Sadness as a Canvas

I lay in bed, restless, flipping from one side to the other. It was 9 a.m., four hours past my planned wake-up time. A week into my self-imposed ban on phones in the bedroom, I’d hoped to sleep and wake up earlier too. So far, so good on the sleeping part—lights out by 10-ish most nights. But the waking up? A battle.

Like an addict, my hand instinctively reached under the pillow for my phone, only to groan when I remembered the ban. I missed Rachid terribly. The problem with fixing your sleep schedule when you’re in a long-distance relationship? Fewer shared waking hours.

“Youm wara youm” echoed in my mind, like a soundtrack to my restlessness. I finally dragged myself out of bed, too tired of wallowing in self-imposed misery. In the living room, I found my phone at the bottom of the cat tree, knocked off by one of our feline inhabitants. Typical.

I picked it up, pausing to admire the lock screen: Rachid and me at Cathédrale de La Major, Marseille. It’s my favourite photo of us—ironic, given that our chosen faith, Islam, makes this grand cathedral an unlikely setting for our story.

I sank into the sofa, phone in hand, and decided to do what I always do when I’m overwhelmed: create.

An Instagram reel later—set to Hijazi’s remix of Youm Wara Youm by Elyanna—I replayed my creation repeatedly, admiring it like a child showing off their newest crayon masterpiece. It’s funny how my mood drives my creativity. When I’m sad, or emotionally tangled, I’m compelled to make something. I didn’t care if the reel was “good” or necessary; I just needed to get it out there.

It made me wonder: Why do sadness and creativity often go hand in hand? Was I... turning into a tortured artist?

The "tortured artist" stereotype has long been romanticised, as if suffering is the price of admission to creative brilliance. Think of Frida Kahlo, painting through unimaginable physical pain, or Vincent van Gogh, channelling his inner turmoil into bold, haunting masterpieces.

But what about artists with somewhat normal lives? Rarely do we hear their stories. Perhaps it’s because being a "normal" artist doesn’t make for a compelling narrative. Struggle, like sex, sells.

It makes me wonder why sadness, or intense emotion in general, seems to fuel creativity. Is it because these feelings force us inward, making us confront what we usually avoid? When words fail, does that energy naturally redirect into something visual, musical, or poetic?

This question brought me back to the Surrealism exhibition I visited at the Centre Pompidou during my last trip to France. I had the privilege of a personal tour from Romane, an ex-intern and dear friend who works there. With her passion for art history and deep knowledge, she guided us through the exhibit entirely in French, which, for me, doubled as comprehension de l'oral.

What struck me most about the Surrealist movement was how its artists drew heavily from their dreams and subconscious. For many, their fears, anxieties, and visions took centre stage. Take Salvador Dalí, for instance. Did you know he was terrified of ants? And yet, ants creep into his works repeatedly, like in his haunting painting The Dream (1931).

Surrealism showed me how art becomes a mirror of our internal worlds. The artists weren’t merely creating to decorate walls or cathedrals; they were exorcising their fears, unravelling their anxieties, and making sense of the senseless.

But let’s get back to the idea of the tortured artist. While the trope can be inspiring—highlighting how art becomes a way to cope with pain and suffering, universal experiences we all face—it can also be harmful. It risks glamourising mental health struggles as the "price" of creativity, which isn’t fair or healthy. Worse, it can make artists question their state of mind, their struggles, or even their intentions in creating art.

For me, creating something during a low period isn’t about proving I’m "deep" or "tortured." It’s simply a way to untangle my feelings and thoughts—about the situation, the world, or myself. It’s not a spectacle.

Through creating during moments of sadness or despair, I’ve learned that art doesn’t have to be perfect or meaningful to anyone else. It doesn’t need wide reach or even validation. It just has to serve its purpose: to help me through the day - just like the Surrealists, who used art to turn memories, fears, and anxieties into something transcendent—something beyond themselves and their realities.

Sadness may sometimes be my starting point, but it doesn’t define my art, or me. It captures a fleeting moment in time, just one brushstroke in the ever-evolving canvas of life.

We don’t need suffering to create. But if you’re feeling low, let your art meet you where you are. Whether it’s a reel, a painting, or a journal entry, let it be your guide. Let it help you find your way forward.