In my hometown of Columbus, Ohio, at the intersection of East Gay Street and Cleveland Avenue, there is a peculiar statue. The whole piece consists only of three enormous red letters oriented in an odd fashion. The “A” is the largest (stretching to a height of 100 feet) with its two long edges resting on either side of a road; the crossbar through the middle completes the top of the “T” beside it, and the “R” rests on top of the same horizontal beam. Those three letters in combination could spell a variety of things, but the organization of the characters makes clear to the viewer that the word isn’t “RAT” or “TAR”. It spells “ART”.
The statue is located only a few blocks northwest of the Columbus Museum of Art. I’ve been to the museum a few times in my life, and every time I visit, the statue prepares me for what I am about to see.
I have never been disappointed. Each trip to the gallery has topped the last. While Columbus is no New York or Chicago, it is certainly not an art desert. The cheap cost of living and liberal politics have attracted innovative minds and talented artists. The halls of the Columbus Museum of Art are lined with incredible photographs and beautiful paintings. Each piece inspires different emotions, passions, and questions in me. In my most recent trip, I was particularly moved by a large barrel (the size of a small elephant) on the second floor balanced delicately on a taut rope. A million queries were raised in me as I stared at the incredible artistic craftsmanship.
Art isn’t just in museums, though. When a good friend recently took a trip to France, he returned with a powerful photograph. The shot of the seaside included both sand and grass, with pink flowers sprouting up through the green. Intruding through the beautiful floral arrangement was spiked, silvery barbed wire. I didn’t have to ask him where he took it. I have never been to Normandy; all it took was a view of an alluring beach marred by tools of war and I knew the entire story. The framed photo, taken by a junior in high school, sits on my bedside table. No caption, no comments, no explanation; I feel the same bittersweet pain every time I look at it.
I’ve also been fortunate to create my own art. I got involved in theater production over a decade ago, when my parents first took me to the Ohio Theater in downtown Columbus. That was my first exposure. In the years that followed, after joining my school’s theater program during my sophomore year, I fell in love with sound design. As much as I enjoyed live sound mixing, the value I found in theater was rooted in the connections I made with other people. Members of the crew were close-knit with one another, the sound department was like a family, and the lighting designer became one of my closest friends.
My consumption of theater, even in film adaptations, like the recorded edition of Hamilton or movie rendition of Rent, is the only thing that can rival the enjoyment I get from producing. The 2012 Hollywood production of “Les Miserables” is a particularly powerful example for me. I have never sat through an entire viewing of that movie with a dry face. That being said, I wouldn’t say the movie makes me sad. Instead, I am left with an emotion not easily expressed by words. Images stay in my mind: men singing together in a barroom planning their rebellion in the name of social reform, insurrectionists taking to the streets to make a stand for their beliefs, and ultimately the dead Frenchmen left on the bloody avenues with no regret for their actions. After watching the film, I find myself full of questions. What can I do? I always ask myself. What do I need to stand for? What injustice in this society demands sacrifice of me? What do I need to take to the streets and fight for? Experiencing art prompts change within me, and acts as my catalyst for bringing social justice. Similar to the physical community around art, whether at the museum, theater, or on the streets, I find that in-person action in terms of societal change is fundamental to the mission of righting structural injustices.
In general, though, I’ve found the streets becoming more and more empty with the increasing use of social media. The world has been uploaded. Anything can be found online: a person’s entire identity, complete social circle, and political stance. The real world was, admittedly, very limiting. You can only make yourself look so different, and you can only spread a message to so many people.
My generation, it seems to me, has taken the web to be an escape from the constraining factors unique to reality. Instead, we take to Instagram, donning usernames and doffing the parts of ourselves we think would be unproductive in our quest for self-expression. If it makes us look like anything other than how we want to look, don’t post it. If it gives the impression we might be home on a Friday night instead of out, don’t post it. If it might be interpreted to mean that we are in any way opposed to the political ideologies of our peers, don’t post it.
It’s become legitimately confusing, knowing who is who on Instagram. In fact, I am starting to ask if anyone is anyone at all. In the constant effort to distance ourselves from the parts of ourselves we don’t like, entire personalities seem to be lost. Instead of unique, individual, well-rounded people, I find myself and friends becoming two-dimensional profilmic projections. Looking through my own feed, I don’t recognize the people I see. I know my friends well enough to know that their lives consist of more than scenic sunsets downtown and crazy nights that began on one side of a pong table.
The window provided by Instagram can be made as narrow as desired. Its view into life is twisted and bent out of shape. The frame shows only pixels on pixels, with little indication of the lives we actually live. I don’t get to see the candid moments. But now that I find myself hundreds of miles away from my hometown, I’d like to see. In truth, Instagram has disappointed me.
Beyond the ability to carefully curate an entirely fake online identity, Instagram has allowed for the uploading of political ideologies. Too many users, many of my own peers among them, fail to act on the sentiments they post. To a number of my friends, Instagram has become a convenient outlet. I am constantly confronted with news-articles-turned-Instagram-posts and captions emphasizing the need for social outrage. For some, that simple action of reposting is enough. Why protest on the street when it is so much easier to protest from the safety of your room? Why not post about foreign, domestic, or even local injustice from the safety of your own bedroom without ever taking a stake in the real world?
Most simply: it’s not the same. I have been on Instagram for almost a decade; I don’t think the political messages shared on the platform are going to change the world. Although Instagram can be a tool for gathering mutual aid, rallying community engagement, and disseminating information, political instagram posts don't tend to cross party lines. Most of my conservative friends don’t follow my liberal friends, and those few that do don’t give their political posts much mind. As I scroll through passionately written political agendas, or photo compilations of friends out on the town, I don’t see a lot of ways either type of post has a positive impact.
There are countless admirable users who do follow through on their posts. There are dissidents who voice their opposition online, and then take further action. For this reason, it is impossible for me to deny that Instagram has provided an increase in some amount of positive social activism. The medium can be a way to document real-life protests and efficiently spread important information about upcoming demonstrations. If it exclusively provided that, I would have no qualms. Unfortunately, it is also a platform for intensely curated personalities and performative political activism.
Instagram doesn’t have a Big Red Art. Unlike The Columbus Museum of Art (CMA), there is no enormous scarlet warning about what lies inside. What’s within the platform isn’t exclusively genuine examples of self-expression or impactful instances of political statements. Roaming the halls of CMA and scrolling through Instagram are two very different things for me. Each exhibit at The Columbus Museum of Art arouses in me a deep passion, and while my feed can occasionally draw a similar level of emotion, I have never been as disappointed by anything in a museum as I am by what I have seen on Instagram.
A grain of salt, that is all I am asking for. There should be some moderation when posting and viewing posts, and an acceptance of the limitations of an online platform. I don’t think it will maintain friendships over a distance of a thousand miles, and I don’t think it will save the world. Even so, Instagram has undoubtedly provided some positives to our society. What I also can’t deny, though, is that I don’t spend enough time in art museums. If I am asking for the world of Instagram to change, though, I guess I can too.