When people say, “Art is healing,” it can sound almost exaggerated — as if art were some kind of pill, offering instant relief. But healing rarely works like that. Art doesn’t erase fear, grief or confusion — it gives them shape. It creates a quiet space where emotions that feel impossible to explain can simply exist, outside of you, without judgement.

Sometimes you only understand this once you have felt it yourself. Other times, you notice it in someone else — in the subtle shift that happens when they speak about their work. Perhaps that is why certain artworks stay with us. They reach the places where language falls short.

So here, we speak to artists about those moments: when art gently holds you together, when nothing else quite can.

Disclaimer: This material was first published in the special print issue of The Sandy Times Newspaper, created for House of Porsche. This digital version has been adapted for online publication.

Kuwaiti-born Lebanese artist

— Do you feel that art can be healing?

— “This isn't healing — this is documenting the damage.”

As a practitioner, I wouldn’t say art heals me “per se”, but it does play a pivotal role. In my work, art becomes a bookmark in my life — in my emotions and declarations. It transcribes the mental state I was in while creating a specific piece. For me, the documentation is far more important than the healing.

— How would you describe the role creativity plays in difficult moments?

— “There are three emotions when creating art: happiness, sadness and anger. Never produce from the initial — the latter two are far more meaningful and enraged.”

Escaping into fiction is one of the most profound feelings creating gives you. It is like being stuck in the matrix and finally seeing things clearly. But dwelling there for too long can be harmful too — reality might start to slip away. There must always be both chaos and balance.

— Was there a particular period in your life when creating truly supported you or helped you move through something challenging?

— Right here and now. 2025 was a very difficult year for me — emotionally, artistically, socially and mentally. I am currently working on a project titled “I Don’t Like Love, Passion or Revenge.” The work reflects emotional turmoil and complexity in everyday life, using vivid imagery and thought-provoking concepts to explore the struggles of living with a disorder — disguised as a commentary on meme culture.

— Did you notice your work shifting during that time — in subject matter, materials, or approach?

— I have taken a stronger stance on documenting — what we now call “keeping receipts.” The effects of my disorder are present in the work. I aim not only to reflect personally, but to raise awareness — to create something that resonates with people facing similar mental or emotional challenges, contributing to a wider dialogue around depletion and vulnerability.

— If you had to choose one piece that feels like a turning point in your journey as an artist, which one would it be — and why?

— Of course, “12 PM Class.”

I realised that becoming a recognised artist comes with its territory — personal demons, frenemies who wish you luck, and the existential weight of trying to extract meaning from every minuscule emotion. And yet, not everything needs to carry meaning. That is why they call me a walking paradox.

Multidisciplinary Iraqi artist

— Do you feel art can truly heal?

— Yes. Art healed me. At one point in my life, I was given many labels. I tried different ways to fix myself. But the only thing that truly reached me was my art. My intuition led me back to it. It was the only real tool I had in my hands.

If you don’t allow what lives inside you to express itself, it suffocates. And when something suffocates, it eventually tries to break out — sometimes in irrational or destructive ways.

Expression is a gift. If you don’t let it move through you, it builds pressure. Art allows that pressure to release. So yes — it is healing.

— How does that healing process actually feel?

— For me, it happens in phases.

It begins emotionally. You release what you are holding. Through colour, form, and the movement of the brush, emotions become material. Instead of consuming you, they leave the body and enter the canvas. You can feel whether a painting was created from anger, sadness or joy.

Then slowly, once that emotional layer empties, the process becomes more meditative. It takes you deeper into your psyche.

From there, it moves into something collective. You begin entering a shared inner territory — what I sometimes describe as peeling an onion. Layer by layer, you go deeper. Each layer can make you cry. But as you reach the centre, it becomes more peaceful.

— Which of your works felt the most healing to create?

— The most healing process was also the most violent.

There were moments of crying, hysterical laughter, sleepless nights, forgetting to eat. It sounds destructive. But those intense processes were healing because they were releasing what had been trapped inside.

Interestingly, the painting that came from that period — "Moving Through the Ether" — looks gentle and floral. But the process behind it was intense. During that time, I was sharing a studio with another artist, Malik Thomas. He witnessed those states and supported me. Having someone gentle beside you during such a process makes a difference.

— Can you tell me more about “Moving Through the Ether”?

— "Moving Through the Ether" was created while I was grieving my father. I made it in his honour. He passed away three years ago, and I love him deeply. He was truly my introduction to art.

The paintings look like flowers — almost like floral beings. But the foundation of my work is movement. I capture my movement on the canvas and allow it to form shapes. My body would swirl across the surface. The gestures were circular, flowing. It was a very intense period. I was constantly in the studio, moving, swirling, flowering.

Through that movement, I felt I could connect with wherever my father is now. Flowering became a bridge. As long as I was moving in that way, I felt his presence. I wanted to create a thousand flowers for him. I am still counting. And perhaps in the next solo exhibition — once it is confirmed — I will revisit that phase again.

UAE’s first professional female Emirati cellist

— Do you feel that art can be healing? In what ways has it been for you personally?

— I do think art can be healing — though not in a dramatic or mystical way. Often, you don’t realise how much tension you are carrying until a piece of music shifts something inside you. It doesn’t even have to be me playing. Sometimes it is a song or a film score where the sound reaches you before you understand why. The reaction feels physical rather than analytical — your body responds before your thoughts do.

Playing the cello works in much the same way. Nothing in my circumstances changes, yet my perspective does. Thoughts stop circling and begin to settle. In that sense, it becomes therapeutic. We wouldn’t be drawn to concerts or cinema if they didn’t offer some kind of relief or recognition. Organisations such as Abu Dhabi Music & Arts Foundation create spaces for those shared experiences — moments where people can step outside routine and feel something together.

For me, it isn’t escape. It is recalibration. Music gives emotions somewhere to exist outside your head, which makes them easier to understand. When you play, you also have to listen — properly listen — and that slows everything down. Your breathing shifts. Your attention narrows. What once felt overwhelming becomes manageable.

The problems themselves don’t disappear, but they begin to feel proportionate again. Over time, I have realised that is where the healing lies — not in fixing anything, but in creating space to process it honestly.

— Was there a particular moment in your life when music truly supported you?

— The pandemic was when I fully understood the power of music. It was a difficult time — filled with uncertainty, isolation, and a sense that life had suddenly narrowed — yet music continued to reach across that distance. People performed from their living rooms; audiences listened alone at home. Somehow, we were still sharing the same emotional space.

I didn’t want those months to become a period of passive waiting. I practised more than ever, learned repertoire I had long postponed, and joined an online cello course. It gave structure to days that might otherwise have blurred into one another. Instead of feeling suspended, I felt I was still moving, still developing.

What could have remained heavy became purposeful, simply because music offered direction.

Even now, it works in a similar way on a smaller scale. If I feel distant from myself, I listen to something that resonates and my perspective shifts. Nothing changes externally — but internally, something opens.

— If you had to choose one composition that feels like a turning point in your journey, which would it be — and why?

— It would always be the Bach Cello Suites. I don’t think cellists ever truly “finish” them — we return to them and discover that we have changed.

All six follow the same structure: a Prelude and a sequence of dances. The form is simple, which is why they become such a mirror. There is nowhere to hide — no accompaniment, just line, implied harmony, and time.

I return to them not to play them better, but to understand where I am. The notes never change, yet my relationship to them does. That constancy is why they remain a turning point — they don’t tell a story as much as reveal one.