We’ve all seen the meme and its multiple iterations. It very well may be burned into our collective unconscious as another classic literary conflict. A black line; two photos; a scathing impact font caption for each side of the wall.
[ Expectation │ Reality ]
The discrepancy between what one believes they are owed and the materiality of their outcome has disillusioned people far before the internet existed. Depending on whom you ask, this can be either weirdly reassuring or upsettingly hopeless. Still, there’s something particularly gut-wrenching about being confronted with the disappointments of real life from the screen of a device– it’s that icky yet totally naturalized understanding that the things we see online distort our grasp and expectations of real life.
I’m not talking about photoshopped images and failed DIY crafts. I’m talking about the media representation of a place and its corresponding reality; the way that social media depictions of spaces only tenuously tend to capture its actual essence. To my presumed audience of New York City college students, this must be an abundantly obvious observation, but it’s hard nevertheless to digest that a place’s mythology doesn’t guarantee its reality. Sven at Berghain doesn’t actually care if you’re wearing all black. That edgy bar in the LES is actually teeming with normal-looking finance interns. More people in the Ivy League are wearing Lululemon and Patagonia than loafers and plaid (and on that note, the utopian idea of Gay Night at Amity turned out to be the usual display of sardine-packed straights).
It’s false consciousness and yet it’s not. The things that get posted are just a fragment of a place’s reality, but those fragments are so densely posted that those online representations become part of its actuality. The site turns into its own simulation; the reality of a place and its fictionalization are blurred. Rather than virtual reality, this phenomenon can be dubbed “Virtually Real.” It’s real online, but only more or less so in physical space.
Herein lies the problem. How should one balance the Virtually Real? More importantly, how can one dress for it? (This is Hoot... What did you expect?)
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊.
Someone very wise once said, “an outfit is a sentence.” I’d like to conveniently tweak this phrase to report that an outfit is a story. Altogether, individual pieces culminate into an outfit revealing what character a person is attempting to communicate. It exposes subtle truths and revealing fictions about its wearer (the protagonist) and their environment (the setting).
The thing is, everyone wants to feel like their story is authentic. Who among us wants to feel like they’re stuck playing the part of the politically incorrect intellectual, warehouse raver, grimy punk, woke activist, and so on? This is the difference between inheriting or finding a beat-up leather jacket versus scouring Depop for something that gives the Beatnik vibe.
Being contrived feels like the greatest sin in a culture that values authenticity above all else, and yet, the growth of internet culture has essentially necessitated this orchestration. Social media has not only turned individuals into personal brands, but also rewards that solipsism as a marker of individuality and positivity (romanticize your life! you’re the main character! that girl! it girl! buy things that prove you are! then make content about it!). Main character syndrome requires constant image maintenance—a carousel of staged photos with some candids interspersed.
Social media also inevitably creates a feedback loop of influence. You are shaped by the spheres you interact with, which you then cement and reinforce. For example, you follow popular meme accounts like @nolitadirtbag or @meetmeattranspecos (where I have sourced all these memes) because you relate to their jokes, know the brands they namedrop, frequent the very places in their usernames. However, you’re also doing all those things because those accounts provide a sense of legitimacy and cultural insider status. Here’s another instance: you get recruited by No Agency for being a hot and cool-looking downtown creative. You then influence others to do the same. It’s like an elite pyramid scheme designed to sell Hestia cigarettes.
It’s all fine and dandy until the influence spreads too far and the bubble bursts. This is some 2008 housing crisis shit. When people who are trying too obviously to be the main character join in, the whole scene’s mythos of fantasy and exclusivity disintegrates. The location now serves as its own tombstone, registering much more as an imitation or disruption of its original legacy than a continuation of it. What remains is a disorienting slurry of people who look authentically subcultural, the people who found that inspiration on Pinterest, and the people who don’t know and don’t care (good for them!). The thought of being lumped together with people unabashedly proclaiming themselves “main characters” is heinous for many. I’m not lying– the New York Times recently published an article where American ex-pats denounced the show Emily in Paris for making them look bad. This may also be why once-loved brands such as Heaven or Vivienne Westwood have become maligned, basic.
Maintain your snobbish aloofness or join the masses, but either way, the reality of any place is ever-changing, along with its corresponding media representation. The key to winning the impossible game of being a successful main character online and in real life is surprisingly dialectical: be authentic in being a poser. It’s no coincidence that the person who essentially invented this philosophy is @megsuperstarprincess, who simultaneously channels the energy of the 1960s Beat-era poets, 1970s East Village punks, 1990s heroine chic models, and 2010s manic hipsters while being a 2020s internet symbol. The opening montage of F LIST, Meg’s recent debut NYFW documentary, colorfully and repeatedly flashes the words
“POSERS” “INTERNS” “HASBEENS” “PR GIRLS” “BOUNCERS” “DRUG HABITS” “CIGARETTES” “EATING DISORDERS” “NEW YORK.”
It’s self-aware and out of touch, serious and ironic, mundane and glamorous, real-life and fantasy, Meg and @megsuperstarprincess, all at once. Rather than limiting yourself as a follower or a reactionary, lean so far into cliche and irony that mythology fuses with a self-aware edge yet earnestness. Be yourself but greater than that: a superstar and a princess.
