From the day I posted my first image of two air-brushed cowgirls on a truck tailgate, I’ve been hooked on instagram. I love the platform for it’s simplicity, hunt-ability, and intimate quality. For me, it’s primarily a vehicle of discovery. It’s where I found the Hotel Costes, the killer style of a lady named Sydney Ballesteros, the incredible eye of Andy Spade, and scored entrance to the Feast of St. Cecilia. At it’s best, instagram is a portal into hidden worlds of interesting people, places, and visual inspiration. At it’s worst, a catalyst for comparison and self-doubt. No matter what group you’re running with online (moms who only do kid pics, selfie-happy millennials, or die-hard professional photographers) it seems like only one thing about insta is truly universal: those darned little numbers. All of a sudden our lives (and our selves) seem quantifiable. You’ve got 2k followers? Well she’s got
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