Social Media Analyst Emily Hund We Can Never Know The Truth Behind An Influencer's Seeming Authenticity' Social Media The Guardian

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Social media analyst Emily Hund: ‘We can


never know the truth behind an influencer’s
seeming authenticity’

Alice Fisher

7–9 minutos

In the early 00s, Emily Hund dreamed of a career as a journalist at a glossy

fashion magazine. But after internships with New York media companies and

having witnessed falling circulations and redundancies, she switched to studying

one of the catalysts for these changes: social media and the influencers whose

YouTube, TikTok and Instagram posts sell ideas, lifestyles and products to their

followers. The influencer industry ranges from global stars such as the

Kardashians to micro-influencers who post on niche interests. What they have in

common is that they work with brands to promote or sell to an audience. Hund is

now a research affiliate at Pennsylvania University’s Centre on Digital Culture

and Society and her first book on influencers is published in the UK this month.

How did social media take hold in people’s lives?

There was a lot of optimism about social media in the 00s when technology first

made it easier to share opinions. During the economic crisis of 2008, when

people were out of work or looking for ways to make money, it really took off.

Bloggers found loyal audiences, so advertisers got interested. This was all

happening against a crisis in traditional media and they were looking for new

ways to promote products.

The first influencers such as Tavi Gevinson and Michelle Phan appeared
as bloggers in the fashion and beauty sectors. How did unqualified people

with no industry experience become gurus on social media?

As a society, we venerate entrepreneurs and love the idea of people “being

themselves” in academia and business, and also in celebrity culture. So there

was fertile ground for social media influencers. They were seen as more

authentic than traditional experts: just like you, they’re trying to figure out

makeup or fashion. That gave them credibility.

But “authentic” is such a nebulous quality. How did it become a measure

of an influencer’s success?

There was a huge influx of influencers after the first wave got recognition and

money. That led to a flood of content, and all the advertising and marketing

people jostled around trying to work out what to do with it. It was no longer

enough to be influential in the quantitative sense – the number of followers you

have, your engagement rate. On top of that, you had to prove you were “more

real” than the next person; not only true to yourself, but an authentic match to a

brand.

That sounds horrible. I thought being an influencer was fun?

I would not call it a good job. Those who get million-dollar deals are a

microscopic slice of a huge industry. There’s a lot of troubling racial and gender

dynamics and there’s also inequality between influencers and the social media

platforms. At the start, bloggers just posted to their personal blog, but then Meta

and TikTok ate the world. Those companies control your content and visibility

and there is no transparency about their algorithms.

The interviewees I spoke to have a constant fear of running foul of the brands or

their followers. If engagement tanks, it’s really hard. If you get a bad response to

a picture of you in a swimsuit or something, you wonder if people think you’re

ugly; and if it was sponsored content, you don’t know if the brand will work with

you again. Sometimes you just have to face the fact that people don’t like you
any more.

The influencer industry has a mainly female workforce. Do you think

sexism is involved in the bad working conditions?

Absolutely. One of my first papers analysed influencer aesthetics, and we found

that those ranked top by marketing and advertising fell into stereotypical western

beauty ideals: thin, feminine, white, straight.

The fact that women drove the industry also meant it didn’t get taken seriously,

or it was disparaged as women being self-involved or vain. It took events such

as the 2017 Fyre festival [a disastrous music event hyped on social media] to

make the broader public realise these people had genuine power.

How has the influencer industry changed as it has developed?

Now cultural and political industries are involved it’s more complex. For a long

time influencers were vehicles for commercial messaging but now it’s blatantly

about spreading ideas as well as products. There was an uptick in the time

people spent on social media during lockdown and lots of new types of

influencers appeared – scientific and medical influencers, but also people who

positioned themselves as experts or sceptics.

That couldn’t have happened without Instagram Stories and TikTok: you can’t

use a beautifully curated Instagram post to sell a conspiracy theory, but short

videos are ideal.

Is it common for influencers to knowingly mislead their audience, as in

cases such as the “pump and dump” securities fraud (in which social media

influencers in the US were charged with feeding followers misinformation

in a $100m stock scheme)?

The influencers I’ve interviewed expressed their desires to be themselves online

as best they could. But one phrased it in a particularly memorable way: being

“authentic but not accurate”. Portray yourself in a way that feels real enough,
and is basically true, but maybe you don’t actually use this product, or do this

meal or exercise routine every day, or maybe there are relationships behind the

scenes that aren’t fully disclosed.

It’s hard to say how common coordinated schemes such as pump and dump

are. If someone is committing a crime on the level of securities fraud, that’s not

something you necessarily see every day – though that doesn’t mean there

aren’t people out there trying.

Kim Kardashian, who was charged by US authorities for promoting a

cryptocurrency without disclosing the payment she received in return.

Photograph: Franck Fife/AFP/Getty Images

What do you think of Kim Kardashian promoting cryptocurrencies? Isn’t that

an odd combination?

Every level of influencer can offer something to an advertiser. Working with Kim

Kardashian, who has hundreds of millions of followers along with celebrity

cachet, can quickly get your brand a ton of exposure and drive sales. What I

don’t understand, frankly, is the appeal of these deals to her and others at her

level who don’t necessarily need the money. Financial and health products, in

particular, carry a lot of risk to her personal brand and have got her in trouble

with the US Federal Trade Commission.

What did you think of the viral TikTok by Romy Mars (in which the 16-year-
old daughter of film-maker Sofia Coppola makes vodka pasta sauce and

reveals she was grounded after trying to charter a helicopter using her

father’s credit card to fly to a meal with a friend)? Is it a hoax?

It’s a great example of how we can never know with certainty what the truth is

behind influencers’ seeming authenticity. She was either leveraging the

technology and communicative norms of TikTok to make a piece of nepo baby

[nepotism baby, the successful children of celebrities] art, or was a teen sharing

what was going on in her life. We can’t know. And that’s the point.

Do you follow any influencers’ advice?

I’m totally guilty of buying stuff suggested by influencers. In a world where you’re

overwhelmed by information, they can give you a good recommendation. I

bought a rug for my bedroom that I really like because of an influencer – and I

still enjoy it five years later.

You just need to be aware that there are many levers at work behind the content

we encounter. There’s a lot more to it than being ourselves.

• The Influencer Industry: The Quest for Authenticity on Social Media by Emily

Hund is published by Princeton (£25). To support the Guardian and the

Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may

apply

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