a simulation of a camera—that’s why it makes an unbelievably cartoonish camera noise to simulate the sound of a real camera’s shutter! It simply isn’t real.  

Is not the craze for vinyl and CDs an attempt to reconnect with the very physical experience that music prior to the creation of streaming apps used to include? Even as novel of objects as MP3 players and iPods retain something of a character to them because they have a singular function and an essence all their own. The same might be said of calculators, compasses, and GPS devices: They have all been devoured by the smartphone and reduced to application icons and cheap mimics of the actual object. A compass should have a magnet and a needle—no phone app can truly be a compass in the full meaning of the word. In the same way, an app that tells you the weather is nowise a thermometer or barometer. Perhaps most glaring is the degree to which the objects called “phones” today are so seldom used to fulfill the role of a telephone.  

Media, in its many forms, has been an obvious casualty of this trend. VHS tapes, DVDs, and cable television have all been erased by the nebulous streaming service. Books and print media have been compressed onto a digital tablet. The loss of these things is a travesty, and no amount of justification can make a proper book out of a screen—the words may be there, but the book certainly is not. As such, we seldom interact with media in the way we used to. Records cannot be “put on” any more than a radio dial can be turned. Pages cannot be thumbed any more than cassette tapes can be rewound. There is nothing there. You cannot interact with or own these things any longer. They don’t really exist.  

The tragedy of this decay is that it has bled into the very cultural fabric of modern life. Not only the objects of day-to-day life but also the rhythms and structures that configure it have begun to disintegrate. The once elaborate and rigid structure of mealtime rituals has devolved into mindless consumption for maximal efficiency. Fast food and convenience have replaced evening wear and multicourse dinners. Even the delicate minutia of place settings, proper etiquette, and table-side service have all been reduced to the purely functional act of ingestion. Much like evening wear, most forms of distinct attire have also collapsed into an amorphous sartorial blob. There are few standards or context-dependent dress codes anymore; the same super comfortable, super versatile fitness clothing is now worn for almost all occasions. This decline toward increasingly casual and multipurpose fashion has left the world a much duller place.  

The hope in the midst of all this gloom is in the fact that these objects and customs still retain their appeal. There will always be purists who never made the switch from vinyl, but more important are those young people who feel the urge to find and use superfluous cameras simply because they have an essence and personality all their own. Smartphones can produce truly compelling simulations and can oftentimes outperform our most beloved technologies of yesterday. But is that really what it’s all about? Is culture really reducible to the most efficient route? The most exquisite aspects of any culture are always its most superfluous. Beauty is not necessarily “useful” or “functional,” and these criteria ought never to be a measure of worth for cultural artifacts. The joy of using a camera has little to do with the pixel count; it comes from pointing the thing at a subject and pressing the shutter button. The experience of playing an album can be felt far better even in the physical act of putting in a cassette or CD than by queuing a song on a phone application. This moment may be a dire one as things seem to melt together into a digitized vacuum, but these objects and their characters are not gone—they simply need to be remembered for all they’re worth.