Art, Emotion and the Self: A Vedantic View of Art

When I was just a child, my mother was an x-ray technician and would bring home from time to time, discarded x-rays films of various parts of the body. I was fascinated with them—and my mother even more so,  imagining that her third child might become a doctor someday. But my interests lay elsewhere, even if I couldn’t yet name them.

 From an early age, art became my mode of expression. Later, it was music. Eventually, I returned to what felt most raw and sincere: drawing. My chosen medium was sanguine pencil on paper prepared with chalk—the same medium used by Renaissance artists like Michelangelo, Da Vinci and Raphael to sketch the earliest forms of their masterpieces.

It was from the great masters that I learned what they used to call, draftsmanship. I became so fluent in the anatomy of the human figure that I could draw it from any point of view, creating the illusion of muscle, tendon, and bone beneath the surface. But what truly drew me in was not the technical skill—it was the spiritual intelligence I recognized, in particular, in Michelangelo’s work. His drawings revealed a kind of balance and grace that went beyond mere technique or style. To me, his drawings reflected something essential.

My own artistic process was meditative. I would sit with a blank sheet and draw whatever emerged from it. I never thought, “I’m going to draw such-and-such, this age, this gender.” I was often surprised by what appeared. While other artists tend to work toward some ambitious objective, I was happiest simply letting the image arise from the paper. It felt effortless, and at the same time, attuned to my svadharma.

Eventually, my interest in art gave way to the feeling that initially drew me to it: a subtle stillness I would later pursue through meditation and philosophical study. Looking back, I see that both art and music were stepping stones. Drawing, in particular, wasn’t about fantasy or illusion. It was an attempt to uncover what it means to be human—to observe experience without pretense. Perhaps that’s why the nudes of the Greeks or of Michelangelo still move us. Not because of any eroticism, but because they reveal something timeless about the human condition—something we struggle to express in words.

As I’ve grown older and better able to discern fact from folly, I’ve come to see the value of art (all the arts) differently. On one hand, they offer a kind of therapy—a means of eliciting or releasing emotions we may not otherwise know how to process. Even deep sorrow can become beautiful when expressed a certain way. Consider, for example, Picasso’s La Vie (1903, Blue Period), Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, or Emily Dickinson’s poems on death and dying.

On the other hand, art can also sometimes offer glimpses of our true nature. Take the Zen ink paintings of Sesshū, which evoke silence, simplicity, and emptiness without lack; or Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel, which conveys purity, spaciousness, and transcendence; or T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets, meditative, elliptical, even Vedantic in spirit. In this way, art—whether music, literature, drama, or dance—can present rare moments when the veil thins, the ego quiets, and the Self seems to shine through. While art cannot reveal the Self—only knowledge can do that—it can create the conditions for a momentary glimpse: stillness, vastness, silence, or awe.

These glimpses—whether through sorrow, beauty, or silence—are part of what makes art so compelling. We return to it again and again not just for entertainment, but because it evokes something we long for, even if we can’t name it. Beneath our fascination with form, color, sound, and narrative lies a deeper psychological movement: the search for completion. We seek not merely to express emotions, but to experience them in a way that feels meaningful, contained, and safe. Whether it’s the aching descent of a cello, the arc of a tragic character, or the stillness of a mountain in ink, we are drawn to art because of how it makes us feel—and more specifically, how it allows us to feel without threat. In this way, art becomes both mirror and refuge. But what, exactly, are we chasing through these aesthetic experiences?

Why We Make and Enjoy Art: The Psychology of Aesthetic Experience

We don’t just admire art—we seek ourselves in it. Whether it’s a sorrowful melody, a tragic film, or a painting that evokes wonder, we return to these experiences because they allow us to feel—but in a way that it is safe, curated, and even beautiful. In daily life, our emotions are often messy, reactive, and destabilizing. But in art, they become elevated, aestheticized. Sorrow is no longer grief, but grace. Longing is no longer agitation, but poetry. Art offers us a kind of protected intimacy with emotion—one that doesn’t threaten our sense of control.

Vedanta offers a helpful lens for understanding this. According to its teachings, emotions are not inherent truths but vrittis—fleeting modifications of the mind. They arise based on our conditioning, our personal stories, and our likes and dislikes (raga-dvesha). In this sense, we’re drawn to art that reflects our current emotional configuration. We use it like a tuning fork for the psyche. If we’re feeling restless, we may reach for rousing music. If we’re overwhelmed, we may seek stillness in minimalist composition. Art becomes a way of managing our gunas—of either reinforcing or shifting our current state of being.

Just as our minds cycle through tamas (inertia), rajas (activity), and sattva (clarity), we’re unconsciously drawn to artistic experiences that match or modify our prevailing state. A heavy, atmospheric film or dark ambient music may appeal to us during periods of tamas, validating our sense of fatigue or numbness. Rajas finds its outlet in energetic music, fast-paced narratives, romantic drama, and spectacle—where motion and emotion are amplified to excite and stir. But when the mind grows more refined, sattva becomes the sought-after quality: we turn toward stillness, harmony, and depth. This is why Zen ink paintings feel sacred, or why a composition like Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel seems to suspend time. The work doesn’t stimulate—it settles.

In this way, we use art not just to entertain or distract, but to regulate the inner climate. And yet, even in its most sattvic form, art remains within the field of experience. It modifies the mind, yes—but it doesn’t free us from it. The feeling of stillness we encounter in a painting or piece of music is a reflection, not the light itself. What we glimpse in those moments is not truth, but its outline—traced in form and feeling.

Vedanta reminds us that while these reflections can calm or inspire the mind, they cannot reveal the Self. The Self is not an experience. It is not beauty, or sorrow, or even silence. It is the unaffected witness of all three. Still, art can prepare us. It can soften the ego, cultivate sattva, and temporarily dissolve identification with the personal self. In rare moments, when the music quiets the mind, or a poem breaks us open, we may sense a kind of freedom—but it is a shadow of what knowledge alone can offer.

Emotions in Vedanta: Understanding the Inner Instrument

We tend to think of emotions as personal, as “ours.” We speak of my sorrow, my joy, my rage—as if these inner movements were fundamental truths of who we are. But Vedanta offers a different view. Emotions are not who we are, but what passes through us. They are impermanent vrittis—modifications of the mind—arising within the subtle body and shaped by our karma, memory, and unconscious conditioning (vasanas).

The mind, intellect, memory, and ego together form the inner instrument (antahkarana). Emotions emerge when this instrument interacts with the world and interprets its experiences through the lens of personal identity. A painting makes you weep not because the painting contains grief, but because it activates something latent in your own unresolved impressions. Art doesn’t give us emotion—it reflects what we already carry.

Take for example Emily Dickinson’s “I heard a Fly buzz—when I died—”. The poem is often read as a meditation on death, but what gives it power is its quiet emotional detachment. The scene is still, strange, unresolved. It doesn’t dramatize death—it observes it. Readers often project their own anxieties or sorrow into it, and feel as though Dickinson has somehow captured a universal truth. But what she has done is more subtle: she has held up a mirror. The resonance we feel is not necessarily clarity—it is recognition.

This is why aesthetic experiences can feel profound and yet leave us unchanged. They stir the waters of the mind, sometimes into clarity, sometimes into turmoil. But unless we learn to recognize emotion as an object—something that arises in us but is not us—we remain bound by it. Vedanta doesn’t ask us to suppress emotion, only to see it for what it is: a passing condition, not the Self.

In this way, emotions are not enemies on the path—they are teachers. They reveal where the ego is invested, where the mind is agitated, and where attachment persists. And they are not always loud. Even subtle emotions, like longing, tenderness, and awe—those most often invoked by music and poetry—are still within the domain of mithya, the dependent reality. As beautiful as they may be, they are still effects, not essence.

To feel emotion deeply is not wrong. In fact, for many, it is part of the maturation of the seeker. But the goal is not to perfect our emotional life—it is to understand it, observe it, and ultimately, transcend it.

Art as Unconscious Sadhana

Looking back, I can see that my artistic practice was more than creative expression—it was, unknowingly, a form of sadhana. I didn’t sit down to draw with any conscious spiritual intent. I wasn’t thinking about transcendence or ego or liberation. I was simply doing what felt natural: putting pencil to paper and letting something emerge. And yet, the process was meditative. There was no goal beyond the act itself. No effort to impress. No ambition to be seen. In hindsight, what I was cultivating—quietly, intuitively—was sattva.

The mind, in those moments, was calm, alert, and inward-facing. I wasn’t analyzing or planning. I was listening. I would sit with a blank page and wait. The image would come—not from imagination, but from some stillness I could only access by getting out of the way. In Vedantic terms, the ego (ahamkara) was temporarily absent, or at least subdued. The drawing didn’t feel like something I was creating—it felt like something I was revealing.

Pencil on prepared paper. 2009.

At the time, I didn’t recognize this as spiritual practice. But now, with the language of Vedanta, I can see that these were moments of chitta-shuddhi—purification of the mind. The agitation of rajas, the dullness of tamas, would fall away. What remained was a subtle joy, a sense of alignment that needed no audience. In those moments, I wasn’t the artist. I was simply the witness of a form taking shape.

This, I believe, is the noblest possibility of art—not as expression, not as performance, but as a discipline that refines the instrument. Not all art functions this way. Much of it is rajasic or tamasic, aimed at stimulation, provocation, or escape. But when practiced with sincerity and a quiet mind, it can become a kind of gateway—a precursor to inquiry. Not truth itself, but a way of preparing the soil in which truth might later take root.

Beautiful Ignorance: The Limits of the Aesthetic Path

For many years, I believed that if I could perfect the act of creation—if I could draw more truthfully, compose more sensitively, or feel more deeply—then some essential understanding and resolution would finally come. I now see that belief for what it was: beautiful ignorance. It wasn’t wrong, exactly. It was sincere. But it mistook symbol for substance, emotion for essence, and feeling for freedom.

This is the great seduction of art. It allows us to approach something vast and mysterious, but only through the medium of form, sound, and meaning. We touch it through metaphor, gesture, and mood. The experience may be profound, even transformative, but it still takes place within the mind. It is still an experience, and therefore, it must end.

Take Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, for example—a piece often described as pure grief rendered beautiful. It evokes a kind of solemn grandeur that feels sacred. But its power lies not in revealing the Self—it lies in softening the ego, in pulling us into vulnerability without resistance. What we feel in that moment is not liberation, but temporary ego-suspension. And yet we walk away unchanged. The suffering returns. The beauty fades. The insight dissolves back into memory.

Vedanta is clear: no experience, however beautiful or moving, can reveal the Self. Why? Because experiences are finite. They are known objects, observed by a knower. The Self is not an object. It is the witness of all experiences, untouched by their content or quality. The tragedy of the artistic path is that it often stops at the mirror—awed by the reflection, but never questioning the one who sees it.

This is why society often elevates artists and poets to the status of prophets. We mistake their sensitivity for wisdom, their expression for knowledge. But expression is not realization. Art may convey the longing for truth, but only knowledge can resolve it. Until that longing is clearly understood and fulfilled through inquiry, the artist remains—like the rest of us—lost in a dream of beauty.

From Artist to Inquirer: The Maturation of the Seeker

There comes a point when even the most devoted artist begins to sense that something is missing. The joy of creation, once alive with mystery, begins to dim. The emotional rewards of expression no longer satisfy. The attention once lavished on detail now feels hollow. What was once a source of wonder begins to feel repetitive. This is not failure—it is evolution. The outer work begins to recede, and something turns inward. What once needed to be drawn or sung or sculpted now wants only to be understood.

This was my experience. At first, I thought I had simply outgrown art. But in truth, I had outgrown the need to express. I no longer wanted to shape form—I wanted to see through it. The same longing that had driven my hand across the page was now drawing me toward something quieter, more subtle. I began to intentionally practice sitting meditation. I became interested in American transcendentalism, pre-Socratic philosophy, mythology and comparative religion—and later, Buddhism, Neo-Advaita, and finally, the teachings of traditional Advaita Vedanta. What art had hinted at in gesture and mood, Vedanta began to explain with precision. At last, I had words for what I had always been trying to uncover: the Self—not the imagined self, not the emotional self, but the unchanging witness behind all thought and feeling.

This turning point is not uncommon. Many seekers begin as artists, mystics, or lovers of beauty. The aesthetic impulse, when refined by sattva and stripped of ambition, becomes a kind of yearning for essence over form. But only inquiry can fulfill that yearning. Art says: look at this. Inquiry says: look at who is looking.

Joseph Campbell famously said, “Follow your bliss.” And many have. But bliss, too, is an experience—fleeting and conditioned. Vedanta asks something deeper: not to follow bliss, but to question the one who seeks it. To turn the attention not toward beautiful objects, but toward the consciousness in which beauty appears.

Eventually, the artist falls silent. Not because they have nothing left to say, but because they have finally recognized what cannot be said. What once needed to be shared now rests in being. And in that stillness, the search begins in earnest.

Vedantic Reframing: The Place of Art in the Life of the Wise

What place, then, does art hold in the life of one who knows the Self?

Contrary to some popular images of the enlightened as austere or indifferent, Vedanta does not demand the renunciation of beauty or refinement. It requires only the renunciation of dependence. The wise may still listen to music, walk through museums, or read poetry—not for completion or catharsis, but with the quiet joy of one who knows: this is not real, but it is beautiful.

For the jñani, art is no longer a form of seeking—it is a form of sattva maintenance, a subtle way to support the clarity and tranquility of the mind. One might choose a piece of music, a passage of verse, or a painting not to feel more, but to feel less disturbed. Not to be stirred, but to be stilled.

A Zen ink painting, for example, may be appreciated not for its composition, but for the emptiness it preserves. A movement of Bach may resonate not because it stirs emotion, but because it mirrors order. Even a tragic poem may be read not for identification, but for insight into the workings of the mind. In all these, the jñani remains unentangled.

But more often than not, the initial felt need for art fades. Not because beauty has been rejected, but because what once pointed to the Self is now known to be the Self. There is nothing left to seek, symbolize, or express. The inner fullness that once longed for form now abides as itself.

And yet Vedanta takes us further still: the universal truth cannot be revealed by art—it can only be known through knowledge. Once known, art is free to return to what it always was: a play of form within form. Lovely. Temporary. Optional.

Conclusion: The Light Behind the Mirror

Looking back, I can see that what I loved about art was never the subject, the medium, or even the act of creation. It was the moment—however brief—when the small self fell away. It was the stillness before the form appeared, the quiet after the music stopped, the silence behind the word. I thought I was drawing the human form. I now see I was attempting to trace Being itself.

This is the deeper role art played in my life—not as revelation, but as preparation. It softened the ego. It quieted the mind. It gave me glimpses—not of the Self, but of what remains when the mind is still. And in that stillness, the question arose: What is this presence? Who is the one seeing? That was the beginning of inquiry. That was the beginning of freedom.

Art, music, and poetry are not the Self. But they can point, however briefly, beyond the mind. They are mirrors—sometimes polished, sometimes fogged—reflecting not truth itself, but our longing for it. What we love in art is not what it shows us, but what it momentarily clears away. And when that veil lifts, however faintly, what shines through is not the artist’s soul or the viewer’s emotion—but the unseen light behind both.

Vedanta teaches that the Self is never gained through expression, only through knowledge. But it also teaches compassion for the long road we take to get there. The artist, the seeker, the lover of beauty—they are all walking the same path. Eventually, the necessity to express falls away, and the clarity of Being remains. What was once a drawing becomes a silence. What was once a poem becomes a still gaze. What was once music becomes the simple joy of not needing anything at all.