The pains of sharing a photo on
Instagram are almost never ending. A
pimple too big, a filter too “cheugy” and a
smile too large can all be deemed a final
flaw. Even after finding the right photo,
there is still the aesthetic to consider —
pulling and twisting a photo you love to fit
into the dollhouse that is your profile page.
This pre-post step is mandatory: You have
to clean up the clutter in an image, so it can
perfectly occupy an ornate frame like an
open house nightmare.
To be honest, this elaborate process
is all too much for me. I haven’t posted
on Instagram in, like, a year. Or, well, I
haven’t posted on my “main” account that
is. During the summer, I cultivated my
“fake Instagram,” a.k.a finsta, as a chaotic
conglomeration of bad poetry and midnight
escapades to all 10 of my followers. This
smaller, private account allowed me to vent
about my feelings and post about private
life in a way that my main account could
never allow. Why in the world would I want
my aunt — one of my many main-Instagram
followers — to know when I’m clubbing,
cruising and crashing?
Unlike Facebook, there is a level of
anonymity that is fostered on Instagram.
You’re allowed to have multiple accounts
under the same contact information. In
fact, these accounts aren’t considered
connected to each other, giving the Gen Z
user the freedom to make as many niche,
obscure accounts as their heart desires.
And the birth of finsta was inevitable
after Instagram became mainstream.
When you have hundreds of followers,
finding a post that makes everyone happy
is overwhelming. What might be funny to
your college friends is “blasphemy” in the
eyes of your uncle.
As opposed to these anonymous, niche
accounts, the level of reality depicted on
main Instagram accounts is abysmal. There
is a saturated market for face editing apps.
There are websites that will create special
instagram caption fonts for your next post.
On some apps, you even have the ability
to track how and when your followers
frequent your account.
But running a personal Instagram
shouldn’t feel like being a marketing
manager. Consolidating photos that are
cohesive to your account’s “aesthetic” can
look super cute, but is it true to oneself?
To get those photos means leaving parts
yourself out of the picture. Setting up
photos at brunch feels a little artificial if
you wouldn’t be caught awake before 1 p.m.
on a weekend.
Social media shouldn’t feel limiting.
Posting on your main page shouldn’t feel
like adding set pieces to a retail display. It
should feel like sharing what you love with
people who care.
Sure, I have that sense of authentic
closeness among my 10 finsta followers,
but at what cost? Why lead this Hannah
Montana fantasy — with girl-next-door
Miley on a finsta and popstar Hannah on
the main — when it is easier to just cultivate
an authentic digital persona on one main
account? Crusty dog photos, crying selfies
and all?
Gen Z has taken note of these questions,
and Instagram culture has shifted. People
don’t use their finstas as much, maybe
because the pandemic showed just how
tiring performing on social media can be
in the end. Now, mains are messier — in a
good way.
It starts out small. A post of a sunset is
met with a Vine (a.k.a. an extinct TikTok
predecessor) quote. Suddenly, Twitter
screenshots are used to punctuate the ends
of slideshow posts. You repost content
from @umichaffirmations more often.
Insta stories are now home to Spotify
recommendations
and
blurry
candid
photos.
I appreciate the candidness of the people
I follow. Their mains are messy in a way
that a room is lived in. Sometimes you don’t
make your bed, and that is okay. Sometimes
you have pit stains when taking a selfie, and
that is also okay. Your pit sweat shouldn’t
kill your happiness just like the assortment
of cups that adorn your room isn’t clutter,
but chic. I mean, my room right now is
college-core, raccoon-eye chic; interior
design is not my main concern.
The spaces we exist in shouldn’t be
ready-made store displays. Instagram
shouldn’t feel like the dorm room shown to
you during a campus tour. Social media is
not the room where all your dirty clothes,
mismatched socks and retainers are
thrown in the closet. That is so 2015.
Let the chachkas you love and collect
bathe in the sun. For so long, I thought
social media was a thing to be graded
or gawked at. But it can be something to
explore and grow into when you get messy
on main.
Wednesday, September 29, 2021 — 4
Arts
Messy on Main: The life and death of finsta
MATTHEW EGGERS
Daily Arts Writer
Content warning: Addiction, substance use
“Euphoria,” Gen Z’s favorite show
about Gen Z has just announced plans for
its second season. Based on creator Sam
Levinson’s “own experience with anxiety,
addiction and depression,” HBO’s racy
drama about high school follows a group
of students as they grapple with their own
post-pubescent hurdles, from the pressures
of athletic and academic stardom to deceit
on dating apps. It’s called “Euphoria,” but “a
feeling of intense happiness and excitement”
is not what you feel as you begin the first
episode, observing footage of the World
Trade Center attacks.
“Euphoria” begins the same way Gen
Z was thrust into the world: amid the
violent ruins of post 9/11 America. The
unrelentingly heavy tone of the show, which
depicts subjects such as drug use, violence
and revenge child pornography, has made it
equally loved and hated for what fans see as
accuracy and what critics see as glorification
of its subject matter. The backlash can
perhaps be interpreted as an example of
what happens when art imitates life a little
too vibrantly, and here, Gen Z’s own trauma
is projected back to us in moody technicolor.
“Euphoria” stars Rue Bennett, a 17-year-
old teen struggling with addiction, who in an
ironic twist is played by Zendaya (“Dune”),
our generation’s favorite Disney star. The
students are revealed to us through Rue’s
unreliable narration, and we experience the
highs and lows of high school as Rue does.
As a result, while the harsh realities of
drug use and addiction are made clear (in
the second episode of the first season, Rue
is shown laying in a pile of her own vomit
after overdosing), Rue’s altered state gives
the trippy scenes in “Euphoria” the most
beautiful visuals, music and cinematography
in the entire show. Yet, somehow, these scenes
maintain a balance between being heavily
stylized and viscerally realistic. Ultimately,
the way “Euphoria” deals with its heaviest
topics is uncomfortable and shocking.
“Euphoria” and its unapologetically
bold depiction of mature themes have
fueled many critics; some conservative
organizations have even called for the show
to be removed from the air due to what
they see as the glamorization of violence,
pills and sex. The Parents Television and
Media Council, a U.S. Christian censorship
advocacy group, expressed concern that
“HBO, with its new high school-centered
show ‘Euphoria,’ appears to be overtly,
intentionally marketing extremely graphic
adult content — sex, violence, profanity and
drug use – to teens and preteens.” The media
review platform Movie Guide has called
upon its readers to sign a petition demanding
HBO pull “Euphoria” from its programming,
which it describes as “vile beyond belief.”
It is perhaps due to all of this that
“Euphoria” has already become a cult
classic — Gen Z’s “Pulp Fiction.” In the years
following the show’s release, Gen Zers have
cultivated a so-called “Euphoria aesthetic,”
using colors and styles emblematic of the
show so fully and so frequently that it is
hard to imagine our generation before
“Euphoria” aired in 2019. Teens across the
country began wearing glitter-tear makeup
and dressing up as characters Cassie
and Maddie for Halloween. The actors’
Instagram accounts have gained millions of
followers, and many fashion brands catered
towards Gen Z have adopted the bold style
of the show’s universe.
The way Gen Z has adopted the “Euphoria”
aesthetic makes it feel as though the show
is the mirror Gen Z didn’t know it needed.
The generation’s embrace of the series is
more about teens expressing their identity
through technology and self-discovery and
feeling understood than wanting to glorify
substance use and sexual assault.
Levinson claims that, for “Euphoria,”
he “was just trying to capture that kind of
heightened sense of emotion when you’re
young, and how relationships feel.” This
decision, he says, was made to help older
generations understand Gen Z, and for
members of Gen Z to realize they are not
alone as the gap between generations
continues
to
widen
and
technology
increasingly impacts how we live our lives.
Like characters Rue, Jules, Cassie,
Maddie and Nate, I was born into a post-
9/11 America. I, too, sat through lockdown
drills, consumed media I probably shouldn’t
have at my age. Though “Euphoria” is more
severe than my experience, for me and
many of my friends, the series represents
many of the problems that we face and
accurately reflects our generation’s fears
and anxieties. Unlike the multitude of other
shows about high school for Gen Z that I’ve
recently watched, seeing these issues, albeit
in the show’s caricatured, melodramatic
depictions, felt cathartic and validated my
own struggles with anxiety and technology
throughout high school.
“Euphoria” is Gen Z, in all of its glittery,
confusing, pixelated glory.
‘Euphoria’ is Gen Z’s looking glass
JADEN KATZ
Daily Arts Writer
Design by Madison Grosvenor
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Design by Madison Grosvenor