Lygia Clark, Dialogue Googles, 1968
A few years back I was part of an art therapy conference. I was interested in how it was different from most art conferences I usually attend. Art therapists exist in a sphere that is largely apart from the hustle and bustle of exhibitions, publications and social events that drive the commercial and academic engines of the art world. I had not engaged too much with art therapy in the past, yet in the conversations I had during this gathering many aspects of the work that art therapists were discussing resonated with me; like art educators, art therapists are devoted to the people they work with, and the profession is imbued with extraordinary selflessness and altruism, almost to a fault.
During a workshop that I was asked to lead for art therapy students I learned of the difficult work that many of them were doing— working with incarcerated youth, victims of violence and other vulnerable communities. One thing that particularly stood out for me was when one of them mentioned in passing that they all, over the course of their respective projects, get therapy themselves. This practice in the field, which for them was standard, was new to me, and I could not stop thinking about it afterward.
Mainly, that detail made me reflect on two things: first, that of all the artists of my generation that were involved in socially engaged art practice, none to my knowledge practiced therapy , either to process their experiences from the projects they were doing or for simple self- introspection (or at least I knew no one who did). The second reflection had to do with the extreme opacity with which most of us work, being very secretive about our plans and projects and presenting a public façade of success that is meant to impress donors, curators and collectors (a topic that I have written about before). Betraying vulnerabilities would appear to be a way to admit weakness.
But while I fully understand and relate to the façade principle, it is perplexing to me that an art form that is so much about deep listening, collaboration and understanding of others would almost not address at all the need for the artist to go through a process of introspection with the help of someone else to help them examine and understand what they have been through.
I later realized that I had already learned this almost by accident. A number of years ago, when I had completed a major project that had demanded every ounce of my mental, physical and emotional being, a friend of mine was worried about me and insisted that I should do therapy to process that experience, as he was certain that I had PTSD (and I likely did). I had never done therapy before, and I resisted, partially because I did not see the use of it and also because therapy can be costly. My friend insisted again and generously offered to pay himself a number of sessions with a therapist he knew as a gift to me. I finally accepted and attended the sessions.
In conversation with the therapist, we barely spoke about my art project. Instead I spoke about a whole lot of memories and personal concerns, as one thing led to the other. The process was cathartic, and it indirectly allowed me to understand the true reasons why I had pursued that project in the first place, as well as many others.
Again, I have no idea whether other artists do therapy on a regular basis — although I assume that many do it in private. I only wonder why we don’t have a broader public conversation about the mental and emotional toll that art making processes (whether they are participatory or not) has on us as artists, what systems of support we can make available, and what it would take to have a culture that would not only acknowledge that therapy is not just necessary but vital for artists, not only to provide them with emotional and mental support in the process of their making art, but also in helping them gain insights about the projects they have developed.
I remember a few years back me and some colleagues were speaking to curator Deborah Wye, long-time close friend of Louise Bourgeois, and organizer of various of her exhibitions over the years. Bourgeois, she told us, kept a diary ever since she was 14 and until her death at 91. She also started therapy in 1951. “While reading those diaries—Debbie told us, choking up— you picture a young fragile girl that you just want to hug and protect.”
To her point, it is worth reading novelist Siri Hustvedt’s work on the subject, as she is perhaps the one who has written most eloquently about Bourgeois’ relationship with psychoanalysis.
Bourgeois is of course a prime example of a modernist artist whose documented introspective process provides a clear context of the drawings, prints and sculptures she produced throughout her lifetime. I imagine it is not the type of information that the artist might have wanted to become public, but I am not sure—otherwise, why keep those diaries?
When we talk about artists who engage in therapy, privately or as an art form, there is one in particular that seems to me unavoidable to mention.
In 2011 I was in Botafogo, a middle-class beachfront neighborhood in Rio de Janeiro. I went to meet Lula Wanderley and Gina Ferreira in their very small and simple home. Wanderley and Ferreira hold the unique distinction of being the only two individuals ever trained by Lygia Clark to conduct her therapies.
Ferreira, now a psychologist, was a university student when she first heard of the famous artist Lygia Clark, and she was fascinated by her work in therapies that she had recently undertaken. As she tells it, at an informal conversation she was having with her hairdresser, the latter told her that she knew Lygia personally as a client of her salon, and offered to make an introduction. Thus Gina and Lula (already dating at the time) met Lygia in her studio, and expressed interest in helping her conduct her therapies. She reportedly was a tough instructor, and put them through months of rigorous training. At some point in the process they “graduated” and were given permission by Lygia to do her therapies. As it turns out, Clark soon lost interest in her own therapy project and decided to move on to do other things, such as writing—change of this kind was not unusual in her, who reinvented herself and her practice at various points. She gave permission to Wanderley and Ferreira to continue her therapies. Clark’s health faltered shortly after that, consumed by emotional and financial problems and heavy drinking. She died of a stroke in Copacabana in 1988. Wanderley and Ferreira are thus the only two individuals in the world who can be considered “certified” Lygia Clark therapists, and still actively practice.
Wanderley realized that the therapies were particularly beneficial to psychiatric patients, and to this day he works at Espaço Aberto ao Tempo (“Space Open to Time”) — an experimental psychiatric research clinic he co-founded, housed within the Instituto Municipal de Assistência a Saúde Nise da Silveira in Rio de Janeiro where he uses art and therapy to treat psychosis and trauma.
As I met with Lula and Gina at their home I appreciated their calm demeanor, humility and generosity— but mainly, the monumental importance that Lygia had in their lives. To them, the therapies were much more than art: they were a transformational process that they have proved to have concrete positive effects in individuals’ ability to get in touch with their bodies and unlock, to use one of Lula’s phrases, “the silence that words keep from within”.
What I find powerful about Wanderley’s and Ferreira’s practice is not only that they are a living continuation of an artist’s legacy in the only possible way it could be continued, as it is nothing that can be truly reproduced through any kind of documentation. It is that their knowledge is embodied in a pure and authentic way—ironically, and perhaps even more so, I would dare to assume, than it was with Clark herself, the very one who gave us the gift of those therapies.
Therein lies a key question for all of us artists who everyday battle with the creative process. Perhaps a residue of the historical tradition of art primarily being a product, and not a process, we accept an “end justify the means” philosophy of making, without the full awareness that process itself is part of the product as well. And our sole focus of the public presentation of art and ourselves can sometimes come at a high cost to our mental health.
Maybe it is time to revisit and expand the relationship between art practice and therapy, with eyes to go beyond the notion of therapy as a mere support mechanism and instead of as a tool of communication with our own self — and with others.
Dear Pablo, I wanted to respond to your recent article, Therapy and Disclosure in a Hermetic Art World. The matters you discussed have been central to my life as an artist. Briefly, I practiced art therapy for 30 years in a children's psychiatric hospital. I have also been painting for over 50 years. My art practice has been guided by the belief (similarly suggested in your own article) that my paintings are a "tool of communication with [my] own self---and with others." I firmly believe that humans may have different experiences in the world, but the range and depth of emotional experience is very common to us all. Consequently, my work is about emotional truth (whether in narrative form or abstraction). The thread that connects all my work is emotion. Emotions are poorly represented by language, unless you are a poet or novelist and that is your art form. Yet, emotional language finds a natural home in color and paint application, or in narrative figuration (i.e. a renaissance crucifixtion). However, direct emotional expression is often held in contempt: I believe that this is an outgrowth and residue of our culture that places macho behavior at a premium. In any case, as you said and as it stands, "Betraying vulnerabilities would appear to be a way to admit weakness." Thank you for speaking out about this matter. I think that the 'hermetic' artworld stands to lose a great deal as the result of these biases. After all, an artist cannot be an honest conduit of raw emotion or deep struggle unless they actually experience it. In other words, how can an honest artist pretend to be distress free? I struggle with this question.
In any case, my art practice has been fulfilling to me by it's ability to enable me to find myself in the process of making art. My paintings may or may not be of interest to others. After all, who really cares about me as an individual. However, I believe that most of us experience a common thread of struggle over the course of our lives. If that struggle is mirrored in a work of art that transcends the individual, then that work of art is worthy of an audience--even if it is uncomfortable to witness.