Anxiety. Outrage. Death threats. No, this isn’t another story about Logan Paul — or his brother. Or his brother’s cult. It’s about a wall.
By now, you’ve probably heard about a mural in LA that’s guarded by security and only accessible to people verified on social media (or with 20,000+ followers). To the media literate, a verifieds-only space is obvious commentary on the growing social media caste system. Unfortunately, it turns out that a sizable portion of the internet is interpreting media on a 2nd grade level. Many took the stunt at face value, believing that this mural was emblematic of everything wrong with internet culture today.
The internet needed someone to blame for this ugly feeling of inadequacy, and took aim. The brand of rage typically reserved for ill-mannered influencers was unleashed upon Justin Caffier, the VICE reporter who broke “The Mural” story on Twitter earlier this week. He’s since received death threats. “I wasn’t associated with the creation of the mural, and had no idea what to expect when I showed up to check it out,” said Caffier in an interview this week with TBWA Backslash.
The social media caste system has already been examined in the art world: comedian Brandon Wardell created “verified shorts” with a check on the crotch. Artist Amalia Ulman showed the world how easy it was to charade as “an influencer” by fabricating a fake LA lifestyle on Instagram and racking up 90,000 followers before revealing it was a lie. Most recently, the creators of Lil Miquela (a computer generated “influencer” with 1.2M followers) have explored the concept of turning celebrity into a virtual commodity; commenting on the unreality of the “real” entertainment industry by literally creating an unreal celebrity. The project has been so successful that the creators have raised millions in VC funding from Sequoia Capital.
But there’s something profound about a piece of art that taps into our insecurity as a society by forcing us to experience a new class rift that is unfolding in slow motion before our eyes. The outrage surrounding a space exclusively for those with followings calls into question the very value of a following in 2018. Is “blue check envy” just a symptom of irrepressible vanity? No. There’s real, cold hard cash involved here. “There’s no doubt that today, a blue check on Twitter or Instagram can create opportunities for people. There is economic value here.” says Caffier.
You don’t pay for Instagram to exist. Unilever does. As we all know, a massive portion of the internet’s infrastructure is supported by brand advertising. For example, Facebook’s ad earnings account for over 95% of its total revenue, topping $12B in Q1 2018. To boil it down, brands determine where to spend ad money based on two key metrics: 1) How much time is spent with a piece of media, known as “time spent”, and “reach” — how many “unique eyeballs” a marketing message is able to get in front of.
If a brand can create a message that gets more “time spent” or “views” than they paid for, they’ve officially reached the holy grail of marketing metrics: earned impressions — free advertising. This is why brands are paying influencers to promote them: between $5,000-$10,000 per post for influencers with 500K-1M followers according to Hypr.
Because the internet subsists on ad dollars that are doled out based on “time spent” and “reach,” it’s safe to say that the current state of how money flows on the internet can be summed up as an “Attention Economy.” If you command attention, a precious resource capable of attracting some of the $2 trillion in annual global marketing spend, you are in luck. In a sick way, your life has greater “value potentiation,” and this value is very much public record. You can’t pull an Anna Delvey on the Pizza Hut marketing department.
Corporations trying to replicate the virality of the mural stunt are out of luck: it’s difficult to benefit from outrage culture (see: Kanye). What’s valuable about the mural as a social experiment is how it has revealed a collective insecurity about where we stand in the attention economy. People are scared and angry, but there’s an opportunity here.
Brands should consider their role in perpetuating — and repairing — this widening social media class divide. This is because they are not only patrons of the internet, but also of the modern creative economy. Sure, there are likely many problems with Redbull Music Academy or Intel Creators Project, but at a time when we can’t rely on the government, religion, or rich families to fund art, corporate America may be the last bastion of sturdy support. But who will it fund in the near-future?
The Ace Hotel offers discounted stays to influencers in exchange for Instagram posts, but what about the fine artists they aren’t paying (ed note: not trying to stir up the Art Whore controversy of 2014)? By funding the enviable lives of The Verifieds, brands are betting on “earned impressions,” and in doing so, leaving unverified creative people in the dust.
The public is ready for companies to be transparent about why they’re partnering with specific influencers or creators. Is it because of the free advertising reach, or is it because the creator is talented and deserves direct compensation? Should influencers be treated as pure “media buys” or as genuine collaborators with actual input? Should brands use their visibility to give valuable attention to creators who deserve awareness during a time when it’s most needed? These are some of the things brands should be thinking about in response to the anxiety and outrage sparked by the influencer-only mural.
Note: Due to #activism, the mural has since been opened to the unverified, unwashed masses.
