Instagram and the Artist’s Blog

Example of how I used a screenshot to promote a recent blog post on Instagram.

Imagine you’re an artist–a painter, specifically. Some months back, you set up a blog as a way to promote your work. A blog is a way to carve out virtual real estate, you reasoned, believing a lack of online presence was tantamount to non-existence. And these days, setting up a decent site costs relatively little and requires minimal learning . You told family and friends about it, and after excruciating deliberation over fonts and background colors, you finally published your first post: an artist statement accompanied by a couple of high-resolution photos of recent paintings. The world was opening up to you . . . or was it? You consistently generate brilliant content, but your readership has never approached what you thought it would. Luckily, a great tool for driving visitors to your site is probably already on your phone’s home screen: Instagram.

Chances are you have an Instagram account. Yet there’s also a chance you’re not maximizing Instagram’s potential for growing your brand. Perhaps you’ve never considered the photo-sharing platform as a marketing tool. Of course, you’ve posted pictures of your paintings here and there, and maybe you’ve even been encouraged by a few positive responses, but you know the response could be bigger. In fact, you need it to be bigger. Your dreams are at stake.

So you’ve shared your creative pursuits on Instagram, but what you haven’t done is learn how to leverage Instagram’s networking potential to drive visitors to your site–the true online showcase for your paintings. Good news: this can be achieved by sharing the blog itself. It’s the difference between simply letting people know you paint and showing them you’re a serious artist. If you share your site in this way, you’ll be surprised to learn how many of your followers haven’t realized you even have a blog, despite the link being right there in your Instagram bio. Everybody’s busy, so it sometimes takes an extra nudge to aim their attention in the proper direction.

Let’s look at some ways to share your blog via Instagram. First, never forget that Instagram is primarily a photo-sharing platform. This means your photo should be of good quality, even if it means using filters and effects (think of it as creative control). Everyone has seen the way professional photographers use Instagram to display their work. If you want your post to garner a second look, keep in mind the amazing quality out there.  Also, your photo should relate directly to the content of your blog post: an actual photo from the post is ideal. Here’s a different approach: take a screenshot of your most current blog post and use it as the photo you share on Instagram to promote your blog (see photo at the top of this article); this not only announces your new post, it also allows people a tiny glimpse of the site, which hopefully has the effect of making them curious about what you’re doing.

Next, couple your photo with an excerpt from the particular blog post you are promoting. Use some form of lead-in to indicate that the excerpt was written by you. For example, you can say something like: I updated my blog!, or new post.  You want viewers to know that you are the author. Following your lead-in, use quotation marks to imply that your excerpt is only a small part of a larger published piece online. Your excerpt should reveal just enough to whet a viewer’s interest. Neither over-share nor under-share. Your intuition will guide you in this, and it’s something you improve upon with time.

Here’s a crucial step, but it’s also one that is easily forgotten: after your excerpt, always mention that a link to the full article can be found in your Instagram bio, and then update your Instagram bio’s web link so it actually connects to your new blog post! More times than I care to admit, I’ve forgotten this step, and I can’t help but wonder how many potential visitors I might have missed.

Finally, optimize your hashtags. If you use Instagram, then it’s assumed you know what hashtags are. However, you may not realize how useful they can be in promoting your blog. Instagram allows thirty hashtags per post. Use all of them whenever possible. The goal is to maximize your reach. The hashtag search tool that pops up automatically in Instagram’s iPhone app, which is what I’m most familiar with, typically offers up multiple variations for most entries. For example, if I type #halloween in the text box, these are only a few of the options that appear:  #halloweenmakeup; #halloweencostume; #halloweenmovie; #halloween2018.

Instagram’s hashtag-suggesting function.

Indeed, the list goes on and on. You can’t select all the hashtags, but you can select the most relevant ones. And because Instagram provides a number beside each one indicating how many times that hashtag has been used, you can strategically pick ones where your post has a greater chance of being seen. In other words, if a particular tag has been used eight million times, it’s more likely your post will get lost in the shuffle, but if it’s only been used eight-hundred times, your post is going to be visible for a longer period of time, thereby increasing the chances someone will click on it. And getting someone to click on your post is two-thirds of the battle.

Artists typically don’t want to bother with self-promotion–they’re natural-born makers, not marketers. However, social media has made the process a little less painful. This is fortunate, because an online presence is a necessity in modern times. A blog is a wonderful thing for an artist to have; the ability to update a blog regularly is perhaps the greatest perk of owning one, as opposed to a traditional website. Yet a blog must have visitors if an online presence is to have any meaning. Among the many social media platforms available, Instagram gets my vote for being the one that best lends itself to blog promotion. At least that’s what my own experience suggests.

Alan D. Tucker
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist

1001 Nachts: a Fourteen-minute Journey from Absurdity to Mindfulness

Freak show posters.

I knew the carnival was there, but I couldn’t yet see it. Rounding a long curve at twenty miles-per-hour, around the northern perimeter of the CoolSprings Galleria, with the interstate running parallel on my left, I looked up at just the right moment, and through a break in the tall trees, I saw flashing, colored lights. The lights formed a number and a word: “1001 Nachts.” At first, a tiny spark of excitement rushed through me, provoked by the sight of a carnival ride–a vestige of childhood perhaps, one I wouldn’t have expected to feel as an adult. But there it was, the old excitement: even though I wasn’t going to ride anything or play any games, or even treat myself to some wayward, deep-fried confection, the little surge had come. Second, I wondered why the word nights was in German. The original collection of stories known as The Thousand and One Nights, as you probably know, was written in Arabic, so it had to be translated into something, right? But why not English, for an American audience? Here are two theories: either the ride originally operated in Germany, OR . . . somebody thought “1001 Nachts” sounded more exotic. My measly Google research yielded nothing, so I’ll go with the latter of those theories, a choice allowing me to good-naturedly mock the ride maker’s naming decision while still appreciating the imagination that went into creating this magic-carpet simulating ride.

1001 Nachts

It was 4:45 on a Wednesday afternoon, so I didn’t expect a bustling crowd, but what I found was no crowd at all. In fact, there were no visitors anywhere, except me. There were people milling about, but it soon became clear they were  all employed by the amusement company–each one had on some color variant of the same digitally-embroidered polo shirt. Rides spun with no one on them; appeals to play games were directed solely at me. It was a bit surreal. Finally, someone informed me that the carnival didn’t officially open until five, though I was free to stroll through the premises and be harassed by game operators. I was only a few minutes early, but early nonetheless. It was opening night, and no one was there yet . . . but me.

From an actual conversation.

Some of the game operators wore headsets, the purpose of which apparently was to let them speak to customers without yelling. I found this out after I’d only barely entered the loop, before I’d made eye contact with anybody. “You ready to shoot some hoops?” It took a couple seconds to find the source of the question. Then up ahead, some thirty or forty yards, standing in front of a basketball shooting game, a young man was smiling at me. It seemed ridiculous he’d solicit my money from that distance. But it didn’t seem to matter to these hi-tech carnival barkers whether I was near them or far away. Indeed, a few minutes later, a woman spoke to me via headset from a mere four feet, which was kind of weird, like talking on the phone to someone who’s in the same room. She demonstrated how to stand a bottle upright with a ring-on-a-string so I’d know the secret and all I’d have to do was give her a few dollars and then I’d have my pick of any of the stuffed animals hanging from the canopy’s ceiling. Something I found hilarious, though, was her response when I told her no:  she said, “I understand.” Why this was so funny, I’m not sure. I guess because it was such a real-world answer to a situation that was inherently absurd. It surprised me she didn’t keep pressing. Maybe she too sensed how uncomfortable this one-on-one interchange with a headset was. I moved on, passing through the shadow of 1001 Nachts, which soared atop its flat post, sometimes lit, sometimes not.

The highlight of my solitary, earlybird, parking-lot carnival stroll would have to be the freak show tent. I never expect to see this in modern times, except for maybe at Coney Island, where a legitimate historical–albeit quirky and gloriously anachronistic–culture surrounds it (though to Coney Island’s credit, I’ve noticed the gentler term “sideshow” often used in place of “freak show” in their promotional literature). The phenomenon of the freak show evades the flailing and grasping tentacles of political correctness, somehow; the whole idea of profiting off labeling people as “freaks” seems like it would be an intolerable subversion in our society. But nevertheless, at the very back of the carnival, a red and yellow striped tent stretched wide across the pavement, its facade covered in various classic freak-show style posters, testifying to an uncharacteristic laxity in the aforementioned political correctness.

The posters on the tent might’ve been as much decorative as they were informative. I couldn’t tell from the posters what was actually inside the tent versus what may have been merely a set of freak show tropes, included on the facade for simple effect. There’s no way all the things advertised were really in there: Chupacabra, Bigfoot, a unicorn, Dolly the Two-faced Cow, and the Eight-Legged Freak–all under one roof?! Come on now! (Save something for the other freak shows.) But I do love the freak show aesthetic–part Victorian, part Vaudeville. It’s a look that stubbornly has never changed with the times. Maybe because, every generation, no one can believe it’s still here.

He’s in there . . .

A dry-erase board near the tent’s entrance provided clarity: there was definitely a fire-eater and a sword-swallower inside (the same person, perhaps?). While I was taking pictures, a slump-shouldered and heavily pierced man in a tank top shuffled by and disappeared into the gloom of the tent. A minute or two later, I could see him sitting in there, on a metal folding chair. I wondered if he was the sword-swallower. He was watching me, which was more awkward than creepy. I had the sense he was no freak at all but a regular guy, just waiting for his shift to begin. In that minute, he was the subject of his own life, but when the show began, that’s when he’d transform from man to freak–from subject to object. Questions like “did he choose this life or did it choose him?” ran through my mind. And I guess I could ask that of any carnival worker. It’s no secret those jobs are few people’s idea of desirable. Yet we’ll always have those jobs, and we’ll always have the people who work them–thoughts which remind me of the importance of kindness. It’s easy to look down on people whose job it is to beg strangers to compete for prizes they don’t really want, prizes that probably aren’t worth the money spent trying to win them–stuffed animals that not even kids really care about. But behind that solicitous carnival worker is a person who probably wonders how they ended up there; a person who feels they have no other option; a person trying to stay sober; a person who’s lost everything; a person who never had anything; a person who’s alone; and yes, probably one or two who actually like what they’re doing–people who find freedom in the transience of it, in the camaraderie of it (I witnessed this in those few minutes before the place opened); people who enjoy helping others have fun, and certainly people who don’t get hung up on whether a sign reads “1001 Nights” or “1001 Nachts.” So in addition to me reminding myself to be kind, here’s another reminder I got from my fourteen-minute-long carnival-wandering experience: people are more than their jobs. I wish there was a Netflix documentary profiling carnival workers. I think it would be fascinating.

As I was returning to my car, other people had begun to arrive. A woman took a picture of her daughter posing with raised arms in front of the Ferris wheel. I can only imagine that photo ended up on social media, complete with witty hashtags and links to various family members’ accounts. 50 Cent’s “In da Club” was playing somewhere; it seemed to be coming from the basketball shooting game. A worker near the front was mouthing every word. I drove out the way I’d come in, and just before the carnival disappeared behind the trees, I looked in my rearview mirror, and you can probably guess what I saw, hovering high above where the carnival used to be: 1001 Nachts.

Alan D. Tucker
Content writer, essayist, and novelist.

 

**For a truly, um, “unique” story involving the ride in the first paragraph, 1001 Nachts, click here.

Silence Speaks Loudest

From the first of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies.

And maybe that’s why we fear it. Possibly, the title made you think of the silent treatment we give those who’ve wronged us, but that’s not what this is about. This is about the silence of nature and of the cosmos–the deafening roar of an empty house, how its newly cavernous dens and bedrooms (when we find ourselves alone) press in with a sound more profound than any human voice can render, much less a TV or a radio–the dryer drum spinning incessantly with its metal-on-metal crack of blue jean buttons. Silence is a sound made up of no sound (abstraction is the only way to render this), when we stare into the void and it stares back at us.

But the sound is not altogether hostile. Have you ever taken a long walk in the woods with no agenda–no deer to harvest or no mileage to meet before dark–and found yourself pausing to listen. But to what? Not even the birds are whistling. Maybe the occasional whisper of pine boughs lets drop a message you’d swear is only for you. Maybe you honed in on a specific whisper and called it God.

When we listen to silence, she speaks. I’ve believed this for years now, though I don’t always listen. I’m as susceptible to modern life’s distractions as anybody–the television’s drone is a comfort, however superficially, and my Spotify playlists grow ever more tailored to my musical taste, which makes them hard to ignore when I’m driving here and there.

One thing I do have going for me, however, is an immunity to the need to always be talking. Dr. Joel Fleischman of the nineties show Northern Exposure is a New Yorker transplanted to a backwoods Alaskan town as a way to pay for his expensive education by serving as a general practitioner to the town’s eccentric populace. He misses everything his quiet moments try to teach him, because he won’t shut up. You probably know the type. You may even be the type. If you’re a Fleischman, I implore you to face down the terror of your quiet, alone on a trail or in your living room with TVs and radios and oscillating fans turned off. If you’re not a Fleischman, then face it down anyway. It may accomplish nothing, but in our harried world of ceaseless distraction, amid all the noise grasping at our attention, there’s something noble in being stubbornly quiet, in being quiet on purpose. It’s like holding up a middle finger to those homogenizing forces that would have us sequestered like cattle in pens, oblivious to our impending slaughter. Maybe a voice will speak to you out of the silence.

Alan D. Tucker
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist