Ruth Asawa’s wire sculpture displayed at SF Moma in 2025.
Sometimes the most profound insights come from the most unexpected places. Last year in Japan, I happened upon three exhibitions that would deepen how I think about the relationship between creativity and healing. I hadn’t planned to see shows with connected themes—it was pure accident that led me through the chronological journeys of three artists who used their creative practice to navigate profound trauma.
An Accidental Synchronicity
I’d seen Yayoi Kusama’s polka-dotted infinity rooms and pumpkin sculptures here in California before my trip to Japan, but experiencing her work in her own museum in Tokyo, with her story told as we walked through the galleries, gave me a completely different understanding of what motivated her art. The artwork on display, accompanied by quotes, revealed decades of channeling mental illness and childhood trauma, before eventually evolving into playful, transcendent expressions. Purely by chance, I found myself at the National Art Center viewing a Keiichi Tanaami retrospective. I’d never heard of Tanaami before—I was simply curious about the museum and this happened to be the current exhibition. The show was arranged chronologically, starting with his earliest cartoon-like drawings. These weren’t sophisticated artworks; they looked like the kind of thing some parents might dismiss as a waste of time. But as I learned his story—as a child he had experienced the firebombing of Japan during World War II—I understood these drawings weren’t about creating great art. They were about externalizing overwhelming images and memories. The Louise Bourgeois exhibition, also in Tokyo, structured things differently, leading with her famous giant spider sculptures before moving deeper into more disturbing, emotionally raw pieces. But the same pattern emerged: a lifetime of using creative expression to process what felt unprocessable.A Pattern Emerges
Back in San Francisco, I encountered another art exhibit that was unexpectedly related. I knew I would be wowed by the Ruth Asawa retrospective at SF MOMA, her flowing wire sculptures evoke natural, organic shapes—graceful forms that are deeply peaceful to look at and I had been drawn to the amazing detail in her prints before. What I previously hadn’t connected to her work, however, was her experience as a child in a Japanese American internment camp during World War II. As I viewed the results of her artistic practice through that lens, it took on a whole new meaning. The process of creating the vast number of these incredibly intricate forms that were on display at this exhibit must have been a like a meditation practice for her. As I studied each one closely I could imagine her finding relief through sustained, focused attention. What struck me across all these artists wasn’t that their trauma disappeared—I doubt any of them ever fully “got over” their experiences. Instead, they found ways to channel that pain differently over time. Kusama’s work became freer and more playful. Her infinity rooms and giant flowers radiate joy, her pumpkins morphing into fantastical shapes far removed from their natural forms. Louise Bourgeois captured this transformation perfectly in a 2007 email exchange with the Los Angeles Times: “My work is a form of psychoanalysis. It is a way of coming to grips with my anxiety and fears. It is an attempt to be a better person… There is a lot of ambivalence in the work. There are many hanging pieces, which signify a fragile state. There are pieces that oscillate and rock, which also convey fragility. We all have pink days and blue days. I am trying to seek a balance between the extremes that I feel. I want to be reasonable.”The Long Game of Creative Endurance
What these artists demonstrate isn’t a quick fix or weekend retreat solution. This is about creative endurance—decades of showing up to the practice, using whatever medium called to them to process what couldn’t easily be spoken. Kusama is 95 and still creating. This is the long game of transformation. The early work of each artist wasn’t necessarily “great art” by conventional standards. Tanaami’s cartoons, Kusama’s obsessive dots, Bourgeois’ early explorations—they were tools for survival, ways to externalize internal storms. But sustained over time, this practice became something more: a pathway to transformation and, ultimately, a gift to others who recognize their own struggles reflected in these expressions.The Ripple Effect
Perhaps most importantly, by being willing to have their pain witnessed, these artists created something beyond personal healing. Their work tells others: you are not alone in your suffering. The visitor walking through these exhibitions doesn’t need to have experienced war, mental illness, or family trauma to feel the resonance. We all have our own overwhelming moments, our own need to find balance between extremes.A Simple Invitation
I’m not suggesting everyone needs to become a museum artist or that all great art comes from suffering, but these accidental discoveries reminded me that creative expression—whatever form it takes—can be a way to process what feels unprocessable. Whether it’s drawing, writing, music, dance, or any other creative outlet, the act of making something outside ourselves can help us navigate what’s inside. The key seems to be dedication rather than perfection. These artists didn’t start with masterpieces—they started with the need to express something urgent and kept showing up to the practice, year after year, letting it evolve as they did. In these tumultuous times, perhaps that’s exactly what we need: not quick fixes, but sustained creative practices that help us process our experiences and, in doing so, remind others that they’re not alone in theirs. As long as it’s not hurtful, be creative. We never know who might need to see what we create.I fight pain, anxiety, and fear every day, and the only method I have found that relieved my illness is to keep creating art.Yayoi Kusama
