I just opened up the app and counted: as of this writing I have eight active accounts on Instagram.
Each of them is unique.
Each of them is maintained.
None of them are popular.
Look, I am not some kind of dabbling influencer wannabe, just so we’re clear on that point.
I just see it as a tool for expression. It is a blank wall upon which to scrawl the products of my art, as tempting as a passing train car might be to a graffiti artist with a backpack full of fresh spray paint.
It is there, so I use it.
My most recent work on the platform has been me posting monochromatic photos: I only upload black and white pics that I’ve captured, from textures and abstract shadowy artsy-fartsy illusions to simple monotone landscape shots from my wandering adventures.
It is not meant to build a following or create a brand or generate an audience or—forbid—become a revenue source. It is nothing more than a creative outlet that caught my inspiration one rainy spring day and has grown the barest semblance of metaphorical legs that has kept it going for a couple months (so far).
Art is expression.
Art is filling blank spaces with humanity.
Art is using the tools that are right in front of you to spread a bit of joy, drive a taste of curiosity, and cast a feeling out into the universe without knowing what the result might be—if any at all.
It is the silent warrior.
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