Art has never been only an image on paper. For me, it has been a mirror, a companion, sometimes a wound, sometimes a remedy. When I create or surround myself with wall art—whether a symbolic poster, a fantasy portrait, or a simple botanical print—I am not choosing decoration. I am choosing a process of self-repair.
The Language of Color
Color is the first medicine. Crimson allows me to release intensity I cannot speak aloud; cobalt steadies me when I feel scattered; green breathes balance into my days. Each hue I work with is not neutral, but charged with emotion.
To paint, or even to hang a colorful poster on my wall, is to let that emotion exist outside of me. The room becomes an extension of my own inner landscape, a place where the feelings I cannot resolve in words can live visibly and without shame.
Form as Structure
Form gives shape to the formless. A jagged line can carry the weight of anger; a rounded, fluid composition can soothe the agitation of uncertainty. When I design symbolic wall art prints, I notice how instinctively my body guides the gesture: sharp when I need to defend myself, soft when I need to forgive.
These forms, once fixed on paper, offer me stability. They remind me that chaos can be contained, that identity—though shifting—can take shape, even temporarily. To hang such art in my home is to acknowledge that repair is not perfection but form-giving: a way to hold pain without letting it dissolve me.
Feeling as Compass
Art teaches me to follow feeling instead of silencing it. When I create, I allow sadness to turn into shadowy palettes, joy into luminous patterns, longing into surreal portraits. Each poster I design becomes an emotional map, charting not only where I have been but where I wish to move.
For this reason, surrounding myself with wall art—my own or that of others—is not indulgence. It is practice. Each glance at a poster on my wall is a reminder that emotions are not enemies but guides.
Healing Through Relationship
Art also allows me to process relationships. Faces appear in my work—sometimes lovers, sometimes friends, sometimes archetypes of intimacy and distance. To paint or to print them is to hold space for complexity: tenderness, grief, ambiguity.
When these portraits become posters on my walls, they act as witnesses. They remind me that relationships, even when unresolved, can still be honored in form and color. They allow me to live with memory without being consumed by it.
Identity as Work in Progress
Through art, I rehearse my own identity. Am I the vibrant crimson or the muted grey? The eclectic layering or the disciplined minimal form? By creating and living among art prints, I accept that identity is not a fixed essence but a layering of moods, symbols, contradictions.
This acceptance is itself healing. It means I do not need to “finish” myself in order to be whole. I can be a gallery wall—unfinished, abundant, shifting—yet still coherent.
Art as Open Repair
To speak of art as self-repair is not to say that it heals in a final way. Rather, it offers me continuity. Each poster I hang, each symbolic print I create, is a fragment of repair: a reminder that healing is not a destination but a rhythm.
In my living room, in my studio, on the walls where symbolic and fantasy art gathers, I live with these fragments. They do not close wounds entirely, but they keep them from being silent. They allow beauty to grow in places that once felt broken.
Art repairs me not by erasing the fracture, but by giving it form, color, and presence. And in that presence, I find the courage to continue.
