There was a time when the crackling of the wood fire or the conviviality in family was the high point of a very busy day. A moment when people were communicating, seated around a table, reshaping the world, or even in a lighter way indulged in jokes in good tones that bursts of laughter accompanied until the end of a Sunday in the countryside. A moment of a shared life without detour, without intruders, without small screen, without phone call … without cell phone.
The syndrome of me, myself and I, of the cult of the personality was not yet born and the furtive news of a distant cousin at the end of the table, sent to her sister sitting next to her was not relevant. Big Brother contributed to desecrate the status of star and opened a royal road to all those, who from then on thought that a selfie taken in a hurry between the deli and cheese shelves in a supermarket and then published on social networks would give them this feeling to exist at last. An indelible postcard hiding an existential anguish, leading them to run after their own shadow as if to flee a little death.
The words of Andy Warhol in the New York Underground in the seventies then took on all its dimension in this world that everything now tended to separate. The ephemeral maps yellowed by time placed in a frame on a boudoir table replaced by those taken between two doors ending their race on the rubble of a rubbish dump, recumbent, forgotten by all, and all was imposed now, insinuatingly turning memories into digital ghosts. Slices of life to consume on the spot.
Fresco of a new kind where fingers were running across a screen in search of nothingness, without knowing that it had already invaded them. People side by side, hooked on their cellphones, of this ubiquitous frenzied race. People hanging on to their cellphones like a castaway on his makeshift raft. An ordinary evening after all, or after having experienced the pangs of the futile.