Being an Artist in the Age of Visibility
How do we show up online without letting it hollow us out?
If there’s one question I get asked more than any other—from college students, friends, and actors at every stage of their careers—it’s how should I be showing up online?
It’s become the new “What’s my type?” for a culture scrolling TikTok instead of checking casting breakdowns. Everyone’s trying to figure out the “right” way to post without losing their mind—or their soul.
And honestly? Same. Because somewhere between “build your brand” and “just be authentic,” we lost the plot.
We’re living in what you could call the Age of Visibility—where being seen has become almost synonymous with being something. For actors, that tension cuts deep. The art itself depends on being witnessed, but now the witnessing never stops.
Every role, every opening, every coffee with a friend has the potential to become content. Somewhere along the way, the audition room merged with the algorithm. The skill set expanded: sing, dance, act—and post.
And I’ll be honest—this question isn’t theoretical for me. I think about it all the time. When to share, what to share, whether to share. There are weeks when I feel lit up by the idea of documenting the work, and others when even opening the app feels like walking into a crowded room full of people shouting.
So this week, I want to look at what’s actually happening underneath that pressure—where the should comes from, what it costs, and what it might mean to find a way of showing up that feels like art again.
Let’s get into it.
The Evolution of the Actor’s Image
Once upon a time, actors were mysteries. They lived behind stage doors and silver screens, filtered through glossy magazines and late-night talk shows. You didn’t know their dog’s name or what brand of toothpaste they used. The distance was deliberate. The illusion was part of the job.
Then came the ‘80s and ‘90s—the MTV era, the 24-hour news cycle, Entertainment Tonight. Access became aspiration. A good interview could sell tickets. The audience wasn’t just buying the art anymore; they were buying the artist.
By the early 2000s, the internet crushed the fourth wall. Fan mail turned into Tumblr. Blogs turned into Facebook. And then Instagram, and eventually TikTok, busted the floodgates opened. Suddenly, everyone had a camera, a platform, and a shot at virality.
Today, nearly 80% of young adults are on Instagram and over 60% are on TikTok. Those are the same people we’re auditioning for, collaborating with, or trying to reach.
For actors, that changed everything. The backstage became the stage. First-day-of-rehearsal photos, vocal-health vlogs, opening night “get ready with me’s”. Being visible stopped feeling like a perk and started being a prerequisite.
The boundary between being an actor and appearing to be one began to blur. Which is the real paradox of the present moment: actors used to be known for their roles. Now, the role is you.
And this is where the should’s creep in.
The “Should’s”
The should rarely shows up as an order. It’s more like a vibe—ambient, inherited, the hum of a culture where being seen feels indistinguishable from being valid. No person is saying “post or else,” but the signals are hard to miss: the influencers being plopped into long-running shows, the “what’s your instagram?” when you meet someone new, the way a room perks up when someone’s clip makes the rounds. Over time, the actor starts to hear all of that as a responsibility. Right?
Actors are built to read response. That’s our instrument. We listen for breath, for laughter, for the stillness that means a moment landed. Social platforms imitate that loop with numbers. They look like applause but behave like a slot machine—variable rewards, no curtain, no bow. You can exit the app and still feel it tugging at your sleeve.
Under that pull, the work bends. You don’t just move through the world; you start pre-editing your life in your head—what line from the show could be a caption, what quiet backstage moment could be a post. Documentation sneaks into rehearsal. Process becomes product. Our memory starts to get shaped by what’s most shareable, not what’s most meaningful. None of this is villainy; it’s just gravity. But gravity changes how we move.
When you peel it back, the should is usually a proxy for three human needs: safety (don’t disappear), belonging (stay in the conversation), and momentum (keep the story going). Naming that doesn’t solve it; it makes it legible. You can interrogate the impulse without shaming it. Is this about being hired, being held, or feeling in motion? Sometimes the answer will be “all three.” Sometimes naming it is enough to loosen its grip.
This is where the cost begins to show—not in minutes lost to scrolling, but in attention siphoned from presence. The should doesn’t just ask for content; it asks for custody of your attention.
The Cost
The currency of being an artist has always been attention. Not the kind measured in views or likes. It’s what we offer the world when we step into the light: I will give you all of me for a moment, and you will give me all of you in return. That’s the unspoken exchange.
But in the age of visibility, attention has become something else—something transactional, something to be managed. What once connected us to the divine—the breath, the present, the aliveness of this moment—now gets sliced into deliverables. We’re no longer just practicing presence; we’re performing it.
And the cost isn’t just distraction—it’s disconnection. From mystery. From wonder. It’s harder to hear the whisper of the heart when every silence begs to be filled. Harder to find awe when, the moment after it arrives, you’re already thinking about how it’ll look on the grid.
This is how the should sneaks into the soul. It trades presence for proof. It tempts us to swap communion for consumption. And little by little, the muscle that once recognized and held sacredness starts to atrophy.
The tragedy isn’t that we’re being watched—it’s that we’ve begun to watch ourselves being watched. The mirror doubles. The reflection multiplies. And the space between who we are and who we think other people think we are starts to merge, until even we can’t tell the difference.
Reclaiming the Sacred
So how do we return? How do we keep showing up in a world that rewards constant visibility without letting it hollow us out?
Honestly, I don’t know. But I think the invitation is to remember that the work, at its best, has always been a form of prayer—a temporary surrender of self in exchange for connection. That’s what audiences come for, even if they don’t have the words for it.
Presence used to be the byproduct of art; now it’s the discipline. The thing you protect. The practice of choosing what gets to claim your gaze, and what doesn’t. Because in a world that monetizes distraction, attention becomes an act of devotion.
Despite what you might read or hear, there is no “right” way of Being (capital B) online. And besides—it’s a moving target anyway. The platforms will keep changing. The algorithm will keep shifting. But the value of the work, and even more so, who we are, won’t be determined in Silicon Valley. Your follower count won’t be on your gravestone. (I hope.)
So keep the faith. Reclaim your presence. When you feel the urge to share something online, maybe sit with the moment you’re in for just a breath longer. The desire to post it may or may not pass—but at least you’ll have felt a little more alive.
If visibility is the new currency, then maybe stillness is the new rebellion.
One last thing…
This week, I was in tech for the off-Broadway uptown transfer of BEAU while also recording my first original cast album for All the World’s a Stage. Two milestones my younger self would’ve lost his mind over.
And yet, somewhere between call times and vocal takes, I caught myself thinking less about the work and more about how I should be sharing it. What to post, when to post, whether to post.
It’s strange how quickly wonder can get replaced by strategy. How even joy starts to feel like content if you’re not careful.
I wanted to feel the gravity of this week—the kid in me who dreamed about moments like this, the gratitude of actually living them—but it was hard to reach through the noise. Hard to stay in the thing when part of my mind was hovering above it, planning the caption.
That’s why I write pieces like this one. Because The Fourth Wall has become my own way of finding stillness again. Of asking better questions. Of reminding myself that being present for my own life is not something to optimize—it’s something to protect.
So if you’re reading this and wrestling with the same impulse, know that I’m right there too. Trying to stay human in public. Trying to feel into the moments I used to only imagine.
And trying, maybe most of all, to remember that the story’s already worth telling—whether or not I hit “post.”
See you next week ♥️
—Matt