On an Instagram story, someone holds up a small resin block — deep blue flowers floating inside, frozen. In the next slide, a friend lifts a cup of tea, clay still drying in the lines of her fingers from a pottery class earlier that morning. These quiet, tactile moments are showing up everywhere. In studios behind cafes, in weekend workshops, and in stories shared online. More people in the city are reaching for something slow and mindful.
“In Chennai right now, art is booming,” says Cibi Sellappa, programme officer of DakshinaChitra Heritage Museum. What used to be modest programmes are now drawing larger crowds. “Last week we had an ecology walk at 7 am on a Sunday, and still had 20 people show up,” he says.
Of colour and calm
What draws people — often tired, urban, and over-scheduled — to a lump of clay or a swirl of ink? For some, it’s sheer escape. “Escaping from the usual mundane desktop job,” says Leena Sam, a mechanical engineer who found her quiet in resin art. “I felt my nervous system calm down. You create and express rather than just taking in information.” Divya Ravi, a production analyst, found her relief not just in aesthetics but in autonomy. “Creative workspace has a sense of freedom. By working with your hands, it’s clearing the blocks on your thoughts.”
The urge, it seems, is not only to decorate but to pause at lives lived on looking at screens. L Padma Swathy, psychologist and art-based therapy practitioner, understands why. She says, “In a world that’s moving so fast and is constantly online, there’s something incredibly soothing about slowing down and working with your hands. For me, and so many others I’ve seen, these aren’t just hobbies, they’ve become a form of self-care. Especially after the pandemic, there’s been this collective need to reconnect with ourselves, with stillness, and with something real. These activities give you that. You’re not scrolling or staring at a screen; you’re feeling the texture of clay, the motion of a brush, the quiet focus it demands. It’s like active meditation.”
Yet, where does healing stop and hobby begin? The line is blurrier than it looks.“It leans more towards entertainment than actual therapy,” says Sasi Vijayan, a trained expressive arts therapist and counselling psychologist. “Unless it’s structured with therapeutic goals, most workshops are recreational,” she adds. Her sessions begin with breathwork and move into sensory interaction — flowers are touched, smelled, and dissected — before participants shift to art-making.
“Art therapy isn’t just a method, it’s a reminder that every person holds a story worth telling, sometimes not in sentences, but in colours, strokes, shapes, or sounds,” says Padma. She speaks of senses — particularly touch and sound — as “powerful tools for accessing emotions.”
However, the roots of this wisdom date back to older trends. At the Institute of Mental Health (IMH), art has been part of treatment for decades. Rosemary, who has spent 29 years there, recalls, “We teach patients through these sessions. They calm down, concentrate on skill-building.” From painting to baking, IMH has long used craft not as an accessory to healing, but as its core.
If therapy can live in a studio, perhaps it can live between the covers of a book. For nearly three decades, Tara Books has championed the idea that a book is more than text. They create hand-bound volumes, often using silkscreen printing on handmade paper. Think vibrant folk art illustrations pressed onto thick, textured sheets; books shaped like scrolls or unfolding like intricate accordions (leporellos); objects meant to be felt as much as read. Their process is deliberately slow, countering the digital age’s fleeting swipe.
V Geetha, Tara Books’ editorial director, reflects on this sensory mission, born almost by accident. “We realised that something very interesting happens…the way it lets you linger on the page...the book then becomes communicative through its tactility, not simply through the words or the images, but as an object.”
Does this deliberate, physical engagement heal? “I’m not sure... But just the experience of staying with a book... it slows you down, makes you value what you have in your hands,” says Geetha. While Tara Books has occasionally hosted hands-on experiences like fold-out book workshops for children or letting exhibition visitors try silk screen printing, plans are underway to offer curated visits to their bookcraft workshop for those interested in the tactile art of bookmaking.
Affordability & accessibility
Padma sees a growing interest in expressive dance, drama therapy, nature journaling, and aromatherapy. And yet, for all its healing, art is not always democratically shared. “The expense was a bit high that some set of people might not be able to afford,” admits Leena, speaking of weekend workshops marketed as wellness retreats. Sasi is sharper in her critique, “They’re often targeted at corporate professionals looking for weekend stress relief, which drives up pricing.”
Divya says, “These spaces are open to all. We can also see people from this generation are more inclusive.” But she acknowledges that access isn’t uniform. Padma says, “Accessibility is still a challenge, not just in terms of cost, but also availability, especially once you step outside urban spaces.”
Finances aside, fear is another factor. “We need to correct the misconception that art therapy is about interpreting drawings to ‘read your mind’. It’s about self-expression and creativity. Fear and misunderstanding often prevent participation,” says Sasi.
Chennai’s art boom can only nourish everyone if it becomes accessible. This means demystifying the practices and ensuring affordability. Padma says, “There has been a noticeable rise in collaboration, NGOs, schools, hospitals, and individual therapists are coming together to bring these forms of creative healing into more public and accessible spaces.”
The city must bridge the gap between the comfort of creation and inclusive access. The potential exists, but without sustained support, affordability, and intentional outreach, this will remain a privilege than a shared possibility.