The Connection Between Art and Grief

Correctly expressing Grief is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to figure out. I’ve tried ignoring it and pretending everything was okay; I’ve inappropriately lashed out when grief-induced frustration pushed me over the edge, and that did nothing to deal with the grief behind the frustration. Losing someone you love or something you really enjoyed leaves a hole that feels impossible to fill, and for a long time, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I struggled to find the right words to express what I was feeling, and the weight of my emotions felt unbearable. But art became my outlet, my escape, and ultimately, my way of healing.

One of the most powerful things art did for me was give me a way to express emotions I couldn’t put into words. When I was overwhelmed with sadness, I would pick up a paintbrush and let the colors tell my story. Some days, the strokes were chaotic and angry; other days, they were soft and sorrowful. Even though I wasn’t always sure what I was painting, the process itself helped me release emotions I had been holding inside. Writing worked the same way—I could pour my feelings onto a page, even if no one else ever read them.

“Art gave me a way to express emotions I couldn’t put into words.”

Art also reminded me that I wasn’t alone. At my lowest points, I would listen to music or read poetry that spoke to my pain, and it was comforting to know that other people had felt this way too. Their words and melodies became a reminder that grief is universal, that others had survived it, and that I could too. It connected me to something bigger than my own sorrow.

More than anything, creating art gave me a sense of peace, even when everything else felt chaotic. When I focused on painting or writing, my mind wasn’t consumed by sadness—it was present, engaged in the act of creating. It didn’t make the grief disappear, but it made it more bearable.

Art didn’t "fix" my grief, but it helped me live with it. It gave me a way to feel, to remember, and to heal. And in those moments of creation, I found light even in the darkest places.

Beauty in the Center of the Pit

Let me first say that if someone by chance is reading this blog, you probably already know I’m an oil painter in Asheville’s River Arts District. I paint some abstract pieces (great therapy!) but mostly I paint local landscapes. For the record, my favorite time of the day to depict in a painting is dawn or dusk, because the light is perfect, and my favorite time of the year to depict is probably autumn, because again…the light. I love trying to capture that moment in a day that may only last a couple minutes and then it’s gone — that time when the sun colors the clouds crimson and orange and the world feels like it’s holding it’s breath, waiting for the first cricket to begin it’s song. In short, I love depicting the awesome beauty of this place.

This week though has been really difficult for me and I need to write about it. So this blog entry will really be more like a journal entry. I need to get write this down or I’ll pop.

“I’m not afraid”.

I got a phone call from my 92 year old dad last week and it sounded like he had the flu, so he went to the hospital. As the days of last week slowly ticked by, we found that he has a large tumor in his colon and it’s nearly blocking the whole thing. I know what this means, and my dad does too. I knew he wasn’t going to live forever but “that day” was (in my mind) always off in the future. Grief and fear are really interesting. Most of the time, I steel my heart and I’m fine. But then there are waves that are too large, and they knock me off my feet. My plan was that my dad would live the end moments in my home. But he’s in Dallas and I’m in Asheville and this snuck up on us by surprise. By Tuesday, when they get the biopsy results back, we’ll be able to make a plan. For now, we wait.

Suddenly now, I remember all the ways I disrespected my dad (he wasn’t perfect — surprise!) and caused him pain with my words and my own brokenness, and that regret can be crippling. But when I talk to him now, I can tell none of that matters to him at all. He just loves me and wants me to know he’s not at all afraid. For him, this is the final logical step one has to take to meet his Maker, who loves him, and my dad takes that very seriously. Yesterday (through many tears) I read Psalm 91 to him…

”Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday…”

I was crying but he was encouraged. “I believe that Steve”, he said strongly. So do I.

I don’t know how long he has. Maybe days or weeks? Maybe months or years? No idea. But this is grief and I guess it’s time I become familiar with it and let it become fuel for my creativity as the waves wash over me. What does grief and creating artwork have in common? If done right, I think they are very much connected because they’re both real and honest. I found myself painting some pieces of art this week that I’m really proud of and excited about, not as a diversion from the grief and fear but because of it, propelled along by it. Strange thing.

Alright. I feel better now at least getting that much down. I promise I will not regularly use this blog to vent regarding this. But this was therapeutic.