Of Selfies and Slogans: The Rise of Image over Integrity

What is the difference between the farts of Indonesian officials and those of film stars? A most profound question—worthy of a thesis or at least a Netflix documentary. The fart of a politician is a matter of state security. It must be tightly regulated, passed only in closed-door meetings, preferably buried beneath layers of jargon and ceremonial handshakes. It carries the subtle scent of bureaucracy, with faint notes of campaign promises and the lingering musk of misallocated budgets.

Meanwhile, the fart of a film star is an event. It wafts out gently during red carpet appearances, accompanied by flashes of cameras and hashtags like #JustBeingReal. It is perfumed, rebranded as “a moment of vulnerability,” and quickly monetised through perfume deals and talk show exclusives. If a politician’s fart is classified, a celebrity’s fart is verified, retweeted, and reviewed by beauty bloggers.

In the grand theatre of public life, the politician's fart is rehearsed and embargoed, while the celebrity’s is stylised and sponsored. But both, in the end, are acts of performance—only the cow remains truly authentic, trumpeting its truth in a field of fabricated flatulence.

The cow, whose fart is loud, smelly, and unfiltered—a pure act of authenticity. It symbolises the raw, unedited truth that has no need for spin doctors or stylists. In the orchestration of public life, the cow’s blast becomes a metaphorical wake-up call. It challenges the audience to discern between the polished illusions of public figures and the messy honesty of the ordinary. 

One simply must appreciate the Indonesian approach to governance, where discussions of politics – particularly regarding those delightful chaps in high office – inevitably lead to the theatrical pronouncement of "Pencitraan." It’s less about policy, dear reader, and more about perfecting the elaborate dance of perception, a veritable ballet of the ballot box, if you will, where the performance outshines the actual plot every single time.

“Pencitraan” refers to the deliberate effort to construct and project a favourable public image, often by manipulating appearances, messages, or actions to shape perception rather than reflect genuine character or achievements. It is particularly prevalent in politics, media, and celebrity culture, where individuals or institutions curate a version of themselves designed to appeal to public sentiment. This may involve carefully staged acts of humility, charity, or patriotism, strategic photo opportunities, or rehearsed speeches intended more to influence opinion than to reveal authentic values or intentions. In essence, “pencitraan” is less about truth and more about controlling the narrative.

In both British and American English, there is no single word that fully captures the layered nuance of pencitraan. In British English, terms such as image-building, public persona, or even spin are often used—especially when referring to the political context. Spin, in particular, carries a mildly cynical undertone, suggesting manipulation dressed as messaging. Meanwhile, American English tends to favour terms like branding, optics, and publicity stunt. These expressions reveal a cultural comfort with marketing language, where identity is something that can be sold, managed, and even monetised.

The difference in vocabulary reflects differing societal attitudes. The British tend to cloak pencitraan in the language of performance and persuasion, while the Americans treat it more like a product—slick, strategic, and made for mass appeal. Yet in both cultures, the act of image-making remains a powerful currency, shaping not only how one is perceived, but what one is allowed to be.

In today’s hyper-visual world, pencitraan—or image-building—has become an essential part of public life. From politicians to influencers, from CEOs to celebrities, everyone seems to be performing a version of themselves for the crowd. Whether on camera or in a meeting, people now consciously construct their appearance, their words, and even their emotions.

The very term “image-building” implies a certain detachment from reality. It is not about being, but about seeming. It is not the self as it is, but the self as it is packaged, edited, and projected. This crafted identity is meant not to express but to impress—to gain votes, likes, applause, or obedience.

Philosophically, image-building reflects the age-old tension between appearance and essence. Thinkers from Plato to Sartre have wrestled with the idea of authenticity. When people are always performing, constantly aware of being watched, the boundary between the true self and the performed self begins to blur.

Sociologist Erving Goffman once compared life to a stage, where each person plays a role depending on the setting. We wear different masks for different audiences. Image-building, then, is not new—but today, it has grown into a full-time profession, complete with lighting, scriptwriting, and social media strategy.

The idea that life resembles a stage, and that individuals are actors who shift roles depending on their audience, is most famously articulated in Erving Goffman's seminal book, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. First published in 1956 in Scotland and later popularised through its 1959 American edition, the book remains a foundational text in sociology. In it, Goffman introduces the dramaturgical perspective, which views everyday social interactions as performances, much like scenes in a play.

Goffman introduced the "dramaturgical" approach to sociology, which is a way of viewing social interaction as if it were a theatrical performance. According to Goffman:

"All the world is not, of course, a stage, but the crucial ways in which it isn’t are not easy to specify."

He explained that individuals use a "front stage" to present the best version of themselves to others, and a "back stage" as a space where they can behave more authentically.

People will dress, speak, act, and even express emotions according to the social roles they are playing—and this can change depending on the audience: a boss, friends, family, or the social media public.

So, according to Goffman, people present themselves differently depending on the social setting. There is the “front stage,” where one behaves according to societal expectations—polished, polite, and composed. Then there is the “backstage,” a more private space where the individual can drop the performance, relax the posture, and express a less filtered version of themselves. This contrast between roles is not necessarily insincere; rather, it is part of the social fabric that helps people navigate complex human interactions.

Goffman’s insights have only become more relevant in the digital age, where social media platforms function as hyper-visual stages. Today, one might say that we are no longer simply actors—we are producers, directors, and PR managers of our own lives. In a world of curated timelines and performative authenticity, Goffman’s work remains a piercing commentary on how much of our identity is crafted, and how little may be left unobserved.

In politics, the power of image is undeniable. Leaders are judged not only by their policies but by their posture, tone of voice, and curated photo ops. Elections are increasingly won not through debates, but through viral moments, emotional speeches, and well-choreographed tears.

This comes at a cost. When public figures prioritise image over substance, governance becomes a performance. Behind the curtain of patriotism and populism may lie policies that are hollow, unjust, or self-serving—but the audience, enchanted by the show, applauds nonetheless.

The entertainment industry, too, runs on pencitraan. A celebrity's public image often bears little resemblance to their private reality. The glamorous, wholesome, or rebellious persona is the result of careful design—handled by PR teams, stylists, and sometimes even legal advisors.

Social media has democratised image-building. Everyone, from students to sandwich vendors, now curates their lives for the screen. We post, pose, and filter ourselves into a character that is likeable, admirable, and cleanly branded.

But there is danger in mistaking the image for the truth. We fall in love with illusions. We argue over actors, not actions. We judge based on Instagram feeds, not actual deeds. And in doing so, we make the mask more powerful than the face behind it.

Culture and national identity are also shaped by pencitraan. Countries brand themselves to attract tourists, investors, and international favour. They highlight their cuisine, scenery, and hospitality—while quietly ignoring inequality, corruption, or censorship.

Governments, too, perform. They create slogans and national narratives to foster pride. But when these messages are disconnected from lived realities, patriotism becomes a fantasy—a beautifully packaged lie for export and internal consumption.

Cultural richness is often reduced to something Instagram-friendly. Traditions are trimmed, costumes stylised, rituals shortened. The goal is to be marketable, not meaningful.

In the economy of attention, a good image sells. Whether you’re running a startup or a state, appearances matter. Investors, voters, and customers are all more likely to engage with those who look the part—even if the substance is lacking.

But monetising image also creates pressure. Public figures are forced to live inside their branding. Even ordinary people feel compelled to keep up appearances—to perform happiness, success, or virtue—even when struggling inside.

Of course, image-building isn’t inherently wrong. A positive image can be a source of inspiration, pride, and connection. It can empower marginalised voices or introduce cultures to the world.

What matters is whether the image reflects truth or disguises it. When carefully crafted personas are grounded in honesty and humility, they can foster trust. But when they are built on manipulation, they lead only to disappointment and distrust.

Audiences must also take responsibility. We should consume images with scepticism, not blind devotion. A politician’s tears, a celebrity’s apology, or a corporation’s green campaign may be genuine—or just strategic acting.

Every like, follow, and share feeds the system. Our attention becomes currency. The more we reward performance, the more we encourage performers—not reformers, not thinkers, but actors.

Ultimately, pencitraan is not merely about deception—it is a mirror. It reflects both the ambitions of those in the spotlight and the desires of those watching. If we are seduced by the surface, it is because we have forgotten to value depth.

And so, perhaps the only honest image left is the one that is not trying to be anything. Like the cow’s fart in our opening anecdote: loud, smelly, uncurated—yet refreshingly real.

And let’s wrap up our chat with a line from Keane’s Somewhere Only We Know,

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone? 

I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on 

So, tell me when you're gonna let me in

I'm getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin

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