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Mama's Dupatta

The Social Gaze: On Watching and Being Watched

“Today everything exists to end in a photograph.”

 – Susan Sontag, On Photography

Sontag’s remarks were deemed controversial in the late 70s. In the digital age of image saturation, however, she’s the disseminator of the gospel truth. Everything today from our casual interests, beliefs, interactions across mediums, and even our personality – exists to end up in a 1080 x 1080 pixel and 4:5 aspect ratio photograph, nestled in a thoughtfully curated grid – for the feasting eyes of the other.

The malleability provided by social media platforms to alter our identities has been a matter of discourse since its inception. Our online personas have never existed in a vacuum. As social creatures, we’re in constant anticipation of the outsider’s gaze, in both awe and fear. The inherent need to be seen is always accompanied by the fearful clasp of judgment tight around its neck. The human herd instinct to seek approval makes most of our behaviour in social settings performative. From the clothes we wear and the movies we watch to the opinions we hold more often than not arise from the need to achieve a sense of belonging – the one slated third in Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs[1].

While the performances persist, it’s only human to slip up at times.
Entrée the power of social media.
Social media platforms like Instagram, Snapchat and X (formerly Twitter) allow us to not only create a production out of our existence but up the ante as well – we get to control who views our performance, along with the parts they get to see.

Here’s a thought experiment. Imagine you’re (doom)scrolling through Instagram when you come across a post by a conventionally attractive, white woman. She’s seated in an outdoor cafe. The sunbeams bounce perfectly off of her black sunglasses. Her profile faces the camera as she peers into her phone’s screen, carefully reapplying her lipstick.

Seems cool enough right? What if you zoom in just a bit?

Those sunglasses are the coveted Tom Fords in Whitney, and her lipstick is the classic Rouge Dior. What else, the bottom half of the picture seems to cut off a pack of Marlboro Lights and what appears to be an incredibly expensive lighter!

There’s at least a fifty per cent chance that you’ll believe you’ve stumbled across the feed of an heiress out to lunch in Italy. Such is the power of branding. The mere association with brands established as luxurious converts a simple photograph into an identity definer, as Professor Nita Mathur notes, “commercial brands and luxury commodities have come to serve as signifiers of identity in society”[2], allowing individuals to construct, deconstruct or reconstruct their social identities.

References

https://psychclassics.yorku.ca/Maslow/motivation.htm
https://sk.sagepub.com/books/consumer-culture-modernity-and-identity
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14JGQ1JWSgc&t=632s
https://www.forbes.com/sites/forbescommunicationscouncil/2023/01/26/why-and-how-to-implement-social-media-branding/?sh=3c975389793b
https://internetprincess.substack.com/p/standing-on-the-shoulders-of-complex
https://academic.oup.com/jcr/article-abstract/32/1/171/1796334?redirectedFrom=fulltext
https://www.wired.com/story/business-gen-z-social-media/
https://creative.salon/articles/features/is-social-media-over-for-the-younger-generation
https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/new-nihilism-how-gen-z-is-embracing-a-life-of-futility-and-meaninglessness-20231016-p5ecra.html
https://www.businessoffashion.com/reports/news-analysis/the-state-of-fashion-2024-report-bof-mckinsey/

Appears in —

Kai

Kai is a student of literature and a fan of stories in all forms. Currently fidgeting behind a camera lens, she’s always struggling with thinking too much and not writing enough.

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I am 5. Against a backdrop of flickering lights and early 2000s Bollywood, I drape the delicate fabric around my waist and over my shoulder, vehemently twirling on the carpet with the sort of feverish urgency that makes the world make a little more sense. Here, life is simple, and life is sweet — and to breathe is not to ache. Imagination goes a long way, they say — so I sit back as fluorescent bulbs metamorphose into sumptuous chandeliers and bedrooms into vast bungalows and studs into radiant jhumkay (earrings) too big for my ears. And little old me? I’m Aishwarya Rai — or so my brain whispers at least. I am not a little girl; I am a woman. I watch as the corners of the room glisten and pulsate with life — a cacophony of sitars and drums unabashedly reverberating around the room and encapsulating my adolescent body in a vibrant reverie. It’s just me and my silk against the world, I think, as I bask in the glory of the cascading cloth. Maybe it’s the room that’s fervidly spinning on its axis, paying no heed to the utter monotony of its surroundings — or maybe it’s me. I find it difficult to tell. I am a coalescence of emulated dance moves and makeshift sarees, relishing the feel of the gossamer on my skin and officially deeming it my most prized possession. But then a timid voice in my head threatens to rain on the parades of felicity I’ve concocted so lovingly: shh, keep it down. We don’t want Mama to find out. Mama says these songs [giggles] are for big girls. So I reluctantly enclose the echoes of laughter inside my silk-clad silhouette, continuing to spin like the records Mama window-shops on a daily basis. I am every toddler’s dream come true — and I harbor the feeling in my butterfly belly with all I’ve got.


I am 21. You seldom realize the ephemerality of a moment until it’s been replaced with a profound stillness, leaving in its wake the remnants of a life that once was. I am a fatigued amalgamation of under-eye crescents and calloused heels, yet another casualty at the hands of fate — but then I adorn myself with the exquisite fabric of the yesteryears, and for a minute there, I am alright. It still smells like 2005 — like the nostalgia that swallows you whole among wide-eyed strangers in the middle of a seemingly normal summer afternoon, transporting you to the memorable fields of ebullience you fervently yearn to run through one more time. I am not a little girl; I am a woman — but I wish I wasn’t. It’s a soul-sucking realization, this one. I am a woman — a pacing mishmash of sleepless, caffeinated nights and one-too-many deadlines, a bottomless chasm and a vacant shell. That Aishwarya Rai song now sits in a throwback playlist, but we’ll still pretend it’s the 2000s for that semblance of normality — the burning pining for something unattainable. And there’s a little tear on the upper right of the cloth — but you know the deal, right? Don’t tell Mama. We don’t want to disappoint Mama. On days that require deep breathing and the counting of tiles to go to sleep, the pastel blue tenderness envelopes me in its humanlike embrace, covering me with the silken blanket of sentiment — of love, of simpler times and of Her scent. And then it’s okay again. It’s okay. As long as I have Mama’s dupatta (scarf), it’s okay.

Appears in —

Adenah Furquan

Adenah Furquan is a 21-year-old with an earnest passion for writing and feminism. When she’s not brainstorming ideas for new pieces or trying to dismantle the patriarchy, Adenah can be found listening to indie rock, watching or reading psychological thrillers, and gushing over scented candles.

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