Pictures is feel you Your Old Times Fun 👍🎑

The camera as phallus is, at most, a flimsy variant of the
inescapable metaphor that everyone unselfconsciously employs.
However hazy our awareness of this fantasy, it is named without
subtlety whenever we talk about “loading” and “aiming” a camera,
about “shooting” a film.
The old-fashioned camera was clumsier and harder to reload
than a brown Bess musket. The modern camera is trying to be a
ray gun. One ad reads:
The Yashica Electro-35 GT is the spaceage camera your
family will love. Take beautiful pictures day or night.
Automatically. Without any nonsense. Just aim, focus and
shoot. The GT’s computer brain and electronic shutter will
do the rest.

Like a car, a camera is sold as a predatory weapon—one that’s as
automated as possible, ready to spring. Popular taste expects an
easy, an invisible technology. Manufacturers reassure their
customers that taking pictures demands no skill or expert
knowledge, that the machine is all-knowing, and responds to the
slightest pressure of the will. It’s as simple as turning the ignition
key or pulling the trigger.
Like guns and cars, cameras are fantasy-machines whose use
is addictive. However, despite the extravagances of ordinary
language and advertising, they are not lethal. In the hyperbole
that markets cars like guns, there is at least this much truth: except
in wartime, cars kill more people than guns do. The camera/gun
does not kill, so the ominous metaphor seems to be all bluff—like
a man’s fantasy of having a gun, knife, or tool between his legs.
Still, there is something predatory in the act of taking a picture.
To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they
never see themselves, by having knowledge of them they can never
have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically
possessed. Just as the camera is a sublimation of the gun, to
photograph someone is a sublimated murder—a soft murder,
appropriate to a sad, frightened time.