Intro. [Recording date: July 10, 2025.]
Russ Roberts: Today is July 10th, 2025, and I have the pleasure of speaking with Lowry Pressly, a distinguished writer and educator from Stanford University, where he contributes to the Department of Political Science, the McCoy Family Center for Ethics and Society, and the Stanford Civics Initiative. Our discussion today revolves around his intriguing book, The Right to Oblivion: Privacy and the Good Life. Lowry, it’s wonderful to have you on EconTalk.
Lowry Pressly: Thank you, Russ. It’s delightful to be here.
Russ Roberts: I’d like to warn listeners who have children that we might delve into some adult themes during our conversation. Please consider this when deciding to listen.
Russ Roberts: Recently, Tiffany Jenkins joined us on EconTalk to discuss the fine line between the public and private spheres. Today, we’ll explore similar themes but from a compellingly distinct angle.
Let’s dive right in. I find the concept of ‘oblivion’ fascinating, Lowry. Can you clarify what you mean by the right to oblivion?
Lowry Pressly: Certainly. I selected the term ‘oblivion’ intentionally as a way to create a sense of distance or defamiliarization surrounding the notion of privacy. It encapsulates what privacy offers—not just for those who are shielded by it but also for those outside looking in.
We often overlook the myriad types of concealment and obscurity that exist, which are fundamentally different from one another. Think of privacy, secrecy, confidentiality, anonymity, and even the concept of being forgotten. These various forms represent different ways of not knowing something; they create barriers to our understanding and perception.
The argument I present throughout the book is that the distinctions between these forms of unknowing are significant. They matter not only to the person whose privacy is protected but also to outsiders. The essence of my work is to examine the particular kind of unknowing that privacy fosters and how it contrasts with secrecy and other forms of obscurity. The word ‘oblivion’ resonates with me because it aligns with my views on the substantial type of unknowing that privacy cultivates. Additionally, it draws from a historical discourse on the private sphere rooted in liberal political thought, emphasizing that state or societal interference in individual lives is unjustified for moral reasons.
Russ Roberts: That’s an insightful perspective, especially considering how we often associate privacy primarily with information—an obsession that stems from the rise of technological surveillance. This focus on information as a commodity, something we can either guard or share, overlooks significant facets of privacy’s implications.
Can you elaborate on why information, while crucial, isn’t the be-all and end-all of privacy concerns?
Lowry Pressly: Absolutely. The contemporary view of privacy, particularly among those who academically analyze it—philosophers, lawyers, and activists—often fixates on the idea of information. However, I believe this perspective is fundamentally misguided.
While everyday people intuitively grasp what privacy entails, it’s often the theorists who miss the point. Privacy plays a significant role in our lives, far beyond simply controlling who can access our personal information. Privacy theorists tend to view it through the lens of social media privacy settings, focusing on audience control and information flow.
This narrow focus is problematic. This modern interpretation is relatively new, emerging in the late 20th century with the dawn of the digital age. Moreover, it’s a perilous conception because it presumes that some information about us will always exist before we even engage in moral considerations regarding privacy.
This weakens our defenses against current threats to privacy, such as surveillance by corporations and the state, who are indifferent to our audience boundaries and solely interested in the information they can access. Notably, privacy settings on platforms like Instagram or Facebook never offer the option to exist without creating any information at all, as that would undermine the profit-driven business model.
Russ Roberts: This touches on another issue I’ve raised: the commodification of human experience. Everything we do now seems to revolve around data—maximizing it, controlling it, or keeping it from others. In previous times, it might have been about income; today, it encompasses shopping habits, health metrics, and location data. The modern world quantifies our experiences in ways unthinkable a quarter-century ago, often to others’ advantage and our own disadvantage.
But you make a compelling case that this obsession with quantifying the human experience overlooks vast areas of life that resist measurement. This emphasis on information misses crucial aspects of privacy and what it truly means to be human.
Lowry Pressly: Exactly. I open the book with the assertion that “we live in a time blinded by information.” My intent is not merely to highlight the overwhelming amount of information or the prevalence of misinformation. Instead, I’m pointing to a deeper issue: our tendency to define human life and experience solely through the lens of data and quantification.
While there may be economic or ideological motivations for this perspective, the outcome is that as we frame human existence and consciousness in quantifiable terms, we risk losing sight of experiences that don’t conform to such rigid definitions or that become distorted by quantification.
For instance, consider a profound experience at a symphony or a cherished poem. When we attempt to articulate these feelings or impose precise definitions on them—or, heaven forbid, quantify them—we inevitably diminish their essence.
Yet, while I believe many aspects of the human experience are invaluable and rich precisely because they resist quantification, this isn’t an immutable truth about humanity. Our historical and anthropological examples show that our understanding of human nature could evolve over time, leading us to conceptualize the human experience differently.
Thus, one argument I make in my book is that we must remain vigilant in how we conceptualize human life, lest we risk losing those unquantifiable experiences you referenced.
Russ Roberts: You introduce another thought-provoking concept in your book that I hadn’t fully considered before: the idea that quantifying something tends to freeze it in time.
For instance, when I check my body temperature and it reads 98.6, that’s merely a snapshot of a moment. If I step outside, my temperature may change. This applies to more complex aspects of my being—like how much I care for someone or what I’m willing to do for them. Even if we could assign a numerical value to these feelings, once quantified, we risk believing we’ve captured their essence entirely, whereas these qualities are dynamic and filled with potential.
To illustrate this further, let’s discuss photography, particularly the project by Arne Svenson. Can you describe his work and the controversy surrounding it?
Lowry Pressly: Arne Svenson is a photographer based in Lower Manhattan who received a telephoto lens as a gift from a friend who was a birdwatcher. He began using this lens to capture images of his neighbors through the glass-fronted high-rises across the street. He amassed a considerable collection of photographs over time, which he later displayed in an art gallery in New York, showcasing what he deemed the most compelling shots.
These images were not explicitly prurient but instead represented an artistic project. However, once the exhibition gained media traction, his neighbors became aware and were not pleased. They felt their privacy had been violated, even though Svenson could have seen them with the naked eye—an experience typical of urban living. Many neighbors accepted that people might glance into their windows, but they drew the line at someone using a camera.
A few neighbors even sued Svenson, despite the fact that only one photograph included an identifiable child, which he subsequently removed from the exhibition.
Russ Roberts: The remaining images depicted everyday moments—people’s knees, elbows, or backs as they engaged in mundane activities—not nudity. While it bordered on voyeurism, it offered a powerful glimpse into the ordinary lives of others.
Lowry Pressly: Precisely. I encourage listeners to look up Arne Svenson’s work, The Neighbors, online to see the captivating and sometimes humorous photographs. One particular shot features a curtain obscuring someone’s face, hinting at the delicate line he walked regarding privacy invasion.
Ultimately, some neighbors took legal action against him, and while the court ruled that Svenson had indeed invaded their privacy—calling it a literal home invasion—he won the case because the court deemed the photographs as artistic expressions protected by the First Amendment. Interestingly, the court acknowledged the emergence of new technologies that create unique privacy challenges, suggesting that the legislature should address such issues.
It’s amusing to note that over a century earlier, a similar court had ruled on the same subject concerning photography in a public theater setting. This raises a deeper question: why does capturing someone in a photograph feel different from merely observing them?
What distinguishes a photographic capture from ordinary perception?
Russ Roberts: This prompts a fascinating discussion. I have a friend who is a talented portrait photographer. When he takes posed portraits, he often tells his subjects to maintain a serious demeanor initially. This approach leads to many subjects either struggling to hold a serious expression or bursting into laughter, resulting in genuine candids that reveal more about their personalities.
When I capture a compelling moment in a portrait—like a fleeting expression of vulnerability—it’s an extraordinary experience. When the subject sees the photograph, they often express amazement at how I managed to capture that part of them. However, we must ask: what’s inherently problematic about this process? Why does freezing a moment in time seem so troubling?
Lowry Pressly: While I wouldn’t label it as inherently wrong, your examples highlight a crucial aspect of privacy. The act of capturing a photograph can draw out something about the individual that they may not have intended to reveal. The candid shot, which captures genuine emotion, invites us to discover aspects of the person that were not consciously shared.
Historically, the notion of privacy emerged as a response to societal changes in the 19th century, particularly with the rise of photography and mass media. Early advocates of privacy viewed this new moral right as a defense against the invasive nature of emerging technologies, such as the snapshot camera, which could capture spontaneous moments that might otherwise go unnoticed.
As we reflect on the power of the candid photograph, we recognize that it can reveal truths about individuals—truths they might not even be aware of. This dynamic distinguishes contemporary portraitists from earlier artists, who focused on portraying universal traits like status or wealth.
Russ Roberts: However, the argument might arise that capturing a single image doesn’t cause harm. We could return to the notion of a public figure, like an actress, who willingly invites scrutiny. If she performs on stage, she expects to be looked at, yet if a photograph captures her in a moment of insecurity, it reduces the richness of her performance to a single frame.
Consider the idea that someone might take a candid on the street and later post it online without the subject’s consent. While this might seem harmless, it raises ethical concerns. The captured image could overshadow the individual’s multifaceted personality, reducing them to just one moment.
What’s your argument in defense of the actress, or anyone in a similar situation? Why is it essential to consider her perspective?
Lowry Pressly: The argument hinges on the fundamental principle that every individual deserves agency over how they are portrayed. Just because someone is in a public space does not mean they relinquish their right to privacy. The core of privacy discourse revolves around the interplay of perception and documentation.
When someone is aware of being photographed, it alters their behavior. The act of capturing a moment translates into a fixed representation that can exist independently of the fluid nature of human interaction. This dynamic complicates the relationship between the subject and the observer.
For the performer, the knowledge that they are being documented can inhibit their ability to be fully present in the moment. This self-awareness often leads to a more guarded performance, detracting from the authenticity of their expression.
Russ Roberts: It’s a compelling point. The dynamic shifts when a camera is introduced; it creates a barrier between the subject and the observer. We both grapple with the implications of being recorded, whether through photography or video. The distinction between witnessing a moment live versus capturing it for later scrutiny is profound.
You propose that accountability plays a significant role in this discussion. Often, I want to engage with others without the pressure of being recorded, allowing for a more genuine interaction. By invoking the idea of ‘accountability,’ you suggest that we sometimes desire to exist unobserved. Why is this aspect crucial for our well-being and development?
Lowry Pressly: That’s a critical consideration. The notion of accountability ties deeply into our understanding of agency and moral responsibility. For us to develop as individuals, we must be acknowledged by others; this recognition fosters our sense of self.
However, the burden of constant accountability can be overwhelming. We require spaces where we can be unaccountable, allowing for spontaneity and self-discovery. This need for oblivion—moments where we can simply exist without scrutiny—is essential for our growth and well-being.
In the context of performance, when an individual is continually aware of being observed, it can stifle their ability to express themselves authentically. The pressure of being ‘on display’ can inhibit genuine connections and self-exploration.
Russ Roberts: Another concept you explore is the idea of dancing as if no one is watching. This phrase typically encourages people to be uninhibited in public. However, the experience of dancing alone—without the fear of recording or judgment—holds profound value. In our current society, we often feel compelled to perform, which detracts from the authenticity of our experiences.
In your view, what are the implications of always performing? How does this affect our ability to engage in genuine human experiences?
Lowry Pressly: It’s essential to recognize that both forms of dancing—one where everyone watches and one where no one does—are fundamentally different experiences. While performing for an audience can be rewarding, the freedom of dancing alone allows for a different kind of expression.
Privacy is not merely about keeping secrets; it’s about creating spaces for authentic experiences. Engaging with life without the constant pressure of being observed enables us to tap into our true selves, unfiltered by external judgments.
When we lose ourselves in a moment of solitude, we cultivate a sense of oblivion, which enriches our lives. The ability to act as if no one is watching fosters creativity and spontaneity, allowing us to explore our identities without constraints.
Russ Roberts: You argue that unaccountability is integral to well-being, as it allows for exploration beyond the constraints of rationality. You highlight the limits of self-knowledge, suggesting that our complexities can never fully be accounted for. Why is it vital to acknowledge this dimension of our existence?
Lowry Pressly: Recognizing our limitations is crucial for understanding the richness of human experience. While accountability is fundamental for personal growth, we also need spaces where we can exist without the pressure of judgment.
This unaccountable space allows us to embrace the complexities of our identities. We all contain multitudes, and moments of oblivion enable us to explore different facets of ourselves without the fear of being pigeonholed by our past actions or decisions.
By embracing our unquantifiable dimensions, we can foster a deeper connection to our humanity, ensuring that our lives remain rich, meaningful, and resistant to oversimplification.
Russ Roberts: I want to share a poignant quote from your book, which encapsulates the essence of our discussion:
And yet it is a basic assumption of agency and moral responsibility that we are to a significant extent accountable for the sorts of persons we turn out to be. All this means that for human agents, living a life takes persistent effort. You have to keep it up if you would be anyone at all.
This passage suggests that being unaccountable is not merely about avoiding responsibility. It’s about creating space for authenticity and personal development. Why is this oblivion integral to our well-being?
Lowry Pressly: You’ve captured the essence beautifully. Our existence is characterized by complexity, and we require moments where we can be unaccountable to embrace our full humanity.
This oblivion allows for spontaneity and self-discovery, essential components of personal growth. It’s about creating a balance between accountability and the freedom to explore our identities without fear of scrutiny.
In a world increasingly dominated by surveillance and accountability, we must advocate for spaces that honor our need for privacy and oblivion. By doing so, we can foster a more compassionate understanding of ourselves and others.
Russ Roberts: You also delve into the theme of forgetting, which at first glance seems negative. Why is forgetting, in fact, a valuable experience?
Lowry Pressly: Forgetting plays a vital role in our lives, just as privacy does. It’s not about advocating for oblivion but rather recognizing that limits to what we can remember contribute positively to our well-being.
Just as privacy fosters a sense of unknowing, forgetting allows us to let go of the burdens of the past. It opens up possibilities for personal growth and transformation, enabling us to view ourselves as continually evolving rather than defined by our histories.
Embracing the idea of forgetting can enrich our lives, allowing us to navigate our futures with a sense of hope and potential.
Russ Roberts: You present a powerful illustration concerning the long-term consequences of one’s actions. For instance, should a person who has served time for a serious crime be forever defined by their past? This raises significant questions about societal memory and individual identity.
Lowry Pressly: Indeed, this inquiry underscores the complex interplay between memory, identity, and societal accountability. When we reduce someone to a singular narrative based on their past, we risk denying their growth and transformation.
Acknowledging the fluid nature of identity allows for a more nuanced understanding of individuals. Just as we shouldn’t label someone solely based on one moment of their past, we must cultivate an environment that recognizes the multifaceted nature of humanity.
This perspective challenges us to reconsider how we remember and memorialize, ensuring that we allow space for redemption and growth.
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