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Long gone are the days when Instagram was just fun. At one point, even public profiles had an air of spontaneity. Taylor Swift, often hailed as a “marketing genius,” underwent a significant transformation in her social media presence during her Reputation era. Prior to this period, her Instagram feed offered fans an intimate glimpse into her life, featuring casual snapshots of her cats, Polaroids with friends, and handwritten lyrics—a direct line into her unfiltered creativity.
In 2016, tensions escalated between Swift, Kanye West, and West’s then-wife, Kim Kardashian over song lyrics and edited voice calls. In response, Swift retreated from the public eye, and in August 2017, she erased all content from her social media accounts. This dramatic move signalled the beginning of her Reputation era, during which her Instagram presence became highly curated and strategically aligned with her album’s themes. Her transformation was about control. Granted, Swift’s situation was extreme, shaped by public scrutiny and media backlash. But at its core, the instinct to reset, to erase, to carefully curate how one is perceived is a sentiment that spans from celebrities to everyday individuals.
Psychological studies have explored this phenomenon. The “looking-glass self” theory, introduced by sociologist Charles Cooley in his 1902 work Human Nature and the Social Order, suggests that individuals shape their self-image based on how they believe others perceive them. In the context of social media, this can lead to heightened self-consciousness and a desire to control one’s online portrayal.
Be it a global pop star navigating public opinion or a local creative trying to align their digital presence with their ambitions, the underlying motivation is the same: to shape the narrative before someone else does. This desire to erase past versions of oneself, refine personal presentation, or curate a more intentional image reflects a broader shift. Instagram, or whichever scroll of choice, has transitioned from a platform for personal expression to one centred on personal branding.
“I wanted to reset my feed because I was trying to position myself in a more serious light, both in terms of my work and how I present myself,” shares Noor Al Azzawi, an Iraqi image consultant and creative director who has worked with regional artists, and divides her time between Dubai and Egypt. “ I felt like my Instagram wasn’t fully reflecting that. It really hit me when I’d meet people at events or on set, and they’d ask to connect on Instagram. Sometimes, I’d notice their reaction, almost like they were taken aback by the difference between how I presented myself in person versus my online presence. That especially happened when I was in Saudi. People would meet me, have an impression of me, and then go to my Instagram and see this ‘Babylon Doll’ persona of overly styled and posing. It felt like a disconnect.”
Al Azzawi’s experience reflects a wider shift I noticed in conversations with creatives, both in Dubai and other cities. While their specific reasons differed, a shared awareness emerged of Instagram no longer being a digital creative playground, but a portfolio that had something to signal to industry insiders. Working in the media can be boiled down to one sentiment: maintaining relevance. As a magazine writer, I never imagined I’d overthink my Instagram account at any point, to consider myself somewhat of a “content creator” within my field of profession. I need to show that I have taste, I can curate, and I am able to present myself as a semi-public asset. Instagram’s “hide my likes” feature has also declared engagement to be inferior to a cohesive grid, but how far can that keep going?
While some creatives view an Instagram reset as a way to break free from aesthetic constraints, others find themselves detaching from the need for validation altogether.
Marwan Elhussein, Dubai-based Sudanese creative and founder of the brand Moonlanding, sees wiping his feed as a way to let go of the pressure to maintain an online presence. “I don’t feel like I need to prove my track record anymore. Those things don’t matter to me. Amazing art will stand the test of time, and it doesn’t have to be a continuous dump. If I feel like some of my previous work should stay, it will.” But beyond that, he admits, the act itself is just about a shift in perspective. “The perception of people is something I can’t control or predict. This purge will feel good, hence why I’m going for it. I just want to feel something new in this space.”
That desire to step away from digital expectations is also shaping how creatives engage with their work altogether. For some, the need to completely separate creative practice from digital culture is further heightened.
“In terms of how I curate, or curated, myself online, I still don’t want to be perceived so much, or at least not care about it as much,” says Yasmine Ben Abdessalem, a Tunisian writer based between Tunisia and Amsterdam. “It’s also the reason why my practice shifted more toward print work and long-form formats. I didn’t want my work to be dictated by what performs best online, what works for a feed, what fits the cycle of digital trends. Three years ago, that took a huge toll on me. Now, I try not to overthink it.”
But even with said detachment, curation isn’t something you can completely opt out of. Creativity has been a commodity for ages… it’s how and why good Ad agencies exist. But when that creativity becomes a metric by itself, it’s eventually exhausted. Inevitability, one can quickly spiral into self-doubt in a space where identity is continuously performed as it shifts.
“I’ve had an online identity crisis more times than I can count,” says Noor Ghazal, a Lebanese artist and curator based in Canada whose work relies heavily on digital presence. “It’s incredible having so much access to it all, but I think like so many others, I have felt as though I’m constantly comparing myself (my content more like) to those around me.”
Her dilemma is not only the aesthetics, but also, the exercise in identity. As an artist, Ghazal questions how she wants to be seen, what her “brand” is, and whether or not her posts reflect that. Creatives acknowledge the pressure in passing, even joke about it, but rarely do they confront it head-on. As I observe, these conversations happen in fragments; “I should reset my feed,” “I don’t know how to present myself,” “I hate how this looks on the grid”. And while they are quick to die down, they breed tension and competition with others, and the version of yourself that lives online.
As Instagram continues to expand with new features—reels, algorithmic feeds, curated grids—creatives feel compelled to strategise and curate even more. Social media, parallel to creativity, does not perform as it should anymore. Instagram wants to be TikTok, a post feels like a potential application, and everyone keeps vying for popularity. “I used to use Instagram as a blog of sorts,” says Shrey Kathuria, a New Delhi-born, London-based visual artist who feels the platform has lost its charm. “The joy of sharing your personal work, work in progress sketches, unapproved drafts from old projects–has simply faded now.”
For Kathuria, the shift not only affects expression, but also discovering emerging creatives who have yet to cut through the algorithm or maintain the social currency of immense followers. But as tension keeps increasing, creatives become apathetic to resisting it. Even if it feels uncomfortable, there’s no alternative. Identity performance has become second nature. This collective pressure only reinforces the paradoxical cultural relationship with our digital identity. Even as creatives feel trapped by curation, they find themselves returning to it, unable to fully detach.
Jessica Cox understands this tension intimately. As someone who works in public relations and influencer management through her companies, Third Cultr Collective and Imaginary Friends, the Dubai-based entrepreneur navigates this complexity on a regular basis with creatives. “Art can be both curated and strategic at the same time,” Cox explains. “When a painter goes to draw a landscape, he has to map out colours, technique, and position. Strategy does not take away from the artistic value, but in fact can sharpen it.“
For Cox, strategy is the tool that makes authenticity possible. In a digital landscape dominated by trends and algorithms, she sees strategy as a form of self-preservation. “In a time where we are inundated with trends, virality, and overconsumption as second nature, I think being strategic and intentional about maintaining your authenticity is not just smart, it’s necessary.”
But that necessity doesn’t make the tension disappear. If anything, it makes it more complicated especially as the lines between creativity and commerce continue to blur. “Authenticity is a very commercial buzzword now. It’s now become a mantra for senior decision-makers and marketing departments that were not raised in a social media generation,” she says. “For me, authenticity boils down to creative integrity, honouring exploration and originality and finding ways to bring meaning to your community or landscape. Everyone’s platform is different and ultimately, a medium of expression. But in this landscape, it’s about balancing creative impulses with strategic moves.”
As the tension becomes most pronounced, it has become the norm. Which leaves the question: Can our digital identity ever be more than a sophisticated performance?
For now, the answer remains unresolved. And perhaps that’s the point.
WORDS: RAND AL-HADETHI
