How Kodak Convinced Us That Pictures Are Worth More Than Words

And why that’s costing us our most precious memories

I used to look at my grandparents’ photos—beautiful black and white images with barely a description on the back, maybe a date or a first name if I’m lucky. Thousands of stories left untold as the only people who could tell those stories have passed away one by one.

These images represent moments that no one is around to remember.

Also, back then, photographs were expensive and rare. Now look at how easy it is to fire off hundreds of photos in a week or even on one day.

And now that everything is digital, with an even harder way to “write on the back of the photo,” we’re doing to our grandkids what was done to us—but on steroids.

How did we get here?

The answer goes back to one of the most successful marketing campaigns in history.

“You Press the Button, We Do the Rest”

Kodak’s main promise to society wasn’t just about cameras—it was about completely redefining how we preserve our lives. Their famous slogan, “You press the button, we do the rest,” communicated something revolutionary: that anyone, regardless of technical knowledge, could capture important moments.

And they delivered on that promise brilliantly. Kodak democratized photography by creating affordable cameras like the Brownie, shifting photography from a professional domain to a hobby for millions. They removed technical barriers by handling film development and printing. Taking a photo became as simple as pressing a button and walking away.

But here’s what they didn’t tell you: a photo can only capture what something looks like.

The “Kodak Moment” Deception

Kodak’s advertising campaigns, particularly the “Kodak Moment,” positioned photography as the ultimate tool for preserving family events, holidays, and everyday experiences. They marketed emotions, demonstrating how images could evoke feelings and bring back cherished memories. The “Times of Your Life” campaign reinforced the idea that photography created a tangible record of one’s life.

Kodak convinced an entire civilization that images are more important than words.

And we bought it. Completely.

When we press the button and walk away, we think the rest has been done—but it’s not.

We only captured the surface – what was physical there.

No matter how skilled the photographer or decisive the moment, a photo can only capture what it looked like.

We tell ourselves that someday we’ll come back and make that photo album, caption that image, and use that photograph in the story of our life. But when we return to those photos months or years later, we often find they’re beautiful but hollow—they show us what something looked like but not what it meant.

The Cost of the Marketing Promise

As a professional photographer for 35 years, I’ve seen this deception play out countless times. Back before digital, when every roll of film cost me $8 plus another $15 to process, I was judicious about what I photographed. Even at weddings where I was hired to document every moment, I never had my camera on rapid fire because every frame took a bite out of my profit margin.

But in today’s digital landscape, there’s no cost between taking one photo or 100 photos. When using film, I’d shoot 10-15 rolls at an event—that’s 400-500 pictures. It’s now common for me to take 10 times that many photos with my digital cameras.

The removal of cost has created a paradox: infinite capacity has led to less intentional capture.

What We’re Really Trying to Do

I think we all have this vague idea, this loose notion, that someday we’ll tell our life story. That these photos we capture, these moments we make, will somehow be passed on and matter to someone once we’re gone. We’re driven by the human need to be remembered, to leave some trace that our lives had meaning.

But photos without stories become meaningless “silent pixels.” Without words to accompany an image, even the most striking photo becomes like a tree falling in the woods—without someone around who remembers the moment, did it even make a sound?

Images are just placeholders for the moments we hold dear.

The details and emotions that come rushing back when we see a photograph don’t come from the image itself but from what we have locked inside ourselves.

Photos play a game of charades, desperately miming a caricature of a moment, hoping we can still guess what it was.

And without capturing those internal details, we’re left trying to build our life story with fragments and guesses instead of solid materials.

The Word Camera Solution

This is why I’ve started advocating for what I call the “word camera.”

Just like Kodak taught us to reach for a camera to capture moments, we need to train ourselves to reach for words. Not to describe what a sunset looks like—cameras are still the best tool for that. But to capture what a moment feels like, what brought you to this moment, what’s going on in your life that will make this image meaningful years from now.

We need to approach words with the same abandon we use for photos.

We snap pictures at family gatherings without worrying about what we’re going to do with them—we just capture what seems worth capturing, knowing we’ll sort it out later. We need to give ourselves the same permission with words.

Memory Needs Guardrails

Memory is fluid, shifting with every retelling and rethinking. I’ve read that when we remember a moment, we’re actually remembering the moment we last remembered the moment. Our brain plays a game of “Telephone,” with our memories, each rethinking introducing a modified retelling of events.

Without facts, details distort, memories fade, warp, and reshape into something that may feel real but isn’t necessarily true.

A journalist investigates what happened. A columnist interprets what it means. You should be both.

Kodak convinced us that pressing the button was enough.

But it’s not.

The most meaningful conversation you had last year—can you remember exactly what was said? The feeling when you achieved something important—can you still access that emotion? These experiences aren’t just “nice to have.” They’re the building materials of who you were, not just who you remember being.

Reclaiming Our Stories

Kodak’s promise was seductive because it felt like empowerment: “You can become your own visual historian!” But they sold us only half the tools we needed. They gave us the ability to capture what moments look like, and convinced us that was enough.

It’s not.

The moments that matter most—the ones that shifted your perspective, changed who you are, the decisions that felt significant, the observations that surprised you—these can’t be captured with pixels. They require words. They require intention. They require understanding that there’s always more to a moment than meets the eye.

And just like photography needs emulsion, words need questions. To capture a moment, you need both.

So, the next time you reach for your camera, ask yourself: What is it about this moment that I’m trying to capture? What am I hoping to preserve? And then ask the harder question: What would a photo of this moment never be able to show?

That’s where your word camera comes in. That’s where your real story lives.

Because someday, when these photos end up in someone else’s hands, you want them to hear the full sound of them falling into time—not just see the fallen moments they left behind.