Vlogging and Self-Therapy
Vlogging (video blogging) is a remediation of blogging, which is itself a remediation of the diary; its mass appeal can likely be attributed to the proliferation of reality television shows such as Big Brother that introduced the idea of “celebritization”, where “social and economic capital is accumulated across social fields [...] through hierarchies of visibility that depend on media exposure” (Arthurs et al. 2018). These “slice of life” vlogs offer escapism for the audience and a listening ear for the vlogger. The “rough cut” vlogs showcase a particular aesthetic—such as shaky cameras, raw emotion, choppy editing, or vocalizing a self-awareness of such—that has become a “chief professional device for YouTubers”, since it works to transform intimacy into authenticity on a platform that rewards the “entrepreneurialization of the self” (Ibid.). While some videos may take on a different format, each ‘micro-celebrity’ has cultivated their own brand, which denotes a common expectation for video content and production value.
While traditional television shows usually have recognizable hosts such as Tom Bergeron for America’s Funniest Home Videos or Alex Trebek for Jeopardy! to bring the “world of celebrity” into the viewers’ home, YouTube promotes content that strips away any such artifice. In a video essay titled “YouTube: Manufacturing Authenticity (For Fun and Profit!)”, YouTuber Lindsay Ellis breaks down the appeal of YouTube: its role as the “medium of authenticity” allows for seamless fourth-wall breaks or footage where performers talk to producers or other off-camera crew for comedic effect (7:23). There are also “calls to action” that ask for direct viewer engagement: share this video, “smash that like button”, “be sure to like and subscribe”, or the promotion of a line of merchandise. Since sincerity and authenticity are now measurable commodities in these videos (21:36), the understanding between viewers and creators is different than it is with television. There is the perception of less social distance: we get to see the vlogger’s personal life alongside them, and the vlogger often reads the comments left by their viewers. However, because both algorithm and audience favors regular uploads, any misstep on the part of the vlogger can have dire consequences; if the deception masking the fact that the audience is a customer slips, the audience will lash out (29:30).
So, to keep their audiences engaged, YouTubers have to embrace this manufactured authenticity. This is often seen as them slipping into a certain cadence, or “YouTube voice”, as one way to manage their affect for the sake of earning economic capital (23:30). Ellis goes on to describe how this can result in daily “micro-traumas” from acting as someone they’re not so often because their rent depends on it.
This frankness is further explored in the article “Crying on YouTube” by Rachel Berryman and Misha Kavka, which looks at the relationship between self-exposure in vlogging and the productivity of negative affect. While the established attention economy relies on the exchange of one ‘happy’ unit from the content creator to “generate one attention unit from the user, which in turn will produce a monetary unit” for the content creator or platform (Berryman and Kavka 2018), the authors challenge the idea that this affective currency needs to always be positive. They instead point to crying or anxiety vlogs made by YouTubers such as Trisha Paytas (shown below) that actually affirm their authenticity and strengthen the ties of intimacy with their subscribers through these displays of negative affect.
“While it may seem counter-intuitive to claim that negative affect can generate a positive immaterial product, the missing term in this production line is authenticity, which in the age of social media interaction has become the value added by affect to the communicational labour of computer systems.”
The digital medium has a “booming economy of affective labor”: whereas speaking out about one’s personal problems in a face-to-face conversation is perceived as taxing to all parties, on YouTube it “becomes an invitation to a community of the like-minded.” Often, the audience response to these self-therapy videos are overwhelmingly empathetic: “You are not alone.”
A community is built around the affective labor of a single vulnerable person, but Berryman and Kavka still believe that “digital intimacy [...] trumps real-world intimacy, in part because [...] the performative validation of real feeling requires an imagined viewer-in-waiting who will share the sense of isolation.” Just the act of speaking into a camera calls a potential affective community into existence, as opposed to real-life interlocutors who may be embarrassed by or not interested in your suffering.
Vlogs
Jake Paul: Vlogger with 17M subscribers. This aimless daily vlog of him messing with dogs and planning an impromptu shoot for his new merch has 1.2M views. He uses a lot of out-of-focus shots or unattractive angles for comedic effect, but each time a person (or dog) makes a cameo in the vlog he tags them with their Instagram handle. He promotes his merch, Rise N Be Original (RNBO), no less than five times by organically inserting pictures of the merch and the link to the merch into conversations with his team. Jake Paul's brand is one of spontaneity and immaturity (since the majority of his fans, "Jake Paulers", are teenagers), so he plans a last minute photoshoot that goes off without a hitch as he stands on the sidelines and makes jokes about the attractiveness of the models. After each time he tells a joke or does a "sick burn", he inserts a popular reaction clip from someone like Kanye West, similar to how actors in sitcoms leave a beat of silence after telling a joke so the audience has time to laugh.
Shane Dawson: Vlogger and conspiracy theorist with 19M subscribers. Shane is taking his boyfriend Ryland and their friends on a surprise trip to Houston, Texas over two videos, the first of which garnered 18.9M views of the gang driving to the airport and surviving a first-class flight. Shane has been on YouTube for over a decade, so he is more aware of the macrotrends of the platform than someone like Jake Paul. As a result, Shane's brand involves a lot of editorializing ("I'm almost 30," he says after making a particularly bad joke) or good-natured self-deprecation. When his friends refuse to join him on the dog-hair-encrusted couch he yells at them for messing up the bit he planned 10 minutes ago. He works a joke about his new merch into the conversation, and as his friends follow him into the kitchen Garrett asks, "Shane, are those the ones that are available at www.amazon.com/shanedawson?" as the link appears at the bottom of the frame. Before they leave the house, Shane instructs his cameraman Andrew to "pull some Caseys", referencing vlogger Casey Niestat, who is known for extremely high production quality. "B-roll, slow motion, dubstep music (royalty free), a drone once in a while." The majority of the entertainment value comes from overlaying Casey's high-budget aesthetics over shots of a lower-budget life, as well as the chronicles of Shane's first-time use of prescription Xanax.
Trisha Paytas: Recording artist and vlogger with 4.6M subscribers. Trisha is often very bubbly and open about her life, but this apology video involves a lot of crying and emotional rambling about the backlash her ex-boyfriend received from her fans after she publicly discussed their breakup. She discusses how she can't be fully honest about her emotions in real life, which is why she posts these videos, and expresses her disappointment in herself for how she handled the breakup. She also breaks down over the way one of her fans was attacked for defending her.
The majority of the comments on the video (which received 1.2M views) sympathize with her:
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Ughhh I wish I can jump through this screen and hug her (Keyon Elkins)
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I am crying over my brother moving away and have no one to talk to so I decided to watch a "crying on the kitchen floor video" and cry with Trish and its like therapy for me even though we are crying over completely different things (Raeh L)
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You have nothing to be sorry for: You are human. Right now you are feeling alone + going thru waves of emotion that show what a loving, caring person you are. You are a wonderful person + deserve to be happy. We are here for you + understand + feel your pain. We love you, Trisha. You touch so many people's hearts + that is why God put you on YouTube. Big fishy group hug!!! (Marcia Mathis)
Markiplier: Let's Player Mark Fishbach has 22M subscribers, and often uploads loud and boisterous commentary while he plays horror games, which makes this solemn interlude a little unsettling. His voice takes on an entirely different affect as he tells the viewer, "I try to make the best, most entertaining videos that I possibly can [...] but one of the coolest things that has come out of this channel is the ability to be honest with each other [...] to tell you guys how I'm feeling and not always put it in a positive light." He reiterates these points about honesty and the material impact of his channel several more times in a slow, deliberate manner. "It's our responsibility to try to push humanity forward." The intensity breaks about five minutes in when he reverts back to his normal, more relaxed voice to announce an upcoming charity livestream and to encourage his subscribers to spread the word and buy his new Christmas-themed merch. These "out of character" interludes appear frequently enough to be incorporated into his brand at this point (it still received over a million views and ends with his traditional outro, "And as always, I will see you in the next video. Bye-bye!"), and the comments agree:
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Can you people give this guy a break. These types of videos may be a little “ranty” but I guess if you had 22 million eyes on you all the time you would would need to vent every now and then too. (Brett Highfield)
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I really don't see what other people are saying. [...] Thank you for this video, Mark. I'm so grateful that you continue to be open because it allows me to understand that I'm allowed to be myself, that I'm allowed to be vulnerable, and that someone that I've looked up to since I was a child believes in me. [...] As long as you're being yourself, you'll have supporters from around the globe that have your back. (annabel bernal)
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Why all the criticism? you have to respect his honesty. (Alexia Nicole)
While among the most authentic-seeming genres of the site, the degrees of self-awareness and disavowal taking place within each of the above vlogs only further highlight YouTube’s nature as a “hybrid cultural-commercial space”, a unique middle ground between “industry practices and popular culture” that gives rise to “a complex and sophisticated ecosystem of promotional practices” (Arthurs et al. 2018). It’s efficient for YouTube but often exploitative for its users, whose leisure activities (whether on the producer or consumer end) are “subsumed to capitalistic accumulation” (Ibid.). The affective labor performed here is used to garner views, subscribers, or to promote merch, and this constant performance takes its toll on the vlogger in unique ways. As seen with Trisha, the need for self-therapy is both a symptom of producing affective capital, as well as a means of treating it. This cycle is unique to YouTube’s own spheres of exchange; as Paul Sillitoe spells out in “Why Spheres of Exchange?”, each sphere “is a different universe of objects. A different set of moral values and different behavior are to be found in each sphere” (Sillitoe 2006:3), and there is no ready conversion between the different spheres. The affective capital being produced on YouTube, whether positive or negative, is not exchangeable outside of this particular platform; it is required specifically for views and engagement, which translate directly to revenue.
