The new generation of TikTokers and the like who can do the Ferragnez much better than the Ferragnez themselves

We recall well the era of influencers, when it was a goldmine for everyone. ‘Ferragnità’ was all about ‘look of the day’, ‘supercute!’, parties in Los Angeles, servants and free tulle dresses, fashion shows in Paris, luxury hotels queuing up to have you, four-star restaurants supplying gifts – “there are ten Prada parcels for me at reception!”. The early 2010s: the dawn of mass Instagram, sponsors, adverts and banknotes dropped from helicopters. What was an influencer supposed to do? Very little, if anything. Just be beautiful, post photos in swimwear, of your face and bum, chic breakfasts on little plates decorated like confectionery or a doll’s house, sunsets, and well-manicured hands holding coffee cups. The money flowed almost for free: with a pretty face and a slender figure, one could achieve a royal flush even with the wrong cards. It seemed like a miracle, and indeed it was: influencers were paid for minimal effort, and the shrewdest capitalised on that period, assuming they could then live off the proceeds of their past efforts. They were not wrong, because that is how it went for a while. What happened in the years that followed—enough to change the market—was the rise of the camera. The boundaries against the invasion of followers grew thinner, the walls of privacy came crashing down, and the first struggles for survival began. People wanted footage of your life. Not everyone was good on camera. They had to package and sell their own narrative, cleverly revealing and concealing, dropping hints straight out of a romantic soap opera. There was a touch of modesty. Then it became clear that nobody cared about decency or decorum; the market’s new direction demanded: show yourself all day, every day, even in a hospital bed.

I recall that the Ferragnez were omnipresent in the online newspapers, constantly and everywhere, even when they were choosing their parquet flooring or buying a new dog. They appeared completely oblivious to the issue of market saturation. They were constantly filming themselves. So much so that one wondered: if there’s no element of scarcity for the audience, how do they manage to stay interesting? The thing is, social media – with its cameras – had thrown an economic law into disarray: diminishing marginal utility. i.e.: you seek something (and value it) because of its rarity. So a cog in the mechanism of interest within the human system had to be changed. The most interesting person is no longer the most attractive, but the one who is everywhere. Hiding away and making oneself scarce no longer works. But how is that possible? I wondered. What is this new psycho-economic law? Do you realise that ‘the more I see, the more I want’ is unnatural?

A few more years have gone by; we have grown accustomed to 24-hour live coverage, and the era of good behaviour has arrived. We are now in the third phase of evolution, ladies and gentlemen – it is time for another change. Suddenly, sales have to take place in a spotless environment: if you want me to purchase those cheese slices, you must display your ‘good person’ credentials.                                                                                                                                                                 The modern influencer is struggling: They must demonstrate affluence without appearing excessive. Travel is permitted, provided it looks slightly uncomfortable; staying at the Quisisana in Capri is already frowned upon, let alone at the Mandarin in New York. The late-20s influencer will have to receive and promote selected, eco-friendly products, enjoy a luxurious lifestyle while insisting that life is hard for everyone. Short clips with the camera right in your face are absolutely crucial. The more modest ones will cut the video short after showing themselves with teary eyes. It’s better if you have some (treatable) ailment plaguing you and are a regular at the psychologist’s. Teleshopping laced with commercial moralising is clearly a massive trap – who can guarantee a life as a perpetual champion?

In short, the picture isn’t rosy. And just when we thought – poor first-mover influencers, Generation Zero – that things couldn’t get any worse, along came online performance-based socialism on the one hand (Mamdani is leading the crusade) and micro-comedians on the other. There is a plethora of phenomenal youngsters on TikTok who, as performance-oriented natives, come up with ideas and bring them to life; they are fresh from the cruelty of their age, creators and performers – some quite good, others excellent. They are the avant-garde, full of energy and racking their brains. How will they catch up with them? And so the forty-year-old influencer realises that age is a factor: too young to play the part of a has-been and too old to pretend to be spontaneous. There’s a problem with career progression: from being ‘famous for being famous’, one must transform into someone who needs a reason to stay that way (famous).

Let us at least give that generation credit for one thing: it invented a profession from scratch and then had the misfortune of witnessing the emergence of those who do that job ten times better without even calling it a profession (whilst proclaiming themselves to be the unfortunate ones, boycotted by the system of the old elites).