From an early age, we’ve been sold the image of sadness as something beautiful: the fruity-eyed face mask after heartbreak, or the ambient airplane-window stare set to a film score. The aestheticisation of female sadness is nothing new. It’s been repackaged and has since evolved into many forms, including The Sad Girl or in recent terms, The Thought Daughter. If those don’t ring a bell, let’s try The Manic Pixie Dream Girl. But within fashion, beyond the comfort of fuzzy robes and slippers, how does female sadness actually express itself? 

Edgar Allan Poe wrote, “The death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.” Every season, ‘Ophelia’ figures show up on the runway—not necessarily dead, but somewhere in the midst of actively dying: sporting straitjacket chic, fashion-forward opioid addiction, and, of course, the novel noose hoodie.

I hear you, EAP. There’s something undeniably sexy about the post-cry mirror stare: fingers turned claws, going through unkempt hair, the salted flavour on pouty lips, and that moody dead-eye stare. Admittedly, I, too, a self proclaimed ‘beautiful woman,’ can find beauty—even poetry—in some of my lowest moments. But my question is: Why do we so often see female tragedy as inherently beautiful? And how did symbols of mental health struggles—straightjackets, razor blades, even nooses—become chic accessories on the runway? 

“For me, the questions that are relevant but never get answered,” begs Angela McRobbie, cultural, feminist scholar at the University of London, “Who are the decision-makers behind the scenes? Who signs off on blatantly offensive items like this? When there’s backlash, do they get fired? Or is there a cynical agenda to shock, then rapidly withdraw the offending piece for the media attention it generates?”

With polka dots and pinstripes traded for razor blades and prescription pills on the runway, one has to ask: who is this all for? Is this new wave of DSM-designers simply a marketing stunt to offend mainstream media? Is glorified agony the push we really need to de-stigmatize mental illness? These questions demand answers—yet the fashion industry remains frustratingly opaque.

Personally, when I’m in the depths of sadness, my blotchy skin couldn’t be further from the flawless, filtered complexions of Moschino’s Spring/Summer 2017 show. My puffy tear-streaked eyes don’t pair with runway-ready falsies or the glittering ornamentation of gold accessories, like those at Gucci’s 2020 show. For years, the fashion industry has paired explicit cries for help with designer glamour—remember Heroin Chic, with its smoky eyes, pale bodies, and hollow stares? Though some modern fashion choices aren’t as direct in referencing mental and physical health issues, I cannot, in good conscience, get behind female tragedy as an aesthetic ideal.