“Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be” (Benjamin 3).
In the shadows of individuality and self-determination live the insecure ideals of mass democracy. Walter Benjamin, a German essayist and critic of culture and media from the early twentieth century, witnessed developments that sought to make life easier and simpler than it had previously been. Transportation, information, and operations seemingly improved life not just for a select few but for the masses. Among these developments, art captured Benjamin’s attention. Historically, art’s value rested in its uniqueness and the authenticity of the artist’s intentions—what Benjamin called the “aura.” Yet now, every stroke of an artist could be perfectly replicated by anyone with the right tools, deflating the uniqueness of the piece.
Benjamin’s concern did not originate from the reproduction of art itself. The practice of copying and imitating art had existed for centuries, from pupils replicating masters’ work to counterfeiting pieces for sale. What astonished him was the scale of modern reproduction: pressing buttons could capture live motion, record voices, remember colors, and move audiences emotionally. Despite these changes, art still fulfilled its rhetorical and aesthetic purposes. The difference was that millions could now experience it simultaneously.
Benjamin explores these ideas in his essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. He concedes that mass reproduction dilutes the aura of authentic art, but he also notes the unprecedented accessibility it allows, making art more democratic. In today’s society, social media and AI raise similar questions about authenticity. Many people engage in the art of doomscrolling, while critics decry the endless flow of mechanical information.
Social media platforms, using psychological insights, create algorithms that keep users engaged by feeding radicalized interests. As treacherous as this may seem, Benjamin might argue that such dissemination benefits society by democratizing access to information. Mass production now extends beyond art to the colors of politics, entertainment, and knowledge, available to anyone—from a carpenter’s child to an aristocrat’s heir.
The way we scroll, click, and gaze mimics the Ford assembly line that once amazed Benjamin. “The desire of contemporary masses to bring things ‘closer’ spatially and humanly … rests on their bent toward overcoming the uniqueness of every reality by accepting its reproduction” (Benjamin 5). The addictive nature of doomscrolling can overwhelm willpower, cultivating a monstrous habit that enslaves its owner, blending experiences into a muddy grey devoid of significance—just like the mechanical reproduction of art.
Scrolling becomes a low-effort way to satisfy our thirst for content, unbuttoning our minds from life’s conflicts and focusing on fleeting information. Asking a scroller to recall details from three swipes ago often results in a shrug. This laziness depends on others to feed momentary comprehension, yet interestingly, this peripheral engagement allows better connection with artists’ intentions. “The distracted mass absorbs the work of art. … Distraction as provided by art presents a covert control of the extent to which new tasks have become soluble by apperception” (Benjamin 18).
As psychological autonomy diminishes, we may ask: have we ever truly had control over our thoughts? Georges Duhamel captures this when he writes, “I can no longer think what I want to think. My thoughts have been replaced by moving images” (Scènes de la vie future, Paris, 1930, p. 52). Recognizing how we consume information—and its potential to shape society—may allow us to use it positively. In reality, we are always influenced by our surroundings; doomscrolling merely makes this influence visible.
If art is valued by its ability to fulfill its purpose, then the endless scrolling of content succeeds in achieving its goal: keeping us engaged. Rather than condemning doomscrolling, we might follow Benjamin’s example and see it as a mirror reflecting humanity’s evolving ways of seeing.