healing – ART HEALERS

A lesson on the healing process (and the role of love in this)

Andy Goldsworthy, *Japanese Maple Leaves Stitched Together to Make a Floating Chain*, 1987, Ouchiyama-Mura, Japan

Goldsworthy, an artist who works intimately with nature, teaches us what it means to heal in accordance with what is and the kind of love it takes to do so. Richly red-coloured maple leaves are arranged serenely in still water; they illuminate the wisdom in accepting what is reality, in place of the oftentimes unfair and unrealistic expectations we have for our healing and growth in mind, body, and spirit.

Imagine the time taken to find leaves of exactly the right size, shape, vibrance, and strength, in addition to piecing them together into this meaningful form – whilst being conscious that all these efforts might, at the slightest breeze, float away in an instant. These natural inevitabilities do not deter him, though. By not relenting to nature’s constantly changing state, but accepting it for what it is, Goldsworthy makes what is – his.

While we heal, from physical wounds or psychological trauma, we should remind ourselves of how difficult it must have been to find each leaf, of the time required to do so, and of the fragile image this photograph has captured, which has mistakenly become ‘immortal’; it could never exist like this forever. We are likely to see this cycle of making and unmaking as one that is destructive, enamoured by this beguiling appearance and delicate structure. But, that is not where the beauty truly lies: this work will be washed away, but does that mean the effort to make it was not worth it?

The answer lies in Goldsworthy’s understanding that, when in harmony with nature’s majestic processes, our own journeys can be equally magnificent. Such work demands we remain at peace with not knowing how long it might take, nor knowing exactly – even letting go of – how the outcome of our toils will look. A fine balance exists between what is and what we do, and finding this balance is the healing process, but this takes time.

Patience with nature, the kind required for healing, is an acceptance, even love, of what is. That includes barriers and setbacks. It is a love of your nature, of what your body and mind are currently capable of, indeed it is a love and acceptance for the seemingly eternal time it takes to heal. When we embrace these truths, they can no longer hold us back. We learn to work with them, not against them.

It is fitting that a motif of Goldsworthy’s is a circle. Follow the edge of the circle with your eyes, and it could go on forever. Mirrored in this cyclical form, created by hands deftly intervening with nature at the right moment, is healing. Upon seeing his works swept away by nature, Goldsworthy reframes this seemingly infuriating reality, noting that ‘it somehow doesn’t feel like destruction’.

So too can we then reframe the healing cycle: whether it makes sense to you or not, when you accept what is, your healing process can be infinite – and so can the possibilities. The healing process is not liner, it’s supposed to be cyclical, full of knock-backs, challenges, and failures. It is supposed to be repeated, as there is no end when the goal is simply keeping the process alive. Have love for your nature and the work you are doing, because when you do, whether it leads to ostensibly unrelenting pain or a breakthrough, it will become clear that this is simply the next part of the process. It will pass – you already have the love and resilience you need within your grasp: the power to ensure your healing, naturally, blossoms into growth.

Any of Goldsworthy’s works remind us of what it takes to heal, the beauty in that resilience, and liberation in accepting the universal law of constant change:

A lesson on meeting melancholy

Edvard Munch, *Melancholy*, 1891, oil on canvas, Bergen Kunstmuseum

In the distance, troubled figures from the past and the longing for a future free from pain commingle into a gloomy landscape. As lonely as this feels, when we observe what was once familiar as it is gradually marred by thought, we actually have an opportunity to get to know the true subject in this portrait of monolithic melancholy: you.

Munch spent many a summer on Asgardstrand’s beach, the setting of this painting. But now, it seems to have become a source of sorrow. He teaches us that our inner world can easily bleed into our outer world, distorting it until our perception is punctuated by desolate thoughts that are strung together by sadness. Such rumination often offers the dominant narrative during the arrival of this quiet despair.

By capturing this moment, Munch’s Melancholy should be seen as comforting; any feeling, from misery to mania, will pass. The protagonist is lost in profound thought, but, despite being lost, he sits in the foreground. He is alone, yet we’re so close to him. Where the protagonist melancholy himself, we’d be able to touch him. Our mood too often sits in the foreground of our mind. One moment, we are fine, and the next, we are blindsided, inviting in the uninvited and unwittingly trying to accommodate melancholy out of the deferential politeness we have for all our moods.

Instead, we could cast our mind back to the last time melancholy stepped in unannounced and recall the last time he left. Try to remember the texture of that farewell, and you’ll likely realise there wasn’t one.

When you last felt like this protagonist, when you were melancholy, what eventually usurped your attention? Was it anger? Was it tranquility? Was it laughter? Or was it something else entirely? Maybe it was simply a walk towards the emerald hills, or you imagining yourself and another holding hands for the first time and walking with jollity towards the horizon (this could be thought from the past or near future, of course). It is here where rumination should remain.

During melancholy’s stay, however, we shouldn’t be too rude; we could briefly sit with him and chat. When we observe him and what he says carefully, although his words might overflow with anxiety and he may paint life in muted colours, we can remind him that things are perhaps not as bleak as they seem. Gently refute his ramblings with some questions. Is it not true that, as you overlook the landscape, you can still see what brings you joy, but it isn’t just now? So too can you recognise, with an albeit heavy clarity, what life should feel like for you, because you can still see it in the life of others? The happiness that you see, even though it’s not yours just now, is not separate from melancholy; it is the remnants of your joy, hiding in distorted view, waiting to shine on you again.

Munch’s work prompts us to observe melancholy in its entirety, from beginning to end, from sky to sea, and everything in-between. Melancholy may roll in, an unstoppable force, just as the lines of Munch’s painting swirl, disrespecting the rules of reality, but it is in these moments that we should take particular care to observe: what is he here to show us about our happiness? And, who will the next visit be from?

It takes immense strength to carry this weight when walking across the beach towards those distant figures, to wade through the moonlit lilac waves as, lapping at your feet, the water gradually returns to teal with the rising sun. As you walk, what you feel will be carried away in the swell, along with the sand and silt. You might then, as the clouds part, and as the sky begins to reflect the sea again, trust that the sun will always return to bathe you in light one more. Having looked through the monochromatic lens of melancholy, hopefully you’ll know better than ever to decide how you would like this scene to be illuminated. We can then walk, one step at a time, towards the figures in the distance – towards our future – breathing deeply as clear rays beat down on the ever-changing ebb and flow of our emotions.