Beyond AI: the human art of healing

There’s something so healing about expressing and creating art through our own physical bodies that no machine or AI can replace.

Yes, one day, the line between what’s real and what’s artificial might become impossible for human eyes to distinguish (or is it already?) but unless we experience it ourselves, it’s easy to overlook how art doesn’t just heal the audience.

It also heals the artist.

No one heals by rushing the process or optimizing for the outcome. Healing isn’t a destination—it’s a journey. It’s the energy that moves through our bodies when we move, touch, or tear something apart. It’s the critical thinking and the sudden eureka moments that arise from mastering a craft, again and again. It’s the unexpected breakthrough after trying endlessly, thinking outside the box, exhausting all resources, and even making something out of nothing.

Maybe the future isn’t about choosing between art made by humans and art made by machines. Maybe it’s about remembering what each one is for.

AI can replicate form—it can learn style, texture, rhythm, and pattern.

But what it can’t do is embody intention.

It can’t feel the tremor in your hand when you press clay, the way memory surfaces when you pick up a brush, or how healing unfolds quietly as you lose track of time in creation.

That’s our domain—the realm of soul, presence, and transformation.

If AI creates, perhaps it’s not to replace the artist, but to reflect back to us what we value about being human: art is not merely made—it’s lived.

Healing isn’t to be shown.

It’s to be felt.

In many ways, it’s the very process in which we have to get in touch with our mind, heart, and soul in creating the art that heals ourselves. And in that healing, someone else might feel inspired and think, “If they can do it, maybe I can too.”

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That truth came alive for me during a cold clay session at Etéreo.

When I was young, I loved DIY everything. I would tear apart my perfectly fine clothes to make outfits for my dolls and stuffed animals, or craft from any material I could find, especially the discarded ones. Yet somehow, in this digital world, I had forgotten that side of me.

This ended up being one of the most joyful activities during my stay. The leaves we used were Sanchezia and Geranio Aralia—both native to the Caribbean—so I could bring them home and keep them as memories.

I felt like being a kid again. Thank you, Hugo—you are such a talented artist (and full of fun!) 🕺