Hey Instagram: You've Changed, Man

A deep-dive into the evolution of the app and why we even bother anymore

Us editing our newsletter at 12:15 p.m. today

Brigid: Does everyone else also feel like Instagram has been shapeshifting into something unrecognizable and frankly, kind of exhausting? When Instagram first entered our collective consciousness, it was a platform that our visual-driven generation of internet users could easily get behind. We had graduated from uploading entire albums of pictures from our digital cameras to Facebook and we had iPhones now, and were ready to show off our artistic prowess via heavily saturated photos of our lunch. Here are a few of my favorite food posts from 2012:

The filters! The close-up angles! The straightforward captions! What artistry, what a time to be alive, to be creating.

Instagram has obviously gone through many iterations of itself in the last decade. What was once a place to show off a carefully curated #picstitch for your BFFs birthday is now a battle between content creators and an oppressive algorithm, a feed featuring more ads than pictures from your friends, and a breeding ground for body image issues, performative activism, and spon con. I lay awake at night wondering, is Instagram even fun anymore? Also, because my screen time has replaced my internal clock and perception of time and reality. Circadian rhythm who?

Britnee: You said recently that scrolling Instagram is the modern version of watching commercials. I've been thinking about it a lot because it's true—when I scroll the app nowadays, my brain goes on autopilot. I don't care about most of what I see, because most of it is somebody trying to sell me something, and at least half of those are promoted posts from pages I don't even follow. I open it up for thirty seconds and then close it because it doesn't bring me joy. And then I open it up again, probably because I am procrastinating doing something else. It's a vicious cycle. 

So why do I bother keeping the app at all? Obviously because I want access to information, to the news and things going on in my friends' lives, in celebrities' lives, in the lives of cool people I met once or twice at indie shows or a random house party in Bushwick. Another reason is that I want to support musicians, artists, small and local businesses, to know about concerts and new releases and special sales. I hate the ads, the sponsored posts, the overall impersonality of it all, but I still take advantage of the fact that brands I like use the app to sell their products. And in fact, many of my favorite brands and artists I only know about because of Instagram. Does that mean I'm part of the problem?

Brigid: The short answer is probably yes, but the more complicated one is that the problem is so pervasive that the only way to avoid it is to remove yourself entirely. You would need to get off Instagram, then all other social media, then delete your gmail account, then every app on your iPhone, then your iPhone altogether. And let’s not pretend: that just isn’t an option. There really isn’t any opting out of the internet. You’re part of the problem, and you don’t have much say in the matter.

The idea of quitting social media is very appealing for all the reasons you mentioned— going on Instagram at this point is really just scrolling through ads, it’s a means of procrastination, and I don’t know that I even enjoy it—but then I think, how will I find out about upcoming shows and newly released songs? Will I miss out on a story sale from my favorite local shop? Will I still be able to enjoy SNL? I always come to the same conclusion that giving up the app means giving up more of my life than I’m willing to. Which, of course, means I should consider just how much of my life I am allowing to be wrapped up in this, but, as long as I keep scrolling, I can ignore that thought entirely.

I think we’ve all seen the ways we try to counteract the issue by using the app for “good.” In the last year especially, we’ve all become activists, using our “platforms” to give voice to the bigger issues, or rather our moral high ground on the bigger issues and everyone else’s complete ignorance around them. If you’d believe our constantly replenishing Instagram stories, each and every one of us knows the solution to racism in America! If only everybody else would listen! The rise of the Instagram activist has convinced some people that the app is actually a vessel for advocacy, which, in some instances, it absolutely is. But in most, it’s just another way for us to police each other and pat ourselves on the back for, once again, always being right (I say “we” because I am 100% guilty of this, don’t come for me).

The most spectacular example of this that I’ve witnessed was the total fiasco that was the #blackouttuesday event of June 2020. If you’re not familiar, one fateful day last year, Instagram users took to the app to black out the timeline in response to police brutality by posting black squares of solidarity.

I watched in awe as the day unfolded and our communal superiority complexes came to a head.

At 9:00 am, those who were posting black squares were model allies, proudly and boldly announcing their BLM support to their worlds, and letting anyone who wasn’t posting know that they should be ashamed of themselves. By noon, other, even more model allies had concluded that if you were posting a black square, you were simply not. doing. enough. The original heroes were deemed tone-deaf, lazy, and performative. Egos were challenged. Posters were humiliated. Black squares appeared and disappeared from profiles as the consensus fluctuated. Who was the true ally? Who had the moral high ground? In the end, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were more right than the people you were following.

Again, you might notice how completely right I was in staying out of it entirely.
*pats self on back*

This is only one example—one that not-a-one of us learned from—but it feels pretty representative of the ways we weaponize our behaviors on this app against each other and how every time we think we’ve discovered a solution, it’s revealed to be yet another symptom of the disease.

What about you? Do you use Instagram to bolster your specific brand of activism? Do you think it’s worthwhile?

Britnee: My relationship with Instagram is always changing. Everything I post there is a reflection of me, but how much of myself I’m willing to give is a constant internal battle. Will people really care if I post another cute photoset of my dog, or another infographic with scary stats about climate change? Will they care if I don’t? And why do I care whether or not my whopping (*checks notes*) 891 followers care what I post, especially when I don’t know, and will maybe never even see, many of them in real life? It’s different of course if you have a platform, but I’m not an influencer and will probably never be one. Most of my followers share my beliefs. Is it my responsibility to use Instagram to keep them informed about stuff they probably already know? Is it irresponsible to just post about my own life when there are so many more important things going on in the world? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

But I like that you’re asking about my “specific brand” of activism, because it implies activism varies from person to person. As we know, there are different ways to be an activist—peaceful protesting, volunteering, marching, donating, writing, creating art—and what works for some people might not be feasible for others. That’s kind of where the issue with Instagram activism lies, I think. Almost everybody has the app. And when everybody starts sharing infographics about racism and injustice, everybody becomes a kind of activist. And then the definition of activism in that sphere changes.

In most cases, the intention of Instagram activism is more about defining a person’s image, or brand, than it is about participating in any actual activism. I say most cases because, as you also pointed out, certain groups of activists are doing really great work using the app to organize and educate. But when Kristy from high school shares an infographic to Stories with statistics on prison abolition, that doesn’t replace the work of showing up physically for the cause—by marching, or making phone calls, or donating, for example. What it does do is let all of her followers know that she cares about prison abolition, in the same way sharing a song from Punisher lets them know she likes Phoebe Bridgers. (By the way, yes. I am Kristy from high school. So are many of you, I’d wager.) And what’s more is that the more infographics Kristy posts, the less relevant they seem to the scrolling eye, especially when the information is sandwiched between a picture of Phoebe and a picture of Kristy’s breakfast. In other words, the more she tries to be an Instagram activist, the less it pays off. Which, by the way, is the opposite of how real activism works.

I’ve struggled with seeming performative online, especially when it comes to activism, but what I’ve come to realize is that everything about being online is a performance. It doesn’t really matter what we do there as long as we’re ethical people in real life. I think the same rules apply to Instagram activism. We can share all the NYT headlines and aesthetically pleasing infographics we want, we just need to make sure we’re out there marching and opening up our wallets, too. We don’t have to post about it on Instagram to prove that it really happened, either.

So what does the future of Instagram look like to you? How do you hope to engage with it?

Brigid: Lately, whenever I have the urge to post something, I stop and think, does anybody actually want to see this besides my parents? And I decide no and I just send the picture to my parents. This kind of self-interrogation has really clarified the value of the app for me. I think I am coming to terms with the fact that I can use Instagram purely for news and shopping and that I can still reach out directly to the people who I actually want to share my life with. Investigating my urge to post typically results in me texting my family group chat instead of hitting publish, and the engagement there is much higher. So, I don’t know, maybe the evolution of the platform is ultimately helpful in determining what I care about. Maybe I will finally be released from the false belief that I need to know where my high school classmates are going out to eat tonight. Maybe not.

What about you?

Britnee: I wish I could say I'd be perfectly content to delete Instagram and never look back, but I know that's not true. I am but a wee cog in the capitalist machine. If my only options are to use the app the way it is or to not use it at all, I'm going to use it as is. At least, until something better comes along. I'm trying to use Instagram less—now that I finally have a New York Times crossword subscription, I have a new favorite app to waste time on—but as a child of the OG Instagram, and someone who has been on the app for 11 years, it's going to take time and practice for me to stop relying on it completely. Especially considering the ways Instagram helps me professionally—as a freelance culture writer, I regularly scour the app for pitch ideas. It’s also how I stay connected with editors and other freelancers. It’s also how I promote my own writing, like this newsletter.

We can shit-talk the evolution of the app all day, but would we have even made this newsletter if we didn’t have Instagram to promote it on?

Instagram, by the way, isn’t sorry about using the app for professional exploitation, so why should we be? We all remember the day Instagram rolled out that terrible feed update, where the shop tab replaced the likes tab. We were all angry. Especially Tyler, the Creator. That's because we all saw the move for what it really was: a big fuck you from Instagram itself, an acknowledgment that it really is all about the money.

I know I don't need to tell you that capitalism ruins everything, but it still bears repeating. Capitalism ruins everything! Say it with me now!

Brigid: Yeah, it does start to get a little embarrassing when the platform stops even trying to hide that it’s exploiting you, and still, we stay, cause we love the sweet, sweet hit of a feed refresh.

The fact of the matter is that we are babies of capitalism. We can rage against the machine all we want, but when you’re the child of the machine, you’re still gonna hit it up when you need money.

That’s all for now! What do you think about the evolution of Instagram? Let us know in the comments.