mental health – ART HEALERS

M. C. Escher, *Relativity*, 1953, lithograph

Have you ever felt this way? It is as if time has ceased to act as a barrier to the barrage of memories, thoughts, and moments that flood your mind. Perhaps it’s so paralysing, you don’t know what decision to make next; perhaps you’re so saturated by anxiety that the film between what is real and what is imagined has been eroded almost completely. With each scene that unfolds, before the previous one has even come to an end, it can feel impossible to escape.

An uncomfortable truth is that no matter which staircase you decide to go down, you have chosen this route. You will always end up in the same place: you can’t outthink over-thinking by thinking. Escher captures this essence in his etching, the aptly named, Relativity, from M.C. Escher: Reality and Illusion.

Why apt? Thinking can only offer us a reality that is defined in relation to what it is possible to think, in relation to thoughts we’ve already had. When we think, each thought is attached to what we already know the world to be – be it the dinner with the family, the storming off to our room in an argument with a lover, the carrying a heavy shopping bag up the stairs, or peering down over the balustrade, craning to hear what your parents are arguing about. Each of these events are things we already know; to be free of them we must be free of our current way of seeing the world. The solution cannot, at least at first, be found in thought.

The reality Escher creates for us, reminds us that with great thinking comes great responsibility. We are the architects of each step in our future. But by using thought alone, we become walled-in by using our reality to climb out of our reality. And, the dynamism of your thinking, nor your thinking prowess, will be able to free you – by using thinking alone, we build a surreal prison made from our uniquely subjective experience of the world.

If looking at this work reminds you, even in part, of your mind, then that’s normal; but it’s also serves to remind you of your agency in creating this reality. To create a future we want, we must rise above thinking and become attuned with what is before the layers of thought begin to stifle your agency.

So, meditate, eat something delicious, read, dance, sing, breathe – and feel. Once you’re free from these mind-forged manacles (William Blake was also attuned with this aspect of being human), you will be far better placed to access thought that can help blueprint, rather than obscure, each step towards your future. We are the architects of our own experience – look again in the top left – the stairs lead right outside. Should you accept that your thoughts do not have to be your reality, you can choose how to navigate through this waking dreamscape, you can walk right out into the open air of possibility; give yourself enough quiet to observe where to go, for it’s been there the whole time.

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.