What would you do to help someone who felt deeply anxious about the future? Or who was dragged down by a sense of sadness and loneliness? How could you make a long-term relationship more exciting or alleviate your impression of being a loser?
My answer in all of these cases is to recommend that you look closely and repeatedly at certain works of art. To be more specific, I'd advise taking in Sugimoto's North Atlantic Ocean for the first problem, Richard Serra's Fernanda Pessoa for the second, Jan Steen's Woman at her Toilet for the third and a 15th-century statue of the Buddhist saintly figure, Guanyin, for the fourth.
The idea that one might use art for a purpose, for "instrumental" reasons, tends to set off alarm bells. Art is not an instrument, comes the almost automatic reply. It shouldn't be thought of as some kind of tool. It's not a pill. It shouldn't be asked to perform some specific function, especially something as egocentric as to cheer you up or to make you a more empathetic person. Art galleries aren't chemists.
I couldn't disagree more. If culture is to matter to us deeply, then it has to engage with our emotions and bring something to what one might call our souls. Art galleries should be apothecaries for our deeper selves.
Religions have always been clear on to this psycho-therapeutic score. For hundreds of years in the west, Christian art had a very clear function: it was meant to direct us towards the good and wean us off vice. A lot of Buddhist sculpture had an equally clear mission: to encourage us to achieve an inner calm by contemplating the serene expression on the Buddha's face, especially his smile. We should take some inspiration from these examples and demand more from the art of our times.
There is nothing wrong with thinking of artworks as tools and asking them to do things for us. They can help our psyches in a variety of ways: rebalance our moods, lend us hope, usher in calm, stretch our sympathies, reignite our senses and reawaken appreciation. But in order to do these things, they need to be better signposted as having the power to do so. Modern galleries should recognise the therapeutic potential of their collections and honour it in the way they display them. At present, art museums are typically set out under headings such as The Nineteenth Century or The Northern Italian School, which reflect the academic traditions in which their curators have been educated. But this may not do very much for us in our deep selves. A more fertile indexing system would group together artworks from across genres and eras according to our inner needs.
In my ideal museum, you would enter into the lobby and find a map showing galleries devoted to a range of topics with which we often need help: work, love, family, mortality, community, status, anxiety. In the gallery of love, for example, you might be shown Pisano's Daphnis and Chloe, a deeply evocative reminder of the sense of gratitude and wonder with which most of us start relationships, but all too soon abandon (art is a superlative memory-bank for precious emotions that otherwise disappear). The gallery might then move us on to a Richard Long sculpture, where highly irregular and jagged stones were brought into harmony within a perfect circle, a metaphor for the way our own differences would ideally be accommodated in relationships.
Through such themed galleries, art would start to serve psychology in the same way it has served theology for centuries. A walk through a museum of art would amount to a structured encounter with a few of the emotions which are easiest for us to forget but life-enhancing to remember. Arranged in this way, museums of art would then be able to claim that they really had fulfilled that excellent but as yet elusive ambition of becoming substitutes for our cathedrals and churches in a rapidly secularising society.
