Old Instagram
old Instagram
If Old Instagram were a NYC neighborhood, it would have been the West Village.
Stylish. A little exclusive. Effortlessly casual, but also chic.
When I first joined Instagram in its earliest days, it was Facebook’s sophisticated little sister. Nobody went on political rants or danced in front of a camera. There were no ads or algorithm.
It was all about sharing photos or images that you thought looked nice. Bonus points if you had a consistent filter.
Old Instagram wasn’t perfect. The insidious quest for likes, comments, follows and other vanity metrics still lurked beneath the aesthetics. And the dark side to editing your life to only its most perfect moments, curated just so. It was there then, it’s there now.
But I loved it. I loved the process of coming up with a new “theme” of planning my grid, the delight in finding someone else who took care with their grid.
Anth’s friend Pat is a photographer. A real one. Not like when I use Portrait mode on my iPhone to take a picture of my salad, and wonder if I should submit it to MoMA.
Anyway, Pat used to post his work on Instagram, and he always used to put a thick white border around his photos. One of my colleagues from way back when always added a single word to describe the photo in a mono font somewhere on the image. An early influencer I followed always posted photos with teal/aqua, and I was obsessed.
These details mattered. They were your Instagram *signature*. And the worst thing you could do in Old Instagram was to copy someone else’s.
Because Old Instagram was about self-expression. The entire reason to be on the platform was to show you. Trying to be someone else was the ultimate faux pas.
New Instagram
If New Instagram were a NYC neighborhood, it would be Times Square.
Which every New Yorker knows it’s the worst. Locals avoid it at all costs. Noisy. Junky. Soulless. Chaotic. Easily sold to the highest bidder.
I’ve been mostly checked out of Instagram for years now, but I pop in every month or so. The last couple times I’ve logged in, I feel shocked at what it’s become.
Nothing like the elegant respite I remember, but a noisy, cluttered junk yard. An app that used to be all about encouraging people to find their voice, their style, themselves.
But is now an algorithm-driven machine. I see far fewer people taking the time to add a white border around their art, or pausing to think, “What makes this mine.”
Instead, it’s an onslaught of video, of creators who feel their only chance of showcasing their work figure out how to turn it into a video or turn it into a carousel.
Sure we used to chase Follows, but you got follows by standing out—offering something nobody else was. Now we reuse the same audio, the same templates.
Hey, if it’s trending…
I understand it. In theory. This is our job. We need to put food on the table, and we’re told these are the new rules. Dance. Turn on the camera. Animate. Conform.
I have two Instagram accounts. My author one, which I only update when strongly encouraged overtly pressured by publishers. A personal one which I’ve updated pretty much never. Both are dormant or alive. Waiting.
Waiting for the return of Old Instagram.
I’ve felt poised on the ledge of figuring out how to make Instagram work for me. Wondering if there’s a way to channel New Instagram in a way that doesn’t chafe my very soul.
I don’t think there is.
I think it’s time. Time to admit that Old Instagram is gone.
That Instagram is no longer for me.
