In the blue light emanating from the screen that holds my teenager captive of an evening, his face is illuminated in a painterly manner. Light and shadow play over his impassive features in a dramatic chiaroscuro, worthy of Caravaggio. Lit up like this, his body draped languidly over an armchair, the scene gives off an aura of complete concentration, even as I know that, in truth, he is merely surfing the shallows.
He scrolls, swipes, and scrolls again, betraying a twitch of a smile here, a hint of a frown there. Then he types, waits, and types some more. It’s as though he’s been sucked, bodily, into a virtual world to inhabit a planet of his own, while the real world falls away soundlessly. If we ever manage to tear…
