The Artsy Boyfriend Facade By Clare Snyder

The Artsy Boyfriend Facade 

Rodrick was my childhood crush. The eyeliner-wearing, distressed denim-rocking, and chaos-filled drummer from the “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” somehow found a way into my heart at the age of twelve. The first time I fell for a musician, I assumed it was right because I was living out my childhood prophecy. When he asked to take me on a date, there was nothing inside of me that wanted to say no. All I could think about was letting the “rockstar girlfriend” narrative I had always secretly wished for manifest itself into something real. 

Reflecting on what is now the past, I recognize that the person I thought I was falling for was merely an idea. As the sensitive psychology major that I am, I have always had an itch for figuring people out. The “artsy boyfriend” seemed like the perfect fit for me; an emotional mess that I got the privilege of understanding. Something about this was exhilarating and fed into my foolish ideas that love was meant to be passionate and risky, rather than trusting and empathetic. Hoping to be someone's muse gave me a sense of purpose, like I had earned a backstage pass to watching a destined genius in real time. Yet I wound up exhausted, offering support to someone who was resisting it. Detangling the poetic mystery, I was losing myself trying to understand someone who only wanted to be glorified. 

The illusion slowly fell apart as I found myself sitting in on more jam sessions than being taken on real dates. I sat there as I watched him turn his back on me and fall in love with his guitar instead of the girl sitting in his bed. His eyes glistening in a way they never had with me as he wrote the “perfect” lyrics for his chorus, and kept me as an afterthought. Initially, it felt romantic to be a part of his artistic process because he swore the songs were about me, but it did not last long until I left our “dates” feeling neglected. I sat uncomfortably on the unvacuumed carpet, surrounded by plants that seemed to be getting more of his attention than me, scrambling for something to romanticize to make me stay. What he called devotion, I saw as evasion, and somewhere amidst the havoc, I realized I was in love with someone who would never make understanding me back a priority. 

It makes sense to me why girls love the artsy boyfriend. There is something so intoxicating about the emotionally unavailable man who turns his own misery into art. We are taught through pop culture that suffering must coexist with depth, and that self-destruction is more interesting than balance. Movies and music put these men on a pedestal, labeling them as a mess just needing to be loved by the right person. As I learned to equate instability with zealousness, I found myself craving being the girl who loved the artist enough to save them. Yet, making pain beautiful doesn't mean inherent depth; it just makes them aloof to the hurt they cause as they strive for aesthetic appeal. 

I hold no bitterness in my heart from this relationship because it taught me to pursue connection over being a part of someone's artistic vision. Being someone's muse once felt exciting, but when I realized how much I had to shrink to fit that role, I understood that love should not require dimming your own light to inspire someone else's. Real connection is not found through inconsistency, but rather through reciprocity. As a creative person myself, I still find myself drawn to these types of relationships. But I no longer measure authenticity through intensity, and that might be the most artistic thing of all. 

By Clare Snyder