In the spring of this year, my acquaintances
started sharing bizarre affirmations like “I am
ready for Baguette Lifestyle” and “My skin radi-
ates a Youthful Glow” and “I have never been
bored” on their Instagram stories. The state-
ments, perched precariously between serious and
sarcastic, started to show up everywhere.
“Swollen lymphnode IS NOT CANCER”
“I have not entered self-destruct mode”
“My sneeze will NOT cause an earthquake”
“I AM CRAZY BURGER”
These visuals have a dizzying and distinct
style: Written in a glowing font, affirmations are
superimposed on nutty stock images of colorful
earth scenes, Y2K era paparazzi shots, nostalgic
cartoon characters and other bizarre photos. It’s
like a polychromatic dreamscape, an aesthetic so
bad it’s good, like comic sans and Crocs Jibbitz.
The style seems to nod to memes from a decade
ago (impact font, “deep-fried” filters), and there’s
something about the unlikely pairings of images
and phrases that make the posts feel like an alien’s
recreation of internet culture. They don’t make
any sense — and that’s the point.
What is this trying to say? you might wonder
while viewing glowing underwater fungi over-
laid with “I will get over my ice cube addiction.”
Is there a punchline, or a message, or anything to
truly “get”?
The affirmations fit into the category of
absurdist “text memes” — a format described by
the New York Times, characterized by, “confes-
sional, overly personal messages paired with
seemingly unrelated images allow for an extra
layer of humor and irony.”
And in 2021, internet users have an appetite for
chaos. In the past 11 months, the @afffirmations
account has exploded from zero to over 800,000
followers in 10 months. In the U.S., these memes
exploded as governments relaxed COVID-19
regulations. As I re-entered society with stunted
social skills, the images’ delusional tones and awk-
ward wordings seemed to mirror the moment.
Throughout our second pandemic year, and as
we wrestle with continuing unknowns of a world
ransacked by disease, affirmation accounts make
statements from an aspirational perspective — an
honest, impactful version of ourselves that is “anx-
iety-free” and “ready to dive into a new week.”
But we know we’re not always “ready to dive
into a new week.” Beneath a veneer of crazed joy-
fulness lies an undercurrent of dissatisfaction, the
disillusionment that comes with spending your
once wild and precious life working overtime
so you can afford health insurance. The account
references societal pressures of productivity, the
futility of work and struggles to find pleasure in
daily life. It acknowledges the feeling of mean-
inglessness, but instead of falling into nihilism, it
blasts viewers with somewhat genuine hope that
everything is okay. Amid moments of self-doubt,
proclamations like “I AM COASTAL DJ” make
me feel, if only for a moment, like a coastal DJ. I’m
fine! Everything is fine!
At times, the ridiculous design softens the
blow of hard-hitting truths. “Seeking help is
really cool,” reads one post, which is paired with
a psychedelic image of a bright pink limo. The
posts dress up positive mental health messages
into weird meme formats, making the messages
lighthearted and palatable, not preachy or seri-
ous. Without breaking character, the account may
encourage appropriate care-seeking from people
who have been hit by the psychological toll of the
COVID-19 pandemic.
I WILL spread positivity online
The phenomena all started on the first day
of 2021 when a Norwegian 20-year-old, Mats
Anderson, started the Instagram account @
afffirmations. Formerly a black metal musician
and university student studying Arabic, he’s an
enigmatic figure, and online videos showing him
emphatically reading the affirmations only add to
his mystique. Over video chat, he explained his
work, which he insists is not a joke.
Anderson articulated that for a while, his posts
were so deliriously happy that commenters sug-
gested he was part of a PSYOP, a psychological
operations from the U.S. government to make peo-
ple happier. He chuckled when offering this infor-
mation, adding, “I don’t know what that’s all about.”
He spoke softly and with self-assuredness, like
a tenured humanities professor or Bob Ross. As
we talked, he walked through the streets of Oslo
where he lives.
“Many people consider Norway to be some
sort of utopia, but that’s up for discussion,”
Anderson said.
He wore a tracksuit and his signature sunglass-
es, and he came across as pleasant, scholarly and
faintly aloof — just like he does online.
Anderson’s handsome and well-dressed, and
his good looks don’t go unnoticed: He told me
that 70-80% of his followers are female and that
women frequently ask to meet up with him. He’s
not interested at all.
“First of all, I’m married,” Anderson said, yet he
prefers to keep details about his relationship pri-
vate and doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Like I said,
he’s a man of mystery.
“I am a very simple guy. I do the same thing
every day. I go to the same cafe and I sit there for
a very long time and drink a double latte,” he said.
Anderson brainstorms affirmations, plans the
day’s post and then returns home to construct the
images, which takes about two hours.
“If someone were planning to kill me, it would
be very easy for them because I am always either
at home or at the cafe. These are my only activities:
drinking coffee, walking around and making the
pictures. These are actually the only things I do.
I read books, sure, and I read the newspaper, but I
don’t have any real hobbies.”
He paused to show me the graveyard he was
walking past in Oslo. As he sat on a bench and
pulled out a cigarette, I asked about one of his
more cryptic posts.
“How did you come up with ‘I am Gucci
Grandpa?’”
“In Norway, the Gucci stores use this old model
with white hair, but he looks very good,” Ander-
son said. “I see the advertisement all over and it
just came to me: Gucci grandpa. Ads are probably
the biggest inspiration for me.”
His posts often include nods to late capitalism.
Internet culture also seems to seep into them.
“Do you like memes?” I asked.
“No, I’ve never liked memes. I thought they
were kind of silly. I realize now that I am making
memes. But memes on Instagram that are quickly
made, I do not enjoy.”
Skeptical, I showed him various memes and
asked him if he thought they were funny. Ander-
son wasn’t impressed.
“I don’t understand it. What does it mean?”
I tried another. He wasn’t impressed and
seemed floored when I told him that it had over
80,000 likes. “Oh, so people must actually like
that,” he declared, subtly surprised.
Finally I found one Anderson could appreciate. It
was a picture of Microsoft’s Clippy saying “Perhaps it
is the file which exists and you that does not.”
“I understand that one — the derealization, the
idea that people spend time inside and do drugs
and spend too much time online; the perfect reci-
pe for believing that you are not real. But it’s not for
me. I just don’t understand memes, I guess.”
He prefers to call his work “high art,” but he
knows that people don’t seem to buy that.
After a few months of posting, his following
exploded, landing articles in publications like Vice,
Elle and Rolling Stone. Spinoff accounts cropped
up using his personal style — a style that transcends
language, culture, and geography. Anderson knows
people copy his signature graphics:
“It’s an inevitable part of social media,” he told
me. “I don’t think too much about it. And I know
this won’t last forever.”
Mats Anderson still baffles me a bit, but he
comes across as genuinely content, and the copy-
cats prove that his work is compelling. Maybe he
wasn’t kidding when he posted “I am extremely
happy. You should be worried.”
I am niche campus microcelebrity
The affirmations trend spread to campuses,
starting with New York University. In the spring, a
roommate trio thought that @afffirmations was,
“the funniest thing in the world,” so in a group
chat, they began sharing hyper-specific affirma-
tions-style images created with the photo-editing
tool Picsart.
By mid-April, they expanded their reach and
created a public account with NYU-specific refer-
ences like “Not Having AC In Rubin Builds Char-
acter.” The account, known as @nyuaffirmations,
now boasts over 7,000 followers.
The trend spread at a notable pace, with over
30 universities turning to Instagram pages to take
part in ironic positivity
The affirmations are so specific to their cam-
pus that they don’t make sense to non-students.
“The rats in Ldub are my friends,” reads a post
from a @yale_affirmations; “TU crane is the
father figure I never had,” from Tulane; “I will
NOT fling myself into the banks of Old Raritan”
from Rutgers; “I am big Blacksburg boss” from
Virginia Tech. And even with a lack of context,
I find the plight of these random campuses to be
hysterically charming.
When I do understand the context, it’s even
better. The University of Michigan’s affirmations
page, @umichaffirmations, started in June of this
year when an anonymous person decided to tailor
the trend to Ann Arbor.
Wednesday, November 3, 2021 // The Statement — 2
I AM the college experience:
post-ironic affirmations spread to campuses around the world
BY ANNIE RAUWERDA,
STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
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