Healing Trauma Through Art: The Transformative Power of Creative Expression
“The artist is inclined to believe that ‘mind can triumph over matter’ because they often feel that their inner realm is certainly more important and often more real to them than the outer physical world.” – Peter Morrel
In my early forties, I went through an existential crisis. Things had to change—or cease. Simply put, I cracked open and had to carve a new path. What follows is the story of how I began to heal trauma through art: how vision slowly took form, how working with materials became a form of alchemy, and how meaning emerged from the act of creation itself.
For some of us, art is not just a calling—it’s a necessity. It becomes the only road to a sense of freedom. Some might even call it salvation.
Narrative art tells a story. It evokes a moment from daily life or draws from religion, folklore, mythology, or history. From Bronze Age cave paintings to medieval tapestries and beyond, storytelling through images has always been with us. Yet in the 20th century, abstract art staged a rebellion—rejecting familiar narratives and often dismissing them as unimaginative. Even so, many abstract works continued to carry encoded personal or political messages, requiring insight into the artist’s life or context to be fully understood.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had an inner dialogue about making and appreciating art. As a child, I watched my mother select fabric, cut patterns from fashion magazines, and sew elegant, custom outfits. Her process taught me that detail, attention, and intention are what bring beauty to life. Two of her sisters were artists—one a painter, the other a maker of collages. Creativity, it seems, runs through my blood. In my youth, I painted. I loved it. But life, as it often does, took me elsewhere.
After many years pursuing a different kind of creativity—entrepreneurship and the search for financial security—I returned to visual art. In 2003, shifting conditions in the high-tech market led me to close Telesys Enterprises, my circuit card distribution company. At the same time, my personal life was in upheaval. I sensed that something deep within me needed tending. Intuitively, I turned to art—not as an escape, but as a way to meet whatever was rising inside.
Fifteen years later, I can say this with certainty: devoting myself to the practice of making art was pivotal in my healing journey. I wasn’t chasing the real or the unreal. I was after something more elusive—the unconscious, the layered self, the quiet transformation that comes when one becomes fully awake.
During my business career, I traveled the globe, visiting electronics manufacturers and working closely with engineers on circuit board designs. I came to see these boards not just as functional tools, but as intricate compositions—microcosms of innovation and design. There was beauty in their precision, a kind of silent elegance in the way they powered everything from smartphones to missile guidance systems. That world shaped me. It gave me a way of seeing.
So when I returned to art, I brought that sensibility with me. I felt drawn to the Light and Space movement that emerged in Southern California in the 1960s—a movement influenced by post-WWII materials like fiberglass, resins, and industrial polymers. Minimalist, luminous, and often futuristic, this work mirrored the aesthetic language I had lived and worked in for years.
I dove in—experimenting with media, enrolling in classes at Santa Monica College, attending workshops. I explored fused glass, plexiglass, printed aluminum. It wasn’t just about learning new skills; it was about reclaiming a part of myself. Each composition became a conversation with my past, my pain, and my hope.