lucky nation syndrome

An essay on summer Instagramming, posting as an individualist amulet, and like, you know.

We’re two months into Deez Links as a primarily reader-supported publication, and I’m eternally grateful for everyone who’s bought a subscription. Special thanks this week to Bill Oakley and James for supporting at the P.O.D.A. (Patrons of Deez Arts) tier!

Here’s an essay I’ve been noodling on…

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Earlier this summer, feeling so very overtaxed by the nominal disorder of my thickly cushioned reality, I went to Italy on vacation. At a cafe in Milan, near the Duomo, my friend Michelle and I spent an afternoon alternating between looking at Instagram and looking at the cathedral. We admired the Duomo’s pinnacles and spires, the angels pinned decoratively throughout, the gargoyles poised in the most dramatic corners. What I liked the most were the lesser statues, closer to eye level, who were visually integrated within the façade’s structure so that it looked like these stone nobodies were straining to help hold up all of the columns etc. of the cathedral on their personal (rather realistically fragile-looking) shoulders, in not a little agony. The Duomo’s supporting cast, you could say. This detail seemed kind of radical to me. These medieval Catholics, I bullshitted in a kind of dehydrated way to Michelle, were kind of metal to incorporate images of suffering like this amid such architectural magnificence. 

#struggles

It was only later that I realized this depiction of earthly struggle was likely not a radical choice at all, but simply an aesthetically interesting way to further highlight the meatier project of any cathedral or religious site: that of managing the common people’s ideas of, and also aspirations toward, salvation. The real point is to get you to gaze upon at all that beauty—the stone carving, the stained glass, the yassified Jesuses and Marys and saints (or at least all those literally sculpted abs)—so that you can polish up your personal framework of what heaven might look and feel like and how you could maybe reach this place—this vague ultimate sanctuarial destination of which the metaphysical details really matter less than the assurance of a guaranteed end state where one day you’ll feel forever exalted/smooth-brained/tucked safe somewhere high up, unburdened from the usual sweaty human concerns—via the religious vehicle of goodness. (Results may vary.) This all turned my thoughts, maybe ridiculously, back to Instagram.