This article is published in issue 44 of Vanity Fair on newsstands until November 2, 2021
For a long time we have had to deal with the social madness of Wanda Nara, the protagonist of the greatest soap opera of the digital age. A psychic melodrama, foul-mouthed, exhibitionist, vomited directly from the mattress to the Net (fucks, betrayals, blows and knives), which chains an audience of 16.5 million followers to the mobile phone, driven by (morbid) curiosity: Wanda will have forgiven her husband Mauro Icardi after the alleged betrayals with the model China Suárez and the trans Guendalina Rodríguez?
When the lively Argentinian replies on Instagram to her bed rivals, it is clear that she sensed the spirit of the times on the fly, that without a mouth that shoots a barrage of obscenities and Vespasian filth our leisure industry would collapse. To Rodríguez dedicates a message that is not very difficult to understand: «You fucking whore you want to be a woman but you will never be, if you want I’ll teach you how to make up a better photo, bitch. Look for fame elsewhere (…) Mauro doesn’t even know about your existence, go wash your cunt if you have it ». For his part, the polyamorous Icardi tries to patch it up: «Thank you my love for continuing to trust this beautiful family and for being the engine of our life. I love you. How much it hurts to hurt your loved ones (…) ». A piece that is worse than the hole: “I take care of my family, life itself with whores,” is the cuckold’s reply.
Wanda belongs to that category that eats chicken with her hands not out of rudeness, but out of an excess of character, overbearing imagination and will. And his excesses do not come from an open debate with destiny, but from an internal disturbance with the intestine. Like this, mistaking Instagram for the walls of a public toilet, a Grand Guignol was born to defeat the great fear of not existing, of being irrelevant, unable to stand on the stage of life and receive “likes”. For Marcel Proust “the only life really lived is literature”. Today it is on social media that self-awareness is formed. Before, if someone yelled, they could hear it right in the stairwell: now a “chirp” can end up in any corner of the world. In Italy, one in two people has a Facebook profile. On Instagram, “privacy” translates to “try”. From the audience to the stage. Like this, the web has become the greatest incubator of individualism, flywheel of a mass split endowed with extra-large narcissism that would have made a cuddly come to Montaigne who, with his quill, warned: “We always talk about ourselves at a loss”. But, in a world where reality has been lost, where television is confused with entertainment, fast food with food, pecorino cheese with Parmigianino and Vittorio Sgarbi with politics, it is clear that ends up becoming Wanda Nara.
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