return to the internet: an introduction
an origin story + welcome letter :)
Before I was a girl in the fashion industry, I was a girl on the internet. I was lucky enough to experience my coming-of-age at the same time as social media’s: the birth of the online world was a safe haven for a younger, freer version of myself, who could neatly channel a compulsive hunger to write into a digital medium. From my teenage years into my early twenties, I published an indie arts and culture publication, in which I spent most of my free time planning editorial shoots, teaching myself Adobe Creative Suite, writing think-pieces, and pouring my heart into various amateur projects that made up my baby zine.
The publication was my earliest foray into my own creative identity—an expression of all of my passions that I could expel into the internet, at a time when I was entirely self-assured, unadulterated, and unattached to outcome. The publication came to a natural end as I graduated university. With a few marketing internships and an English Literature degree under my belt, I landed my first job in the fashion industry at a premium ready-to-wear brand.
The fashion industry was a beautiful and shiny new world, constantly teetering on the edge of its own mirage. Inside, there’s a heartbeat—a workforce of exceptionally talented people, fueled by the belief that we are all on the verge of reaching our dreams. Unfortunately, due to its global scale overproduction, the industry thrives off of a burnout culture so pervasive it feels like oxygen. Both the dream and its exploitation are interconnected; the exciting campaigns, the exhausting work days, the deep gratification of receiving positive feedback, the unbearable pressure. Professionally, I was happy to chase the thrill of one day being recognized in this world. Mentally, creatively, spiritually, I was depleted.
After years of building a vision that largely belongs to someone else, it’s difficult to discern where a brand ends and you begin. Present day, everyone—in their own rite—aspires to be a ‘producer of culture’. Our collective fixation with hyper-individuality has fueled a persistent need to assert that we are some sort of cultural artifact. We are posting, we are performing. Online, we are so much more than we actually are.
The most pervasive manifestation of this phenomenon is rooted in our ability to self-mythologize on the internet: to market and hyperbolize to an unassuming audience. This is an act we’ve perfected over years; to perform our individuality to someone who’s never really looking that closely—but we keep showing up anyway because visibility is the goal. If you’re visible, you matter. If you matter, you are real.
The algorithm rewards this, but the act of creating—in its race for attention, has lost the nuance and depth that comes from carefully engaging with your hobbies, your interests, your identity. This is a reality that I’ve found myself disillusioned by in my own relationship to the online landscape and my apprehension to share any personal, creative work online. If I am not publishing my interests, they are not real. If I am not creating for an audience, I am no longer creative.
Outside of work, I’ve spent the last few years concepting a book—or more specifically, a ‘grown-up’ version of the magazine I created when I was a teenager and creative consulting for brands. In many ways, Substack has become a pocket of the internet that I’ve been seeking for quite some time. A quiet corner to shout into the void, and simultaneously explore and engage with the interests I’ve continued to foster in my adulthood: fashion, interior design, art direction, and writing.
I plan to use this platform as a space to share fashion musings, current projects, personal essays, and recommendations, but moreover, I’d like to think of this Substack as a means of writing my way back to myself—a version of myself that deeply misses writing for the sake of it and sharing the things I care about, regardless of its audience.
With that being said—welcome!
Xx
Giselle