The New Yorker:

The smashed, fractured, and non-functional can frustrate us—and illuminate who we are.

By Joshua Rothman

In my spare time, I’m an obsessed photographer, and through the years I’ve used dozens of cameras. A while ago, a horrible misfortune befell the one that I treasure most. Arriving home, I climbed out of the car without properly closing the top of my bag. As I stood, the camera—a beautiful and ludicrously expensive concatenation of electronics, glass, and brass, which I’ve used daily for years—flew out of its opening, falling to the asphalt behind me. I heard it land with a thud.

The camera was damaged, of course—scratched and a little dented. But, as I tested it, I discovered that it had broken in a surprising way. The screen and buttons on the back, with which one reviews pictures and adjusts certain settings, no longer functioned. But everything else—everything fundamental—was fine. The camera continued to take pictures and save them properly; its dials still allowed me to control aperture, shutter speed, and exposure. It worked a lot like the film cameras I’d used off and on for many years. And I was startled to find, as I continued to use it, that I preferred it this way. With its more advanced digital features inoperative, it was less distracting, less complicated, more engaging, more fun. I decided not to send it in for repair, and have enjoyed it in its felicitously damaged state ever since.

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