Unseen Lens
Breakfast sucked. Not the food - eggs and coffee were good. It was the people. The way they invaded his compositions with their selfie sticks and cheesy grins. He wanted one clean shot of that mural across the street, and Golden Hour was almost over. As he sat at the edge of the patio café, looking through the viewfinder of his camera, he fantasized about an upgrade for his editing software: a Remove Distraction button that removes people in real life.
Distraction Removal is his favorite editing feature. There’s a special button just for people – for the jogger ruining his lakefront shot, or the couple kissing in front of the Pilsen Mural. One click, gone! But in the real world, people multiplied. Tourists, influencers, dog walkers. He couldn’t shoot a single alley without someone inserting their humanity into it.
He imagined a futuristic technology – perhaps a brain-computer interface with an AI overlay and real-time subject removal. A quiet Chicago. Just architecture and light. No interruptions. No noise.
That night, he opened Lightroom and flagged his favorite images. He selected the old man with the crinkly face. Remove distraction. The man disappeared. He loved to zoom in, view the clean extraction, the smooth and sterile pixels where a disheveled person used to be. He closed the laptop, but the man’s laugh echoed in his head.
The next morning, he strolled through Uptown. The Aragon Ballroom loomed in silence. He took a shot. No one in frame. Perfect. But something felt off. He tried again that evening in Pilsen. A child with a red balloon ran past a mural just as he was pressing the shutter release button. It was a great shot, except for the kid, whom he later removed. But now the balloon lingered in the void.
He began to notice things - the way shadows and reflections looked haunted without a source.
One night, he dreamt he was on the train with a Lightroom-like Neuralink in his brain. He blinked at a man chewing his gum too loudly. Remove distraction. Gum-chewer gone. Blinked at the loud phone lady. Gone. Blinked at a couple arguing. Gone. Blinked at a crying child. Blinked until there was nothing left but silence. It was beautiful. Empty.
He woke up sweating.
He stopped shooting. For weeks he just wandered and observed. Eventually, he picked up the camera again. Except this time, he let people ruin his compositions. Let their chaos bleed into the frame. He realized it wasn’t the people he hated, but the noise they made inside him, perhaps the cries of a shadow severed from its source.
He opened Lightroom. He started with the photo of the man laughing in front of the Logan Square mural. He selected the original version. The man reappeared, eyes crinkled, mid-laugh. Alive.
He stared at the image for a long time, smiled (just a little), then clicked Export.
Breakfast sucked. Not the food - eggs and coffee were good. It was the people. The way they invaded his compositions with their selfie sticks and cheesy grins. He wanted one clean shot of that mural across the street, and Golden Hour was almost over. As he sat at the edge of the patio café, looking through the viewfinder of his camera, he fantasized about an upgrade for his editing software: a Remove Distraction button that removes people in real life.
Distraction Removal is his favorite editing feature. There’s a special button just for people – for the jogger ruining his lakefront shot, or the couple kissing in front of the Pilsen Mural. One click, gone! But in the real world, people multiplied. Tourists, influencers, dog walkers. He couldn’t shoot a single alley without someone inserting their humanity into it.
He imagined a futuristic technology – perhaps a brain-computer interface with an AI overlay and real-time subject removal. A quiet Chicago. Just architecture and light. No interruptions. No noise.
That night, he opened Lightroom and flagged his favorite images. He selected the old man with the crinkly face. Remove distraction. The man disappeared. He loved to zoom in, view the clean extraction, the smooth and sterile pixels where a disheveled person used to be. He closed the laptop, but the man’s laugh echoed in his head.
The next morning, he strolled through Uptown. The Aragon Ballroom loomed in silence. He took a shot. No one in frame. Perfect. But something felt off. He tried again that evening in Pilsen. A child with a red balloon ran past a mural just as he was pressing the shutter release button. It was a great shot, except for the kid, whom he later removed. But now the balloon lingered in the void.
He began to notice things - the way shadows and reflections looked haunted without a source.
One night, he dreamt he was on the train with a Lightroom-like Neuralink in his brain. He blinked at a man chewing his gum too loudly. Remove distraction. Gum-chewer gone. Blinked at the loud phone lady. Gone. Blinked at a couple arguing. Gone. Blinked at a crying child. Blinked until there was nothing left but silence. It was beautiful. Empty.
He woke up sweating.
He stopped shooting. For weeks he just wandered and observed. Eventually, he picked up the camera again. Except this time, he let people ruin his compositions. Let their chaos bleed into the frame. He realized it wasn’t the people he hated, but the noise they made inside him, perhaps the cries of a shadow severed from its source.
He opened Lightroom. He started with the photo of the man laughing in front of the Logan Square mural. He selected the original version. The man reappeared, eyes crinkled, mid-laugh. Alive.
He stared at the image for a long time, smiled (just a little), then clicked Export.