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On Beginning & Ending and other poems

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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On Beginning & Ending

TW: self-harm, religious domestic abuse

On beginning 
as we usually do 
in the early morning; 
on rising early 
to gather the eggs, 
garner the harvest; 
on gathering 
long locks of hair 
sewn tightly into bonnets; 
on sewing 
quilts adorned with 
lifeless geometry & paltry paisley; on adorning, 
secretly, the bonnets with 
blossoms pruned from grow; 
on pruning 
feverish thoughts 
& mindful wandering; 
on wandering 
what lies beyond the creek 
or wondering; 
on lying 
the view from the middle row 
of the pastor’s daily preach; 
on preaching 
pastures that we sow 
the laborious fruit we reap; 
on sowing 
a stray & frayed thought 
sprouts quietly from seed; 
on straying 
fingers clutched & wet, touch, 
the ringing of a mother’s mourn; on mourning 
eyes raw with penitent begging 
for straw sky forgiveness; 
on forgiving 
yourself 
this small act of rebellion; 
on acting 
browbeaten contrition, retribution–
it is endless; 
on ending: 
maybe this is how
angels are made 

quietly, 
in the space between worlds.

Letter for a boy named Aubrey

Aubrey, 
You will never know the house 
in L.A. with the 1975 Camaro in
the driveway and the mold on 
the ceilings where your Great Grandfather
spent the last years of His life yelling at
your Great Aunt through cottage cheese
dinners and post stroke dementia. Or the
bonnets and single color 
dresses to the ankles and the 
washing the hair in the sink and
the chickens and the ducks in 
the back yard and Mr. Ugly Nasty
who always got bullied by the 
other ducks or the dead cow 
we found floating in the creek 
or the deer that said hello in the 
back window while we were eating
dinner. And your earliest memory
probably won’t be hiding in the 
tall grass on the farm, while your
mother rang the bell and called 
your name and you sat there 
alone in the grass, looking for just
a moment of peace. 
Oh, Aubrey. 
You will never get to break into your
childhood home to show a realtor the
birds that have nested in 
the kitchen cabinets or the secret drug
den in the attic and the love that did
not echo through the yellow living
room with the striped wallpaper and
the kitchen with the birds and the trees
and the long hallway. 
You will not grow up with the woods
in your backyard that separated you
from all those tanks of gas waiting to
explode which will not end up being
a metaphor for the marriage you
were born into. 
Oh, Aubrey. 
Good for you, bud.

Appears in —

Dean Boskovich

Dean Boskovich is a cook. His work has appeared previously in T.G.I. Friday’s, continental breakfasts, and various food delivery apps. Dean hopes your friends don’t think he was being too awkward the other day.

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