how to become a instagram model
I have friends who are famous on the Internet—like, legitimately famous—just for being themselves. Want proof? An industry pal of mine has nearly 20,000 Instagram followers, many of whom interact cattily with one another in the comments sections of her prolific posts. A colleague of mine, who boasts nearly 11,000 devotees, said she only stopped stressing about her following after she broke the 10K mark. And an editor who sits a mere 10 feet from me has a stable of more than 30,000 worshippers who froth over her outfit shots, vacation candids, and market appointment selfies.
Though I have been on the photo-sharing app for 175 weeks (or 3.3 years in gen pub time), at the beginning of this self-prescribed experiment my private account had just 649 followers. It's worth noting that at any given time I follow more than 700 people, which in the world of Instacool ratios suggests that I have a major chill deficit. (Case in point: Instaqueen Kendall Jenner balances her 38.3 million followers by following just 170. Now that's bawse.)
But how hard is it to cultivate Internet fame? And can't anyone, with the right methodology, apps, and filters, achieve a comparable level of notoriety? I became determined to juke my not-so-impressive social stats into the big leagues. And in order to "get to the K"—a term an Instafamous friend explained to me while I was researching this article—I turned to one of the most-trusted names in the biz.
Enter Sydney Reising (@SydneyReising), a notorious Gladwellian "connector" of the downtown set who's also been described by theNew York Times as "the wunderkind of New York public relations." Eager to get things started, I wrote to her, outlining my plans for certain stardom. Her response, though thoughtful, didn't exactly mirror my enthusiasm. She was worried, she said, that a rush job might not instill the proper self-branding tactics required of even the nominally famous. "I'd just be doing a short term Band-Aid that would disappear upon conclusion of our working together because it would be too directly dependent on me and not give you the tools to do you without me," she wrote.
I remained undeterred. I wanted fame—and I wanted it yesterday. "Okay," she later said with a raspy laugh over the phone. "What are you doing tonight?" I looked down at my matronly schmata and said, "Not a thing."
Cut to a crowded rooftop at a hip West Village hotel, where Reising was hosting a party for a trendy flavored liqueur. Rumors of Leandra Medine's arrival flitted about as a sea of Clubmasters with manbuns sipped on hand-muddled cocktails. I looked around for the doll-like face with cascading chestnut hair I'd surfaced after covertly googling Reising's name. (Though we had emailed several times over my years at ELLE, we'd never actually met.) I tugged on my colleague Seth's sleeve (I brought back-up, okay?) and pointed at a lanky girl who was simultaneously tossing her head back with laughter and pulling on a cartoonishly-long cigarette. He shook his head. "Too blonde," he whispered. It was true, but that girl was definitely a model. I decided to keep my head on a swivel for famous catwalkers.
Just then I spotted her. Well, I spotted her dog, Ruby, whom I had started to follow on Instagram for reconnaissance purposes. Perched comfortably on a tufted sofa, Ruby, a tweenaged Border Collie, was being treated to a full-size cheeseburger by her high-cheekboned handler. Bingo, I thought. I rushed over to Reising, who was wearing drapey black garments, a Merlot-colored bandeau, and a green neckerchief, and breathlessly introduced myself. Calm and nonchalant—I'll admit that I was giving off heady backstage William Miller vibes—she welcomed me into her thrall.
Getty Images
After casually introducing me to a handful of well-known editors and bloggers, Reising got right to business and asked to see my phone. Together we pulled up my Instagram feed and unmercifully plowed through the data. Things that had to go: any pictures that had fewer than 10 likes, grainy shots from when I was still "getting a handle" on the medium, and pictures that didn't make me look cool, funny, or both. (One pic Reising did like? A shameless shot of my honeymoon rumpus; see above.) "Think of it like a color story," she said, citing Net-a-Porter's website as a visual template. "The whole thing should look cohesive." I glanced at my muddied tableaux of more than 500 poorly executed snapshots of red-eyed friends, various camera-phobic family members, and winsome sunsets (kill me), and realized I was even less prepared than I'd thought. "It's not that hard," she assured me. "Just think of it like a blog."
The next day, equipped with Reising's insights (and just a touch of Marie Kondo-level ruthlessness), I got to work weeding out my less-than-aspirational images. Gone was the paparazzi-zoom shot of Serena Williams at the U.S. Open, the inexplicable pic of a red-tummied lion named "Leo Boutin" I spotted in Michigan, and a handful of sentimental portraits of people who, for whatever reason, didn't garner a response from my discerning followers. I became an Instagram assassin. And when I was done editing, I had preserved just 92 posts. I clicked back out to my feed and tried to assess its visual allure. Dynamic, I though happily. With just a bit of sepia-toned intrigue. I set my account to public and got busy on the rest of Reising's directives.
Courtesy of @JustineDC
First up: celebrity endorsements. Because I host a recurring column called Hot Guy/Cold Drink, I have a surplus of images of myself yukking it up with famous men. Reising's expert advice was not only to have ELLE repromote those images (and tag me in them) but also to encourage the celebrities I interview to do the same. Though I felt a little gross about explicitly asking for exposure, I had a famous starlet give me props on her feed and had ELLE social a picture from my first-ever #HGCD with Christopher Meloni. I reveled in watching the new follower notifications roll in. I thought excitedly, What else can I do?
Kathryn Friedman
Curious about how my next-level Instafamous friends got that way, I decided to suss out their tricks of their trade. One such individual—the inimitable Danielle Prescod (@danielleprescod)—had a lot to say on the topic: "My Instagram is all about work—and it's become a job," she told me over Gchat. She then regaled me with an amusing story about how she and her sister needed a picture of themselves wearing a gifted item from a fashion brand and enlisted their mom to take the shot. "It was somewhat of a disaster because her composition was all off," she said. "Everyone was getting irritated and snippy and at the end of it I was like, 'I'm a monster!' Like, why am I yelling at my mom that she isn't centering us when she is looking at this like, Here is a cute photo of my daughters, you know?" Icky feelings aside, Prescod is still compelled to play the game. "I feel like I need to participate," she says. "I hate to be on the sidelines."
As I thought hard on what my next 'gram should be, that sentiment—the idea of using your likeness to compete with your peers—felt foreign to me. I have always been somewhat of a self-deprecator, the kind of writer who tries to connect with her audience through a shared (often times embarrassing or humbling) experience. I also have a curious relationship with privacy; I simultaneously strive to live my life without the persuasion or gaze of others (perhaps a reaction to having visible parents) while also wanting to command attention for my own achievements. My wedding is a perfect example of this dichotomy: We didn't want to announce our union in the Times; we refused to have a hashtag; and we actively denounced the use of social media during the ceremony. That said, I was honored when a few magazines made tepid inquiries about covering our nuptials. It's nice to be wanted.
In some ways, my reluctance to accept a fully transparent relationship with social media—my fits and starts with the myriad platforms—has resulted in an imperfect avatar for me and my many contradictions. I'm aware that a refusal to post selfies (and an air of general disdain for the activity) is as much of an affect as air kissing and schmoozing. But in this day and age, abstaining from social media says as much about you as unabashedly embracing it. Feigning naïveté really only works for octogenarians, babies, and Angelina Jolies.
Courtesy of @JustineDC
So instead of pulling another celebrity candid out of the archives, I decided to go with a personal image that properly communicated the current chaos of my life: empty apartment, impulse West Elm purchases, my best guy and gal, and a 10-year-old dog who hasn't yet fully grasped the concept of house training. The shot garnered 45 likes, but more importantly, 12 endearing comments from some of my husband's and my closest friends. The warmth and intimacy conveyed through these messages was a stark contrast with the strangers who posted emojis on a recent snap of Nick Lachey and me that happened to reel in 128 likes.
At the end of my amateurishly executed experiment, I netted just 98 new followers (44 of whom have since fallen off, likely due to my infrequent posting habits/lack of interest in my regular-person lifestyle). And as I toy with the idea of setting my profile back to private, I reckon that it wouldn't make much of a difference, anyway. With me, it seems, what you see is what you get.
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how to become a instagram model
Source: https://www.elle.com/life-love/a31020/how-to-become-an-instagram-celebrity/
Posted by: christensendouner.blogspot.com
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