What Do You Want from Instagram?

“Every child is an artist,” said Picasso. “The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.”

As a lonely kid sitting on the couch with a pile of blank paper, I drew all the time—while I watched TV, while I waited for my mom to come home, in downtime at school. What I drew was people, mostly cartoons, then I wrote their stories and typed them up on my grandmother’s old typewriter.

I went to the school book fair and bought a book called Gonna Bake Me a Rainbow Poem. On the cover was a bright rainbow; the title intrigued me. I was in third or fourth grade, the well of my imagination full, my love for art and writing just starting to form. When I got home from school that day, I flipped through a few pages of the book. It held so much promise, but I didn’t know exactly what that meant. All I knew is, I could pick it up and be inspired.

Knowing it was nearby gave me comfort.

I kept drawing and occasionally writing poems. My interest in art never waned, and my interest in language did nothing but grow. In middle school, I started to find my voice, though I had no idea what that meant, only that words strung together a certain way made me feel something—something that nothing else, except maybe art, made me feel.

I kept drawing and writing poems, my copy of Gonna Bake Me a Rainbow Poem growing old and worn on the bookshelf. I didn’t look at it much, and operated mostly by instinct, driven by a need to create.

That need has never gone away.

If nothing else, it has shifted and transformed and grown. And so have I—from a young girl drawing on the couch to a woman, a wife and mother, holding a camera or sitting in front of a computer. So many years have passed, but that curiosity and creative impulse stays strong.

—

Recently, I was talking to a friend about Instagram. For a year and a half I’d been off social media entirely, but the subject still came up from time to time. Despite my misgivings about Instagram, I admitted to missing the community there, to missing “my people.” I missed the feeling of being understood as a writer. I missed having a reason to create.

People complain about the social media echo chamber, but it’s not all bad. When you’re lonely in your real life for people who love what you love, social media can be a wonderful place to fill in the gaps.

I also confessed to my friend that Instagram felt like baggage. What if I just started over from scratch? What if I could put the heavy bags of it down, start anew, and be free? She didn’t like that idea. There’s a way to start over without blowing everything up, she reminded me. Even if I like the idea of blowing it all up, I might regret it.

Which was a good point.

It led us to the question of what we want from Instagram. If we could pinpoint our purpose there, we could cut the fat and focus on what’s important. She suggested an assignment to write out the answer to our question: what do you want here? I agreed. It would be a good exercise.

Later, I sat at the computer and stared at a blank screen.

—

What do I want from Instagram?

A place to work. A place to share. A way to share. A way to speak. An endless vocabulary. A new way to see. A language all my own. A language shared with others. A secret language that no one knows. A way to be obscure. A chance to be relevant. A nodding head. A welcoming hand.

A way to risk. A reason to play. A fluffy white cloud passing outside the window. A window to look out from. A reminder to look up. An orange vase filled with yellow flowers. A rainbow. A glittery sunrise. A shiny reflection. A map to the sea. A reason to breathe. A feeling like fireworks. A cheering section. A wave to wash over me. A wave hello. A room to create in.

A community of friends. A flock of geese flying in a V. A puzzle that someone’s already done. A net down below. A whisper. A prayer. A poem written in fingerpaint. A bold declaration. A crossed finger. A crossed leg. A ribbon blowing in the breeze. A place where all of this matters.

—

Still inside me is that little art-loving girl, the one who picked up a book about poetry because it turned something on inside her.

She kept working and creating and growing, honing her skills and gaining new ones.

She grew up and realized she still loved being an artist. She loved to draw and paint and write poems and take photographs and make stuff.

But she also realized she was lonely for people who loved what she loved and cared about what she cared about.

She needed a place to share. She wanted to see what others had to share. And she quickly realized she could make friends and be a part of a community.

She was seen. She felt loved. She wanted to make more, write more, see more.

She still wants that. Creativity. Community. A little help along the way to remain an artist once she grew up. Somewhere to share her work. A place to be seen.

Even when it gets all tangled up and messy. Even when it feels hopeless and the words all sound the same. Even when it’s monotonous and grey and feels like the sun will never shine again, and when you’re sick of being told how to do this right.

Even then, it’s not all bad.

There is enough beauty and goodness and grace here. There’s enough space at the table, plenty of chairs, enough to go around and around again.

—

Each week, Tresta and I chat about writing and life. This post was inspired by one of our recent conversations. You can read Tresta’s take here.