Oh, Instagram

Feb 17

It’s weird for someone my age (65 on Tuesday) to think that with one click I can be visible to anyone in the world with an internet connection. My mother, who left San Francisco in 1947 to travel around the world and only made it as far as Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, would make long-distance calls to her family twice a year because it was so expensive.

I’m an introvert so I’m comfortable in my head and sometimes I suspect all those folks on Zoom aren’t real. My paintings need to be in front of many eyes in order to be a living for me and so I submit to the algorithms of Facebook and Instagram to share them and myself with you. And yet I’m tentative about the process of connection and revelation. For reference, the above piece: #Narsisyphus - The Futility of Affirmation Through Social Media. So, a poem:

Oh, Instagram,

My imaginary friend,

You are so shallow and

So mercenary;

My out-sourced army-

All medals, no courage.

What sadistic pleasure

Do you derive from

Offering

To crop and filter?

Are you the mirror

Of my self-regard, or

A keyhole diminishing

Heaven? In any case

You help me forget

Why I locked myself

In this room.