My Instagram Sucks
But That Doesn’t Mean I Do
My current instagram could be most accurately described as sad.
There are five lone photo squares. It was six for awhile, but I deleted the most longwinded, tragically apologetic of them. I planned to add a badass one to at least redeem the symmetry of the page, but it hasn’t happened yet.
So sit five haphazard faces and landscapes — attempts to be cute and clever on a platform that I would prefer to abandon. It’s a private account with 185 followers — a unanimously sad number for a Los Angeleno in the performing arts industry. Even though the thought of knowing 185 people intimately enough for them to care about my journey makes my brain shudder. It has been a truly difficult and mostly antisocial year. I deleted my older, slightly less sad profile in September of last year, a mish mash of head shots, boyfriend selfies and gig pics. In a bout of depression this January, I opened a fresh account so I could look at 13-second kitten vids and savage Gen Z memes. I had big dreams for my new profile, but depression turned out to be a fickle partner in making those dreams reality. I made three posts in one day and another two posts… three months later. Even the stories are sparse and mismatched in tone — mostly memes and baby ducks.
I’ve always been better in person than online. A sassy comment or a carefully photographed outfit never could convey the same thing as my smile. The hum of my voice. The way I rise on the tips of my toes when I make smalltalk. The animation in my wild eyebrows and crinkling forehead. The sparkle in my bulging hazel fish eyes. The wild flop of hair that refuses to identify with any one recognizable texture.
A portrait of me after a fresh haircut, rose gold curls framing my pensive face in my old Honda hybrid, has little to do with my personality, relationships or aspirations. It captures a half smile that people who know me have probably never clocked, because my true face is so much sillier and more expressive. I guess I’m scared to show the interplay of shadow and delicate lines under my eyes when I truly smile. Wouldn’t want anyone to know I’m getting older like everyone else…
Why are we so stubborn about denying our face the right to change? As we take on more experience, wisdom and subtlety in life, shouldn’t our expression do the same?
“Success” and Social Media Presence are Not Human Presence
By the grace of my excellent partner and our circle of talented friends, I am starting to meet more “LA-successful” artist types: musicians, dancers, producers, writer-filmmakers and hustling actors. Cute girls who get by on ass pics and weed endorsements and seem to be living their best life. 20-somethings who’ve turned their shared Malibu oceanside abode into a poolside music venue with “no rules”. Legendary choreographers and former child actors jaded by the industry to varying degrees. It turns out that everyone is still just a human being, with legitimate struggles and quirks. Yes, fame and reach can be commodities, but it doesn’t mean that well-known, successful people aren’t constantly dealing with the anxiety of life post-pandemic. I used to not understand this. I grew up thinking that movies and music were made by wizards of some kind. I now understand that profitable art is made by those who combine luck and patience with hard work and constant, collaborative learning. Although, my childlike human brain forgets this sometimes in the presence of Beyoncé’s choreographers and Billy Crystal.
Recently, at an 80’s themed, celebrity birthday event where my good friends’ band was playing a set, I exchanged info with a fellow music producer/ filmmaker in a gold, textured nylon jacket. I had offered to send him a flyer for an event my house is hosting in April. I gave him my instagram name:
“L-o-o-s-h-b-g-o-o-s-h. No, not ‘Looshoosh’. That’s someone else. You forgot the ‘g’, for “goosh.”
…as if it’s not embarrassing enough that my instagram profile is just 5 photos under 185 followers. Cringe.
“It’s a new instagram, so…”
“So, what? Why do you feel the need to say that?” He seemed genuinely curious.
“Um, in case it‘s relevant for you when you look at it.” I locked eyes with him and we knew, in that moment, that we were both human and that instagram is mostly stupid.
“Your instagram is exactly what it’s supposed to be. It’s great.”
“Thanks.”
He said exactly what I would have said if we had switched roles. Your IG doesn’t much matter, but you do. Don’t forget that sh*t. He turned out to have 13.4K followers and a blue check-star of legitimacy. I was glad to have known him in person first.
We forget how much easier and better human interaction is. We put so much time and work into our online lives, even though our brains are only processing the shiny surfaces of popular things and not the whole fact of a human life. The rough shortcut dialogue of a dm or text is nothing compared to a warm body in the same room, fidgeting and locking eyes with you. Social media was always a back burner task for me in my world of social cues, in-person auditions, and handwritten notes. Now I am lost in a flurry of thumb taps and swipes, distracted and avoidant at best, comparing my innate worth with other people’s best photos and captions. I’m an automaton stuffed with emoji combos that will never fully translate a core meaning. I am a polite, generic font or a video snippet no one cares about.
But that’s OK.
My instagram is exactly what it’s supposed to be. Just because I can’t readily transmit my truest smile or my dreamy inner landscape within a digital profile… doesn’t mean I’m supposed to try, especially when I have other sh*t to do.
I would rather watch bees curl into the flowers on the tree in my backyard. I would rather slowly absorb the wisdom in the printed paper pages of a book or the silky leaves of a living room plant. I get more joy from the scroll of an inky micron pen or the stolen smooch of two lovers who work from home than anything I’ve ever viewed on my phone.
I’ll stick around for the memes and the ease of quick connection. I’ll try my damndest to make it better than it currently is, but I will not let social media drown me in comparison and fuddled facts anymore. I will not give it more time than it deserves. And I will no longer press myself to express the real me in some digital box. I will no longer act like my profile should give the whole picture when it barely constitutes a thread of my in-person existence. If you’re looking for the real me, you can find pieces in blogs or be lucky enough to catch me in person.
And even when my instagram profile a little sad, it’s safe to assume that my state of being is a lot less definable, a lot less easy to judge…
A lot more human.
