Fuck the Selfie
Am I embarrassed about plastering my dumb, perfectly made-up smiling face everywhere on the internet? Fuck, yes.
I’m not one for caring about what the latest celebrity is doing. I barely know the names of any of them and couldn’t care less about how they looked on the red carpet. That is until I saw images of actresses Frances McDormand and Pamela Anderson popping up here, there and, well, everywhere. In case you don’t know who they are, Frances McDormand starred in Fargo and Nomadland amongst many other masterpieces. Pamela starred in, ahem, Baywatch.
So, what made seeing these actresses online suddenly so fascinating to me? Well, they were the first celebrities I’d ever seen on the red fucking carpet not wearing any makeup. Let that sink in. Celebrities on the red fucking carpet not wearing any makeup. (Before you ask, yes I do need to swear so much). The press were apoplectic - imagine, the bare faced audacity of these women. But I was awestruck. Their brazen makeup-less faces ignited a spark deep in my loins (do women have loins?) where the desperate desire to do the same had been bubbling beneath the surface of my own vanity for much too long. But what’s this got to do with poetry? ‘Bare’ with me. I promise I’ll get to that.
I mean, who amongst us has not longed to wander freely in the outside world without worrying that our complexions aren’t dewy enough or that the black circles under our eyes aren’t perfectly concealed with a blend of hyaluronic acid and ceramides (what the fuck are those things?). Well then Ali, I hear you ask, why don’t you just go bare faced? To which I would somewhat lamely reply, It’s not that simple. The more I write, the more I’m realising the content of this Substack is probably better suited to a private conversation with a psychiatrist who has about a million years’ experience and a great deal of diplomas on the wall.
To me, Frances and Pamela were incredibly brave. But what’s so brave about not wearing any makeup? Well of course, it shouldn’t be considered brave, but it is.
So, where’s this going? Well, this is where it’s going: I, like many of you (you know who you are), have fallen prey to the vulgar necessity of the perfect social media selfie. The truth is, if you don’t publish an as-beautiful-as-you-can-make-it selfie along with the link to your brand new freshly published poem (which is the actual point of the post, btw) then your poem is going to get fuck all attention.
In the early days of writing poetry, in an attempt to get as much social media attention as possible, I took photos of myself relentlessly. I’m ashamed to admit that over the years I’ve pouted my way through thousands (millions?) of selfies that ended up on the cutting room floor due to not having quite the right facial expression, not quite the best light, not sultry enough, too sultry, hair not coiffed enough, lipstick not popping enough. I tied my hair up, tied my hair down, added more lipstick, brow wax, eyeliner, rouged myself up so much I looked like a fucking clown. Am I embarrassed about plastering my dumb, perfectly made-up smiling face everywhere on the internet? Fuck, yes. Do I wish I could erase all of those obviously staged shots from the cloud? Abso-fucking-lutely.
And I have rigorously tested out my theory of algorithms favouring posts with ‘pretty’ (in my case I use the term loosely) faces. Whenever I’d make a new post, I’d put a link to my freshly published poem with no face attached. Zero engagement. Then I’d post the same link a day later with my overly rouged selfie and voila, link clicked, poem read, comments galore - so I knew that the poem was in fact being read.
When the focus of our posts becomes more about our faces than about the work we’re trying to share, things have become more fucked up than we realise. These intense feelings of I can’t look at my face any longer and what the fuck is social media doing to me ignited my poem, the four hubcaps of my apocalypse, which I’ve linked *below if you’d like to read it.
As time has gone on, I’ve drifted more and more from socials. Around a year ago I shut down instagram and twitter - two platforms less for my soul to go to die. Consequently I post less selfies. And of course, punitive algorithms being what they are, I get less and less engagement. While this may sound like a cry for sympathy, I assure you it’s not - as Scottish comedian Danny Bhoy once remarked, If you’re looking for sympathy, it’s in the dictionary between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis’ - I actually feel liberated by it.
Coco Chanel used to say, before you leave the house take one thing off. I guess she meant an earring or a hat or something. But I’ve started applying this theory to my morning makeup. This morning I left off brow wax. Did I feel better for it? I’d like to say, fuck yeah, I felt so empowered. But actually I felt naked all day.
I wish we didn’t have to devise ways to snag a potential reader’s attention by having a nicely made up face for their finger to hover over in the endless scrolling of our lives. And I get that human nature will naturally gravitate towards ‘pretty’ images. But in my ideal (and clearly totally unrealistic) world, the poem/art itself would be enough. But this is the noisy TikTok era where we’re all competing for eyeballs - preferably ones with lush mascara, perfectly applied eye liner and hyaluronic enriched concealer.
Written by ali whitelock
*Poem mentioned above: ‘the four hubcaps of my apocalypse’
Thank you for reading!
ali whitelock is a Scottish poet living out west in NSW in an old church with her French, low-carb, chain smoking husband. She is precisely 50% of the Magi & Ali Poetry Show. She’s published three collections of poetry (Wakefield Press) & her work has appeared in journals around the world. She’s also published a memoir about growing up in Scotland in the weird & brutal kingdom we call home, which was launched to critical acclaim at Sydney Writers Festival & also in the UK. She likes cats, but also dogs – & while she’s always gravitated towards red wine, lately it’s been white. Go figure. More here (about the writing, not the wine) www.aliwhitelock.com
‘Whitelock’s gifts to poetry are many. These include showing how poetry doesn’t have to be written for a minority in order to be first-rate.’ The Saturday Paper
‘Blurt-your-beer funny and rip-your-gut raw.’ David Astle, ABC Radio/TV presenter & author
‘This is brilliant. Funny, heartbreaking and a bit wonky. Now my internal monologue sounds like an Ali Whitelock poem (except not as good).’ Graeme Macrae Burnet, His Bloody Project
‘Whitelock’s work stands at the summit of the most intimate, original and vital of contemporary poetry in the English language.’ Dr Brentley Frazer, Riding Sharks
‘I didn’t even want to review Whitelock. I just wanted to turn back to the first page and start reading again.’ Simon Sweetman, Off the Tracks
‘For anyone who ever made up their mind that poetry is boring or pointless, there is a sure antidote and it is Ali Whitelock.’ Edward O’Dwyer, Bad News, Good News, Bad News.
‘Remarkably life affirming.’ Sydney morning Herald
‘A hilarious, no-misery memoir.’ The Scotsman
Ali’s books (available on all online platforms and bookstores):
-a brief letter to the sea about a couple of things (poetry)
- the lactic acid in the calves of your despair (poetry)
-and my heart crumples like a coke can (poetry)
-poking seaweed with a stick and running away from the smell’ (memoir)
You can buy ali’s books at all the usual places.