Tell Me What You See

“Tell a story.”

Those were the directions—literally three words. That’s all I was given. Well, that and the creaky wooden IKEA mannequin. It’d been stuck in a hands-on-hips pose, mocking my cluelessness at how to begin my October project in drawing class. Yup, it was definitely not my best moment, feeling threatened by a tangle of wood and metal, but it was justified—there were just too many stories to tell. 

The idea of picking one was overwhelming.

And that was the thing—I didn’t just want to tell a story, I wanted to tell people’s stories. But how was I supposed to do that? How do you tell a hundred stories with one fixed, unchanging image? How do you form a special connection with each and every person who views your work? Is something like that even possible?

I said yes. My approach to the project was, to say the least, complicated. With whatever I ended up painting, I decided that one story I’d tell was my own, never to be revealed, but I wouldn’t know the hundreds of other stories I was telling because they would, quite literally, be the stories my audience took from it. I know, it’s really backwards. 

Nevertheless, I dove into my idea and I decided if I was going to prove that question right, I’d have to go big. How cool would it be to get people to comfortably tell stories that they’d otherwise feel iffy telling? It’d be even cooler if they didn’t even know it, and even more impactful if the stories were related to something big and controversial today. I found only one topic that would maximize the effects of these three points: mental health.

My goal was to take this huge idea of mental health and get people to talk about it without them even realizing it. It’d be the ultimate manipulation, the best trick and treat of spooky season. 

I realized the only way I could do that was through my art, my mode of self-expression that, I believe, has the power to dissolve the uncomfortable, choking stigma we all know and love to experience whenever someone mentions depression or anxiety. Art breaks those walls down. 

I actually think it absorbs the stigma. One of the main reasons we feel uncomfortable talking about depression, anxiety, etc. is because the focus is directly on my mental health—on yours. We’re forced to be vulnerable right then and there, and that is a fat no. But when art comes into play, that focus moves from us to the art, and just like that, the stigma is gone. What’s more? Our interpretations of the art indirectly reveal the same exact thing we refuse to talk about—my mental health and yours.

While we’ve all heard the saying that “the eyes are the windows to the soul,” yada yada yada, I think art is the mirror into the soul. The way you interpret a work of art reflects much of what you believe, feel, and experience, including your mental health.

That formed the basis of my painting brainstorm. There was just one problem… 

A lot of people see pieces of art as these foreign brain-babies of some distant artist in some secluded studio. I say “art museum” or “art gallery” and feelings of boredom and dread and exasperation begin to stir, no? There’s this subconscious, universal belief and expectation that there is nothing that ties an onlooker to a stranger’s art, and I aggressively disagree with that. 

I will admit, however, that I believe this stigma surrounding art is due in part to those museums and galleries. How many times have you seen signs in those places saying, “DO NOT TOUCH”? That barrier between you and the art only intensifies the feeling of detachment. Even with the pieces I’ve made over the past four years, everyone is always paranoid about touching them, worrying incessantly over “messing it up.” 

You want the truth? I don’t care. 

It frustrates me how people worry so much about ruining the canvas or scarring the paper that they don’t even ponder about the art itself. Nearly everything in my compositions are carefully placed and deeply intentional, and you’re just sitting there trying to pick the thing up with two fingers.

That was the issue I had to tackle. Reaching my goal would be impossible if my audience was preoccupied thinking about something else. I wanted people to touch my painting. I wanted them to feel confident and comfortable with it physically. I wanted to zap away their ridiculous worrying so that my painting could have full access to their minds.

And so the textured hills of acrylic paints formed atop the painting I dubbed “Reflections”:

After I finished my painting, I asked people how they interpreted it. Nearly every answer was different. I found that those whose interpretations were more positive seemed to live a more content lifestyle, and I discovered that those whose interpretations were more negative had actually dealt more with mental health issues. That’s not to say there weren’t cases where this wasn’t true, but the trends held.

It was amazing.

It was an even bigger surprise to listen to people discuss their interpretations with each other. The conversations people were having were insightful and filled with so many opinions. 

Art—any product of self expression, or story-telling—and mental health go hand-in-hand. We can’t break the stigma without art. We humans are just intrinsically too cowardly and too judgmental to be that vulnerable with everyone, and  because of that, we’re too fearful to ask about each other’s stories directly. Art gives us the means to overcome that fear and to ask those questions in a new way.

If there’s one thing I want you to take away from this, It’s to realize that it’s not just mental health stigma that art breaks—it’s any stigma, any boundaries. Appreciate art. Have those conversations.

I’ll start by asking you: What story do you find in this painting? 

Tell me what you see.