When my second child was born, I did what most parents do: I went looking for videos of my first.
I wanted to remember what three months looked like. What sounds he made. What it felt like in our house on an ordinary Tuesday. I wanted the footage our parents have — the long, rambling, beautiful tapes of nothing in particular that somehow captured everything.
What I found instead was a collection of clips, most of them five to ten seconds long. Just enough to remember that I had a camera. Not enough to remember anything else.
Our parents carried ten-pound VHS cameras on their shoulders. They were committed, by necessity, to staying in a moment. We carry two-ounce devices with better optics than anything they ever held — and somehow we've managed to capture less.
This isn't a storage problem. It isn't a hardware problem. It's a behavior problem. We've been trained to skim. To sample. To post. And in doing so, we've stopped recording the thing we actually wanted: time.
Sixty is a camera that records for at least sixty seconds. That's the whole idea. It's a small commitment that turns out to matter enormously — the arc of a moment, the way a laugh builds, the sounds underneath the sounds. The things you don't notice until you watch it back ten years later and realize you almost didn't have it.
Your parents knew how to do this. Now you do too.