Newspapers and magazines used to carry perceived authority; the way an academic paper in the form of a book outweighs the same research presented in a dot com article. Published material certainly tends to convey itself as a piece of legitimate zeitgeist thanks to how such mediums previously conducted themselves. Keyword being: previously.
It's not so much about credibility these days, though. Especially when most of us can discern digital scams, fake news, and now the work of AI (…mostly. Check the fingers!). Nonetheless, the modicum of sensibility seems to stop at the factual bit.
Emotional judgement is where it gets tricky. It's why influencers—sorry, content creators—wield that influence. They marry the best of word-of-mouth marketing and blatant advertising; straddling layman relatability and celebrity endorsement. It’s why Micro Influencers have skin in the game.
It is pretty much a Black Mirror moment, however, when the subject of a shaped impression extends beyond a product or service. Like concerning, oh I don’t know, governing policies? I observed this erring in my social media behaviour: Opening the comment section of a reel merely seconds into it.
For context, sure. Yet everyone’s take on the matter inevitably colours mine. Worse still, diving into the exchanges. It almost becomes a way to check if I’m on the “right” side, regardless of content. No, that shouldn’t be called art. Yeah, definitely bring back bullying. If the top comment possesses a reigning number of likes, it must be a popular view and therefore right, right?
Try to pinpoint when we as a collective decided Justin Timberlake stopped being cool and when Anne Hathaway suddenly was. Try doing the same for fashion brands. Apart from outright felony (*cough* Diddy), it’s hard to tell when the narrative will sway in or away from your favour.
When did we stop forming individual sentiments, and sticking up for it? Is it that daunting to stand alone in a belief (that does not advocate hurting others)? Getting cancelled is probably the most direct effect of online groupthink, but how much weight would you give a hivemind as fickle as the Internet?
At this point, it’s almost a fantasy to access space to express yourself while having the openness to listen with respect. Most just want to do the first half while expecting others to do the latter for them. And if we keep this up, all we will be left with is varying degrees of dictatorship or civil war.
I often wonder what Andy Warhol would think about current celebrity culture, given his most attributed quote about a universal 15-minute notoriety. Which is not even verbatim, apparently. Prophecy aside, what would the visual artist make of the 21st century sea of trashy reality TV and viral reels?
Putting people on a pedestal traces back to royalty and religious figures throughout history. This, apart from making Jesus the OG influencer and another pun about God-shaped holes, demonstrates how an innate aspirational desire existed even before the advent of mass media. It’s almost like preparation met opportunity with the rise of Hollywood, tabloid culture and the successive Internet-accelerated commodification of fame.
There’s plenty of literature exploring celebrity impact on societal dynamics, but would it be fair to say the root of the obsession is a little more complex? Quite literally anyone can cultivate a fan base; without even being human. First, it was pets, now it’s AI thirst traps.
You have to admit the metrics are inconsistent too. Widespread circulation and exponential interconnectivity of diverse platforms today allow individuals of various fields to gain recognition, even going on to become an international phenomenon. Yet, we don’t necessarily regard their achievements with the same weight as the ones within the entertainment industry. Say, a semi-decent actor versus an exceptional... accountant. The extent of our interest can be equated with how much time these personalities spend in the spotlight; their relevance a parallel to how prominent they remain after we notice them, whether for their careers or their antics, à la Musk, Trump, etc.
So what fundamental aspects of human psychology does this enduring allure reflect? Why do we confer this status to entertainers, specifically? What makes fame increasingly enticing to each subsequent generation since? To loosely quote a TikTokker, “Think about it—medieval peasants didn’t ask the jester for a photo after his courtroom fart.”
I’m not against celebrities; I’m just not for inflating a performance beyond what it is. Being influenced is one thing, idolising is another. It’s that eternal debate of whether we should divorce a person’s work from their conduct, no doubt prompted by the characters we’ve dubbed "tortured geniuses".
If anything, these may be the least prospects whose behaviour we’d want to emulate. The very nature of the profession demands a certain spoonful of egocentric attributes. Worse still if said personas were thrown into a star-making machine from an impressionable age (doesn’t help that K-pop trainees eventually graduate to become ‘idols’).
Imagine spending your formative season ingrained with the need to be validated because your worth is directly proportionate to public opinion. Imagine being constantly engulfed by people who relate to you like a product because they have a job to do. What sort of worldview would that shape?
I’d argue that present-day fame transcends escapism. It has gone a little deeper beyond connection to identification, and thus emotional attachment. We surely know better than to consider everyone with a voice a role model, but in a time where fame is powered by the very attention and admiration we give, let’s perhaps not freely relinquish this respect and value to a fallible sense of extraordinary.
In the social media age of highlight reels, the societal tendency to glorify success and celebrate milestones is on steroids. We keep mum about anything less than perfect, and relegate any inadequacies to the shadows of shame. Perhaps it’s time to reevaluate the narrative. Perhaps it’s time to challenge the stigma of failure as a sign of incompetence, and reframe success as a journey rather than a destination. Because cliché as that sounds, we ought not see failures as dead-ends. If anything, they are crossroads that redirect us towards discovery and improvement.
In tech, Fail-fast is a stress-test principle for success. Developers are encouraged let software fail loudly i.e., it’s literally best practice to amplify the failure via email, raising tickets or any related channels. Prevention is not a solution here; it only hides potential problems which become harder and more costly to fix when they do eventually surface. The earlier you detect bugs, the fewer defective bugs go into production, and the faster it is to achieve stabilised and higher quality software. It’s a useful metaphor for what would have otherwise just been Bear Grylls’ improvise, adapt, overcome meme.
Say it louder for the people at the back: Failing does not make you a failure. So why the aversion to talking about our failures? Not only is failure a catalyst for growth, the willingness to broadcast it is far from weakness. Rather, quite the opposite. It fosters a mindset that transcends the fear of judgment. It is a testament to courage that dismantles an impractical façade, cultivating an environment that values authenticity.
As writer Justin Brady points out on Harvard Business Review; there are side-effects for not being real about your mistakes. Besides an unhealthy intolerance towards failure from others, which stifles experimentation and subsequently creativity, you will find your own failures hard to handle. You may think it reaffirms a negative belief about yourself, which manifests as an overwhelming barrage of disappointment and frustration.
So let’s not conform to only praising the good, but bond over the bad and the ugly; because failure is one profound connection that makes us human.
