Being famous was once quaint. There was really nothing to it. Unless you were a Christ-like figure or a Napoleonic general, you lived anonymously. The birth of film changed all that. But not by much. Some bulb-flashing interloper might snap a semi-candid picture of you inhaling The Brown Derby’s legendary Cobb – rolls and all. However, signs of your perceived decadence were cheered by scores of fans eating up your image in monthly periodicals. You brought a pen everywhere you went in case someone had something for you to sign. Autograph seekers weren’t picky in those days, choosing cocktail napkins over framed photographs with a stamped certificate attesting to its legitimacy. They wanted your John Hancock and nothing else.
The famous came and went as they pleased, which wasn’t particularly taxing since there were only a few of them. Cary Grant was one and maybe there was another guy with a mustache and a woman with a long, flowing gown. It’s not important though. Now, people don’t want signatures for their scrapbook – they want more. So much more.
When the average non-famous person sees a member of the growing famous population, they want a lot. First off, they want a picture to prove it happened. They need friends, family, and enemies to acknowledge their run-in with a run-of-the-mill celeb. Then they want a restaurant recommendation. Next, it’s “will you be on my Podcast?” since the non-famous outnumber the famous in the podcasting sphere. The Wall Street Journal predicts that by 2030 most of the country will be famous – not that’ll mean anything anymore. The bar for fame has been lowered to such an eminently trippable degree, that to remain obscure and unknown will eventually carry with it a sort of misplaced notoriety. A kind of anti-fame, which will surpass the top-earning stars.
Once everything is recorded, the people fade into the background, becoming noise. Instead of snapping pics of you tipping your salad plate to a steep angle for optimal consumption (well over forty-five-degrees), the salad itself is the story. That’s what we photograph when we’ve lost patience with our fellow man. Salads. Cobbs, Chefs, and Caesars.
"Excuse me, could I get a picture with your crouton. I'll be quick, I promise."
Some world.
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