So now I’m totally addicted to Instagram. If you are not familiar with it – it’s a photo sharing social network application for iPhone. It has more than a million users and all of us think we know something about photography, can make nice pictures and the whole world is interested in what we eat, what we do and how our kids and cats look like. And while most Instagram users like to believe it’s all about photography, all that really matters are the connections.
“Are these your feet? Time for a face pic!” “This looks yummy! Are you a good cook?” “Your daughter is very sweet!” “How many cats do you have?” “Where are you from?” “Feeling better yet?” “I want this t-shirt!” “It’s waiting for you in Japan ;)” Why would you want to know all this about someone from Norway, Japan, Russia or USA?
Once you’re connected, you become less strict in jour judgments of your connections’ photos. Even more remarkable, once you spot a great photographer you hope they post something personal. As if to prove they’re human. As if that would justify why you’re following them.
Today one of the better photographers has posted pictures of his apartment. ‘My room.’ A computer, a single bed. He must be single. ‘Miranda’s room.’ He’s got a little daughter! Oh, he must be divorced then! Some more photos and we know he’s 35, divorced indeed and he rents this lofty apartment, one of the 100 built in a 150-year-old former factory building. All of a sudden I get this warm feeling from seeing a person behind little perfect works of art, from understanding what’s his life is about (at least partly), from feeling empathy. And while this warm feeling lasts I will follow him and like his photos.
That’s how it works. Simple, right?
My last post on Instagram tonight: Late dinner