The Artist as Shaman

Shamanism is more alive than ever, and that seems no coincidence to me.

In this essay I reflect on what I see as the meaningful revival of shamanism, on the role of art in our spiritual experience, and on the sometimes powerful relationship between the two. In other words: the artist as shaman. 

Shamanism

In recent years we have witnessed a strong resurgence of shamanism worldwide. What stands out is the growing attention in the West. More and more Europeans and North Americans are showing a sincere interest in Indigenous peoples and their animistic practices.

Shamanism is not a religion like Christianity, with a clearly defined doctrine. It is first and foremost a practice, rooted in ancient traditions that occur all over the world, with strikingly similar characteristics. Moreover, if we go far enough back in our own history, we find forms of shamanism here as well—for instance in Celtic culture and its druids. This wide geographical spread is one of the reasons why shamanism can play a connecting role in our globalised world.

Shamanism starts from the assumption that everything in our world, and beyond it, is ensouled. Not only human beings, but also animals, plants, stones, objects, stars, the wind… and that which we call ‘God’, and which Indigenous peoples name ‘Great Spirit’. This broad, inclusive vision of the diversity of ensouled life resonates deeply with us today—also from an ecological perspective.

The shaman’s practice is rooted in a strong connection with nature and aims to establish contact with the invisible world: the world of souls and spirits. The shaman places themselves at the service of the community as a spiritual guide and healer. To do so, they use techniques to enter a non-ordinary state of consciousness—a trance. Rhythmic instruments such as the drum or rattle are commonly used, and in many cultures hallucinogenic plants are also traditional tools. In this altered state of consciousness, the shaman seeks information and healing. They work as a medium, as a bridge between different worlds and layers of awareness.

The shaman differs from the priest as we know them, among other things, in the learning process. Their teachers are primarily nature, the ancestors, and their own embodied experience. Each culture has its own method, a transmitted structure of access, but the path itself is essentially individual. It is a personal initiatory path of experience and continuous practice, in which each shaman seeks their own power animals and spiritual helpers to guide them through the transcendent worlds they visit. We recognise in this the individual quest of many people today. Buddhism, which shares much with shamanism, also focuses on individual practice, but one could say that in shamanism physical, concrete contact with the body and with nature is more central—along with imagery and imagination. It is organic, accessible, and direct. At the same time, it can feel alien to us, as we are used to relating to a God situated outside ourselves, elevated far above us.

Direct contact with the spirit world is not without risks. That is why the shaman—after often many years of initiation—acts as a bridge figure, a guide and healer. This is done in a very physical, material way. Power animals, plants, heart and senses take centre stage. Singing, drawing, writing, and dancing are forms of communication. Ritual objects protect and embody power and soul.

Shamanism appeals because it speaks to the imagination. The invisible world reveals itself—through our imagination and the language of archetypes—in a surprisingly colourful way. Shamans may experience entire adventures in their visions, something that also resonates strongly with young people. The language of the heart is often compelling and exciting.

And crucial today: as a form of spiritual ecology, shamanism is a way of reconnecting with nature, of awakening and strengthening the awareness that we are part of a larger living whole. This awareness is essential in the growing ecological and climate consciousness. It can help us find strength in and with nature—not acting from fear, but from love. From connection, towards action.

Contemporary Art

Art, too, can offer an opening towards the transcendent. Art has always been more than an expression of creativity. Artists have always sought to give form to that which exceeds our rational grasp—to what cannot be captured or defined, yet profoundly shapes our human lives.

Contemporary artists do this in ways that respond to the needs of people and the world today. Art can—often unintentionally—help us deal with the apparent purposelessness and finitude of life. By showing without explaining, by offering consolation through experiences of beauty and poetry.

Art can play an important role in humanity’s search for self-understanding and for a meaningful existence. It allows us to step out of the rush of daily life and sometimes to experience something that touches us deeply. In surrendering to art, we encounter the beauty of both the familiar and the utterly other, in its power and its vulnerability.

Questioning and breaking through systems, challenging dominant discourses, freely experimenting with new forms and connections—so urgently needed today—are also part of the DNA of the contemporary artist. Operating from the margins, the artist can act as a guide towards new perspectives in a searching world. Not by offering answers, but by posing questions, by creating openings for individual experiences of meaning—without placing them in a heavy religious framework. In a time when we are increasingly called to creatively shape our own lives and sense of meaning, the artist can be an inspiring model.

Every art form has—each in its own unique way—the potential to open a door to an experience of transcendence. In this essay, however, we focus on contemporary visual art, and more specifically on the relationship between visual art and shamanism.

Visual Art and Shamanism

Bringing together art and shamanism is less strange than it may seem at first glance. There are many parallels between the two.

Both artists and shamans give tangible form to ensouled life. They transform matter into something that transcends matter, while remaining fundamentally material. The shaman works with ancient traditions, instruments, and natural objects; the artist creates new forms from material. In both cases, the sensory and the tactile are central as means to arrive at an experience of meaning.

It is striking that many contemporary artists work with everyday objects, lifting them out of their banality by placing them in a new context. An artist such as Gert Robijns (° Sint-Truiden, 1972) invites us to look anew at ordinary objects by tilting them, recombining them, and so on. In this way, attention is given to the object itself, independent of its functional value.

Like shamans, artists have long been acutely aware of the power—the soul—of matter itself. Marcel Duchamp’s (France, 1887–1968) decision to place a urinal in an exhibition played a crucial role here. A banal object gains meaning, even a soul, by being placed within an art context. This gesture creates a different kind of attention. An exhibition thus becomes a sacred context, a ritual space that protects the vulnerable soul of matter and calls forth attention.

A more recent development is the return of the organic motif: nature as a direct source of inspiration. After the reductions of geometric abstraction and minimalism, organic forms are once again prominent—not only in art, but also in broader social trends, such as the return of houseplants filling our living rooms. Artists have at least partly driven this movement, often motivated by a deep concern for the vulnerability of nature, by a desire to cherish it and bring it into focus in an ensouled way. At the most recent Venice Biennale, this struck me as an underlying tone: a cry for attention to wounded and fragile nature resonated throughout. Countries such as Saudi Arabia (with an exhibition composed entirely of sheep parts) and Japan addressed this poetically, emphasising nature’s strength and beauty. Others, like France and Denmark, placed their finger squarely on the wound.

Just as shamans undergo an inner journey to attain their role, the artist’s visual power often arises from an inner process. From their own inner animation, the artist creates an object that is more than an object—something that can touch the viewer. While formal quality is essential in art, an artwork ultimately derives its true power from the authenticity of its meaning, from the ensoulment contained within it.

There is also something distinctive about how artists come to creation. Many experience themselves as a kind of medium—a channel through which the work emerges. As if it exists despite them, originating from a force that transcends them. As if they are merely intermediaries revealing something to the community.

Art is, in essence, a particular form of matter animated through creation—whether that matter consists of physical materials, sound waves, or the moving body in dance. Good art touches. It moves.

There are, of course, differences. A shaman is not an artist, and an artist need not be a shaman. Yet there is one aspect in which the artist, especially today, differs from the shaman and other spiritual authorities, and which gives them a unique power in connecting us to the spiritual dimension of life: their position. The artist occupies an outsider position in society. Operating in and from the margins, free from institutional structures, they have the freedom to uncompromisingly show what presents itself. They also reach a different audience. People who avoid the religious, spiritual, or even emotional may, within the safe context of art, become open to opening their hearts—to encountering the other within themselves and allowing a relationship with the ineffable.

The Artist as Shaman

Today, I see much artistic work that opens pathways towards a contemporary experience of transcendence. Many artists may not even be aware of this. But there are also artists who consciously assume the position of artist–shaman. It is striking that such figures are gaining increasing recognition and following. Jimmy Durham and Marina Abramović are two well-known and inspiring examples.

Jimmy Durham works at the intersection of contemporary art and shamanism. Although active for a long time, he has become one of the most influential visual artists and storytellers particularly over the past decade.

As a Native American (Cherokee), he himself comes from a shamanic tradition. In a direct, often humorous way, he confronts us with the soul of things themselves—not to explain them, but simply to show what is, and what we, through a Western lens, fail to see or see only within limiting frameworks. The power of a stone, for example. Or the spirit, the soul of an animal.

He created a sculpture of Jesus depicting him as the human being he might have been. Durham himself said: “Es geht um die Wurst”—I made this image for Jesus because I was offended on his behalf. They always claimed he was blond with blue eyes, not Jewish… Of course he had black hair, dark eyes, and was Jewish. What kind of monstrous tradition is it to depict Jesus as some foolish white man? I wanted to portray Jesus in a way that was closer to who he was.

Durham resists all forms of appropriation and hierarchy, and in doing so holds up a mirror to us as a guide and healer of the Western gaze.

I have already written that an exhibition can be seen as a ritual form. But as an artist, one can also explicitly create rituals. Marina Abramović does precisely that. Before elaborating, a few words on the essence of ritual.

Rituals are connecting actions that take place under defined circumstances and are usually repeated. They are foundational to the relationship between individual and community and are present in every religion. At important moments of transition in life, rituals help give meaning to individual experience by linking it to the community—often by letting go of the old and welcoming the new. Rituals always have a material or physical form. The moment of transformation is captured in a gesture or object that can be carried forward as remembrance: the wedding ring, the urn at a funeral, the sugar-coated almonds at a baptism. What is remarkable about these objects is that their power lies in the object itself—not merely in what it represents—though they also carry something far beyond themselves.

Every culture has its own ritual forms. With increasing globalisation and secularisation, the need for new rituals that are both unique and connective is growing. Shamanic rituals connect us to traditions across the globe. Artists are masters at creating rituals that are singular and personal. Increasingly, artists draw inspiration from shamanism, which—with its strong physicality and grounding in nature—lends itself particularly well to such connections.

As a pioneering performance artist, Marina Abramović (Belgrade, 1946) has used her own body and meaningful objects as material throughout her life. She creates intense, often painful rituals that refer not only to her personal history but also to social and political events and collective traumas, and that possess a transformative power. Driven by her fascination with the ensouled body, with human vulnerability and the vulnerability of all life, she has naturally become increasingly interested in ancient cultures and their shamanic practices. Her work is a quest for both personal and collective liberation. Where she once tested the limits of what the human body and gaze could endure, she now explores mental endurance, for example through hours- or days-long sitting sessions. The Artist Is Present is one of the most pure and powerful examples. During an exhibition at MoMA in New York, she sat on a chair for a total of 736 hours. Some 1,500 visitors sat opposite her, engaging in prolonged eye contact. For many, this was a deeply moving and transformative experience—not least for Marina herself, who, nourished by years of practice and initiation, opened her heart to a profound soul connection with each person who sat before her.

My Own Work

Finally, a few words about my own work. I do not wish to compare myself to icons such as Jimmy Durham or Marina Abramović. Yet because I experience a strong interaction between my artistic path and my spiritual evolution, I feel compelled to share something of it.

As an artist, I have always sought to express the power and beauty of vulnerability—initially through figurative paintings, in which I aimed to infuse fragility and ensoulment.

Under the influence of my meditative practice, a clear shift occurred about five years ago. Instead of looking outward, I turned inward to find my motifs. My work began to express inner experiences—images of a world that transcended me, which I wanted to give visual form to and share with viewers. I moved away from oil and acrylic paint, turning instead to natural and lighter materials: wood, chalk, lime, pigments, and increasingly paper. It was a quiet call for attention to the vastness and richness of the inner world.

In recent years, shamanism entered my life, again having a clear impact on my artistic work. While I still draw and paint, I now integrate these images with found or created objects into installations. Performances are increasingly part of the work, allowing the viewer to become part of a total experience—a physical, visual expression of a transformative process with which the viewer can connect.

A year ago, I had the good fortune to spend time with an Indigenous community in the Brazilian rainforest—a powerful immersion in the direct relationship between human beings and nature, and in the rituals of an ancient culture. As I was working with the theme of tears at the time—as material, physical signs of human emotion—the Sananga ritual deeply resonated with me. In this ritual, tears are induced by placing a drop of plant sap in each corner of the eyes, to clarify vision. The sap causes sharp pain, which disappears after a few minutes. The eyes are then purified, allowing one to see more clearly—in every sense of the word. Indigenous people use this ritual for night hunting, but also to receive clear visions.

Sananga – Through Darkness into Light became the theme of my most recent exhibitions. I translated this into installations with images from my inner experience, such as the eagle—a shamanic power animal—and into performances based on the Sananga ritual. Revealing the power of vulnerability remains my driving force, but now in a far more direct and physical way. Showing becomes an invitation to experience and participate—to heal and perhaps to guide, as the shaman does.

Looking Ahead

Does this describe the future? Of course not. But I have attempted to articulate something about the role of shamanism and art in the steps we need to take today to prepare and shape the future of spirituality.

At this moment, shamanism helps us reset rigid frameworks and reconnect our souls with life itself—in all its fullness and diversity. Shamanism is not unique in this; it shares affinities with many other spiritual traditions, including Christianity, for example in medieval mysticism. Yet shamanism currently offers a form that resonates strongly and provides practical keys—perhaps also to reconnect with the essence of our own traditions in renewed ways. For me, Jesus was also a shaman—but that is another story.

I believe deeply in the power of art to create new, unique, and inspiring forms for relating to the mystery of life—forms that are both personal and connective. Individual creation and co-creation, inspired by predecessors past and present, whispered by the voice of the future. And, like the shaman, speaking through the language of nature, the senses, and matter—to reconnect us with the soul-force of life itself.

Notes

1. Both men and women can be shamans. In this text I use the masculine form “he” but refer to shamans of all genders.

2. Healing aims to alleviate and rebalance the (energetic) body and may—but does not have to—result in physical healing.

Lies Daenen

January 2020on the occasion of 75 Years of Tijdschrift voor Geestelijk Leven (TGL)