Back in my day, sonny, getting an autograph was special. We treasured those moments with our heroes and kept their autographs in scrapbooks, on bulletin boards, or under glass.
Somewhere along the line, you young whippersnappers have perfected the sport of “signing.”
Back in my day, dearie, the sport and art gods only signed occasionally. None of this sportsfest business where person after person stands in line to get the scribbled signature of that guy. After the curtain call, actors in Broadway and off-Broadway shows weren’t armed with sharpies, tunneling through throngs of excited teens holding out their playbills for all the actors to sign.
Somewhere along the line, you young upstarts have turned into collecting collectors of collectibles.
Standing outside after Newsies, in NewYork last May, there was a grown woman (quite grown, by the looks of it) holding some sort of stretched canvas that she was intending to have signed, and as she said, to SELL.
Where is the value in the autograph anyway? Let alone if so many others have the exact same thing.
Because the autograph is so ubiquitous now, it has lost a great deal of its intrinsic value, even though people keep on buying the opportunity to own someone else’s signature.
Sign. What is the world coming to.