Licking the lion’s balls is risky, but it’s all I know how to do.

Where I come from, there’s a saying that goes, “Now you’re playing with the lion’s balls.” I.e. looking for trouble. As of last Friday, I’ve resorted to self-censoring with strategically placed cat pictures on Instagram because, apparently, the mysterious rules have become even stricter. And it’s not like I make porn. Hardcore content isn’t my gig. The cat pix are only a short-term solution, but I do love licking balls.

I question everything.

And I can’t comprehend what Instagram’s Kafkaesque community guidelines are actually attempting to achieve. Instagram is a mirror—it reflects who we are as a generation, though with major blind spots. There’s no Gaza on Instagram anymore. No Sudan. No Ukraine. No homosexuals. No sex.

But that’s a joke really—because when I open Instagram, all I see is sex. My explore page is practically leaking. Here, you can look at these screenshots from Thursday. 

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me. It worries me—not just because I’m launching a ​magazine​ and I want it to have an impact, but because it shakes the foundations of my core beliefs. Queer artists are being erased while Instagram continues to pump sexualised content—and they probably profit from it.

For the rest of us, the shadowban has left the shadows, and the bots are cracking down. If likes and follows are currency, then our stock is crashing. This October, my Instagram feed was filled with frustration—queer accounts being throttled, engagement plummeting, followings rendered worthless. It’s like they’ve realised deleting us doesn’t work, since backup accounts mushroom up immediately. So now they’ll just suffocate us instead, treating us like gate-crashers at a funeral we never intended to attend—our own.

Where does that leave artists and those who care about what we create? Nowhere and everywhere, I suppose. Either this is a major blow, or it’s an opportunity. ⁠Or both.

Instagram is basically a global telephone directory—it’s where I find most of my subjects, where I build networks. Losing it would be tragic. But the truth is, Instagram doesn’t deserve us.

Unless we create it ourselves, there’s no market for much of what we do because what we do is beyond marketability. Community building and network building is something that’s always been dear to me. Having an outlet (and audience) for my thoughts and the art I create is important. As a photographer, I have been blessed with a wonderful career, and I am grateful for each of my successes. But it has become increasingly difficult for my work to be picked up by publications and outlets, because so often I have nothing to sell. My personal work is not fashion, it’s not pharmaceutical, or banking or insurance, or baking, or automotive. I tell stories. Of people. Of bodies and souls intertwined.

Undomesticated animals mostly, who live beyond fences. This is an invitation for anyone who feels like me to join me. If you create something special and you are unsure of where to put it, put it here.

There’s a long tradition of censorship backfiring spectacularly, because repression breeds innovation. If Instagram doesn’t want us, we shouldn’t want it either. I want to open a dialogue around this. ​Feral Issue 1​ dives deep into these questions, among others.

If you have thoughts on how we can find a way out of this social media hellhole we find ourselves in, please get in touch. My DMs and my inbox are open.

For now, I may just post a few more cat pictures on my accounts. Just cats covering my work. Because who doesn’t love cats? And after that, I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll just go on as if nothing ever happened. Or I’ll quit posting altogether, because without follower engagement, I cannot see the point.