Blog & insights

Art has long been recognised for its ability to support and improve mental health, particularly for those who create it. For artists, the act of making can be deeply grounding: a chance to slow down, express emotion, and give shape to thoughts that are often difficult to articulate. In many ways, the creative process itself becomes a form of quiet self-care.

What may come as more of a surprise, however, is that simply looking at art can offer many of the same benefits.

One of my favourite pastimes is slowly strolling through a gallery with not a care in the world. There is something almost meditative about the experience—the quiet hum of the room, the measured pace, the unspoken permission to pause. In a world that constantly demands attention, productivity, and instant reaction, galleries invite us to do the opposite. To stop. To observe. To breathe.

This sense of calm is not accidental. A growing body of research shows that engaging with visual art can reduce stress, lower anxiety levels, and improve overall mood. Some studies suggest that even short periods spent viewing art can lead to measurable reductions in cortisol, the hormone most commonly associated with stress. In an age where burnout is increasingly common, these small moments of mental rest are more important than ever.

To better understand why this happens, I reached out to professionals working in the field. Research suggests that viewing art activates the brain’s reward system, triggering the release of dopamine—the same chemical associated with pleasure, motivation, and positive reinforcement. This neurological response helps explain why people often leave exhibitions feeling lighter, calmer, or more inspired than when they arrived. Art, in this sense, doesn’t just occupy our attention; it actively reshapes our emotional state.

From my own experience, however, the impact of art on wellbeing is not solely about the artwork itself. Just as important is the environment in which the art exists. The setting and the artwork must work together to create a truly immersive experience. When that balance is right, viewers are more likely to feel present, engaged, and emotionally open.

When we put on pop-up exhibitions, the environment is always carefully considered. Take Banksy to Bitcoin as an example. We chose the council-run Undercroft Gallery in Norwich, a space historically used to house market stalls—a place of trade, movement, and everyday life. At the end of each trading day, stalls would be packed away, leaving behind a raw and functional space rather than a polished gallery interior.

With its bright lighting, low industrial concrete ceilings, and well-worn plywood walls, the Undercroft Gallery provided the perfect backdrop for an urban exhibition. The setting didn’t compete with the artwork; it enhanced it. Visitors weren’t just observing pieces on walls—they were experiencing them within a space that felt honest, accessible, and familiar. That sense of comfort plays a subtle but powerful role in how people emotionally respond to art.

Traditionally, art is often presented in a highly controlled and uniform way: clean labels, identical fonts, neutral walls, and an unspoken code of behaviour. Many visitors instinctively fall into what might be called “gallery mode”—quiet voices, careful movements, opinions kept internal. While this approach has its place, it can also create distance between the viewer and the work.

During our first exhibition, we deliberately challenged that convention. One piece—an oil painting by an artist known as Opie—referenced a traditional constable-style portrait, yet within the pond depicted in the painting sat an abandoned car. Rather than hanging it in the expected way, we displayed the framed work on a slant.

The reaction was immediate and telling. Visitors paused. They questioned it. Who is that by? Why is it hung like that?That brief moment of disruption broke the automatic rhythm many people bring into galleries. Instead of passively consuming the artwork, they engaged with it. They reflected. They discussed.

While this was not a scientific experiment, it revealed something important. When art is presented in predictable, comparative ways, our minds can slip into autopilot. By subtly challenging expectations, we invite curiosity and emotional engagement. That moment of pause—of genuine attention—is precisely where art begins to have a deeper impact on mental wellbeing.

This adaptability is something Banksy himself has demonstrated repeatedly, installing works in museums alongside historical artefacts, sometimes anonymously, without them feeling out of place. His work moves effortlessly between formal institutions and unconventional settings, reinforcing the idea that art does not require a rigid framework to be meaningful. Instead, its power lies in its ability to meet people where they are.

Ultimately, art’s relationship with mental health is not confined to the studio or the canvas. It exists in the spaces we enter, the pace we adopt, and the moments of reflection we allow ourselves. Whether we are creating or simply observing, art offers something increasingly rare in modern life: a chance to slow down, to feel, and to reconnect with ourselves.