In the world of modern social media, pain sells.
Not the quiet, private kind that hides behind closed doors — but the one that performs in front of a ring light. It cries on livestreams, drinks on camera, screams at friends, bleeds through makeup filters, and wakes up the next morning to see how many views it got.
Somewhere between tragedy and trend, suffering has become entertainment.
And in today’s Russia, few things illustrate it better than the rise of influencers that has built or amplified their fame through the public display of self-destruction.
Not the quiet, private kind that hides behind closed doors — but the one that performs in front of a ring light. It cries on livestreams, drinks on camera, screams at friends, bleeds through makeup filters, and wakes up the next morning to see how many views it got.
Somewhere between tragedy and trend, suffering has become entertainment.
And in today’s Russia, few things illustrate it better than the rise of influencers that has built or amplified their fame through the public display of self-destruction.
The danger of this phenomenon isn’t just moral; it’s aesthetic.
Because these images are not shown as horrifying — they’re often visually appealing.
Soft lighting, cinematic filters, slow motion, background music — all turn suffering into a look.
It’s the same mechanism used in films or music videos, but without the safe distance of fiction.
Yulia Finess’s videos are framed like a diary. Dasha Koreika’s tears look filtered and tender.
Even Mellstroy’s chaotic streams are carefully branded with slick graphics and a visual language of dominance.
In Instasamka’s case, self-destructive arrogance was stylized as empowerment — the dirty mirror became her stage, the mess her crown.
When pain looks beautiful, it becomes aestheticized — and when it’s aestheticized, it risks becoming desirable.
That is the ethical core of our problem.
Because these images are not shown as horrifying — they’re often visually appealing.
Soft lighting, cinematic filters, slow motion, background music — all turn suffering into a look.
It’s the same mechanism used in films or music videos, but without the safe distance of fiction.
Yulia Finess’s videos are framed like a diary. Dasha Koreika’s tears look filtered and tender.
Even Mellstroy’s chaotic streams are carefully branded with slick graphics and a visual language of dominance.
In Instasamka’s case, self-destructive arrogance was stylized as empowerment — the dirty mirror became her stage, the mess her crown.
When pain looks beautiful, it becomes aestheticized — and when it’s aestheticized, it risks becoming desirable.
That is the ethical core of our problem.
Ethically, the main tension lies here:
When is the representation of suffering a form of honesty — and when does it turn into exploitation?
When does a confession become a performance?
When does a mental breakdown turn from a cry for help into clickbait?
The line is thin, and modern platforms erase it every day.
This aesthetic of destruction speaks to the emotional void of a generation raised on screens — one that craves authenticity but receives spectacle. It’s not that audiences want to see pain for cruelty’s sake; it’s that pain is one of the few emotions that still feels real in a culture saturated with simulation.
And so, we watch. We double-tap. We repost.
And in doing so, we become part of the cycle.
When is the representation of suffering a form of honesty — and when does it turn into exploitation?
When does a confession become a performance?
When does a mental breakdown turn from a cry for help into clickbait?
The line is thin, and modern platforms erase it every day.
This aesthetic of destruction speaks to the emotional void of a generation raised on screens — one that craves authenticity but receives spectacle. It’s not that audiences want to see pain for cruelty’s sake; it’s that pain is one of the few emotions that still feels real in a culture saturated with simulation.
And so, we watch. We double-tap. We repost.
And in doing so, we become part of the cycle.
For influencers, suffering becomes part of identity.
It defines their brand, aesthetic, and narrative arc. A chaotic night turns into a story. A breakdown becomes a meme.
The boundary between self-expression and self-exploitation dissolves.
Psychologists describe it as performative trauma — when individuals continuously reproduce their pain to maintain visibility.
For audiences, this repetition normalizes self-destructive behavior.
For creators, it creates an addiction to attention.
The influencer no longer just shows suffering — they live it for the camera.
And the camera, in turn, defines what kind of suffering “sells.”
It defines their brand, aesthetic, and narrative arc. A chaotic night turns into a story. A breakdown becomes a meme.
The boundary between self-expression and self-exploitation dissolves.
Psychologists describe it as performative trauma — when individuals continuously reproduce their pain to maintain visibility.
For audiences, this repetition normalizes self-destructive behavior.
For creators, it creates an addiction to attention.
The influencer no longer just shows suffering — they live it for the camera.
And the camera, in turn, defines what kind of suffering “sells.”
The romanticization of the broken, lost, or damaged person is not new — literature and art have done it for centuries.
But in the era of digital media, the difference is scale and speed.
Now anyone can turn their pain into a brand within weeks.
And when those images dominate the visual landscape — when every “relatable” influencer aestheticizes dysfunction — young viewers begin to imitate it. Not consciously, perhaps, but subtly: in gestures, speech, self-perception. The idea that “to be beautiful, you must be broken” seeps into the collective psyche.
This is the ethical turning point — when aestheticization becomes aspiration.
But in the era of digital media, the difference is scale and speed.
Now anyone can turn their pain into a brand within weeks.
And when those images dominate the visual landscape — when every “relatable” influencer aestheticizes dysfunction — young viewers begin to imitate it. Not consciously, perhaps, but subtly: in gestures, speech, self-perception. The idea that “to be beautiful, you must be broken” seeps into the collective psyche.
This is the ethical turning point — when aestheticization becomes aspiration.
Media scholars often talk about the “mirror of culture.”
If you want to understand a generation, look at what it films, watches, and shares.
In that mirror today, we see ring lights, anxiety, mascara tears, toxic laughter, expensive microphones, and emotional collapse wrapped in cinematic edits.
It’s both mesmerizing and horrifying — the perfect 21st-century paradox:
we’re more open than ever about mental health, yet more obsessed than ever with watching people fall apart.
This longread does not seek to moralize or shame.
It seeks to ask a harder question:
Where is the line between expression and exploitation?
At what point does empathy turn into entertainment?
Can media ethics survive in a system where pain equals engagement?
If you want to understand a generation, look at what it films, watches, and shares.
In that mirror today, we see ring lights, anxiety, mascara tears, toxic laughter, expensive microphones, and emotional collapse wrapped in cinematic edits.
It’s both mesmerizing and horrifying — the perfect 21st-century paradox:
we’re more open than ever about mental health, yet more obsessed than ever with watching people fall apart.
This longread does not seek to moralize or shame.
It seeks to ask a harder question:
Where is the line between expression and exploitation?
At what point does empathy turn into entertainment?
Can media ethics survive in a system where pain equals engagement?
The following case studies — Yulia Finess, Mellstroy, Dasha Koreika, and Instasamka (pre-mainstream era) — are not just examples of viral fame.
They are cultural symptoms — each one showing a different side of how destruction becomes desirable.
Their stories reveal the mechanisms through which social media converts suffering into views, and viewers into voyeurs.
Each case shows a unique aesthetic:
Together, they form a portrait of an era — one where authenticity is performed, trauma is monetized, and pain is beautifully packaged.
Key Examples — The Faces of Aestheticized Destruction
They are cultural symptoms — each one showing a different side of how destruction becomes desirable.
Their stories reveal the mechanisms through which social media converts suffering into views, and viewers into voyeurs.
Each case shows a unique aesthetic:
- Finess’s tragic chaos;
- Mellstroy’s violent masculinity;
- Koreika’s vulnerability turned into reality TV;
- Instasamka’s early toxic glamour.
Together, they form a portrait of an era — one where authenticity is performed, trauma is monetized, and pain is beautifully packaged.
Key Examples — The Faces of Aestheticized Destruction
When you open Yulia Finess’s page, you enter a digital wasteland painted in pastel tones.
There are tears, smeared makeup, trembling hands — yet everything looks strangely cinematic.
This is not just a girl crying on camera. This is curated chaos — a performance of self-destruction stylized as art.
Yulia Finess, whose real name is Yulia Maksimovskaya, became a household name in Russian social media almost by accident. Her videos, full of scandals, breakdowns, and explicit content, drew millions of views not because of their beauty, but because of their rawness. She drank, screamed, confessed, collapsed — and kept filming.
But as the attention grew, so did the form.
Her breakdowns became beautifully lit. Her pain was edited, filtered, accompanied by melancholic soundtracks.
The chaos was aestheticized.
In the Russian press, she’s often called “the queen of trash content,” but that label misses the deeper phenomenon: Yulia represents the romanticization of self-destruction as a lifestyle.
There are tears, smeared makeup, trembling hands — yet everything looks strangely cinematic.
This is not just a girl crying on camera. This is curated chaos — a performance of self-destruction stylized as art.
Yulia Finess, whose real name is Yulia Maksimovskaya, became a household name in Russian social media almost by accident. Her videos, full of scandals, breakdowns, and explicit content, drew millions of views not because of their beauty, but because of their rawness. She drank, screamed, confessed, collapsed — and kept filming.
But as the attention grew, so did the form.
Her breakdowns became beautifully lit. Her pain was edited, filtered, accompanied by melancholic soundtracks.
The chaos was aestheticized.
In the Russian press, she’s often called “the queen of trash content,” but that label misses the deeper phenomenon: Yulia represents the romanticization of self-destruction as a lifestyle.
Her videos blur the line between confession and spectacle, pain and performance.
Psychologists have commented on the “Finness effect”: young followers, mostly teenagers, begin to see self-destructive behavior as a form of authenticity. “She’s real,” they say — because she doesn’t hide her worst sides. But what they don’t see is how self-exposure becomes addictive — both for the creator and the viewer.
The ethical tension here is sharp:
Is Yulia documenting her pain, or performing it?
Is she being exploited by her audience — or exploiting them?
The answer, as always in social media, is both.
Visually, her aesthetic draws from familiar cultural tropes — the fallen angel, the tragic muse, the “sad girl” subculture that dominated Tumblr and TikTok in the late 2010s. But unlike that stylized Western melancholy, Yulia’s version is viscerally Russian — provincial, gritty, unfiltered, yet edited just enough to look cinematic.
The contradiction is her art form.
It’s not just about shock. It’s about making pain look pretty.
And when pain looks pretty, it stops looking dangerous.
Psychologists have commented on the “Finness effect”: young followers, mostly teenagers, begin to see self-destructive behavior as a form of authenticity. “She’s real,” they say — because she doesn’t hide her worst sides. But what they don’t see is how self-exposure becomes addictive — both for the creator and the viewer.
The ethical tension here is sharp:
Is Yulia documenting her pain, or performing it?
Is she being exploited by her audience — or exploiting them?
The answer, as always in social media, is both.
Visually, her aesthetic draws from familiar cultural tropes — the fallen angel, the tragic muse, the “sad girl” subculture that dominated Tumblr and TikTok in the late 2010s. But unlike that stylized Western melancholy, Yulia’s version is viscerally Russian — provincial, gritty, unfiltered, yet edited just enough to look cinematic.
The contradiction is her art form.
It’s not just about shock. It’s about making pain look pretty.
And when pain looks pretty, it stops looking dangerous.
If Yulia Finness represents destruction turned inward, Mellstroy (Andrey Burim) represents destruction turned outward — against others.
A Belarusian-born streamer, he became infamous for his “trash streams,” a hybrid of live reality show, nightclub chaos, and psychological warfare.
In Mellstroy’s broadcasts, guests are humiliated, fights erupt, alcohol flows, and thousands of viewers send donations to see “what happens next.”
It’s cruelty gamified.
His visual style is different from Finness’s tragic melancholy — it’s hypermasculine, aggressive, and transactional.
A Belarusian-born streamer, he became infamous for his “trash streams,” a hybrid of live reality show, nightclub chaos, and psychological warfare.
In Mellstroy’s broadcasts, guests are humiliated, fights erupt, alcohol flows, and thousands of viewers send donations to see “what happens next.”
It’s cruelty gamified.
His visual style is different from Finness’s tragic melancholy — it’s hypermasculine, aggressive, and transactional.
The lighting is cold, the sound loud, the camera angles restless.
Where Finness aestheticizes despair, Mellstroy aestheticizes dominance.
At first glance, this might seem unrelated to self-destruction. But look closer: his streams run on the same emotional currency — pain, tension, humiliation.
Only now, it’s externalized. The suffering of others becomes a form of spectacle, and the streamer becomes both director and performer in a digital gladiator arena.
Critics have described Mellstroy’s world as “the monetization of cruelty.”
Every act of aggression becomes content; every scandal brings followers.
Sponsors, platforms, and algorithms silently approve, as long as engagement stays high.
The ethical question here is not new — television had its share of shock shows long before the Internet.
But the intimacy of streaming changes everything.
Viewers are not just watching; they’re participating, sending money, cheering, feeding the machine.
This creates a new kind of complicity: collective responsibility for digital violence.
And aesthetically, Mellstroy’s content teaches the same lesson as Finness’s — that extremity equals authenticity, that to feel something real, you must destroy something first.
Where Finness aestheticizes despair, Mellstroy aestheticizes dominance.
At first glance, this might seem unrelated to self-destruction. But look closer: his streams run on the same emotional currency — pain, tension, humiliation.
Only now, it’s externalized. The suffering of others becomes a form of spectacle, and the streamer becomes both director and performer in a digital gladiator arena.
Critics have described Mellstroy’s world as “the monetization of cruelty.”
Every act of aggression becomes content; every scandal brings followers.
Sponsors, platforms, and algorithms silently approve, as long as engagement stays high.
The ethical question here is not new — television had its share of shock shows long before the Internet.
But the intimacy of streaming changes everything.
Viewers are not just watching; they’re participating, sending money, cheering, feeding the machine.
This creates a new kind of complicity: collective responsibility for digital violence.
And aesthetically, Mellstroy’s content teaches the same lesson as Finness’s — that extremity equals authenticity, that to feel something real, you must destroy something first.
Introduction — When Pain Becomes Content
From authenticity to performance
Once upon a time, the Internet promised authenticity.
Early bloggers and YouTubers were seen as brutally honest, unfiltered, “real.” They spoke about their lives, pain, and insecurities without the polish of mainstream TV. But somewhere in that pursuit of honesty, aestheticization began — sadness needed filters, breakdowns needed editing, and trauma became part of personal branding.
In the 2020s, this shift reached a new peak.
Audiences no longer wanted to simply hear someone’s pain — they wanted to watch it. The more chaotic, extreme, or emotionally raw, the better.
Platforms like TikTok, YouTube, and Twitch rewarded content that triggered strong reactions — shock, pity, fascination. In this new economy of attention, suffering became currency, and influencers began to craft it like an art form.
This isn’t just about algorithmic manipulation — it’s about cultural values.
When the visual language of destruction becomes familiar and even beautiful, it shapes how millions of young people perceive what’s “normal,” “relatable,” or even “cool.”
Early bloggers and YouTubers were seen as brutally honest, unfiltered, “real.” They spoke about their lives, pain, and insecurities without the polish of mainstream TV. But somewhere in that pursuit of honesty, aestheticization began — sadness needed filters, breakdowns needed editing, and trauma became part of personal branding.
In the 2020s, this shift reached a new peak.
Audiences no longer wanted to simply hear someone’s pain — they wanted to watch it. The more chaotic, extreme, or emotionally raw, the better.
Platforms like TikTok, YouTube, and Twitch rewarded content that triggered strong reactions — shock, pity, fascination. In this new economy of attention, suffering became currency, and influencers began to craft it like an art form.
This isn’t just about algorithmic manipulation — it’s about cultural values.
When the visual language of destruction becomes familiar and even beautiful, it shapes how millions of young people perceive what’s “normal,” “relatable,” or even “cool.”
The Russian context: pain as a spectacle
In the Russian-speaking Internet, the aestheticization of pain has its own unique texture.
It’s not as stylized as in American pop culture — where heartbreak often hides behind glossy melancholy and perfect lighting. Instead, it’s raw, confrontational, and deeply voyeuristic.
Here, livestreams of drunken fights, tears, self-harm, humiliation, and chaotic relationships become viral sensations.
Fans comment with laughing emojis or words of empathy, haters flood the chat, and thousands of eyes watch as a real person falls apart — in real time. The border between life and performance dissolves completely.
Yulia Finess sits in front of the camera, mascara smudged, her voice trembling, whispering something between confession and provocation. Mellstroy screams into the microphone, shoving or humiliating guests as donations pour in. Dasha Koreika cries during her “live therapy,” while comments roll: “We love you, stay strong.” Early Instasamka, before her mainstream fame, used chaos and arrogance as a weapon — her toxic self-presentation becoming part of a feminist rebellion, or so it seemed.
This is not fiction, not a Netflix show — it’s real life turned into a monetized narrative.
It’s not as stylized as in American pop culture — where heartbreak often hides behind glossy melancholy and perfect lighting. Instead, it’s raw, confrontational, and deeply voyeuristic.
Here, livestreams of drunken fights, tears, self-harm, humiliation, and chaotic relationships become viral sensations.
Fans comment with laughing emojis or words of empathy, haters flood the chat, and thousands of eyes watch as a real person falls apart — in real time. The border between life and performance dissolves completely.
Yulia Finess sits in front of the camera, mascara smudged, her voice trembling, whispering something between confession and provocation. Mellstroy screams into the microphone, shoving or humiliating guests as donations pour in. Dasha Koreika cries during her “live therapy,” while comments roll: “We love you, stay strong.” Early Instasamka, before her mainstream fame, used chaos and arrogance as a weapon — her toxic self-presentation becoming part of a feminist rebellion, or so it seemed.
This is not fiction, not a Netflix show — it’s real life turned into a monetized narrative.
Psychologists call it trauma voyeurism — the fascination with other people’s suffering that blurs the line between empathy and entertainment.
In a society where people feel increasingly isolated, watching someone else’s breakdown gives both catharsis and relief: at least it’s not me.
At the same time, there’s an illusion of intimacy. Followers believe they are “helping” by sending messages of support, even though their attention is what keeps the performer locked in the cycle. The influencer’s pain becomes a shared experience — communal, performative, and profitable.
In a society where people feel increasingly isolated, watching someone else’s breakdown gives both catharsis and relief: at least it’s not me.
At the same time, there’s an illusion of intimacy. Followers believe they are “helping” by sending messages of support, even though their attention is what keeps the performer locked in the cycle. The influencer’s pain becomes a shared experience — communal, performative, and profitable.
The algorithms, of course, know exactly how to exploit this.
Every cry, scandal, and nervous breakdown spikes engagement.
Emotional instability becomes content strategy.
And the more destructive the behavior, the greater the reward — views, donations, sponsorships, and media buzz.
Every cry, scandal, and nervous breakdown spikes engagement.
Emotional instability becomes content strategy.
And the more destructive the behavior, the greater the reward — views, donations, sponsorships, and media buzz.
Why audiences can’t look away?
Aestheticization vs. reality
From empathy to algorithm
Pain as identity
Cultural fascination with the broken
The mirror effect
Setting the stage
1. Yulia Finess: The Tragic Aesthetic of Collapse
2. Mellstroy: Violence as a Business Model
DASHA KOREIKA: PAIN AS REALITY SHOW
Dasha Koreika’s world looks softer — pastel filters, confessional vlogs, teary livestreams.
But beneath the surface lies the same mechanism: suffering turned into serialized entertainment.
Known for her emotional openness, Koreika constantly broadcasts her private life — relationships, therapy, panic attacks, crying sessions — all under the label of honesty.
And indeed, she speaks about mental health more directly than many others.
But beneath the surface lies the same mechanism: suffering turned into serialized entertainment.
Known for her emotional openness, Koreika constantly broadcasts her private life — relationships, therapy, panic attacks, crying sessions — all under the label of honesty.
And indeed, she speaks about mental health more directly than many others.
But that very transparency is what blurs the line between healing and performance.
Each breakdown becomes a new episode.
Each apology or confession feeds into the next.
The audience stays, because it feels personal.
They “know” her. They “support” her.
But they also watch, comment, and consume.
Each breakdown becomes a new episode.
Each apology or confession feeds into the next.
The audience stays, because it feels personal.
They “know” her. They “support” her.
But they also watch, comment, and consume.
Koreika represents the normalization of emotional collapse as a form of communication.
She’s not violent or shocking like Mellstroy, nor tragic and chaotic like Finness — she’s relatable.
That’s what makes her case especially complex ethically: she gives vulnerability a marketable form.
She’s not violent or shocking like Mellstroy, nor tragic and chaotic like Finness — she’s relatable.
That’s what makes her case especially complex ethically: she gives vulnerability a marketable form.
The visual aesthetics — warm lighting,
intimacy, bedroom backgrounds — create a false sense of safety.
It’s as if the viewer is a friend, not a spectator.
But the parasocial relationship that forms is one-sided:
Dasha’s pain generates profit and empathy simultaneously,
creating a feedback loop she can’t escape.
Media theorists call this “emotional capitalism.”
It’s when feelings become a product — and the more extreme, the better they sell.
intimacy, bedroom backgrounds — create a false sense of safety.
It’s as if the viewer is a friend, not a spectator.
But the parasocial relationship that forms is one-sided:
Dasha’s pain generates profit and empathy simultaneously,
creating a feedback loop she can’t escape.
Media theorists call this “emotional capitalism.”
It’s when feelings become a product — and the more extreme, the better they sell.
Instasamka (pre-hype era): Glamorous Self-Destruction
Before Daria Zoteeva became one of the most commercially successful Russian pop artists, she was Instasamka — the anti-heroine of early Russian Instagram.
Known for her loud arrogance, explicit language, and chaotic posts, she built a persona that thrived on toxic glamour.
Known for her loud arrogance, explicit language, and chaotic posts, she built a persona that thrived on toxic glamour.
Her early content — messy rooms, luxury knockoffs, emotional rants — was raw yet calculated.
She performed the “villain girl” archetype: unapologetic, rude, self-destructive, but always perfectly lit.
She performed the “villain girl” archetype: unapologetic, rude, self-destructive, but always perfectly lit.
In that period, Instasamka represented the feminine counterpart to Mellstroy’s brutality — not physical aggression, but psychological defiance.
Her message was clear:
“I’m broken, but I’m beautiful.”
It resonated with young girls
tired of perfection and politeness.
Her message was clear:
“I’m broken, but I’m beautiful.”
It resonated with young girls
tired of perfection and politeness.
The ethical complexity here lies in the aestheticization of toxicity as empowerment.
Her early persona mixed feminist rebellion with narcissistic exhibitionism.
It blurred the line between self-expression and self-destruction — between breaking stereotypes and glorifying dysfunction.
Her early persona mixed feminist rebellion with narcissistic exhibitionism.
It blurred the line between self-expression and self-destruction — between breaking stereotypes and glorifying dysfunction.
From a media-ethical perspective,
Instasamka’s evolution is fascinating:
She built fame on aestheticized chaos — and later rebranded it into pop professionalism.
But the visual and emotional grammar of her early years — the staged mess, the “raw” femininity, the performative anger — remains deeply influential in modern influencer culture.
Instasamka’s evolution is fascinating:
She built fame on aestheticized chaos — and later rebranded it into pop professionalism.
But the visual and emotional grammar of her early years — the staged mess, the “raw” femininity, the performative anger — remains deeply influential in modern influencer culture.
Visual parallels
Across all four cases, one pattern repeats: pain becomes aesthetic.
Each influencer turns suffering, chaos, or aggression into a visual language.
They use color, framing, and tone to transform what should repel us into something we want to watch.
Each influencer turns suffering, chaos, or aggression into a visual language.
They use color, framing, and tone to transform what should repel us into something we want to watch.
These patterns show how destruction is rebranded as authenticity.
And in an era where attention is the highest currency, authenticity — even when it’s fake — sells best.
And in an era where attention is the highest currency, authenticity — even when it’s fake — sells best.
Ethical reflections
Each of these cases raises urgent ethical questions:
- Where does “honesty” end and manipulation begin?
- Should platforms intervene when creators harm themselves or others on camera?
- Are audiences responsible for fueling this spectacle?
From the standpoint of media ethics, what we’re witnessing is the collapse of moral distance.
Traditional media separated audience and subject — film, TV, journalism maintained some boundary between life and representation.
Social media destroys it.
Traditional media separated audience and subject — film, TV, journalism maintained some boundary between life and representation.
Social media destroys it.
When Yulia Finess breaks down,
she’s not acting — but she’s also performing.
When Mellstroy screams, he’s both human and product.
When Dasha cries, it’s both therapy and content.
When Instasamka flaunts her toxicity, it’s both rebellion and marketing.
And for millions watching, these contradictions feel natural.
she’s not acting — but she’s also performing.
When Mellstroy screams, he’s both human and product.
When Dasha cries, it’s both therapy and content.
When Instasamka flaunts her toxicity, it’s both rebellion and marketing.
And for millions watching, these contradictions feel natural.
Why this matters
The aestheticization of destruction doesn’t just reflect cultural decay — it shapes it.
It teaches audiences to consume pain the way they consume music videos: quickly, emotionally, forgetfully.
It teaches audiences to consume pain the way they consume music videos: quickly, emotionally, forgetfully.
It makes empathy transactional.
And worst of all, it convinces creators that their only worth lies in being broken beautifully
And worst of all, it convinces creators that their only worth lies in being broken beautifully
Media platforms thrive on this cycle, because suffering is highly clickable.
But each view, each share, each “like” contributes to a larger ethical erosion — one where the spectacle of trauma replaces real conversation about it.
But each view, each share, each “like” contributes to a larger ethical erosion — one where the spectacle of trauma replaces real conversation about it.
The cost of beauty
When suffering becomes beautiful, it stops demanding change.
It becomes static — an image, a moodboard, a meme.
That’s the ultimate tragedy of aestheticized pain: it numbs rather than awakens.
The next time we see a viral clip of a crying influencer or a chaotic stream, the question we should ask is not “Is this real?” but “Why are we watching?”
Because every view — like every mirror — reflects not just them, but us.
It becomes static — an image, a moodboard, a meme.
That’s the ultimate tragedy of aestheticized pain: it numbs rather than awakens.
The next time we see a viral clip of a crying influencer or a chaotic stream, the question we should ask is not “Is this real?” but “Why are we watching?”
Because every view — like every mirror — reflects not just them, but us.
Beyond the Beautiful Pain
We have scrolled through it so many times that it barely hurts anymore.
The breakdowns, the confessions, the fights, the tears — all rendered in 4K, all perfectly lit.
Pain has become not only visible but curated. And in this curation lies the core paradox of our digital age: we no longer suffer privately, we perform suffering publicly — and call it truth.
The breakdowns, the confessions, the fights, the tears — all rendered in 4K, all perfectly lit.
Pain has become not only visible but curated. And in this curation lies the core paradox of our digital age: we no longer suffer privately, we perform suffering publicly — and call it truth.
1. The System of Spectacle
In 1967, the French theorist Guy Debord wrote that we live in a society of the spectacle — one in which “all that was once directly lived has become mere representation.”
Half a century later, that line reads like prophecy.
Half a century later, that line reads like prophecy.
The “spectacle” is no longer distant or orchestrated by television producers.
It’s self-made, handheld, and live-streamed.
Every phone is a stage, every follower a spectator, every emotion a potential monetization strategy.
It’s self-made, handheld, and live-streamed.
Every phone is a stage, every follower a spectator, every emotion a potential monetization strategy.
The influencers discussed earlier embody this shift perfectly:
There is no backstage — and no off switch.
- Finess’s despair becomes a narrative arc;
- Mellstroy’s cruelty becomes interactive theatre;
- Koreika’s vulnerability becomes serialized therapy;
- Instasamka’s rebellion becomes brand identity.
There is no backstage — and no off switch.
The ethical implication is staggering: if everything can be performed, even pain loses its moral weight.
A breakdown becomes an “aesthetic choice.”
Violence becomes “raw content.”
The moral frame that once separated tragedy from entertainment disintegrates into pixels.
A breakdown becomes an “aesthetic choice.”
Violence becomes “raw content.”
The moral frame that once separated tragedy from entertainment disintegrates into pixels.
2. Authenticity as Commodity
The logic of social media rewards the illusion of authenticity.
Users crave “realness” — raw emotions, unfiltered speech, shaky camera footage.
But the moment something is posted, it stops being raw. It becomes formatted.
Users crave “realness” — raw emotions, unfiltered speech, shaky camera footage.
But the moment something is posted, it stops being raw. It becomes formatted.
This is what media theorist Jean Baudrillard called the hyperreal:
a world where images of authenticity replace authenticity itself.
We don’t just consume pain; we consume the simulation of it.
And because it feels intimate, it becomes even more seductive.
a world where images of authenticity replace authenticity itself.
We don’t just consume pain; we consume the simulation of it.
And because it feels intimate, it becomes even more seductive.
Yulia Finess crying on livestream seems “honest,” but it’s still framed, filtered, and performative.
Mellstroy’s chaos feels spontaneous, but it follows a content strategy built on algorithmic peaks.
Mellstroy’s chaos feels spontaneous, but it follows a content strategy built on algorithmic peaks.
The market for authenticity has created an economy of confession — where trauma, anger, and breakdowns are currency.
And the more personal it feels, the more profitable it becomes.
And the more personal it feels, the more profitable it becomes.
3. The Audience’s Guilt
There’s an uncomfortable truth hidden behind every viral moment of destruction:
it wouldn’t exist without us.
it wouldn’t exist without us.
Viewers sustain it.
We click, comment, share, discuss.
We say we are “just watching,” but in the attention economy, watching is participation.
We click, comment, share, discuss.
We say we are “just watching,” but in the attention economy, watching is participation.
When Mellstroy humiliates someone on stream, thousands donate to keep it going.
When Finess collapses live, viewers flood the chat with hearts and pity or even negative and hate — then clip the scene for TikTok.
When Koreika cries about her anxiety, the comments fill with “Stay strong ❤️” — followed by speculation, gossip, and monetized reactions.
When Finess collapses live, viewers flood the chat with hearts and pity or even negative and hate — then clip the scene for TikTok.
When Koreika cries about her anxiety, the comments fill with “Stay strong ❤️” — followed by speculation, gossip, and monetized reactions.
This is what philosopher Susan Sontag warned about when she wrote that the constant exposure to others’ pain “changes the color of morality.”
We don’t become crueler — we become numb.
Tragedy becomes content.
Empathy becomes engagement.
The question is not whether we should feel guilty — it’s whether we can still feel at all.
We don’t become crueler — we become numb.
Tragedy becomes content.
Empathy becomes engagement.
The question is not whether we should feel guilty — it’s whether we can still feel at all.
4. Platforms and Responsibility
Social platforms often pretend to be neutral — “we just host content.”
But neutrality, in this context, is complicity.
The algorithm doesn’t care about ethics; it cares about engagement.
And destruction engages.
But neutrality, in this context, is complicity.
The algorithm doesn’t care about ethics; it cares about engagement.
And destruction engages.
Every viral breakdown or scandal is rewarded with reach.
Every escalation gets pushed to the feed.
The system doesn’t punish self-destruction; it amplifies it — until it becomes aspirational.
Every escalation gets pushed to the feed.
The system doesn’t punish self-destruction; it amplifies it — until it becomes aspirational.
There are attempts at moderation, of course — content warnings, age limits, community guidelines.
But the aesthetic of pain always finds a way through, because it’s too profitable to suppress.
But the aesthetic of pain always finds a way through, because it’s too profitable to suppress.
In this sense, platforms have become both confession booths and arenas.
They offer creators a place to expose their wounds, and audiences a place to watch them bleed — safely, from behind a screen.
They offer creators a place to expose their wounds, and audiences a place to watch them bleed — safely, from behind a screen.
5. The Aesthetics of Ruin
Tilda Publishing
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6. From Spectacle to Reflection
Is there a way out of this loop?
Maybe not entirely — but there is a way to resist.
The first step is awareness.
Recognizing the mechanism doesn’t erase its power, but it gives us language to question it.
When we scroll through the next viral breakdown, we can ask: Who benefits from this pain?
When we post something raw, we can ask: Am I sharing or performing?
Creators can reclaim narrative agency by refusing to turn vulnerability into spectacle.
Audiences can resist by choosing empathy over engagement — by pausing instead of reposting.
Platforms can intervene by valuing well-being over virality.
Maybe not entirely — but there is a way to resist.
The first step is awareness.
Recognizing the mechanism doesn’t erase its power, but it gives us language to question it.
When we scroll through the next viral breakdown, we can ask: Who benefits from this pain?
When we post something raw, we can ask: Am I sharing or performing?
Creators can reclaim narrative agency by refusing to turn vulnerability into spectacle.
Audiences can resist by choosing empathy over engagement — by pausing instead of reposting.
Platforms can intervene by valuing well-being over virality.
7. Beyond the Beautiful Pain
The beauty of pain has always tempted artists.
But art — at its best — transforms suffering into understanding, not into spectacle.
The danger of our current media culture is that it reverses the equation: understanding disappears, spectacle remains.
To go beyond beautiful pain means to reclaim depth in the age of display.
To revalue silence, slowness, and sincerity.
To remember that the most radical act today might not be confession — but restraint.
If Yulia Finess’s tragedy, Mellstroy’s aggression, Koreika’s vulnerability, and Instasamka’s rebellion have taught us anything, it’s that digital authenticity without ethics becomes theatre.
And theatre, without catharsis, becomes cruelty.
What we choose to reflect in it will define the next generation of creators and viewers alike.
There’s a scene that never goes viral — the quiet one, after the livestream ends.
No music, no filters, no audience.
Just a person, staring at their reflection on a black screen, realizing that the show is over.
Maybe that’s where truth begins again —
beyond the beautiful pain,
in the silence that follows the spectacle.
But art — at its best — transforms suffering into understanding, not into spectacle.
The danger of our current media culture is that it reverses the equation: understanding disappears, spectacle remains.
To go beyond beautiful pain means to reclaim depth in the age of display.
To revalue silence, slowness, and sincerity.
To remember that the most radical act today might not be confession — but restraint.
If Yulia Finess’s tragedy, Mellstroy’s aggression, Koreika’s vulnerability, and Instasamka’s rebellion have taught us anything, it’s that digital authenticity without ethics becomes theatre.
And theatre, without catharsis, becomes cruelty.
What we choose to reflect in it will define the next generation of creators and viewers alike.
There’s a scene that never goes viral — the quiet one, after the livestream ends.
No music, no filters, no audience.
Just a person, staring at their reflection on a black screen, realizing that the show is over.
Maybe that’s where truth begins again —
beyond the beautiful pain,
in the silence that follows the spectacle.
Why does destruction look beautiful online?
Because digital aesthetics have learned to romanticize decay.
Filters soften bruises; color grading turns chaos into art; emotional lighting makes breakdowns cinematic.
Even despair is curated to be shareable.
This “ruin chic” has roots in older artistic traditions — from Romanticism’s fascination with tragedy to modern fashion’s obsession with grunge.
But in the digital age, the aesthetic of ruin is democratized.
Anyone can be their own tragic protagonist.
The cost is that we stop recognizing destruction as destructive.
When pain looks elegant, it becomes acceptable.
When collapse looks curated, it becomes inspiring.
And so, the “sad girl” aesthetic of Yulia Finess and the “alpha aggression” of Mellstroy, though seemingly opposite, serve the same cultural logic: both make ruin aspirational.
Because digital aesthetics have learned to romanticize decay.
Filters soften bruises; color grading turns chaos into art; emotional lighting makes breakdowns cinematic.
Even despair is curated to be shareable.
This “ruin chic” has roots in older artistic traditions — from Romanticism’s fascination with tragedy to modern fashion’s obsession with grunge.
But in the digital age, the aesthetic of ruin is democratized.
Anyone can be their own tragic protagonist.
The cost is that we stop recognizing destruction as destructive.
When pain looks elegant, it becomes acceptable.
When collapse looks curated, it becomes inspiring.
And so, the “sad girl” aesthetic of Yulia Finess and the “alpha aggression” of Mellstroy, though seemingly opposite, serve the same cultural logic: both make ruin aspirational.
The screen is not evil — it’s a mirror.
This is not censorship; it’s ethical design.
A reimagining of media spaces that prioritize reflection over reaction.
A reimagining of media spaces that prioritize reflection over reaction.
Tilda Publishing
How did you decide to create a public profile, maybe there is a personal story?
I am a psychologist by training and I consider this publication as psychological. I believe that it allows you to address your emotions, verbalize and ultimately realize. And for many, they also need to find support.
What do you think a subscriber of your public looks like: age, interests, why did you subscribe?
These are most often topics related to loneliness, separation, family problems, work, studies, anxiety and longing. That is, everything that subscribers respond to most often. But my personal rule is that videos related to the topic of harming oneself or others are unacceptable. These are too sensitive topics for this format.
What kind of content do you use as a basis?
My average subscriber is a young girl from the CIS countries. Russian-speaking, but most often not from Russia.
Sergey Gorbatov
The creator of the tg public (3.5 thousand subscribers)
The creator of the tg public (3.5 thousand subscribers)
Firstly, when I was 12-13 years old, it turns out to be 17-18 years old, VKontakte as a whole was so popular. In other words, public videos for teenagers were popular, which were very often associated with some kind of sad topic, some kind of teenage problems. I was motivated to subscribe by the fact that I was in my teens at the time, I was close to many of these problems, and since I wanted to somehow receive support, including to reflect on this topic, I probably leafed through these publications, I could repost something. to show that I have the same problems, to somehow draw attention to myself, to get some kind of support again."
What motivates subscribers and why do they like such topics?
Is it related to a personal story?
Maria
Subscribers who choose this formats
Subscribers who choose this formats
– Why do people like depressing, self-destructive content, and why do they aestheticize it?
– What techniques and manipulations do (trash bloggers / "depressive aesthetics" bloggers) use to attract the audience's attention, and are they ethically acceptable?
People often seek a reflection of their own inner experiences in such materials. This type of content gives them a sense that they are not alone in their feelings and that they will find support. Therefore, creating a beautiful picture of a radical state offers a solution to their immediate problems.
Furthermore, depressive aesthetics now act as a form of protest against the cult of success, while the demonstration of vulnerability serves as a search for "authenticity."
Furthermore, depressive aesthetics now act as a form of protest against the cult of success, while the demonstration of vulnerability serves as a search for "authenticity."
If we analyze and single out something specific, then personification is suitable for depressive aesthetics—this is when events are shown through a specific story. The viewer sees and relates what they see to themselves.y the work you should be doing for the rest of your life.
Well, it's just that when I was fixated on some things that worried me, in general, like, I think, any teenagers, it's some kind of problems at school, it's the first romantic relationship, it's friends, and so on. Wanted... flipping, flipping, something like that. Such publications were often also associated with aesthetics. They beautifully presented teenage sadness.
Subscribers who choose this format
Subscribers who choose this format
Typically, the target audience for this format is teenagers with developing psyches. A whole mechanism of emotional contagion and an effect of joining the "collective suffering" has emerged on social media.
In addition, a fully commercialized trend for "depressive aesthetics" has developed in the beauty industry; merchandise with depression-related symbolism is sold, and influencers monetize the topic of mental health.
Anna Solovyovag for the rest
of your life.
In addition, a fully commercialized trend for "depressive aesthetics" has developed in the beauty industry; merchandise with depression-related symbolism is sold, and influencers monetize the topic of mental health.
Anna Solovyovag for the rest
of your life.
There is also the "effect of uniqueness." This technique allows shifting the audience's attention from the meaning of the events to their uniqueness.
Trash bloggers usually use provocative techniques: the goal is to evoke a strong reaction from the audience, ranging from indignation and disgust to surprise and interest.
This includes antisocial behavior, exploitation of vulnerable individuals (people with addictions), and low-quality content. The brain sees that the emotions from what is being viewed are extremely different, and this attracts attention.
Trash bloggers usually use provocative techniques: the goal is to evoke a strong reaction from the audience, ranging from indignation and disgust to surprise and interest.
This includes antisocial behavior, exploitation of vulnerable individuals (people with addictions), and low-quality content. The brain sees that the emotions from what is being viewed are extremely different, and this attracts attention.
From an ethical point of view, such techniques and manipulations are unacceptable, as they encourage cruelty, violence, and exploitation, and most importantly—the degradation of moral values.
In school I was always a very closed person, at the age of 12 I came across a page with the title «I will never believe in love», where there were photos exclusively of people in romantic relationships, due to their age and my character I subscribed to it. There I was most attracted by pictures with bruises on the neck. Many photos I added to myself in storage, dreaming that someone will love me too.
Sometimes I got letters from guys who found me in the pub and wanted to meet. The dialogue with them did not always work out, so they were «blacklisted» after a couple of very rude and insulting words to me. When I was 14 years old, a girl from my school wrote me that she is also sitting in this public, and at breaks she has no one to talk with and she would like to make friends with me, since then I have my best friend Sasha.
.
What motivates subscribers and why they like such topics?
Partly. Before Sasha I had a friend who was always very nice to guys. When I was a teenager, we used to fight because she went out more often with guys who didn’t like me very much. More and more often a friend came to meetings with bruises, once I asked her what was wrong, then she said that her young man overdid it and they together move south to his parents. After this walk, a friend wrote to me:
«He forbade me to communicate with you, goodbye.»
and blocked me from all social media, even the phone book. It was the most painful betrayal I ever had.
Does it have to do with personal history?
GLASHA
Anna Solovyova
INTERVIEW
Self-destruction in art is not only an aesthetic of pain, but also an honest way to talk about the cracks that allow light to enter us. In music, it becomes a confession, an attempt to pull the truth out of the wound while it is still breathing. I do not romanticize suffering; I document it to understand where it came from and whether it can ever let go. Sometimes, I sing about what kills me, just to hear that I am still alive.
Daria Deviline