Silicon and gallium lenses, held up in supplication – a requiem for the real, a feast for the shortsighted. Lost is the sense of wonder, of bare-eyed goggle, replaced instead with a brutal cataloguing of experience, a repackaging of the physical for the swipers, the sofa-saddled.

Would those crafters, those master masons, those flit-fingered painters have sweated and pored by lights – candle, rush, oil – if they knew their creations would be framed by sweaty-fingered glass? Would they have risen from their beds if they knew their fate was to be repackaged and talked over, buried under the suffocating, expanding blanket of ‘content’?