Oct 14, 20226 min read

a lesson in instagram archive (and etymology)

In 2017, the popular social media app Instagram quietly released a new feature called Instagram Archive. It’s a useful tool that allows users to take down posts from their profile without fully deleting them. While many people know of this feature, those who are less tech savvy may have no idea it exists.

Instagram Archive serves many purposes: it allows users to remove cringey middle school posts or old relationship photos from their profiles without losing the memory; for the more artistically driven it can serve as an act of preserving an aesthetic feed. For others, like myself, it can become a way of incognito posting.

The term archive finds its origins from the greek word arkheia, meaning ‘public records’, and from arkhē, meaning ‘government, beginning, or origin.’ Translated archives in French, the word is used in the modern vernacular to mean “place where records are kept.” The verb, to archive, didn’t come into usage until the 19th century.

an archive is a "place where records are kept."

While the word was originally used in the context of public records such as censuses, taxes, and historical information, it has taken on more of a digital meaning as our records as a society have shifted to be more and more online.

Think about the old piece of advice to reach for your photos if your house is ever on fire. In elementary school, of course, they teach you to grab nothing and make sure you’re safe. But old family photos are irreplaceable…or are they? Most people I know (with the exception of my friend Naomi) don’t even print off our photos anymore.

Most of us don’t keep physical files at all. We do our taxes online and send contracts over the internet. We write, bank, and file everything away digitally. This saves a lot of physical space and allows us to access our data wherever we are. It’s a nice perk of living in the age of the internet.

But it also changes the meaning of the language in question: our archives these days are digital. Our histories are no longer preserved in hand written notes and books and photo albums. We are typing out our history, instead, on the internet. In real time.

I am making no case for either side here: I see pros and cons for both. Digital archives allow for greater ease of use and access. They’ll never get burnt in a fire and you can send them all over the world with the click of a mouse. They are eternal in this right: once you capture them, post them, or release them, the only thing that can take them away from you is some sort of a server crash, or your own incapacitation and/or death.

Keeping physical archives, like reading a paperback instead of a kindle, is arguably more sentimental. Like writing poetry in a notebook instead of typing it in your notes app, physical archives are oftentimes more romantic and more tangible. You can hold them in your hands and feel the emotion--the texture of the pages, the personalized handwriting, the ink smears of imperfection.

Ah, imperfection. This is something our digital archives often conveniently leave out. But archives have always been selective. What does the author choose to say, and from what point of view? American history textbooks and news stations alike have come under fire for this. Everyone has an innate bias towards one side: no one is perfectly impartial because we are all made up of so many unique little pieces of personality that we are incapable of neutrality.

This bias is particularly evident in the way we now create archives--the way we post our memories to social media. We post as revisionist historians. We post the good and perfect things. We do not add our tear stained journal entries to our Facebook pages (and if we do, it is oversharing). On the internet, however, I could argue that we are all oversharing.

That is to say, no one cares about your archives and your memories as much as you do. And, if you think of your social media presence as a diary, it suddenly becomes alarming how much we share and with how many people we do. This type of vulnerability is extremely beautiful, extremely addicting, and, for some, extremely lucrative.

Everyday, we are allowed to see so much of each other. Sometimes too much. Sometimes we wish to see more. Often, and to our detriment, we compare ourselves to what we do see. We gossip about what someone else’s diary could mean for us, especially when we’re not particularly close to one another. Because of the way that social media functions, it’s not just that you can go to the database and search up someone's memories, but rather that they are presented to you first thing in the morning.

This is why I like the concept of a blog. It’s like a museum: memories and artwork exist inside its structure without needing to be advertised. It’s a type of sharing that is accessible but never promoted. It lies in between the old definition of archive and the new one.

A blog is like a museum: memories and artwork exist inside its structure without needing to be advertised.

And so we come to the aptly named tool called Instagram Archive, and the point of this post. Recently I’ve been treating my Instagram account like it is a diary. I use the archive feature immediately after posting something in order to take it down until enough time has passed for it to be accessed on my profile without being announced to all my followers.

A lot of people have asked me why I do this. Am I hiding something? If that’s true, why is my profile public? Am I up to suspicious activity?

No, not at all. I am, rather, obsessed with the idea of curation, of art, of chosen accessibility. Those who truly know me understand that I do not like my art to be marketed but rather appreciated by those who genuinely want to see it.

Those who know me also know that I struggle with feeling larger than life at times, and that my constant inspiration creates a massive body of work which I need to put somewhere. They know that I want to keep all my projects together in an archive--but that I don’t always want to announce them. I’ve noticed that I have a tendency to become incredibly proud and self absorbed when I do.

I am obsessed with the idea of curation, of art, of chosen accessibility.

To me, social media is a tool. I use it as a system to collect my art, to store it neatly in one place. Because I create so much work, I need a place to organize it. It’s journaling through an intuitive platform: I like how the apps function and the way they keep things neat and arranged. I like the completion of posting a collection and the way it allows me to remember later.

I don’t know why I am like this or why I generate so much content, and sometimes I dislike these traits. But one thing I know for sure: just because I post something doesn’t mean that I want everyone to see it right away. For me, sharing is a blessing and a joy, but at times it can be the unintended result of filing my memories on a platform that is not built for archiving but rather for interconnectivity.

Those who truly love me will understand this contradiction because they understand the intentionality and the intimacy it takes to be a part of someone’s life. They understand that right now, the only people I’m notifying about my memories are the ones with whom I shared them in real life. These are the people who will truly understand the meaning behind all the photos and the poetry--and how I am actually doing (hot veggie dog!).

But these are the people who know my flaws and still love me. They are gentle, patient, and kind with me and will always have my best interest at heart. The page is still public because I don’t want to exclude anyone, I only want to ensure I am not forcing my content upon people who may or may not care.

There are also many who love me and don’t like reading, no matter who the author is. There are some who love and have no social media accounts. Some who know me deeply and haven’t seen me in months.

This post is also for them, though they may never see it. It’s an archived tribute to the sincerity of love and of friendship. It’s not about what you know or don’t know, read or don’t read; it’s about showing the people who you love that you care in the unique way that only you can do.