I deleted my Instagram account yesterday and breathed a sigh of relief. It was not a rapid decision. I mulled it.
I loved popping on to IG to see what other artists were posting- there was so much brilliant work out there. It seemed each person on IG followed the rules to build a community of followers with daily posts and stories about the work, the technique, the preparation, the inspiration, reels with carefully selected music. And as the guidelines predicted, success did follow. I saw artists nail sales, land shows, end up in art fairs, and some, with gallery representation: Ultimate Success All Through Instagram. I was in awe, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not do it.
I enrolled and dropped out of various online art community programs, all led by amazing founders offering terrific programs to any person who identified as an Artist. There was support and camaraderie galore, all I had to do was throw myself into the digital world with abandonment and commitment, but I could not convert me to an internet phenomenom. In the world of social media, I had aged out of the zeitgeist compared to the thriving gurus who inhabit that milieu like it’s their bedroom posting their pinnacles of joy and darkest raw emotions with sincerity and the softest ability to pitch a product. It was an unfamiliar process that I could never adapt to. In the technological multiverse of today, I treasure so much of my past.
I love to hold paper when I read and see people over coffee or cocktails in person and to touch fabric before I purchase clothing. The effort of trying to nest in digital world just never took root and ended up increasing my angst. I like this intimate world of mine liberally populated with friends family and beauty where I am so absorbed in playing chess in the backyard on a Sunday afternoon, I don’t take a photo to post on IG even though the light was perfect. I’ll just have to savor the memory.
And so DELETE I did.
