the aesthetic fatigue

a few years ago, my obsession with “the perfect aesthetic” reached its crescendo. i’d spend hours scrolling through pinterest, saving pictures of serene living rooms bathed in golden-hour light, perfectly disheveled bookshelves, and dining tables dressed like they were set for royalty. the images promised something aspirational, something within reach if only i could curate better, consume smarter, and live a little more beautifully. but somewhere along the way, that quiet joy was replaced by a gnawing exhaustion. instead of feeling inspired, i felt inadequate.

it’s not just about pinterest. today, life feels like a curated feed. on tiktok, we have “clean girl” aesthetics; on instagram, it’s about dreamy morning routines and polished minimalism. even youtube’s long-form videos aren’t immune, with creators detailing their “unfiltered” day in lives, yet every frame feels deliberate. social media has turned aesthetics into a performance, and as psychologist barry schwartz might argue, it’s the paradox of choice on steroids. when faced with infinite options for what your life could look like, you end up paralyzed—or worse, dissatisfied with what you have.

philosopher theodor adorno warned against this commodification of beauty in his work on the culture industry. when aesthetics are stripped of their individuality and sold as a one-size-fits-all ideal, they lose their authenticity and become another form of consumption. it’s no longer about appreciating beauty for its own sake; it’s about performing it, packaging it, and chasing it endlessly.

this isn’t just an academic musing—it’s a feeling. think of wes anderson movies, for instance. his visual storytelling is iconic, yet over the years, his aesthetic has been co-opted into a social media trend. entire tiktoks show users arranging their lives into andersonian palettes, perfect symmetries, and quirky props. and while it’s delightful to watch, it begs the question: when did we stop enjoying aesthetics as a form of art and start treating them like rules?

it’s easy to blame social media, but this obsession with beauty isn’t new. the romantic poets, too, were captivated by idealized beauty—but their version of aesthetics wasn’t about perfection. it was about transcendence, about moments that stirred the soul. in contrast, today’s aesthetics feel transactional. they promise us a better life—if only we buy the candle, the rug, or the neutral-toned vase.

what’s most striking is how this obsession with aesthetic living ties into deeper psychological needs. psychologist mihaly csikszentmihalyi, the mind behind “flow” theory, might suggest that we’re chasing aesthetics as a shortcut to flow states—moments where we lose ourselves in beauty, creativity, and harmony. but true flow isn’t found in curated shelves or matching throw pillows; it’s found in the act of creating and living authentically.

for me, aesthetic fatigue was a wake-up call. i realized that my favorite parts of my home weren’t the ones designed to impress. it wasn’t the neatly arranged bookshelf or the carefully chosen color palette. it was the chaos of my desk during a late-night brainstorm, the mismatched mugs from old vacations, and the couch that never stayed neat because it was always in use.

maybe that’s the antidote to aesthetic fatigue: embracing beauty as something personal and imperfect. aesthetics should be a tool for joy, not a metric for self-worth. as sociologist erving goffman explored in his work on self-presentation, there’s a difference between the “front stage” self we show to others and the “backstage” self that’s raw and real. somewhere along the way, we’ve confused the two, and it’s time to reclaim the latter.

so now, when i see a perfect pinterest board or an influencer’s immaculate morning routine, i remind myself: this isn’t real life, and it doesn’t have to be. aesthetics can coexist with authenticity. they can be messy, fleeting, and deeply personal.