Photo by Emma McIntyre/Getty Images for Coachella
Being on the internet today means being inundated with each other’s takes and images every second of every day. With this relentless overexposure, the visual similarities that pop up amongst artists can often inspire loud accusations of creative copying. Sure, these are often silly moments of internet fodder, but they raise meaningful questions: Are visual similarities between artists coincidence, inspiration, or creative theft? And what’s the real line between each?
Earlier this week, New York City artist Alexandra Drewchin, who goes by Eartheater, posted a since-deleted Instagram carousel that appeared to show evidence of other artists ripping off her work. Sharing the album cover to her 2020 album Phoenix: Flames Are Dew Upon My Skin, which depicts a blaze of sparkles shooting out from her rear end, she followed that with a recent picture of Robyn with a blurred bottom also emanating sparkles. She posted another similar photo concept from electronic artist LSDXOXO on the cover of King Kong magazine.
The online reaction to the carousel, which also implicated Katy Perry and Megan Thee Stallion, was immediately unsparing, accusing Drewchin of falsely claiming ownership over broad visual concepts like utilizing sparklers and the use of text on garments. Sure, it’s entirely possible that Robyn saw Drewchin’s photos and was inspired to do the same. But how would one go to prove that, and would it even be an ethical misstep?
Intellectual property theft is one of the oldest and most serious accusations, but only recently has it entered the murky realm of aesthetics and creative concepts. Drewchin’s allegations are similar to other recent examples of artists accusing their peers of copying them. In July 2025, Arca vented to fans in a Discord about “Alibi” singer Sevdaliza and her collaborations with Arca’s frequent collaborator, Spanish artist Carlos Sáez, suggesting that Sevdaliza was broadly mirroring her aesthetic and ideas (they both utilized “exo-skeletons” in their art). Similarly, in 2016, singer Marina claimed that Charli xcx’s fragrance campaign contained some “familiar froots.”
As a pattern, these sorts of internet accusations usually blow up in the face of the accuser. Not necessarily because their claims have no validity, but because they moreso read as anxious paranoia about their own standing in the wider cultural hierarchy.
Accusing someone of copying an aesthetic is distinct from the legal questions surrounding traditional musical copyright (like Marvin Gaye’s estate’s lawsuit against Pharell and Robin Thicke), where questions can usually be clearly answered by looking at sheet music and songwriting processes. That clarity doesn’t easily extend to the more ambiguous “creative mood board,” especially in the age of the internet, when all of us are stuck in the loud lunch room together.
We are on the same platforms, and are largely visually assaulted with the same trending topics, videos, images and songs. At the same time, we don’t know exactly what each of us are seeing, given that our algorithms are slightly attuned to each of our own interests. We are in a collective digital space, but with technological blinders on. Without concrete evidence of plagiarism, to assume one’s artistic peers must be seeing one’s work and thus any similarity must indicate outright replication, is almost impossible to prove.
The obsession over the ownership of aesthetics speaks to the (over)importance of creative direction in culture right now, one that in many cases overshadows the substance of the art itself. For musicians, sharing their work on social media means not just competing with their musical counterparts for consumers’ attention, but with every piece of content posted on the internet. In this playing field, the immediate aesthetics of your work — and what it communicates about your art and worth as an artist – matters more than anything. One could argue that the instantly recognizable aesthetic and perfectly executed mass marketing of Charli xcx’s brat contributed just as much to the album’s success as its music.
Aesthetics is everything in culture today, and fans and artists are just as tuned into the minutiae of roll outs and visual presentation as they are the music. In this competitive, brutal, and mind numbing attention economy, it makes sense that any kind of aesthetic encroachment would feel like a threat, even if it’s ultimately misguided.
This isn’t to say creative plagiarism isn’t a real thing. One particularly glaring example of it is K-pop artists Soyeon and R.tee’s seemingly shot-by-shot recreation of French artist YSEULT’s video for “B*TCH YOU COULD NEVER.” The similarities between the two are overwhelming and indisputable, sending this case into highly unethical territory. But this example also shows just how high the bar is for proving creative theft.
For the murkier cases, it might be best to assume mere coincidence. Everyone will sleep better.
