My coworker Tyler never turned on his camera during Zoom meetings. In fact, out of a dozen or so people in my weekly creative meetings, only three of us regularly turn it on.
WTF, I think to myself.
I mean, what if in the “Brady Bunch” opening grid there was only Alice, quizzically pivoting her head like an orange on a swizzle stick, wondering why the rest of the Bradys were just static, smiling profile pics.
One of my friends said not to take it personally.
“We have a cameras-off policy,” she explained matter of factly. “I don’t even know what some of my coworkers look like.”
But at our meeting this week, something had shifted. I got on the call a couple of minutes late and there they all were, cameras on. Except Matt. I’m told Matt has never turned on his camera or microphone. Ever. He doesn’t even have a profile pic. Just a generic circle with the letter M in the middle.
There’s talk about whether Matt even exists. I’ve taken to calling him Matt GPT. Like Milton and his red stapler in the movie “Office Space,” I imagine Matt to have been laid off years before. And thanks to a glitch in the system, his profile pic still shows up right on time every week, while Matt IRL — at least in my imagination — is living la vida loca somewhere on a nudie beach in Miami.
Don’t get me wrong. I love working from home — being on my own in my own space. Heck, I’ve been doing it since 2003 — long before it became Covid-chic. But there’s this thing about remote work. It’s not only shut off our cameras, it’s shut down our presence. Our genuine connection.
Last weekend, I flew to La Jolla to meet a team I’d only ever known as rectangles on a Zoom grid. We were all there to shoot an advertising campaign. Rectangles turned real. I might be 5’2” but, as far as I’m concerned, so is everyone else on a Zoom call. So it was only slightly awkward to stand next to my 6’4” creative director and realize I come up to his belt buckle like a toddler at a cocktail party.
Working 12-hour days on a five-day photoshoot for a medical device company can be a little like watching paint dry. There are long stretches when the crew is moving locations, setting up lighting and complicated medical equipment, lining up the shot. But that time together proved to be more valuable than any HR-mandated trust-fall exercise. And not just because we captured over 6,000 frames and nearly a terabyte of footage. But because we were free-falling in person. Sharing meals, effort, concern, elation, boredom. Not to mention sweat, tears and multiple bags of fake blood.
There was our lead art director, Rod, curious in a way I’d never experienced on Zoom and asking questions like why I’d decided to become a writer. There was our video producer, Ashlyn, sharing her desert island movie list and joking about the yellow liquid in the IV lines. There was Tyler, the introverted graphic designer, taking pics of the scary manikin patient simulation dummies. He later turned one of them into his Zoom profile pic.
And who could forget the dinner at the restaurant chain BJ’s where the server turned on the fire pit in the middle of the table and nearly blew us all up.
We were in it. Together. And it felt good. Human.
After the shoot wrapped, I flew back to Park City. Months of prep work, the full-body immersion of the shoot, the instant camaraderie — it was all over. As I walked my dog around the block that evening, I was happy to be home. But I found myself tearing up. Why am I so emotional? I wondered. And then it hit me. The strange ache of having been present in such an intense experience — and then not.
It reminded me of when I’d first arrived in PC just two months before the pandemic hit. I thought, I’ll just try it out. Then, BAM, total isolation. A town full of remote workers but very little real connection. It was like Park City had become a postcard of freedom — mountains, trails, blue skies, wide-open spaces. But even a postcard can feel like a box after awhile.
It’s up to us to get out and mingle with others. The other day, I decided to take my dog and wander up to the farmers market in the parking lot at Park City Mountain Resort. I visited a stall where they have heirloom tomatoes that miraculously taste like actual tomatoes.
“We’ve had a dry summer,” the guy working there said. “It helps them hold all their flavor.”
Next I stopped by the Park City Creamery stall to pick up some chevre and practice my French with the Gallic vendor who informed me that the skiing at Courcheval is way better than Park City Mountain. Like it’s common knowledge, like saying croissants are better in Paris than Peoria.
I randomly paused at another stall where they were selling memberships to an organic CSA. While chatting with the guy, I happened to mention where I’m from in upstate New York. His ears perked up. Turns out he’s from the same town. And not only that, his best friend is the grandson of my grandmother’s lifelong best friend.
As the comedian Steven Wright used to say, “It’s a small world. But I wouldn’t want to paint it.” I just want to hang out with it from time to time. Shoot the shit. And instead of a manikin simulation, feel something real.
Guess you had to be there.
Kate Sonnick is a freelance writer who’s worked from home since 2003. She welcomes the occasional in-person meeting but just don’t ask her to come back to working in an office. Send postcards and peanut M&Ms to 875 Iron Horse Drive, Suite A371, Park City, UT 84060.