Would you run a 10k if you couldnāt post about it anywhere? No instagram, no Strava
record, no nothing. Would you go to a famous destination if you couldnāt take any
pictures? Or choose distasteful, expensive coffee if its from an instagram-worthy
coffee shop?
We all know of an archetype. A man walks by with a thrifted grandad jumper, a tote
bag on one shoulder, matcha latte in one hand and The Feminine Mystique in the
other. But the performative hype applies to us all, maybe the consciousness of it
arose recently from the performative male type, but we all aid and abet the
performative lifestyle we try to pass off as our own.
And we all engage in performativism, anyone on social media cannot escape it.
Every post we post, is a performance, a presentation of some kind. Any āday in the
lifeā we watch is surely a planned, structured version of their life set for the camera
frame. And I do it, I often find myself wearing my favourite clothes on a day Iām likely
to see more people. I overthink endlessly about what pictures make a balanced
aesthetic yet representative and comedic instagram post. Yet isnāt trying to be
authentic, still a performance of authenticity? Ironic.
But perhaps self-expression and performativism have been mixed too frequently.
And in doing so, the act of performing seems all too ābeen there, done thatā, that
even any sincerity in anything seems curated, crafted and fake that actually
disconnects us.
How many go for a run for the run, to feel alive, the cold morning air on your face
and the energy through your veins, and how many do it to log those miles on Strava?
Many, I know, do it for the thrill, and apps are a great way to log those achievements
with pride, but it isnāt just that, itās to compareā¦ to perform. So of course it brings
scepticism; I often wonder if someone is telling me something they mean, or just
something they want me to hear? Something that worked for someone else, or
something they heard and liked on TikTok. Performance means creating an
approved version of oneself, so skepticism of less honest conversations, more
censorship (both online and in real life) is inevitable.
In this performative epidemic, everything feels fake. Performative authenticity is
arguably just āfakenessā in sheepās clothing. The productive āday in the lifeā of a full
breakfast, gym session and getting ready before a full day’s work and food shop,
reading and yoga, is not someones every day of the week. The successful
entrepreneur posting about the grind of the enterprise, looses out on actual business
for being too preoccupied with performing it. This false reality sets unprecedented,
unrealistic standards to which we compare ourselves to, and expect ourselves to live up to. Even in feelings, sadness must be healing time, you canāt just be sad, and happiness must be confessed in images or how will anyone know youāre happy?
The performative skepticism is however inevitable since its exclusive synonymous
position with self-expression. And I donāt deny expression or professing a version of
yourself you want to emulate and bring to life. So when did we label it as something
to doubt? The personas we put on are not often far fetched from the ones we want to
be true, so much performativity helps us reach an authenticity.
The reason behind our skepticism doesnāt come from the performer, but the viewer.
Perhaps, it feels fake from our defensiveness of individuality. The performative
epidemic did not begin from people being shallow or dishonest but evolved from a
system that awards visibility over vulnerability and certainty over curiosity. What feels
fake is not external and from others, but the quiet sense that we are all slightly
acting.