Artemis is "The Maiden", embodying delusional youth. She wears a gown made up with 500m of fishing line, hooks still attached. While it has the appearance of delicacy, her gown is an unwieldy mass of tangles and thin, insubstantial silk.
Caught in her own trap. She has swallowed these lies: Skinny=Beautiful, Beauty=Sexiness, Sex=Power. So she cakes on the eye-liner, stuffs her feet into her killer heels and nurses a perpetual cycle of anorexia.
Ironically, by starving herself to look like the ideal woman, she has choked off the essence of her femininity. She is hollow inside, her belly ceiled in plastic, triumphant in her self-imposed amenorrhea, reveling in her hard-won boyish glamour. She is suspended in a state of not-quite-living-and not-quite-dead, like anhydrobiotic royalty, awaiting her ascension to the throne, awaiting her instant life.
She is blinded by her own mask, unaware that she has actually become ensnared by a consumerist world that churns out plastic goddess like novelty trinkets.