I created a “test” profile (read as “fake”) for the purposes of exploring the functionality of the app. I grabbed
a photo from free stock image site Unsplash (featuring a kind-looking young woman in heart-shaped
sunglasses), decided that she was a bisexual 27-year-old tutor named Fran, and used a Neil Young lyric as
the entirety of her description. The app suggested that I link Fran’s Instagram and Snapchat profiles
(impossible since she doesn’t exist, and also because I barely know what Snapchat is) and that I upload more
than one picture, perhaps trying to encourage me to present a well-rounded portrait of myself. I didn’t have
another picture of the sunglasses lady, so I took a picture of a bottle of hot sauce from my pantry and called
it a day.
Upon completing this very (very) minimal profile, I started swiping. It’s really quite strange, this idea. Right
for yes, left for no. The main screen places the first half of the user’s description over the bottom part of the
photo. If you want to read the rest, you can – it’s somewhat hidden under a tiny “information” icon in the
corner. It’s worth noting that even though the description is a max of 500 characters, some users haven’t
bothered to put anything there. If you swipe right on someone who also swipes right on you, the app
informs you that you’ve made a match. And then it’s up to you to send a message to the person to get going
on your happily ever after.
A lot of interesting stories start at the place where you realise someone isn’t quite who they claim to be – in
fact, that might be at the cold, black heart of every single crime novel out there
(It’s worth noting that there is no “skip this person” option. This is not the time to stay neutral.)
Fran proved to be pretty popular. Within a few minutes, the app told me that she’d already had 20 likes.
Basic users of the app can only see who has liked them if the swipe is mutual, but you can also upgrade to
various premium (thanks, late-stage capitalism) options to see everyone who has swiped right on you. By
the end of my Tinder research, Fran had 99+ likes.
The thing about this that scares me the most is that the Fran profile is so obviously fake that I was
embarrassed to use it. I have no earthly idea how anyone could look at this and believe Fran to be a real
person.
It’s possible that no one is thinking about it all that much – just
assuming, “here’s a pretty face. I like pretty faces” and
swipe. Or maybe the users who swiped right on Fran really like
Neil Young, or hot sauce, or tutors.
Or maybe these users weren’t looking for a date either. They
probably weren’t also researching for a crime novel, but there’s
an element of slot-machine mindlessness to the swiping – it’s
hypnotic, maybe even fun, if you aren’t thinking about it as
work.
Above all, it’s easy.
Maybe that’s the most sinister element of all. We used to have to
work a lot harder to make connections like this – exchange a
series of letters, a phone call, an in-person conversation. Now
we can anonymously pass judgment on strangers for however
long we’d like (users spend an average of 10 hours per week