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Should Never Be Seen

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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Hemostasis

My daughter has a scar on her forehead. She tripped and crashed, headfirst. The sharp edges were covered with corner guards: she wasn’t the first. The words ‘it could have been worse’ were little comfort – we had other plans.

It was the first morning of a much-needed holiday. I wasn’t prepared for the hospitals, for the babble of foreign words, for doing it all alone. I held her flailing arms down while doctors stitched her perfect skin, her desperate eyes staring up at me pleading, not understanding why I was assisting. Tears fell for each of the many things around her that I was too weak to put right.
Afterwards, told to avoid water and the playground, we built sandcastles and rebuilt our lives.

 

Inflammation

Maybe I should have done more to support the healing. I tried, but exhaustion, then emptiness, took over. I neglected the wound, and then it became forever: each deep and ragged white line so visible, where once was flawless youth and innocence. I hoped she wouldn’t hold it against me; I prayed she would understand.

 

Proliferation

I imagined she would hide it behind hair or makeup, but she wore her hair tied back, only ever making up her eyes, her teenage skin still clear but for that one mark. When the questions began, I was honest but careful not to break her heart. I hid inside myself, covered in warpaint.

 

Remodelling

‘You’re wearing those colours together? You look like a tomato!’

‘I know, I look bright and fruity; fabulous, isn’t it?’

A rhetorical question, she doesn’t expect or want an answer, she thinks she looks fabulous; therefore, she does. She doesn’t care for the ‘shoulds’ or ‘should nots’. I can imagine her friend’s face on the other side of the door: gobsmacked. But something else too: admiration. The way I feel each day. How did she grow up so confident?

#

‘Mum, Dad’s wife,’ she pauses briefly.

‘You can say her name, Ailith,’ I laugh, finally at ease with the permanence of his other woman.

‘She said she could get my scar lasered for me.’

‘Well-’

‘I know, what a cheek.’

‘I’m sorry, love,’ I say, stroking the point on her forehead that marks the change in our lives.

‘I think it hurt you more than me, Mum. I remember your tears falling on my face. I remember thinking it must be bad if she’s crying – you’re the strongest person I know. Anyway, I told her to keep her money and asked Dad to get me a car instead – we can get the shopping easier then.’

My daughter has a scar on her forehead, proud for all to see; I have just realised, that is down to me.

Appears in —

Claire

Claire lives in Austria and escapes back to her mother tongue through her fiction writing. She has short stories published or upcoming in print and online at places including Funny Pearls, Fudoki Magazine, Blinkpot, Grindstone Literary and Reflex Fiction. She has been shortlisted and longlisted in various international competitions.

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