Wheel Upon The Stairs
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/
more from this issue —
“She’s going to lose the house,” I said,
“My granddad did up that house:
“The back door is the original front door,
“The stained-glass ships in the window are handmade,
“The wood panelling came from his boat,
“So did the wheel on the turn of the stairs.
“We’re gonna lose everything.”
I said this like I don’t have his watch,
His poetry books,
The lantern he was too sick to open,
The letters he sent me, each signed with
His signature.
But the house wasn’t mine, it was ours.
It was where we grew up,
Counting the stairs,
Navigating early life with a map of his stories,
Reciting poetry and always mixing up at least two of the lines.
And houses cost money –
Don’t I know it.
South bound alone
To grow.
I realise I don’t want the house, it’s too big for me alone.
But a builder wouldn’t know that the back door was the original front door.
Wouldn’t keep the Henry Wadsworth plaque that’s black with mould but matches the pattern in the
window when you clean it.
Wouldn’t know that the panelling and the ship’s wheel mounted on the wall came from the same
boat.
Maybe the wheel would stay.
Maybe it’s too big and cumbersome to take down, and it’d leave a hole in the wall too big and
cumbersome to fill.
Maybe they’ll leave it to match the pattern in the window.
Maybe a new generation of kids, a family I won’t meet, will grow up under her wise stare.
They won’t know that the man who put it there used it steer his real boat.
Maybe it’s okay to let them dream about it. It never felt real to us either, this old man with his
poetry books used to battle the weather on open water.
I pick through the letters kept in a biscuit tin until I find one where his signature is clear,
Each letter perfect.
I consider doing this by the light of his lantern,
But decide this little lantern is as much use as a ship’s wheel mounted to a brick wall.
We brace against the cold northern wind of growing up,
Our faces in lantern light that is fading with old memories
Aware that soon we will have to let go.
Thy comings and thy goings be upon the bosom of life’s sea.
Appears in —
R. M. Phyllis
R. M. Phyllis (she/her) is a reading glut who procrastinates reading by writing and writing by reading. No book finds the DNF pile on her shelf, much to her own frustration.
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