Cinematic fever dreams and cut glass confessions :
An unravelling, a seduction.
Margot.
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Beautiful Torment a self portrait
A study in beauty, consequence, indulgence and restraint.
Bio
With the orchestra in her head, Margot is forever living in a movie — framing feelings as the art of life. It matters, because she said so.
A singer, composer, poet, and storyteller, she dances in the space between beauty and breakdown.
Part confession, part life study, part performance, Margot creates the sonic and visual landscape of what it is to be consumed by her own contrasts, illusions, and reflections. There are many ways to shine light on the self — for the unseen to be revealed.
A creature of conflicting truths, she explores how both sides of the coin can be experienced at once — in art, as in life.
Through each song, she inhabits the fragile theatre of love, art, and self, revealing the quiet power and liberation that come from being seen in your softness — your sadness, your madness — and knowing that undoing is somehow a becoming.
Spritzed in madness, delicious desire, wistful whimsy, and beautiful torment, Margot’s art invites you behind the curtain — where vulnerability becomes spectacle and the desire, delight, and danger of self are reflected.
She’s a mood — magnetic in her melancholy, soaked in silk and contradiction, with a tongue that cuts like glass but kisses like the third glass of wine.
Drunk on love — or is it the old fashioned? She doesn’t know either. She just loves the feeling.
“Margot is the star, the scandal, and the story — too full for their pens, too knowing for their lines, too alive to be written by anyone but herself.”
The Music
Margot’s songs are sonically rich and textural — the score and soundtrack of self.
They are a soundscape of who she is, and who she longs to be — of how life is, how it could be… or perhaps, should be.
Like the concoction of a perfume, Margot crafts her music for the sensory experience — cinematic strings and storytelling vocals at the top; a heart of love, ache, and existential overwhelm; and base notes pulsed with reflection and beautiful, brutal honesty.
She is the drama, danger, and dessert — serving seduction, a feast, consuming and addictive, yet threaded with the quiet ache of her internal war with self. Her music explores the fine line between creation and collapse, between being admired and being seen.
Taking the lead as her own muse, Margot toys with illusion as truth, and with the delicate theatre of love, beauty, and unraveling — until art and love begin to devour one another.
Moving through emotion like changing light, she tiptoes through the co-existence of amusement, grace, and ruin — as if it were the norm.
She has come to understand that she cannot have art and love — being adored and being seen — in the same breath.
They consume one another.
And she is forever consumed.
Live
Imagine the after-scene of a film — the air heavy with perfume and secrets, the room still glowing from what just happened.
In art, as in life — she wakes and comes alive when almost everyone has just about left.
Her performances are intimate, hypnotic, and deliberately unhurried — part theatre, part confession, part installation of her life.
She sings the secrets of self you’re not quite sure you’re supposed to be privy to, her voice tracing the space between beauty and breakdown.
The audience is invited not to watch, but to witness — to lean in, to feel, to disappear with her into the hush.
It isn’t always comfortable, nor is it supposed to be. This isn’t a show — it’s seduction, an unravelling, a beautiful torment.
Let the candlelight flicker, the world slow, and the red wine flow - those who were there will know.
Philosophy
Margot believes the fine line between art and life, is in the framing.
She creates in art, what she leaves unsaid in life, letters you never asked for - for art can hold the weight, deep vulnerability and questions that do not necessarily require answers.
In the safety of a frame, Margot reveals the parts of herself that she knows make others uncomfortable, almost as compulsion, because nothing grows in comfort — and for her, art without meaning is just decoration.
Through her music and world, you are invited you to linger with your own contradictions, to find tenderness in what you’ve tried to hide and to see yourself reflected in the half-light.
Mirrors and meaning are at the core of her world: blurring the line between muse and maker, performance and confession, and she knows — with a touch of irony — that a portrait of self is nothing without good lighting and just the right amount of shadow.
We are reminded that even in the unraveling, there is art — and in the aftermath, there is understanding.
Margot is both blessed and cursed by the painful awareness that light and shadow need each other — that beauty only becomes itself when seen against its ruin. And though she has long wished for a bed of only roses, she knows that contrast is the only way anything truly has room to breathe.
Margot is too much of everything you can’t see — never comfortably fitting into reality — but through her art, she has created a world entirely her own: a place where she belongs, wrapped in a heavy yet sumptuous mist of expression, sanctuary, and solace.
It may be tailor-made for her, but you are welcome to slip inside and try it on.