A Practice in Patience: How Abstract Art Can Shape Our Inner Life
I remember being in museums with friends who just didn’t know what to make of abstract art. While I found myself drawn in, they’d rather wander off to admire Monet than spend time sitting with Mitchell. And honestly, I understood. Abstract art can be puzzling, confusing, even disorienting. I’ve felt that way too. I’ve shuffled uncomfortably from one painting to the next, wondering what I was supposed to be seeing, what I was supposed to be feeling. I’d catch myself thinking “I should have something insightful to say,” but truthfully, I didn’t always know what sort of experience I was supposed to be having.
My friend practicing contemplative presence with Mark Rothko
I get it. For years, I felt the same way about abstract art. It wasn’t until much later in my adult life that something began to shift. Through a series of small, almost accidental practices, I started to discover the vitality hidden in these works. To my great surprise, abstract art opened a door into my inner world. It stirred something deep, inviting new insights and connections.
Over time, engaging with these pieces became more than just looking at art—it became a kind of contemplative practice for me. What I once found confusing began to feel essential. The gifts I received through this slow, curious interaction began to ripple outward, quietly transforming other areas of my life.
If you’ve felt unsure about abstract art, here are a few suggestions that have helped me.
Practicing Patient Presence with Abstract Art
The first gift abstract art offers is the opportunity to practice patient presence. When you stand before a work that resists immediate interpretation—something that doesn’t look like anything—it can be baffling. Instinctively, we try to make associations with something familiar. This kind of projection is natural, and can even be useful (something I’ll return to in a bit) but it’s not the best place to begin.
Instead, I invite you to try something different. Think of it as an experiment in patience and presence.
The next time you’re with an abstract artwork, whether in a museum or your own space, try this: don’t rush to label or explain. Just look. And an important caveat—this exercise happens best when you’re with an artwork in person. There’s a profound difference between encountering art and seeing it on a screen. In real life, there’s a physical and emotional resonance that’s hard to replicate digitally.
So when you’re with an abstract painting, the first lesson is: don’t rush. Take your time. Attend to your gaze to make it gentle and natural, as you might rest your breath in meditation. Let your eyes soften and settle over the entire image. You might notice that your eyes want to look away, or fixate on one part of the painting. But just like a meditative practice, notice what your eyes want to do and return to the whole. That’s part of the practice.
Simply be with the artwork. No need to narrate it, no need to escape into language. Just observe. Let the image hold your attention. Even if the artwork doesn’t start to reveal its power, this act of sustained, silent looking builds a deeper skill: the capacity to give your full presence to something beyond yourself. It’s a practice we can carry into every area of life. This habit of quiet attentiveness helps us anchor in the present moment.
Abstract art is especially suited for building this meditative muscle because it relieves the pressure to interpret. It asks nothing of us except to be there, with open eyes and an open heart. And from that place of quiet, what the painting has to offer begins to unfold. Not through our usual mental scripts, but through embodied, heartfelt awareness.
“Clean Slate” (2024)
Turning Inward Without Words
As you continue the practice of patient presence, something subtle may begin to shift. Your mood, your physical awareness, or even your sense of time might start to change. Before some paintings, you might feel a quiet rest settling into your body. With others, you may sense a growing agitation or a surge of energy, as if your whole being is humming in response to something invisible and just beyond words.
These sensations are meaningful. And with abstract art, we can become aware that they are happening.
Each person’s response to a work of art is unique. No two viewers will experience the same painting in the same way, and no single piece will always evoke the same feeling. This is what makes the practice so rich and so personal.
This way of interacting with abstract art invites you into self-observation. You begin with patient presence before the artwork, but then gently turn inward. Notice how your body is responding. Pay attention to the space of your heart. What emotions, sensations, or energies are rising within you as you remain present with the artwork?
Sometimes, you may find yourself drawn into a kind of wordless interaction. You might feel the quiet hum of a silent, mutual attunement between you and the painting. If this happens, cherish it. That’s a profound moment. But know, too, that not every encounter will lead there. There will be times when you sit with a piece that initially caught your eye—something you had hoped would move you—and nothing seems to shift. That’s okay. Truly. It’s not a failure on your part, nor a flaw in the artwork. It’s simply a reflection of where you are in that moment.
We arrive at different artworks as different versions of ourselves, shaped by our energy, emotions, and experiences that day. Some pieces will meet us powerfully. Others may not. This self-acceptance of our changing sense of self is part of the practice, too. The key is not to judge the experience. Don’t dismiss the artwork if it doesn’t “work.” Don’t blame yourself if the opening never comes. The practice itself—the act of returning again and again to offer your full, quiet presence—is the enduring gift.
Whatever the outcome, you’ve honored something sacred: the willingness to be still with something beyond yourself, to listen without expectation, and to allow the art to meet you where you are.
“Photo Finish” (2024)
Learning to Ground Your Inner Experience
Let’s say you’ve started to notice subtle shifts in your mood or your body while sitting with a work of art. What next?
There are a few gentle steps you can take from here. None of them are mandatory, and none of them need to happen in a strict order. Your next move will depend on your energy, your environment, and whether you’re alone or with someone else. Sometimes I’m drawn into a quiet, introspective stillness. Other times, I feel energized and expressive. Let your own state guide you.
One powerful next step is this: after practicing patient, present observation, begin to describe what you literally see—without jumping to metaphor or personal association. Instead of saying, “This reminds me of a plate of spaghetti” try saying, “There are magenta lines making overlapping oval shapes in the lower right corner.”
The goal here is to connect the visible elements of the artwork with your invisible internal experience. Even though others may not feel what you feel, they can see what you see. This kind of description creates a shared language of observation—anchoring your private, internal experience in something external and concrete. It’s a simple but powerful grounding practice.
Naming what you see with precision helps you remain present. It keeps you tethered to the here and now. In fact, this is the same strategy used to manage anxiety or panic: rather than spiraling inward, you reach outward. You name five things you can see. You describe what is physically, undeniably there. You connect your emotional regulation to the physical, tangible world.
This simple act of putting words to form, color, shape builds a neurobiological bridge between your inner world and the outer one. It invites you back into your body and into relationship with the present moment. It’s a practice not just of looking, but of feeling the ways you belong to yourself, the world, and others.
Offering Unfiltered Expression
Another powerful practice is stream-of-consciousness reflection. After practicing patient presence with an artwork, we narrate our experience as it unfolds, freely weaving between our visual observations and our internal landscape. This practice is a gift because with it, we practice radical self-acceptance. We refuse to filter or censor our observations. We build the trust that if we continue to follow the thread, we will get to where we need to go.
Let’s say you’ve spent time with a piece of abstract art, and you feel stirred in a way that’s hard to name. Rather than trying to make it neat or presentable, give yourself full permission to let your thoughts and feelings tumble out, uncensored and unguarded.
You might do this aloud—especially if you're with someone you trust. Say, “I’d like to speak for three minutes without stopping. Would you set a timer for me?” When the timer ends, you can choose to keep going or stop. The point isn’t polish or precision—it’s presence.
Or, you might do this on your own, with a journal or voice recording. Just begin. Let yourself narrate, riff, react. Let what you feel and notice spill out in whatever form it takes: awkward, emotional, poetic, raw. Just keep going without stopping because there’s no right or wrong way to do this.
The goal isn’t to create something coherent. The goal is to mirror the brave energetic offering of the artist. Here’s what I mean: when an abstract artist is at work, they leap into their own wordless subconscious. They commune with Source and offer the contours of their inner life in an act of public generosity. When we reflect on an artwork, we do the same kind of work. We continue the exchange, offering ourselves in the same vulnerable way. It’s a way of honoring the gift of the artist—by accepting and offering yourself in return.
Later, you might read or listen back to what you expressed. That secondary act of witnessing (gently, with curiosity and care) can reveal threads of insight you didn’t even realize were forming. Often, it’s in that reflective space that the deeper meaning begins to emerge. This process of reflection doesn’t require talent or training. It just requires your presence and your willingness to throw your own words at the wall and see what sticks.
“Polyvagal” (2024)
The Quiet Power of Abstract Art
The true gift of encountering abstract art in these ways is how it supports a contemplative way of living. Non-representational art invites us beyond the noise of our thoughts and the scripts we’ve inherited for how to see the world. It offers us something quieter, deeper: a wordless language. A kind of presence. A shared field of energy that can be felt, even if it can’t be named.
Whether you engage with abstract art alone or in the company of others, this form of expression has the power to sensitize you to subtle, sacred forms of communion. We enter a space beyond words where we can share more of ourselves with one another and with Source itself. We can wake up to the fact that this connection is always there, even in times when we are unaware.
Encountering abstract art is for everyone. It isn’t about showing off or proving how sophisticated we are. It’s about waking up our hearts. It’s about approaching the artwork with openness, letting it be a doorway into own own inner landscape and into the gentle, generous space between us.
Incorporating these practices into your experience with abstract art can enhance your connection to the artwork and yourself. If you’d like a companion for your own encounter, you can purchase one of my seeing sessions or add it to any artwork purchase.
