The Selfie Stick Olympics: A Circular Quay Case Study

I was coming out of a show at the Opera House the other night, Now You See Me, which was bloody brilliant. The kind of show that makes you walk out feeling slightly superior, like you’ve just absorbed culture and talent by osmosis. Then I hit the pavement and immediately returned to reality, right there between the Opera House and Circular Quay.

Reality, in this case, looked like a parade of camera-holding devices. Not cameras. Not even people holding phones like normal humans with working wrists. Actual contraptions.

I saw a tripod. A proper, floor-to-person-height tripod, with a phone perched on top like it was filming a documentary for the ABC. I saw an extender stick that looked about 1.5 metres long, which meant the phone owner was basically taking a selfie from another postcode. I saw a weird little device that wasn’t a phone at all, about 7cm wide and 7cm tall, and it was still taking something. I have no idea what it was recording, but it had serious “I’m capturing content” energy.

Walking past all of it, I kept thinking… what happened to the old days when you just said, “Hey mate, would you mind taking a photo?” You’d smile. They’d take one photo. You’d say thank you. Life would continue.

Now we’ve got a whole portable film crew, plus the person doing the pose. Plus the person doing the second pose. Plus the person reviewing the first pose like they’re judging a Logies red carpet replay.

Maybe we’ve lost trust in society, and everyone thinks the random stranger will run off with their phone. To be fair, the tripod option seems even riskier, because your phone is literally standing there on its own, like, “Hello thieves, I am available, thank you for noticing.”

Maybe it’s not trust, maybe it’s standards. Maybe we’ve decided the general public can’t be trusted with angles. They’ll take the photo from below, straight up the nostrils, with the Opera House in the background looking like a blurry white tissue. They won’t understand the look. You know the look. Chin slightly forward, head slightly tilted, eyes not quite at the camera, pretending you’re just casually existing in a magazine spread and definitely not holding your breath to stop your stomach doing a weird thing.

Modern photos aren’t about memories anymore. They’re about proof. Proof you were there. Proof you looked good. Proof you were relaxed and having fun, even though you spent the last six minutes saying, “Wait, do that again, my hair is doing something.”

The funniest part is that back in the day, when photos actually cost money, we still didn’t take them this seriously. Remember film? You’d buy a reel, maybe 12 shots if you were living large, and you had to commit. Every click was a financial decision.

You would think that would be the era where we were most sensitive about quality. One photo, one chance, no retakes, and you didn’t even know if your thumb was over the lens until three weeks later. Then you had to pay to get them printed, and if you wanted duplicates for friends, you paid again. You were basically taking out a small loan just to have a photo of you and your mate at the Easter Show.

Now we can take 400 photos in one evening, delete 398, keep the two where nobody blinked, and still complain we didn’t get a good one.

We also don’t really print anything anymore. Maybe a wedding photo, maybe a few of the kids if we’re feeling sentimental and have found a frame that doesn’t look like it belongs in a funeral home. Most photos just live in the cloud, which feels vaguely like storing your life in a warehouse you’ll never visit.

Who is going to see the one print in my bedroom, compared to the photo that pops up on Facebook, Instagram, and every other place that can house evidence of how good I looked that day? Especially after twenty shots to make sure every element was right, and after a quick edit to remove the random bloke in the background who chose that exact moment to scratch his back like he’d been attacked by ants.

Recently I found an old camera and a film reel in a box while doing a clean out. It was clunky in a way that made me respect past generations, because they were carrying these things around willingly. You’d need a backpack just for the camera, plus extra film, plus a vague sense of optimism.

Holding that film reel was a whole emotional journey.

First thought: I wonder what’s on these photos.

Second thought: shoot, what’s on these photos.

I wasn’t exactly a risky person, but I was also 18 once. Everyone was a bit of a plonker at 18, even the people who claim they were “mature.” Mature people at 18 were usually just tired.

Suddenly I had this image of someone behind the Kmart photo booth, peeking at my film reel and having the best laugh of their day. There are some things you don’t need confirmed in high resolution, especially if they involve your teenage decision-making.

That film reel created a brand-new problem with no good solution.

Getting it printed feels dangerous.

Throwing it out feels dangerous.

If I throw it out and someone else finds it, they could print it and hold me to ransom. “Pay me or I post these to social media.” It sounds dramatic, but the world is a weird place, and I’ve seen people do unhinged things for less.

Putting it back in the box felt like the safest option, which is probably how it got there in the first place. The box is basically a vault of “not today.” It will stay there until I die, then my children can decide what to do with it. By then, printing film might be impossible, which feels like the best case scenario. If they do manage to print it and discover I was a plonker, then at least I won’t be around to be embarrassed.

It’s a strategy. A delayed "I will not be around to be embarrassed" strategy.

Back in the present, surrounded by selfie sticks and tripods, I couldn’t help laughing at how much time we spend taking a photo rather than being in the place we’re photographing.

People will be standing in front of the Harbour, one of the most iconic views in the world, and they’re staring at their own face on a screen, adjusting the angle like they’re negotiating a peace treaty.

Someone needs to gently tap us all on the shoulder and say, “Take a quick photo, then sit down and enjoy the scene you’re spending ten minutes documenting.”

Full disclosure, I’m not immune to this. I take photos with friends, my husband, my kids, all the time. The difference is, I’m not the heavy equipment type. I’m more the “quick snap, then move on” type, with occasional “wait, my eyes were closed don't post yet” panic.

My boys and my husband, though, are absolutely picture people.

I get my phone back after my kids have had it for fifteen minutes and there are thirty new photos of the two of them doing weird and wonderful faces. Tongue out. Rock fingers. A full “Blue Steel” moment like they’re auditioning for Zoolander: The Next Generation. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what they were even photographing, because the background is irrelevant when your face is doing that much.

Honestly, I can see their future. One day they’ll be the people with their phone on a tripod, jumping in the air off something mildly dangerous, committing to the bit, and doing “The Magnum” straight down the lens with full confidence.

Technology will keep feeding it too. Next it’ll be a drone phone. Apple and Samsung can have that idea, you’re welcome. The phone will float beside you, hovering at the perfect angle, tracking your “good side” with terrifying accuracy. You’ll flick a finger and it will reposition itself like a loyal pet.

Then, if the photo still isn’t perfect, it will use AI to regenerate it anyway. It’ll smooth the wrinkles, adjust the lighting, delete the stranger scratching his back, and add a subtle breeze that makes your hair look like you’ve been professionally styled by the ocean.

At that point, the photo won’t be a memory. It’ll be a concept.

Still, we’ll post it, because the world needs to know we were there, and we looked that good. Even if we spent half the night proving it.