Fashion Brief
I see Instagram influencers have got in trouble for not making it clear when they’re advertising stuff. What are your feelings about this?
Tanya, by email
Yes, it seems someone called Binky Felstead – who is, I can exclusively reveal, an actual person and not a PG Wodehouse character – has been criticised this week for not always making it clear when she is advertising something on her Instagram account, and when she is just photographing her food/face/feet, because that’s what you do on Instagram. Should I feel outraged? I must admit, it isn’t really there. Hell, these people call themselves – willingly, apparently – “Instagram influencers”. What did everyone think they were influencing? Political opinion? I believe that’s Cambridge Analytica’s job, not Binky Felstead’s. Although I would love to know Binky’s thoughts about the EU temporarily maintaining control of Britain’s territorial waters.
But I have had other thoughts about Instagram influencers on a similar issue. As I think we’ve established, their entire raison d’etre is to advertise stuff. Brands send them things, which they then photograph, post on Instagram, stick a twee caption underneath (“Hey ’grammers! I find it SUPER hard to find decent knitwear which keeps my teeny tiny body warm but doesn’t irritate my super sensitive skin. Scream face emoji! But check out this FIERCE jumper from brand XYZ!”) and then cash that cheque. And good for them! Hell, I’m glad someone in this cold new media world of ours has figured out how to make money. That people believe these influencers are more authentic than, I don’t know, James Corden flogging car insurance on TV, is truly a testament to the magic of the Valencia filter.
But at the risk of sounding like Judgey McJudge, one aspect of this world really leaves me a bit, as the influencers would say, side-eye face emoji. Is it not a bit weird when they use their kids to flog stuff?
“Hahaha we parents all know what a NIGHTMARE it is to get the kids dressed in the morning right? Monkey covering eyes emoji! But Africa just LOVES [insert some crappy kids’ clothing brand name here] so much that I just can’t get her out of their spring/summer collection! @clothingbrand @shoebrand #pinkprincess #hermothersdaughter #growingsofast #preciousdays” is a typical caption beneath a photo, featuring a mystified three-year-old in a dress, lying down on white painted floorboards, cushions scattered artfully around.
“Oh. Em. Gee!!!! Here we are, in Disneyland, having just the bestest everest time! Atticus and Tallulah say it’s ‘better than ice-cream!’ And btw our flight here was A.M.A.Z.I.N.G. I’ll never get the kids to fly economy again! Laugh cry face emoji! @Californiatouristboard @Freeloaderairlines #keepingitreal #familytimeisbesttime” is another typical caption, below the photo of the influencer and their family on a holiday, which they got for free in exchange for instagramming a certain number of puff photos from the trip to their 100,000 followers.
Is this not a teeny, tiny bit odd? Having grown up in the shadow of River Phoenix, the two Coreys and Macaulay Culkin, I have always understood that putting your child onscreen is not a good idea. Is using him or her to sell clothes, prams and holidays to millions of people online better? I mean, my heart says no, but what do I know? I still don’t really understand hashtags. I get that influencers don’t see a separation between their offscreen and onscreen lives (#keepitauthentic), and that when they have a baby it makes sense to them to incorporate them into their Instagram image. But a baby is a separate entity, and maybe one day that kid will resent being used to flog Monsoon for Kids, or whatever. One thing I think we can say for certain is that, since influencers use their kids to sell brands and further their own brand image, Instagram parents are the 21st-century version of stage parents. Sometimes the future looks an awful lot like the past, doesn’t it?
