The Red Hand Problem

How artists metabolize existential anxiety, and why the work still matters.

I keep returning to the same question, no matter how many theories I read or objects I make: What exactly happens to existential anxiety when it moves through the hands of an artist?

Not rhetorically. Mechanically. Psychologically.

The image above is one attempt to make that process visible. Three pale figures stand upright, stripped of detail, reduced almost to afterimages. They are not portraits so much as placeholders. Awareness has rendered their bodies thin. Over them reaches a red hand, oversized and intrusive, neither comforting nor gentle. It interrupts and intrudes. It stains. It marks.

That hand is not expression. It is intervention.

Most people manage death anxiety by keeping it diffuse, by never letting it fully localize. The artist does the opposite. The anxiety is brought forward, concentrated, and given a task. Creation becomes a site of containment. The fear does not disappear, but it changes state. It becomes workable.

This is what I mean by metabolizing existential anxiety. Not purging it. Not transcending it. Converting it into form.

Psychologically, this matters more than we often admit. The act of making gives the anxious mind boundaries. Time slows. Attention narrows. The self becomes less abstract and more procedural. The question shifts from What does it all mean? to What happens if I put this here? That shift is not trivial. It is regulatory. It allows consciousness to stay in contact with mortality without flooding.

The white figures in the image are not victims. They are witnesses. They stand because the hand is doing something on their behalf.

This is where arts-based research comes into focus for me. ABR is often framed as alternative knowledge production, which is true but incomplete. Its deeper value lies in its psychological function. Making becomes a way of thinking that does not rely exclusively on symbolic abstraction. Image, material, gesture, and repetition—these are not illustrations of insight; they are the insight.

When anxiety stays purely cognitive, it spirals. When it enters the body through making, it circulates. It acquires rhythm. It becomes legible.

This brings me to the harder question: is there any value in writing books like Glass Bones and Rupture?

If the goal were resolution, probably not. No book resolves the fact of death. No theory seals the crack. But that has never been the real task. The value lies in creating sustained containers where anxiety can be held long enough to be examined without collapsing into distraction or denial.

These books are not answers. They are pressure vessels.

Writing them will force me to stay with the material—psychologically and ethically—longer than images alone sometimes allow. It slows the metabolism. It traces the process. It makes visible what is usually hidden: how fear becomes form, how rupture becomes method, and how meaning is provisional but still worth making.

The red hand, then, is also authorship. It is the decision to intervene rather than look away. To touch the thing that makes us uncomfortable and accept the consequences of contact.

Artists do not escape existential anxiety (not at all). They work it. They give it edges. They give it weight. They give it somewhere to go.

That’s not a cure.
But it is a practice.
And in a culture built on denial, practice may be the most honest form of value we have left.

Do You Make Existential Art?

“UFO and Dirt Tipis,” 6" x 6” (15 x 15 cm) Collodio-Chloride print from the wet collodion negative above.

I think you do.

"Existential art" refers to a form of artistic expression that explores themes central to existentialism, a philosophical movement that focuses on the individual's experience, freedom, and responsibility in an often indifferent or absurd world. Existential art grapples with deep, universal questions about existence, existential anxiety, meaning, alienation, death, freedom, and the human condition (the denial of death). It typically emphasizes personal experience and the emotional and psychological struggle of confronting these fundamental existential issues.

There are some key characteristics of existential art; does your work fall into any of these areas? They include:

Confrontation with Death.
As death is a major concern in existential philosophy, existential art frequently explores death anxiety, the inevitability of death, and how it impacts the individual's sense of self and meaning in life. Death anxiety, the denial of death, and terror management theory are the basis for my work. This is what I lean on for context and motivation.

Themes of Absurdity and Meaninglessness.
Many existential works reflect a confrontation with the seeming lack of inherent meaning in life, a central theme in existentialism. This often leads to depictions of despair, absurdity, or the search for meaning in a chaotic world.

“We are like books. Most people only see our cover, the minority read only the introduction, many people believe the critics. Few will know our content.”

— Emile Zola

Freedom and Choice.
Existential art often examines the individual's freedom to make choices and the accompanying burden of responsibility. The freedom to define oneself and one's existence is juxtaposed with the anxiety or dread that this freedom can generate.

Alienation and Isolation.
Existential art frequently portrays feelings of alienation, isolation, and estrangement from society, other people, or even oneself. The individual’s search for authenticity and personal identity in a world that can feel impersonal or hostile is a recurring subject.

There are so many artists past and present working in this area. Too many to mention without leaving a lot out. However, a few that come to mind are Wassily Kandinsky, Mark Rothko, Paul Klee, and Edvard Munch. Munch’s famous painting The Scream expresses existential dread, or Alberto Giacometti, whose sculptures often reflect the isolation and vulnerability of the human figure.

“What the herd hates most is the one who thinks differently; it is not so much the opinion itself, but the audacity of wanting to think for themselves, something that they do not know how to do.”

— Arthur Schopenhauer

Writers like Ernest Becker, Soren Kirkegaard, Martin Heidegger, Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, and Franz Kafka have explored existentialist themes in literature, and directors like Ingmar Bergman and Andrei Tarkovsky have used visual storytelling to explore existential issues in film.

The overarching goal of existential art is often to provoke the audience to reflect on their own existence and mortality and search for meaning in a world that may not offer easy answers.

I’m particularly interested in this because I’ve been making existential art for 35 years. It is a matter of perspective and narrative. If you haven’t read my advice on creating a body of work, check it out.

“I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers. Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”

— Oliver Sacks, Gratitude