This morning, it was brought to my attention that the year is not 1883 and that cameras are capable of shooting color photographic images.
But first: I've been working on a pretty scathing indictment of Instagram for the past few days and I'm a little intimidated to post it--mostly because it's not done, but also because other people apparently have feelings.
Eventually, though, I'll take a moment to unpack the Jim Jones-y, holy shit narcissism of the term "follower." I'll also get into the fact that if you aren’t Naturally Famous and want more than a handful of people to see what you create, you’ve got to set aside time to go out and tell them, bro, just how great their stuff is, bro.
A lot of people--quite rightfully--complain about the fraudulent personal mythologies that we construct online. What gets me revved up like an ice cream truck on the freeway, though, is the subconscious expectation of reciprocity--that weird undercurrent of guilt-initiation which seems to drive so much of the traffic on Instagram. I'm not looking at you, friends. I'm looking at the Taiwanese girls with 40x the followers who post a bunch of wholly irrelevant emojis on my pictures.
Mostly, though, this will be a thousand word excuse to use the following line: whether they produce Rothkos or blurred photos of roadkill is immaterial to the entire enterprise, sir.