“Suffering,” the chin-stroking, pipe-chuffing French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre once mused, “is justified, as soon as it becomes the raw material of beauty”.

In other words – to be a great artist, one must be a tortured artist. Lead a life of misery, and a bit of art will eventually leak out from somewhere. You may imagine, for example, in order for me to impart these delicately crafted words, I can only write such epic dispatches via a process of brutal, relentless self-flagellation, with profuse weeping.

Actually, I’d describe my current mood as “cheerfully perky”. I’m writing this sat on the sofa in my living room, in my pants, with Meerkat Manor on in the background. I’ve even got a cup of tea. Impending deadline notwithstanding, I’m about as far away from tortured as it’s physically and emotionally possible to be. I suspect the inmates at Guantanamo don’t have Sky+.

As a peddler of muddled, rambling commentaries such as this, I’m not so lofty to call myself an artist. But I do get the sense that the archetype of a tortured artist is a myth, a romantic ideal largely invented by haughty art school students in a haze of misguided adolescent mawkishness. “Yeah man”, they purr, probably, “Art comes from a place of pain.” It’s a youthful pretension from the types who, given the chance, would synthesise misery and sell it as a cocktail in a Dalston nightclub.

Our tight-trousered hipster friends may, nonetheless, have something resembling a point. As an outlet for unhappiness, art in its many forms is a popular catharsis. The cavalcade of spotty emos wailing Radiohead covers down their webcam on YouTube is a testament to this.

And indeed, there is a sad precedent: many artists throughout history have led tragic lives, their only escape being their art. But their illness or addictions all too often impede rather than enhance their practice. Art can come from conflict and pain but it also comes from drive and perseverance.

The point is, the tortured edge of the artist is an occasional and unfortunate side effect, rather than the key ingredient. It’s no good masochistically beating yourself with a rusty hammer until you find some morsel of inspiration. The darkly dressed posers who sit in cafes with a rolled cigarette in one hand and a soy latte in the other, imagining themselves as a miserable Parisian poet from the ’20s, with drivel like “O cruel world, my agony is like a splinter in my soul!” scribbled in the Moleskine from last year’s Christmas stocking – they’re trying too hard.

What they forget is that making good art can, dare I say it, be a bit of a laugh. Why make yourself miserable over something so satisfying, so enriching? Surely the great benefit of being an artist is doing something you love, and loving it.

“No pain, no gain!” people like to say, but I contest that the maxim should read “No pain can still probably result in some sort of gain, at least avoiding an overall net loss”. Yes, I know it’s not as pithy.

More John:

Art vs commerce

... on camping