Amateur hour. Awkward family slideshows, proudly led by hobbyist photographers, in which the host just keeps clicking through vacation photos, ignoring the signals of guests who grew bored after a dozen shots of lobster red bellied youths.
Even worse: picture after picture of the scenery. Mountains, mammals, marsupials, monuments. Images that tell you nothing. At best, they're appropriations of the same pictures you'd find in any guidebook. At worst, they're garish, blurry documents, whose sole purpose is to lay claim, like a shaky Zapruder film. "I was there," the photos say. "I saw that."
As you shoot them, photos of the scenery seem beyond reproach - clinical yet full of the emotion of being there. Eternal, as the scenery is timeless. People, on the other hand, are so tragically moored in the present tense. A week after the trip: "We look so tired," you think. "I wish I'd used sunscreen." Photos of people make everyone cringe.
But go back and look at those vacation photos a decade later, or five decades. The scenery is meaningless - a collection of detritus - meaningless mountains, mammals, marsupials, monuments. They look just the same as they always will.
But the pictures of people - surrounded by cars, clothes, lovers and dreams long lost - the people will someday mean something.