Artists and Healers

In times of grief, difficulty or loss– what extends comfort, support and a means of processing the experience– is often a work of art. In Buddhist tradition, a circular image known as the mandela represents wholeness and spiritual power. It is used in prayer, meditation practice and as a focal element to encourage harmony, transformation, integration and healing. Carl Jung was one of the first psychoanalysts to use this shape in his practice when he discovered that works of art from diverse cultures contained hidden, unconscious mandelas. Certainly the creative process has a therapeutic effect on the practitioner. The act of drawing, colouring, forming shapes and images with one’s hands, can sooth or calm as well as energize, depending on individual need. It is also a more productive means of expression for some, rather than dialogue or verbal discourse as attested by the numerous art methods used in healing practices the world over. In many indigenous tribes, the role of shaman, medicine man/woman is interchangeable with artist.

The majority of artists I know, feel that their most successful and satisfying work goes beyond obvious art therapy. I tend to agree– without ever denying the very real benefits such therapy brings to situations that involve mental and emotional trauma, conflict resolution or stress relief. But perhaps the lack of deliberate intent is what actually invites a wider audience to the unexpected bonus of any unconscious healing potential. Even when art openly addresses issues of spiritual development, healing process or a record of such journeys– meaningful, lasting results often occur when the artist predominantly employs the skills associated with their craft, to present what they have to offer to the best of their ability. Skill also includes the decision- making faculty that determines how much technique, training or virtuosity will enhance or hinder any work. When appropriate degrees of skill and talent are applied to a creative endeavor, it extends the work past the limits of a singular, personal expression, towards a collective, universal experience. If too much skill and proficiency can weaken or distract from the integrity of a project, too little will have significance primarily for the originator alone.

It is a reality though, that artists who have produced work responsible for serving others during times of need– didn’t always survive their own inner torments. You’d think members of a profession that has self-expression inherently available in its job description would enjoy greater mental and emotional health, or at least, the means to facilitate such, especially in the free world. (I have no authority to speak for artists in other countries who deal with far more immediate threats to body, mind and soul). Sadly, there are no guarantees in life anywhere. Even certified practitioners set less than stellar examples in their chosen field– sometimes for themselves as well. Teachers only impart as much as they have learned or are willing to learn. Police officers, judges, and lawyers have committed crimes while employed in justice systems they were meant to serve. Doctors, nurses, and caregivers do expend themselves when they attend to patients and clients but ignore their own health. It is possible to be an artist and lack imagination or else have so much, there aren’t enough resources available to contain or cope with it. What’s a contemporary artist to do if they need/want to look after themselves in this respect? Counseling, psychoanalysis and other forms of therapy are one solution but not always affordable. I do find Jungian therapy the one most sympathetic to an artist’s psyche. It recognizes the importance of myths, dreams and symbols– elements artists relate to in their capacity for visualization and imagery. It also explores and validates connections to the sacred and matters of the soul other therapies ignore. Noted Jungians have written books and these are far cheaper than any appointment with one. Thomas Moore, Marion Woodman and James Hollis are a few of my favourites– mainly because they are good writers as well.

Then, there’s always other artists and their work. An artist collective, group or neighbourhood provides opportunities for support and collegiality, not to mention charged particles in the air if a transfusion of energy would help. When these options are limited, there is plenty of access to artwork via galleries, libraries and internet– much of it free. For some reason, in times of difficulty or challenge, I gravitate more to the work of artists in disciplines other than my own. During illness, depression or stress, books and music become the aids and companions of choice. Perhaps a sabbatical to rest the eyes away from visual imagery maximizes the benefits of a recovery. It’s poignant when a painting, book or piece of music that inspired, encouraged or accompanied others through a personal hardship, was created by an artist who lost their own battle with a similar struggle. Usually though, nothing is diminished if the work still has the power to evoke a moving response every time it is encountered. That’s the real legacy; that’s what survives.

One summer, my co-op decided to host a kid’s talent show in the courtyard. We sat on lawns while our youngest members sang, danced, and performed. I was sad at the time. Several friends were dealing with life-threatening illnesses and my cat had recently died. Normally, I would’ve shunned such an event. But I live in a courtyard unit; it felt churlish to avoid the children and what they had to share. One mother coaxed her small daughter to go up and do what sounded like her “bob impression.” I thought it had something to do with rabbits. She was a pale, delicate-looking child in a pink frock and white sweater– the kind who would dress up on Hallowe’en like a fairy princess. I was sipping apple juice when she began to sing: “Everybody knooooows; Baby’s got new clooooothes...” in a spot-on imitation of Bob Dylan, complete with nasal drawling sneer. It was the first time I snorted cider. It was the first time I'd laughed uncontrollably in months and I remember that odd sensation of hilarity squeezing past bereavement. On Hallowe’en this same little girl came to my door as a vampire and gleefully demonstrated how her trick mug filled up with blood when candy was dropped inside it. To this day, I think of her fondly as “my little healer.”