The Myth of the Tortured Artist
I grew up in a world where art was something you wore. Not literally, but the idea was clear enough. If you wanted to make something meaningful, something with depth, you had to be in pain. Real pain. Not just the kind you could share with a therapist, but the kind that took up space in your body and mind. I wasn’t alone in this belief. The internet, for better or worse, fed it to me. Tumblr, Twitter—the spaces I spent my adolescence in—taught me that to be an artist, you had to look sad, like it was an unspoken requirement. The sadness wasn’t just internal; it needed to be external. It had to be visible.
In 2014, I was still trying to piece myself together, and I gravitated toward the aesthetic of the scene kids. I cut my hair in jagged layers, wore dark clothes, and tried to look like the images I saw online. The logic was simple: the sadder you looked, the more serious your art. Pain equaled validity. But there was always an uncomfortable feeling that came with it. Even now, when I’m drawn to the same alternative style, I wonder: is this a form of self-expression or just a performance of the pain we think we need to have?
The tortured artist wasn’t just a trope in my world—it was an expectation. You couldn’t create without some visible wound, some outward sign of your suffering. This myth was sold to us: to make art, you had to be broken. Your sadness wasn’t just a part of you—it was your currency. The more you wore it, the more authentic your creativity seemed. This pressure didn’t just come from the work itself, but from the way you presented yourself. The clothes became part of the narrative.
Image Courtesy: Instagram
But then something shifted. Alongside the tortured artist, another aesthetic began to rise online—the coquette girl blogger-esque type. The dainty, almost fragile femininity mixed with sadness and cruelty. The delicate girl wasn’t broken beyond fixing, but she was damaged in a way that felt just as consuming. She embraced her sorrow but wielded it like a weapon—her vulnerability was both a weapon and a mask. This aesthetic emerged on platforms like Instagram and TikTok, where delicate lace, pearls, and soft pastel tones met a subtle cruelty in behavior. The sadness wasn’t just internal; it was an act, a performance designed to provoke.
It’s an aesthetic that plays with the idea of femininity, making it something dangerous and elusive. The coquette girl isn’t just sad; she’s detached, elusive, and often, her sorrow becomes a way of manipulating those around her. This new cultural trend uses the same weapon of sadness that the tortured artist relied on, but it’s infused with a level of control—an ability to project fragility and strength in the same breath.
In both these aesthetics, the message is clear: if you want to be taken seriously, you have to display your pain. Whether it’s the tortured artist, constantly wrestling with their demons in the hopes that their struggle will lead to genius, or the soft girl, who uses her sadness and behavior to shape others’ perceptions of her, both feel like performances. There’s a constant balancing act between being vulnerable and being in control, and for many, this becomes part of the artistic identity.
Image Courtesy: Instagram
This performance is something I’ve experienced, too. In creative spaces, I still wonder if my outward appearance matters as much as the work I create. I’ve had moments where I’ve had to dress professionally for creative pursuits and I felt like a fraud. If I can’t wear the dark, alternative clothes I’ve always felt aligned with, if I can’t present my “artist” identity outwardly, do I lose my right to create? The anxiety around my appearance—the worry that if I dress “too clean,” I’ll lose my artistic credibility—is overwhelming. Or if I do not clean up enough I will be shunned and not taken seriously. It feels like the line between art and persona is constantly being blurred.
Fashion, for me, has always been an emotional tool. When I was younger, it helped me communicate the things I couldn’t express with words. It was a way to externalize what I felt inside, a language for my confusion and anger. Today, it’s still a way to find community, a way to look across a room and instantly know who might understand my inner chaos. But there’s a danger in it. It’s easy to let the clothes you wear become a shorthand for who you are, to let your outward appearance become a replacement for your actual identity.
Then there’s the perfectionism that permeates everything—my art, my self-image, my fashion. It’s rooted in the belief that nothing is ever enough. The work, the look, the identity—everything has to be perfect, or it’s invalid. It’s a destructive cycle, and it’s one that’s deeply tied to the tortured artist narrative. I constantly wonder if my work is good enough, if I’m “cool” enough, if I’m doing the right thing by presenting myself the way I do. It’s not just about the art; it’s about proving I deserve to be seen.
Image Courtesy: Instagram
The tortured artist aesthetic has been around for as long as I can remember, but now, it’s become even more complex. The coquette girl aesthetic is another way to wield sadness, another way to express pain in a marketable, controlled form. It’s still rooted in vulnerability, but it’s an act of seduction—using sadness to draw people in and to manipulate how others perceive you. Both are performances. Both are ways to communicate something deeper without ever really saying it.
The tortured artist aesthetic is one we’ve come to expect, even in its current form. It’s a mythology that says pain equals value. But maybe the truth is more complicated than that. Maybe the struggle to create doesn’t need to be about looking or feeling broken—it doesn’t need to be about proving how much you’ve suffered. Fashion, like art, is not meant to be a reflection of your pain, but rather an expression of your evolving self. The aesthetic can still be beautiful, but it’s worth asking: are we defining ourselves, or are we just playing a part?
Strike Out,
Jessica Giraldo
Saint Augustine
Editor: Maya Kayyal
College senior Jessica Giraldo is an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Digital Media Production and Journalism. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Strike Magazine STA and a member of Sigma Tau Delta, the national English Honor Society. She hopes to become a columnist or professor, using her experience in publishing and media to guide future writers and publications.
