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Beyond Museums

Where would we be without art in all of its many expressions? Our cave-dwelling ancestors left stories etched in cavern walls and on canyon rocks. Studies suggest that art does more than fill museums and galleries. It can help us heal. When emotions run high and we are searching for answers, tapping into our creativity—writing, singing, painting, cooking, gardening, even dancing by ourselves—can relieve anxiety, loneliness, and grief.

I remember my mom turned to her piano, her hymns, her Big Band era songs to bring herself back to center when she was distressed. She didn’t consider herself an artist. But being able to play the piano brought her peace.

Social science and medicine increasingly recognize the role art plays in well-being. In some countries, physicians now prescribe museum visits. Patients sit with paintings, reflect, and sometimes create work of their own. In Denmark, programs offer what they call “culture vitamins”—shared experiences of music, storytelling, and creative expression designed to reduce anxiety, loneliness, and depression. Participants report improved mood, renewed motivation, and a stronger sense of meaning. These ideas have entered mainstream thinking about health.

These ideas also require us to broaden our definition of art to include those who claim they lack artistic ability. They usually regard art as grand sculptures, or paintings hanging in museums, or music filling concert halls. But art lives in the hands that knead bread. In the careful stitching of a quilt. In the garden planted each spring. In a journal written at the end of the day. In the photos someone takes to capture a fleeting moment. In the way a home is arranged, a table set, a melody hummed while doing dishes.

In previous Cuppa Joys, I’ve shared stories about prisoners making quilts for foster children and the difference that work makes—for those who receive the quilts and for the inmates creating them.

When inmates receive brushes, instruments, clay, fabric, yarn, journals, and the freedom to create, their self-image begins to improve. Violence decreases. Emotional awareness grows. Empathy develops. Hardened edges soften. Recidivism reduces. Art does not erase their worst decisions—but it opens doors to new possibilities, new ways of thinking and being.

And yet, when school budgets tighten, what often disappears first? Art. Music. Drama. Creative expression. Consider the irony. We understand the healing power of art and still remove it from the places where it might matter most. Schools label these programs as enrichment, extras, something offered only when funding allows. But what if we have this backwards? What if art plays a central role in how we develop healthy self-esteem?

Take my son Michael for example. Music brought magic to his world. Both of his older brothers took gifted testing in first grade. Both scored high and entered that track. The academic challenges matched the way their minds worked and they did well.

Michael’s gifts moved in another direction. He daydreamed. He played music in his head. He doodled. He was imaginative, musical, artistic, and deeply intuitive. He felt things strongly. He noticed nuance. He connected through sound and rhythm. Standardized testing rarely measures those qualities. He didn’t get placed in the gifted track. As the years passed, those tracks separated further.

By seventh grade, many of his grammar school friends moved into advanced math and science classes. One day I asked why they no longer came around the house. He answered simply—without drama, without self-pity. “They’re with the smart kids,” he said. “I’m with the dumb ones.”

His words startled me—and broke my heart. I could feel the unspoken pain behind his answer. By then, he had already begun playing guitar. No one ever had to tell him to practice. In fact, we sometimes had to gently remove the instrument from his arms after he had fallen asleep with it. Music poured out of him. It was how he interacted with his world.

I remember telling him that if the tests at school measured musical and artistic talent, he would be placed on the smart track. Maybe it helped. I don’t know. At the time, I was doing my best at self-esteem damage control. I did know he needed encouragement and recognition of his gifts and talents.

I hope he realized how truly special he was. Michael memorized thousands of songs—many in foreign languages. He didn’t just learn the words. He absorbed the phrasing, the emotion, the rhythm. Later, he taught himself to play even the most complicated operas on the bandoneon. That kind of brilliance doesn’t always show up on a report card—but it is brilliance just the same.

I sometimes wonder how many children reach similar conclusions about themselves. How many languish in classrooms believing they lack intelligence simply because their gifts fall outside what schools measure. Some think in rhythm. Others see in color. Some tell stories. Some build with their hands. Others feel deeply and express that through music or drawing.

Art does more than produce beauty. It creates meaning. It offers connection. Children bring parents small treasures—a drawing, a handful of wildflowers, a classroom project. I still hold onto gifts from my sons, too precious to discard. One Mother’s Day, I unwrapped a gift from Troy. He watched as I unfolded an apron he had made. Scotch tape held its seams together. Pride filled his face. I beamed—and his six-year-old self beamed back.

Perhaps, this helps explain the impact of art programs in prisons. When someone creates—a drawing, a poem, a piece of music—they have something of value to share. They have a gift to give. That shift matters. It opens imagination. It invites possibility.

Music, museums, storytelling, creative gatherings bring people together. Isolation loosens its grip. Wonder returns. Fear and worry recede.

None of this represents a new discovery. Humans have always turned to art. Long before formal education or modern medicine, people sang, carved, danced, painted, and told stories. Creative expression declares to the world: I am here. I feel. I survived. I hope. I matter. When we create—even in small ways—something inside us begins to settle. The artist within requires no formal training or special talent. It asks only for expression. It asks us to slow down and notice, to engage, to connect.

I think again of Michael—guitar in his arms, falling asleep with music still in his hands. I think of the conversation where he innocently labeled himself as being on the “dumb track.” And I wish every child like him could be seen sooner for the brilliance they carry.

Because when we discover our voice—through music, color, movement, or story—we begin to understand who we are and that we matter. We find we have something to contribute. And that realization can shape an entire life.