I Am A 15th Century Peasant In The Age Of Bookstagram Aesthetics

A short and sweet rant

Books draped artfully over hidden faces, a single hand holding the cover of whatever modern book is all the rage against a beige wall, an art deco corner with mid-century furniture and carefully stacked reads, curated bookshelves filled with knick-knacks and fairy lights. You may think I’m describing a Victorian Bohemian’s reading den, but this is the homogenised world of Bookstagram.

And amongst it all I sound like Ebenezer Scrooge.

I know, I know – Instagram is a visual medium, it’s all about the aesthetic, but I can’t help narrowing one wizened eye, jowls quivering as I mutter, “Bah, Humbug!” under my breath. I love beautiful things, I’m a bit like Wilde in that regard, but should I love the aesthetics of Bookstagram? Should I aspire to these little nooks of curation? It feels too much like Dorian Gray, like a facade or a veneer over something uglier.

Minimalism is a fascinating concept; a) it’s easier to replicate and so companies can churn out a million grey couches and shit tables that all look like they’ve been cut from the same shit cloth, b) the bourgeoisie have done this amazing thing by acquiring so much stuff that they can then throw it all out in the name of an aesthetic principle, sneering at the lower classes for not adhering to the new fad of japandi or, I dunno, fartsniffing. And what is c) you ask? It’s a wonderful and visual signifier of the haves and the have nots.

Bookstagram aesthetics fall into this vacuous category. Recommending books is less about the books and more about the lifestyle. Reading comes with coffee machines, with art nouveau lamps, with mid-century squashy arm chairs. I know a lot of this can be thrifted, and I’ve done so myself, but the constant acquisition of books and stuff is fucking expensive, and it’s nearly impossible to keep up.

I don’t have an artful reading nook, I don’t have stylishly crumpled sheets to wake up from in my latest aesthetic reel – in fact, I share a bed with my mum. There, that feels better, like I’ve got something off my chest. Our kitchen bench is an old dresser. There’s shit everywhere because my mum is overwhelmed losing the only house she’s had since she grew up in housing commission so it’s been a huge shock. I don’t say any of this to invoke some sort of Oliver Twist ‘please sir, spare me a rat’s arse',’ but I do want to stress how I don’t have an aesthetic space for my Instagram. And Instagram is an aesthetics game.

I’m not poor, I don’t want sympathy, but my family is working class and we’ve had our fair share of rougher than guts times. I lost my family home last year after my parents’ divorce, and I didn’t have the luxury of choosing between two houses in the aftermath. We had to surrender my dog (which is probably the worst thing I’ve had to do in my life) and I am now bunking with her and my sibling in an apartment. I could move out but the cost of living is astronomical at the moment and therefore not worth it. We take turns bed hopping when friends or partners come to stay. It’s the kind of charming conditions in which the bubonic plague started.

If I’m being honest, I love this lifestyle. It’s warm, it’s intimate, I am lucky in that I have the kind of relationship with my mum and sibling which means this kind of living is possible. It’s full of community, of shared resources, of the blue collar class rallying around each other. As I’m writing this essay my aunts are here helping mum shift things or move dying plants, or whatever it is she needs. Sometimes it’s breathing space when it all feels too much, other times it’s dinner and a cup of tea.

One of my aunties¹ is talking about supporting her husband through a long term injury, how her daughter, who has COVID, is still working from home because she and her husband can't afford the time off; another auntie has lost her husband, but in her grief stricken world isn't afforded the luxury of grieving because that seems to be something you only get access to when you don't have to work.

And so Instagram aesthetics feel so trivial in comparison.

I don’t even think the point of this essay is about Bookstagram anyway. Perhaps it’s the aesthetics of the overworked and the underpaid, the aesthetics of my own inconsequential worrying over shit that doesn’t matter in the face of a struggling community that I love so much. I mean, who gives a shit if I don’t have a reading nook? I have a roof over my head, my mum is actually a homeowner in her own right (a huge achievement for her and against this impenetrable housing market), there is so much to be grateful for. So then why am I so angry?

Perhaps because I see the MAY READS little Canva story shareables and everyone is onto their seventh book in five days and I’m too tired and exhausted to keep up. Because the perfect Instagram aesthetics require curation, capital, and oodles amount of time which I don’t have lying around. You’d think being chronically ill means I have plenty of time for reading. I don’t. I am desperately trying to build a life where I can support myself through my writing and between working full time and being sick and writing this blog and constantly thinking of ways to improve or to sustain myself financially (let alone learn about financial literacy) I wonder where is the time for me to read? I’ll be honest, running a Bookstagram has somewhat killed my love of it. I usually feel inadequate and then that shame curdles the milk and honey softness inside me.

It is difficult to build a brand when branding requires so much that is inaccessible to me and to many other folks. I am acutely aware of my privilege and how me even thinking about this is indicative that I am still able to participate in this bizarre peer-to-peer capitalist scheme of Bookstagram and Booktok. We exist only in tiny micro-trend vacuums and I feel like a frog whizzing around in a fucking blender, a million postmodern or fantasy book covers blurring to create one ‘MUST READ’.

But perhaps I don’t want to read at all.

1. We’re wog and everyone in my extended family is European so none of us are actually related but everyone is an auntie or uncle.