the public domain
on the artist, the art, and the public; the value of sentimentality, the commodification of self and vulnerability as an instrument for attention.
I started this substack 3 months ago to crystalize my already very restless mind into tangible words. It was a challenge for me to substantiate an idea from start to finish. Still, invariably, on some level, it was also out of vanity, out of an unavoidable desire for validation beyond the superficial level.
It’s been a beautiful journey, but a strange one personally. Meetings with old friends somehow turn into discussions on my latest post; DMs from friends of friends or even strangers saying how much they resonated with writing; I’ve grown used to opening my phone every Sunday morning to the comments on my latest substack post.
“It’s just… so brave” is the comment I receive the most from people I know the most intimately.
I was well aware that in publishing I was inviting scrutiny, conversation, and judgment on my most genuine and authentic thoughts. But suddenly, I felt stark naked and wanted nothing more than to deactivate my Substack the way girls deactivate their Instagrams.
This impulse to share and then delete captures the push and pull of our modern relationship with technology. Yes, it is a way of sharing and staying connected, but we cannot escape the implicit calls for validation accompanying it. No act of posting can ever be truly unadulterated and safe from the cravings of the disgustingly hungry ego.
If bikini pics are the currency of Instagram, vulnerability is the currency of personal essays. My writing would be nothing without my personal experience and raw unfiltered thoughts. To what extent was I airing out my dirty laundry, and crossing boundaries between my personal and public life?
Maybe it all got a bit too overwhelming, but recently I’ve been unable to formulate ideas. Though almost all feedback has been positive, the burden of perception has gotten to me.
I couldn’t help but wonder (in true Carrie Bradshaw style): why do we write? Why do I write? Or more precisely: why do we decide to share things publically?
Let’s entertain three hypotheticals, shall we?
for the sake of art
It is a romantic notion, especially in a capitalistic society, that we can create and share art for the sheer sake of art itself. It’s almost laughable, to some extent, to think that one’s pursuit of art can be independent of the urge to monetize it, with the two clauses being so inseparable in today’s world. When given the choice, isn’t the final boss of all artists to be able to live off their craft?
“The sake of art” is a beautiful ideal that we as the audience continue to look for. Take Van Gogh for example, isn’t part of the appeal of his art that he was driven to madness creating art without an audience? His art, so distinctly his, feels untainted from the murky waters of capitalism. the poor starving artist trope is always romantic because in a way the merging of capitalism and art just feels wrong. The common phenomenon of artists becoming famous only after passing captures how we like to see art —divorced from capitalistic gains and from the awareness of one’s audience.
I’ve been reading Joan Didion all summer long, and what struck me the most with her writing is how entirely unsentimental it is (this Goodreads review captures my feelings towards Didion almost entirely). In a way, I’ve been acclimated to the other end of the spectrum where even a get-ready-with-me can turn into a storytime about a cheating ex. In the information age, our attention is constantly being captured by parasocial connections with people on the internet. With an infinite amount of things to care about - the political state of the world, climate change, a random stranger on a Reddit forum trying to start a fight, a new lip stain that is kiss-proof - we yearn for those moments of pseudo-connections. We tout realness as the ultimate virtue, reliability as the pinnacle of our character, and vulnerability as the currency of social interactions. Moments of vulnerability and authenticity become immensely monetizable. Just look at the rise of fame of Emma Chamberlain.
I guess when one commodifies oneself, it feels less authentic, like a naked dance rather than a performance, and I often wonder if I am doing exactly that - mistaking revealing portraits as art, shock as intrigue, and ultimately ending up commodifying myself in the name of art.
Because my writing is deeply sentimental I question its artistic integrity, can I even call myself or view myself as a writer if most of it is driven by my personal and emotional experiences? Good literature can be autobiographical, in recent years we have even seen the rise of hyperrealistic genres such as autofiction, but memoirs are rarely considered “good writing”. In “good” art, we seem to only want to see the self hidden in metaphors, found not revealed, disguised subtly rather than forcibly shoved down your throat.
But then again, when you create something that you think is great don’t you have the urge to share it? Is the purpose of art for people to see it?
for the sake of communication
I entertain another ideal - art as the device for meaning.
I took visual art in high school, where we were required to write 20k-word dissertations on the implicit meaning and significance of artworks. Similarly, in a literature class, we were taught to analyze and then overanalyze everything from an advertisement to Macbeth in literature class. The continual search for deeper significance is what differentiates us from animals I guess.
In reader-response theory it is argued that it doesn’t matter the intent of the author but the reader’s interpretation of which, I write to communicate certain thoughts, but I can’t deny the very real possibility that my thoughts can be misconstrued.
I was recently made aware of instances where my writing has been the topic of contention in several conversations. While it’s nice and validating, and in some aspects, I do write to provoke, either positively or negatively, the provocation is an essential process in itself, but does it matter how my work is received? I’ve come to learn that it is a dangerous process when you do something only for the sake of a certain result. A lot of creators here have expressed their hatred for the publisher’s dashboard and I agree wholeheartedly, but I am also addicted to seeing the impact of my work quantified.
I write to communicate, that is a large part of its purpose. And yet, as much as I entertain this ideal of art as a device for meaning, I can't escape the instinct to measure the impact, to crave some form of validation. Does it mean less if it doesn't provoke the reaction I hoped for? Or does that, too, contribute to the life of the work?
for the sake of presentation
The ugliest intent of them all: how much of what we show the world is to garner some sort of reaction? The choice to publish one’s work publicly will always be a conscious choice, so really, what are you trying to get out of it? what am I trying to get out of it?
As a feminine girl, I’ve always struggled with asserting myself intellectually. Though I’ve never doubted my intellectual capabilities, I never felt like I had the space to fully exhibit the serious side of myself socially. I can’t deny that starting this substack gave me a way to control how I’m perceived. The validation I derive from this is far greater than any thrift trap on Instagram can give. For once, I felt seen for my mind and just my mind and not just by the people who know me very intimately.
So to answer my friend’s question: is it bravery? or in some sense, just another way for me to micromanage my public perception? I’m not sure.
Recently, we’ve seen the rise of Booktok, the “thought daughter” trope, and celebrity book clubs — being smart is the new sexy. But the emphasis is still on being sexy. Being smart is another dimension of one’s desirability, another marketable trait to capitalize on.
Just the general zeitgeist of substack carries an air of pretentious virtue signaling to it, in fact, the main appeal of substack is that “it’s not like the other social media platforms”.
I find myself falling back into this cycle, of wanting to curate and dictate my public perception here on Substack as I do my Instagram feed (or even the now obsolete VSCO), but this time with buzzwords and anecdotes. All of this just reflects the inevitable truth about online presentation: it is all performative. The medium may change, and the content may shift, but the underlying drive remains the same—to craft a version of ourselves that others will engage with, admire, or critique. Whether it's an Instagram photo or a Substack essay, it’s an act of curation, an intentional selection of what to reveal and what to withhold.
Despite grappling with doubts for the past couple of weeks, I don’t think I could ever stop writing, or even the occasional desire to publish things publicly, but with the now larger audience, I don’t think I can write with the same vigor and consistently as I did before. It’s like why people choose to keep finstas instead of public accounts on Instagram, I could never completely return to the purity that was the nascent stage of my Substack.
So we will continue as audiences, binging old Emma and Bestdressed videos, reminiscing about Taylor and Chappel Roan before they were famous. Fame and the awareness of one’s audience erode authenticity, that’s just the inevitable truth, it’s easier to dance like no one’s watching when in fact, no one is watching.
this issue took so, so long to write because I honestly didn’t know how to direct an essay outside of my personal experiences and make it more general. a different change of pace, but hope you guys enjoyed this regardless.
- with love, isabelle <3
I think there is always a point in the early career of a person experimenting with creative forms (not even an artist yet) where one decides to share their art. And before this point i think everyone creates for the sake of art i mean why would you partake in it in the first place? but after you start to shareto others, it's like a door you walk through and you enter a completely different domain. the way you self perceive your art becomes different as if looking through other people's lens and the purpose of creating can take on more dimensions as well. after all if it was purely for the sake of art and sake of art only then why would there be any need to enter that door? i think it's a natural progression of creating art that leads to the desire to share for communicative purposes, using it as a tool for shaping your perception, earning commission, etc. but i think the ones who do this natural progression the best are the people who can separate these supplementary purposes away from the original intent to create art for the sake of it. i dont think many can. is it easier over time?