A common debate in the art community is this:

What if [insert famous artist here] lived today? Would they have been put on medication, as they clearly displayed symptoms of [insert mental illness or disorder here]? Is the health of the artist worth the cost of the art? Is art worth the cost of the artist’s health (and even life)?

That debate spread past the circle of artists and art lovers on November 9th, particularly on social media. The silver lining of iron rule would be a revived political resistance and art forged from agony. Well, as much was proclaimed despite clear faults to that argument.

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One of the most famous figures in this debate is Vincent van Gogh. Historians and biographers alike have attempted to diagnose him, given whatever details they can find. Depression, bipolar disorder, OCD, and the like linger in the base layer of Gogh’s written legacy. His every motion is depicted with signs of whatever illness he has been assigned by the distant observer. Somehow, his paintings are even more miraculous with the tragic undertone. Many argue that his illness amplified the beauty of his art.

It’s a broad assumption to make, as mental health can vary deeply from person to person. The assumption that having any mental illness—particularly depression or bipolar disorder—can help a person discover a more intense glory in life is dangerous. It categorizes mentally ill people as a monolithic group. It erases the agony of being mentally ill.

But back to Gogh—the reason the discussion surrounding mental illness in art seems to circle back to him is because his illness is more historically detailed. The progression is most profound in his letters to his brother, Theo, with whom he had a close relationship. His letters are famous, as they provide clues to Gogh's life and mental health. Unlike some prominent historical figures, we are able to perceive Gogh as more than someone who painted. We see him as someone with a loving family, an adoration for the arts, and ambitions he strived for. We recognize Vincent van Gogh as one of us, another dreamer.

So why has society reduced him to the quintessential tortured artist?

The tortured artist trope is this: artist suffers from sort of event, illness, or disorder; these inflictions help the artist tap into some sort of creative insight that allows them to create the most beautiful of art. In essence: the greatest of art comes from the pain of the artist.

His younger days saw paintings of workers and peasants with strokes of browns, greys, and blacks. As he grew older, he began painting his more famous works. The impressionism of Gogh's most famous works emerged as his health declined. His art became more colorful, too. But to be frank—it’s offensive to say that his art was more beautiful because of his deteriorating health. I cannot put into words how deeply offensive such an assumption is. Furthermore, I cannot put into words how dangerous it is to apply a stereotyped, stigmatized “tortured artist” label to him or anyone else.

The writer Ursula Vernon refuted the trope best:

“If ONE MORE PERSON says “What if they’d medicated Van Gogh!?” I think I’m permitted to set things on fire. If they’d medicated Van Gogh, he’d either have painted twice as much, or he’d have been happy and unproductive. And you know what? Starry Night wasn’t worth a terrible price in human misery. It’s neat. It wasn’t worth it.”

(Image credit: Mental Floss)

Like Vernon, many artists believe torment and art should not be mutually exclusive. But in a society that values art more than the artist, there is no surprise in the dehumanization of the mentally ill artist. An article written by Christopher Zara for the Huffington Post exemplifies the problematic view. He writes:

“...the central function of an artist is to convey an idea. That idea can be visceral or intellectual; it can be conveyed through a painting, a song, a poem, or a guy dancing around in a moose costume. The method doesn’t matter. Artists, both brilliant and hackneyed, create out of the same basic desire to communicate. But it’s we art lovers who invest our attention, our time, in their creations. Why should we invest in a work of art that was created without conflict, or struggle, or pain? Where is the challenge?”

Zara then expresses surprise that artists are the harshest critics of his belief. He goes on to speculate about why artists feel that way (“I suspect, it simply hits too close to home”). What is even more troubling are his concluding sentences:

“Let’s leave the suffering to the geniuses. It’s what they do.”

He’s being quirky, but no amount of relatable attitude is going to erase the harm inflicted by those words.

Post-Romanticism art is inherently political. To say that not all art is created as a direct or indirect result of conflict, struggle, or pain is simply untrue. So either Zara doesn’t know the history of art well or he wants the artist to be in a state of perpetual torment as they create art. I suspect both society and him want the latter.

I then wondered why Zara failed to ask artists why they felt so offended by the tortured artist trope. Why pose an idea but not admit its flaws? How can the idea hold merit if it’s only proven by confirmation bias? The tortured artist trope is already widely accepted by society. A few contradictory words will plant the seeds of change, but not persuade millions of minds overnight. Zara had nothing to lose.

The root of this problem lies in the societal structures and norms that so many accept without contest.

People’s attributes are commodified on what they contribute to society. For example, a person with an undergraduate degree may be seen as less valuable than someone with a PhD because of their economic output. This holds true despite the fact that not all ambitions require a PhD (or a college degree at all) to be fulfilled. The concept is harmful enough to healthy people, and can be crushing for the mentally ill. In fact, the idea that art created through explicit suffering is greater than art created without it reinforces a stigma surrounding mental illness. A mentally ill person is only good if they can be a productive member of society. This holds mentally ill people to ableist standards that they may not be able to reach. Furthermore, it erases the pain that comes with having a mental illness. No one ever mentions how Gogh struggled to paint as his illness worsened when defending the tortured artist trope.

By telling them that their pain is an asset, mentally ill artists may refuse treatment. After all, if the quality of our art diminishes with our prosperous health, isn’t it much better to suffer? Isn't it much better to be valuable than to be healthy?

Here’s the thing: if you personally believe that suffering creates better art, that in itself is not problematic. Pain can help a piece of art to connect with a wider audience. Pain can help an artist better portray the joys of life.

(Image credit: Tumblr/Doctor Who)

But why is the demand for agony so high? Why must the artist openly sacrifice their well-being in order to be loved by strangers who will never understand their struggles? What about suicide is appealing? Why are all of these aspects so beautiful to the art lover with no concept of empathy?

So to people like Zara who only want to invest in art that stems from complete and utter torment, here’s some news:

We are not your gods. Our suffering does not exist for your consumption. Our art does not exist to satisfy your sadistic appeals.

We deserve to experience joy, and be in good health. Agony is not beautiful. Being unhealthy is not beautiful. And suicide sure as hell is not beautiful. If you disagree, then you should ask yourself why.Is no other phenomena multifaceted? Is our humanity too much for you to handle? Is dehumanizing us far easier than realizing the hard truth of our reality?

And our art? Oh, our art.

Our art is valuable whether it was forged in pain or not, for nothing is worth a terrible price in human misery.