through an unbridled multiplication of their personal and social identities. Human beings, historical constructs whose contingency depends on continuous and ongoing technological progress, have learned how to develop more ‘informational souls’. Reciprocally connected within the Infosphere, these souls occupy spaces in which there is no distinction between natural individuals and artificial agents. They reveal, therefore, a brand new virtue with regard to ‘spiritual’ souls, that of satisfying in equal measure the ‘two figures obsessed by immortality’ referred to by Elias Canetti: both the one that wants infinite continuity with time, and the one that instead wishes to return periodically.9 As we find in inter-disciplinary studies on Digital Death,10 these technological spectres help our digital I’s attain that eternal life denied their biological twin, who remains exposed to the whim of the Grim Reaper.
It follows that, unlike those objects held within domestic walls, for the most part private, unique and rare specimens (physical in the broad sense) that facilitate the choice taken by Desmond Morris, the data accumulated in digital deposits (written messages, photographic images, audiovisual recordings, and so on) are difficult to erase. The fact that these data are shared not only obviously means they are not private, but also means they enjoy the gift of ubiquity and can be multiplied infinitely. Some are shared voluntarily (in posts left on social media profiles), some are shared unwittingly (every trace a user leaves on a device while online), some are shared by third parties (the problematic habit common to parents of posting photographs of their underage children, usually on Facebook). It can all exist autonomously and in an indeterminate number of copies, occupying the internal space of an equally unknown quantity of electronic devices and online locations. Each of these devices and locations in turn represents a privileged point of 24/7 access to digital memories. The distinction between ‘internal’ and ‘external’ has now become superfluous in comparison with historical eras in which, in the absence of digital technology, the house acted as the custodian of private memories, clearly marking the boundary between inside and outside.
So, while it is relatively easy to ‘empty’ material deposits once mourning has taken place, placing a protective barrier between the world that has come to an end and the world that must now be built, it is much more difficult (if not impossible) to do the same thing with digital deposits. Like the ‘invisible cascade of skin cells’11 that we leave in the streets of our cities, the collection of data, digital footprints and information recorded online that is constantly photocopied and to which we delegate our memories with increasing frequency, makes those ghosts that assail Twombly’s mind at night increasingly pervasive and permanent, and render Morris’ attempts to chase them out entirely in vain.
Today’s world seems struck by an epidemic of memory that provides the past with the opportunity to free itself from the present’s control. As it slowly becomes autonomous as an objective reality in its own right, the past overlaps with the present, imposing itself from one moment to the next. As a consequence, it is liberated from the spectrality attributed by those who, until now, have always thought of it as either nothing more than a story we tell ourselves or a mere simulation produced by the mind. And it is preparing to subvert the very rules that govern the way in which we remember and forget.
Facebook and Looking Back: #10YearChallenge, On This Day, Memories
Mark Zuckerberg, the man most responsible for the recent multiplication of our informational souls, was the first person to recognize the radical shift taking place in the way we remember and forget. Taking the positive aspects, he ignores Samantha’s advice and chooses to favour total recall over oblivion. As Kenneth Goldsmith writes, ‘Our archiving impulse arises as a way to ward off the chaos of overabundance.’12 Zuckerberg takes this on board, transforming Facebook from the most popular social network in the world to a technological memory chest, a gigantic digital archive capable of: (1) conserving data shared by its users over the years, constantly recreating and reshaping the relationship between the past and the present; (2) carefully selecting those memories using its algorithms; (3) making the documents and the digital footprints each one has left easily accessible. An interactive archive that, unlike a traditional one, preserves ‘those traces and remains of the past that are not part of a culture of active memory’.13 They are those biographical aspects of individual memory, ostensibly lacking any primary use for society, but at the same time capable of keeping our digital I perennially alive, reproduced in every single record that is made public.
Facebook’s (ongoing) metamorphosis can be seen in the fact that looking back has been its most important feature for some time now. The perennial exhumation of what has happened within it seems to be a literal translation of the pathos and resonance Vilèm Flusser attributes to the internet in general, describing it as a ‘way of loving our neighbour’.14
At some point towards the end of December, Facebook provides each of its two billion users with a video entitled ‘Year in Review’, alternating, in little more than a minute and against a strategically coloured background, the images and posts shared by the user over the past twelve months that received the highest number of likes and comments. Just like the brief videos created skilfully by online newspapers, in which the rapid succession of Juventus’ most important goals illustrates their victory march towards their umpteenth championship title. Or those shown on television, in which a collage of a talk show’s highlights is used to celebrate its season finale. At the end of the Facebook video, we read: ‘Sometimes, looking back helps us remember what matters most. Thanks for being here.’
Anything but improvised, this ‘looking back’ exists all year round within standalone initiatives such as the #10YearChallenge. All it took was a simple hashtag, which went viral in a matter of minutes in January 2019, to convince millions of Facebook users to post photos to their Walls, publicly comparing a current photo of themselves to one taken ten years earlier. The most cynical of observers interpreted this challenge as yet another cunning strategy to obtain substantial amounts of personal data and images with which to train facial recognition algorithms. The fact remains that beyond any possible hidden agendas, millions of people dug up personal photos from 2009 and wallowed in collective nostalgia for a good few days. This took the form of a self-satisfied longing for an imagined, and distant, golden age: a decade before, yes, but still in reach. A time that, when observed with the disenchantment typical of the present, does not include the often hastily made choices taken over the years, nor the disappointments into which once-held ideals have since mutated, nor the inevitable failures, and nor does it see, on a much more basic level, the wrinkles and white hairs as merciless markers of Chronos’ insensitivity. This is a nostalgic wallowing into which Instagram also plays, becoming involved in the challenge and therefore party to the onslaught of millions of images accompanied by the same hashtag. The initiative takes on further significance if we remember that the majority of personal events that have taken place over the last decade, events this explicitly invokes, have been documented on a daily basis on the above-mentioned social networks.
Since late spring 2015, the retrospective gaze has become a daily protagonist thanks to the On This Day feature. ‘You have a new memory’ is the notification text that celebrates this ritual, automatically directing our digital devices to a post, video or photograph shared on Facebook (or one in which we have been tagged) on the same day as it occurred in the past. Apart from recurring or historical events, On This Day rhapsodically revives biographical events or personal stories using algorithms. Initially, this ‘looking back’ is only visible to the user, who is then free to decide whether or not to share (and therefore make current) the memory with all of their followers. If the user chooses to share the post, they can leave it as it is or they can modify it partially with a comment that provides context for the present.
Alternatively, they can relive these moments in a private way or eliminate them completely. The stated aim of On This Day is to connect the present to nostalgia, sparking new debate between users that aims to resurrect that which, once it has happened, should, in theory, be lost forever. In other words, it tends towards just one of the two paths that, according to Johann
