Perfect kitchens are almost never used. The white marble gleams with the purity of a surface that has never met chile colorado. Stainless steel appliances without a single trace of sticky fingerprints. Impeccable, as if you had just peeled off the protective plastic film. In the corner, a cookbook struggles to stay open. In fact, this is the first time you’ve opened it. Above the stove, the perfect spot to hang a bundle of dried roses alongside a collection of vintage wooden cutting boards. Perfectly aligned to burn with elegance. But it doesn’t matter. It looks cute. It’s aesthetic.
This kitchen isn’t used for cooking; it’s used for photographing and tagging #SundayReset.
Social media didn’t give us tools to document, it gave us a stage. We’ve become the actors in these ecosystems. The spectacle is valued more than the memory. The applause, the “likes” and followers, has become more important than what we’re actually sharing or trying to preserve through photography. This is what platforms reward, and what we’ve grown accustomed to. Unfortunately, it strips away any sense of authenticity, even in the most ordinary moments.
Nothing feels different anymore. Whether that’s because the algorithm was designed to reward certain behaviors or because we’ve allowed it, everything looks the same and completely different at the same time. Every time we participate in the circus that lives behind our phone screens, two things happen: comparison and performance. Morning routines. The self-proclaimed entrepreneur life. Airport selfies on the way to Puerto Rico or any other tropical island. We ask ourselves: How can they afford all of this? Why them and not me? Am I falling behind? Is my life just boring?
We produce the moments we share. It’s not that you’re jealous of the influencer life everyone seems to have, you’re comparing your behind-the-scenes to their edited reality. Our friends have become micro-influencers, building their own personal brands. They talk to the camera and share their “day in the life.” We create an online character that doesn’t always reflect who we are offline — not because we necessarily want to be famous (though some might) but because that’s the behavior expected of you if you want to participate. Because, of course, not participating would be … like not existing.
Who are we documenting for? What happens to the memory of an experience once we edit it into something “post-worthy?” Ironically, what we lose is the very essence of what we’re trying to preserve. We live less present. Always thinking about pleasing the algorithm that will reward us on the grand stage of life. We want to be seen, applauded, admired for how we live. But not everything worth remembering belongs on a stage with an audience. It’s okay to have a photo album you never post. No one will applaud it and it still counts.
It’s not that social media is the enemy. It isn’t. The platforms we use can be incredible spaces for inspiration, connection and sharing. And it’s not that those of us who fall into the game of curating our lives are liars. The problem is what we edit and the pressure to do so.
Maybe your kitchen doesn’t need to be spotless. Maybe it doesn’t need the soft glow of a freshly lit candle. Not everything has to be beige or worthy of a “like.” Just like that kitchen, if no one were photographing your life, would you live it the same way?
The questions don’t end here. You can share yours with me at vanessaporras.art@gmail.com