There’s something sacred about not reaching for your phone. Something almost rebellious.
It’s a bit like turning up to a black-tie event in a Hawaiian shirt (and inevitably getting surreptitious nods of respect).
Fact is, not having your hand clamped to a phone these days is rare. It’s almost unthinkable at some of the world’s greatest events, which is perhaps why the lack of phones at golf’s US Masters is so noticeable. No phones are allowed to preserve the tournament’s tradition and atmosphere. Failure to stick to the rules could lead to you and your iPhone 15 being escorted off the premises.
And what happens as a result? Well… you get 155 capricious yards of tension stretched over Rae’s Creek at the Augusta National’s 12th hole, silence hanging like mist. It’s an iconic place. All you can see around you are heads craned, necks stiff with anticipation, eyes following the ball like it holds the meaning of life – because it kind of does. There isn’t even the hint of a shimmer from a raised Android.
There’s value in that stillness. In simply being there. No fumbling for the right angle, no tapping to focus, no ‘wait, can you do that again?’ There’s only now and now doesn’t pause for a lens. It certainly doesn’t pause for a filter.
The same truth applies to other things, away from green jackets and hushed commentators. Think: your child’s school concert and that quivering courage in their first solo verse. Or Sports Day, when the inevitable egg-and-spoon race contains more peril than a war zone. Despite the intensity of these moments, all we see are screens lined up as though they’re hoping to be selected for a break-time football team in the 1980s. That shy smile your child gives you just before the race gets underway? It’s gone. You were too busy zooming.
But there is an alternative phone-less existence. One where you watch your daughter dressed as a tree in the school play and you realise (midway through her interpretive dance) that you’re crying. This isn’t because of her artistic choices, but because you’re simply overwhelmed by being there, in the moment.
Our peripheral vision is a panoramic superpower we’ve all but lost to screens. Phones give us the close-up but never the everything else. The chuckle from the parent beside you. The smell of grass warmed by sun and trampled by excitable feet. The taste of melting chocolate from the refreshment stand, eaten one-handed as you clap with the other. You won’t capture any of this on your phone. But you’ll feel it in your bones for years.
And let’s face it, some things just don’t show up well on camera anyway. Sunsets? Always disappointing. The encore at a West End play? Glorious in the moment, but on screen, it resembles shadow puppets behind a cheap curtain. And trust me when I say that Speedgolf photos usually make us players look as though we’re sprinting away from a bee whilst juggling metal sticks.
The magic is in the moment, not the megapixels.
Of course, there’s always room for one photo. The end-of-event shot. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still wide. It’s the one you print, put in a photo album (remember those?) You make two copies – one for you and one for your child to find years later, when they’re moving into their new life. They’ll flip through it, find your face and feel what you felt. Not because it’s a great picture, but because you (and they) were really there.
So, next time you’re tempted…keep the phone in your bag or your pocket. Trust your eyes. Trust your memory. It’s what we’ve done at LWC and we believe the experience is much richer for it, when it isn’t watched through a smartphone screen.
Yours,
Adam
