English Version | Like a moth to a flame

On March 3rd, one of reality TV's most beloved couples revealed that they had split up. Ariana Madix and Tom Sandoval, stars of Vanderpump Rules - a show based on the lives of restaurant workers in Beverly Hills - had been dating for over nine years. The Internet went into a frenzy, not only because the relationship had ended, but with the reason why it ended. It was revealed that Sandoval was in a parallel relationship with another of the show's stars, Raquel Leviss. Worse still, their affair had been caught on camera. Madix, for her part, was not only unaware of the affair but considered Leviss one of her closest friends. The world quickly demonized those responsible for Madix's anguish. The controversy, which captured the attention of even those who didn't know about the show, became a phenomenon. Affectionately called Scandoval (an amalgamation of scandal and Sandoval), the love affair became a publicity circus, as positive for Madix as it was negative for Sandoval and Leviss. It wasn't enough that it was a betrayal of the highest order - the best friend with her boyfriend - but the pair decided to show affection in front of the cameras, knowing in advance that as soon as the show's season premiered, everyone, including Madix, would find out about the affair. The wave of hatred caused by this act of infidelity could (rightly) be compared to a tsunami. Leviss ended up (unfairly) bearing the brunt of the criticism. How could a friend do this to another woman? How could she have no empathy whatsoever? And, most importantly, why do it on camera? The questions, however legitimate, were mixed with the fury of trolls, to the point where the reality TV star had to check herself into a mental health rehabilitation center. Months later, the show was filmed again and, although Sandoval returned as part of the cast, Leviss was absent, being filmed only when the paparazzi photograph her with little make-up in her daily life. We're back to the question asked by thousands of people: why do something of this magnitude knowing that you're going to be discovered by the world? In a word: fame. The media attention that the scandal brought made the cast members millionaires, selling T-shirts with their catchphrases, gaining an audience that the show had never had before, and turning them into celebrities. But, especially in Leviss' case, was it worth it? Did the ecstasy of knowing his name justify the hatred he felt? Is the euphoria of fame enough to tolerate his hangover?

The appeal of fame isn't hard to understand: it's synonymous with success, approval, love, confidence, etc. However, for the few who feel it, fame is more like a psychoactive substance, a drug that affects the way we perceive reality. It goes without saying that the external validation that fame provides is undeniably attractive, but some factors fit it into the pyramid of human needs. The concept of fame helps us combat the dreaded idea of mortality. It's terrifying to think that what we do in this world is not only unimportant but will disappear when we die. The sour perception of our smallness can be futilely glossed over with the idea that, by differentiating ourselves from others, our fame will immortalize us in the pantheon of human history. However, according to recent psychological studies, the thirst for validation from others and existential pondering are only the superficial variables of the problem. According to the theorizations of American anthropologist David Sloan Wilson, the lust for fame should be understood as pathological, just like drug addiction. This finding is justified by what Wilson calls a disconnect between the modern world and our ability to adapt as animals. For millennia, our minds have been conditioned to understand societies on a relatively small scale. The advent of modernity, and the globality that characterizes it, has disrupted the way we are used to perceiving the world. According to the theories of the American anthropologist, the inability to perceive the scale of our civilization atrophies our social instincts, creating needs to be known that border on the pathological. But the tendency to crave fame is not common to everyone. According to a study carried out by Richard Ryan and Tim Kasser, the ambition to be famous is characteristic of a specific group of people. The American psychologists tried to find out what differentiated those who sought fame from those who prioritized self-esteem or friendship (a study which, if it hadn't been done pre-Scandoval, we'd say was aimed at Raquel Leviss). Individuals in the first group stand out for their outstanding feelings of social rejection. Fame is the remedy for parental neglect, the solution to finally being part of the group of popular kids. Given these characteristics, it's not surprising that Ryan and Kesser identified this group as experiencing higher levels of stress. The pursuit of something that is as dependent on others as fame is psychologically demanding.

Let's be clear, however, that the study conducted by Ryan and Kesser is not dogmatic, and social typification is a dangerous game. Regardless of the findings of the American researchers, fame has a transversal appeal. Other studies show that most people dream of achieving some form of fame without any discrimination. We have to be careful what we wish for: like a drug, fame becomes more dangerous the more we experience it. According to psychologist Robi Ludwig's thesis, the feeling only gets worse when we achieve what we want. The ephemeral nature of fame means that it appears and disappears in mysterious ways. People who reach a certain level of fame enter a spiral that Ludwig compares to drug addiction, concerned with achieving as much notoriety as possible. This ecstasy becomes synonymous with self-esteem - it becomes the way we value ourselves. The idea that this could fade is terrifying and, for this reason, it is imperative to maintain or increase one's level of fame. This dependence is identified by Ludwig as dangerous, leading to the complete breakdown of our personality, a moral compass to preserve celebrity status. Once again we return to the initial example. Nobody knows exactly what possessed Sandoval and Leviss to justify their actions. When the season was airing, they both apologized on the pretext of love, but as soon as the series ended, the couple split up and since then they have both done frequent interviews that seek to anchor their affair in various pretexts.

If fame is a drug, we're living through the equivalent of the Summer of Love in the 1970s, the boom in psychedelic drug use. The democratization of fame is latent and it is increasingly easy to have the first hit of this "drug." In the first decade of the millennium, the birth of reality TV changed the way we thought about fame. The rise of stars like Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton meant that fame ceased to be a symbol of success, reserved for those who rose to the top of their professions and became how success arose. It is no longer necessary to achieve something to be a celebrity; fame exists on its own. Allied to this notion, the boom in the Internet and social networks has meant that anyone can become famous overnight. Like a drug dealer who offers the first dose for free, the first three seconds of the five minutes of fame are relatively easy to achieve. As social media has developed, the term influencer has become increasingly popular. This profession is a literal capitalization on fame, using social influence to sell products to an audience. Along with the initial appeal of fame, external validation and refuge from existential concerns are added to the monetary gain. Although the term influencer was coined around 2015, the pandemic has proliferated the profession. Sitting at home with little more than the Internet to entertain us, social media content creators have become our best friends, the ones we have (one-sided) conversations with every day. The fame, and consequently the financial success, of influencers is on a par with traditional stardom. For a young audience, the prosperity their "friends" have achieved on social media has become a source of greed. According to a referendum by Morning Consult, an online data collection company, 54% of the American population between the ages of 13 and 38 would like to be able to become an influencer. The market research company Harris Poll found something similar, indicating that when faced with the choice between athlete, musician, teacher, astronaut, or influencer, more than 30% of children choose the last option. The thirst for fame is widespread and, even more frightening, normalized. The repercussions of this kind of fame are not questioned. Fame is bought regardless of the price. The cringe dances we see on TikTok and the dangerous pranks are child's play compared to the real risk. We are willing to risk what we have and what we don't have to achieve the euphoria of five minutes of attention. Raquel Leviss is one of those cases that should serve as a warning. Isolated from any other career or the people she considered friends, Leviss suffers for the decisions she made based on her addiction to fame. We wonder if it was worth it.

*Originally translated from The Fame Issue, published October 2023. Full credits and stories in the print issue.