The Influencer in the Wild: A Meditation on Performance

My wife and I were having lunch in an outdoor courtyard, fresh from the trenches of bathroom vanity shopping—because nothing says ”romance” quite like debating cabinet depth and drawer glides for forty-five minutes.

We had survived another expedition into the wilderness of home improvement retail, where salespeople speak in mysterious dialects about ”vessel sinks” and ”widespread faucets,” and every decision feels like it will haunt you for the next decade.

Marriage is many things, but mostly it's agreeing on fixtures.

I was mid-bite into my sandwich when I noticed her.

A young woman, maybe twenty-three, setting up an iPhone on a tripod with the focused intensity of a National Geographic photographer preparing to capture a rare snow leopard. I leaned forward, curious. What was she filming? The courtyard fountain? The architectural details? That particularly photogenic tree in the corner?

No.

She was filming herself.

She positioned the phone just so, stepped back, checked the angle, adjusted it three degrees, stepped back again, and then—showtime.

She began speaking to the camera with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered the secret to eternal youth, her hands moving in elaborate gestures that, back in my day, we would have called gang signs but which I now understand are called ”engagement techniques.”

I couldn't hear what she was saying from where I sat. I didn't need to.

The performance was universal—eyebrows raised in surprise, hands clasped in manufactured delight, a pointing gesture toward something invisible that we, the future viewers, were meant to find equally thrilling. She was selling enthusiasm. The product was unclear.

Several people walked past her, their heads swiveling with the kind of confused curiosity usually reserved for street performers or people having loud phone arguments.

An elderly couple paused, looked at each other, shrugged, and kept walking.

A teenager smirked.

A mother with a stroller gave her the look—the one that said Kids these days, even though the mother couldn't have been more than thirty herself.

And then it hit me: we were all watching her the way you watch animals at the zoo.

Not with malice, but with genuine anthropological fascination. Look, honey, an influencer in the wild. See how she gestures? Notice the ring light in her bag?

Magnificent creatures, really.

I half-expected Sir David Attenborough to materialize behind me, whispering in that soothing British accent: ”Here we see the content creator in her natural habitat. She has carefully selected this location for optimal lighting and aesthetic appeal. Watch as she performs what biologists call 'the talking hand dance'—a ritual designed to capture the attention of her digital tribe.”

She did multiple takes.

Five, maybe six.

Each time with slightly different energy, testing variations like a jazz musician riffing on a theme—if jazz musicians pointed at invisible things and made shocked faces for a living.

At one point, she laughed at something she'd said, stopped, reviewed the footage, shook her head, and started over.

This was work. Real work.

The kind that requires no boss, no office, and no approval from anyone except an algorithm that may or may not decide to show your content to twelve people or twelve million. A cruel god, the algorithm. Fickle and inscrutable.

My wife glanced over, following my gaze. ”What's she doing?”

”Contributing to the 'gram.”

”Is that what we're calling it now?”

”Apparently.”

I found the entire process somewhat comical, but I couldn't bring myself to judge it. Here was someone doing what she loved—or at least what she'd committed to—in broad daylight, unbothered by the stares and the confusion.

There's something admirable about that. Brave, even.

Most of us spend our lives worried about what strangers think. She'd made peace with being a spectacle.

She wasn't bothering anyone. She wasn't asking for money or validation from the people walking by. She was simply performing for an audience that wasn't physically present, which, when you think about it, is what all artists do.

Writers write for readers they'll never meet.

Painters paint for viewers who may not exist yet.

She was just doing it in real-time, with gestures I didn't understand, for a platform I barely use.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder what future archaeologists will make of us when they unearth our digital remains. ”The early 21st-century human engaged in elaborate displays of enthusiasm for invisible audiences. Scholars remain divided on whether this was religious ritual, mating behavior, or performance art.”

All three, probably.

My wife finished her salad. I finished my sandwich. The influencer finished her sixth take, reviewed it one more time, smiled with satisfaction, and packed up her tripod.

She walked away without a second glance at any of us, already onto the next thing, the next location, the next carefully curated moment.

Mission accomplished.

We returned to our quest for vanity, err, a bathroom vanity—a different kind of performance, but a performance nonetheless.

Because in the end, aren't we all just trying to present the best version of ourselves?

Some of us do it with hand gestures and ring lights.

Others do it with the right cabinet hardware and a well-chosen backsplash.

The only difference is, my audience will be limited to houseguests who need to wash their hands.

Hers might reach millions.

Or twelve people.

The algorithm will decide.

Either way, she showed up. She did the work. And somewhere out there, in the vast digital wilderness, someone will watch that video and think, Yes. This. This is exactly what I needed today.

And honestly?

That's more than most of us can say about our bathroom vanities.