I’m told that you need three hobbies: one that’s creative, one that keeps you active, and one that makes you money. Nothing says we’re in a dystopian hellscape quite like being told to profit from your downtime, but lucky for me, running my mouth in this newspaper ticks all three boxes. Others aren’t so fortunate. They have to diversify.
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That explains why our feeds are inundated every day with yet another endorsement, sponsored collaboration, and celebrity lifestyle brand. If not for self-actualisation, why else would Serena Williams need a skincare range, a fine jewellery line, and a venture capital fund? Ryan Reynolds’ acting career might scratch one itch, while he counts on a gin, a mobile network and a marketing agency to scratch the others. Hilary Duff has a range of air fresheners. Kendall Jenner has a toothpaste brand, for some reason. When we think of flowing, luscious hair, we all automatically think of The Rock. Thank god he just started selling shampoo.
Credit: Robin Cowcher
Call me a cynic, call me a killjoy, but I can’t fight the sense that these might not be passion projects.
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Wherever I look, there’s someone using their name to leverage a stake in a market broader than their primary audience. Clothing lines, cleaning products, lipstick, lingerie, swimwear, credit cards: a famous face for every conceivable product. The term personal brand has never been so widespread or so literal. We’re at saturation point.
I can’t fault the celebrities, really. They’re just becoming aware of how perishable the commodity of their influence is; only reaching for something that outlasts or extends their moment in the sun. Having a perfume named after you isn’t enough any more.
Hustle culture is a toxic symptom of late-stage capitalism that burns out the best of us and has a growing body count. It’s no longer just poison for the masses. Now the elites are hooked on it, too.
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Who can blame them? We’re all doing it tough. Myki fares are insane, I haven’t had a haircut in six months, and have you seen how much they’re charging for Pringles lately? If someone offered me a six-figure deal to hock teeth-whitening pens or laxative teas to my meagre social media following, it would take me a couple of minutes to turn them down. White-knuckling through this cost of living crisis might not cut it any more.
We’ve all got a side hustle. I sell clothes on Depop, babysit strangers’ dogs, and lament my family tree for not giving me the kind of feet I can sell pictures of online. Troye Sivan is making ends meet by selling a big metal circle — sorry, I mean a baseless bowl — for $718. Were I to sweet-talk my bank into refinancing so that I could afford an extortionate dinner for one, I half expect that I’d schlep outside in my slippers to a beat-up Corolla, take a brown paper UberEats bag from an outstretched arm, and find Oscar Isaac on the other end of it.
