Instagram & Me
the evolution of kelseypizza: part I of II
This essay is not about my thoughts on social media; instead, I want to examine myself. As an introspective and curious person, I am grateful to have access to a sprawling record of myself on the internet. Of course, at the same time, I am horrified — one of my favorite writers, Courtney Cook, writes about the complexity of that feeling. For this newsletter, I’ll focus on Instagram, the photo/life sharing app. My first Instagram post dates back to May 2012, nearly ten years ago.
(Have you scrolled back to your first post? If not, go ahead and do it now.)
((I’ll wait.))
Here’s mine:
Michelle stands in the shared kitchen on C-Floor in Regs, our hall of residence in our first year of university. She picks at a plastic container, her gaze focused on her task of unleashing some unknown snack. Affixed to the mini-fridge, there is a glossy photo of an attractive man, presumably torn from some fashion magazine or maybe printed at the library. He looks directly at the viewer, as if trying to tell us something. Upon closer look: an orange quotation bubble hovers beside his chiseled cheekbones, with a message written in neat block letters. At my laptop, I can’t make out the grainy tiny text, but I know exactly what it says.
Get Your Own
SANDWICH
!!!
My post earned two likes. In these early days of my feed, I posted daily. I sat on the floor with my friends, tapping through filters. I didn’t feel motivated by “likes.” I felt excited to share, likely fueled by the distance I’d put between my life at home and my life at school. Facebook felt tired, obligatory and superfluous. Instagram was a place to chronicle my days for my friends at home. Over the summer, I could chronicle my days for my friends from school, before we reunited for the next term.
Four years later, in 2016, my feed becomes more curated. I still post regularly, but instead of sharing grainy everyday moments from my camera roll, I share frames developed from my film camera.
Around this time is when Instagram introduces its “stories” feature. My stories archive only dates back to December 2017. I don’t remember what my first storied post would have been, but I imagine the iPhone photography of my early feed continued to be shared in stories, this time in a less permanent way.
My New York friends remember that I’d bring my camera anywhere I went during daylight. Like, for example, to my haircut:
My trademark yellow backpack always had my camera, a book, and probably a sweater. I’m incredibly grateful for this archive now.
2016 also marks the year that I link my Instagram account to my dating profile, and my Instagram moniker @kelseypizza is born. At the time, I wanted to add my Instagram profile as a supplement to dating apps without divulging my full name.
I feel stuck here. Somehow, for me, I could only show up as another version of me. Somehow, for me, @kelseyswintek was too personal.
For me, this is the first post that I shared explicitly to earn attention. I’m in our kitchen/dining room/living room, wearing mascara and my favorite earrings. I think my friends are in front of me, sitting around a table covered in the Settlers of Catan hexagons and various cups/glasses/mugs of boxed wine.
This self-portrait was taken on a disposable camera, and I have no idea where I was when I posted it. I type i have no idea who i was when i posted it and trace back to correct the error. But it’s true: I have no idea who I was when I posted this. I know that when I posted it, I knew it would get a lot of likes. I knew that’s what I wanted in that moment. For what? For who?
In my notes for this post, I wrote: creating an idea of myself and searching for approval. Next week on Lucky Rigatoni, I’ll highlight the fissures between myself and my Instagram profile. I’ll be brutal. I’ll ask a lot of questions, and I hope I’ll find some answers. If not answers, maybe direction for my introspection.
Instagram & Me: Part II will be available next Tuesday to all paid subscribers. If you tried to sign up for a paid subscription last week and it didn’t work, I’m sorry. If you’d like to subscribe, click the button below. If you are unable to afford a subscription at this time, please reply to this email.