Bhumilucis: earth, spirit & Auroville youth

Auroville Today: Could you share about your upbringing in Auroville?

Aurodeva: My upbringing was like that of most Auroville kids, I suppose. Whenever I think about it, I find myself comparing it instinctively to what a European or Western child – or any child not from Auroville – might have experienced. That comparison feels necessary, I think, to underline how unique growing up here was.

My childhood had its challenges, but it was a good childhood. I had a loving relationship with my parents, which gave me stability. But beyond that, the community itself fostered me – fostered us – as children.

Reflecting back now, what are the things that make you feel appreciative of Auroville?

When I was 18, I moved to the West to study, and to be honest I found it hard to explain where I was from. I was terrified of appearing as an outsider, and being from Auroville certainly didn’t help. Even my name felt like a signboard plastered on my forehead screaming, “I don’t belong here.” Thankfully, this changed over time. What I once tried to hide, I eventually could hide no longer. Auroville and the yoga practiced here stopped being something that needed explaining and, instead, became something I relied on – a tool and a posture that carried me through life.

The Yoga is the biggest gift I’ve taken from home, a resource I’ve used, even if only later on. You don’t realise these things when you’re a child, they’re just part of the air you breathe. Although, really, it only takes a few of life’s trials to learn their utility – and life is usually generous with those.

What were some of the moments where you had those first insights or shifts – when you realised, “Oh, I have this inside me, and I can tap into it”?

Those shifts tend to come knocking during moments of difficulty. At least, that was true for me. But it wasn’t a great external misfortune – it was more of an internal dissatisfaction with life. Everything I relied on for nourishment felt fleeting – relationships, especially romantic relationships, my interests, even my work, all seemed terribly sterile. I began to yearn for something lasting, something unmoving and unchanging. An anchor. Though, at the time, I don’t think I knew what that could be.

This was some ten years ago. I was pursuing a career as an artist in the luxury wine industry – a strange world, to say the least.

Could you talk briefly how you ended up in that world?

Sure, it’s a funny story! I was in the Netherlands, studying at university. One evening, while painting, I accidentally spilled some wine on my canvas and it sparked an idea: why not try painting with wine?

I spent about two years experimenting, boiling wine, and trying to find a formula to transform it into paint. My flat mates were not amused – our student house started to smell like a distillery, and the walls of our kitchen were turning a bright shade of purple. It became a kind of fixation. Eventually, I found my formula and thought: “Maybe I could do something with this technique.”

I moved to Bordeaux with my then-girlfriend and things snowballed from there. In a few years I found myself, a shy 21 year old, painting with wine for some of the world’s most prestigious wineries. They’d invite me to do things like live shows for their clients on cruise ships. I stood in front of large audiences – I even had to learn words like ‘tannin’ and ‘full-bodied’.

I began to work for various institutions and galleries and exhibited the work throughout France, Italy and other parts of Europe. Local papers started writing about it, and then suddenly I was receiving interview calls from publications like The Telegraph. People seemed to like what I was doing, and it sure felt good to be appreciated that way.

The project went on for several years, but the art I was creating began to feel dishonest, and dishonesty came with a price tag. I became anxiety ridden and sad for months on end. And besides, the whole thing was starting to feel kind of silly: who were all these people that praised the work anyway?

What happened next? How did you process those feelings?

COVID happened next, and it was a strange blessing. Work stopped, so I left Bordeaux and moved to Italy, settling in a small house by a river in the countryside. I lived frugally: no car or TV and only a trusty firewood-stove to brave the winters. I nurtured only a few close friendships. Quite unlike the life on the page I had just turned.

The pandemic gave me time and silence – two most precious gifts. It also gave me plenty of space to sit with my sadness which, I soon realised, intended to unpack its bags and settle in with me. Eventually it turned into an existential frustration and this went on for long. I began to frequent Buddhist monasteries and read Christian, Islamic and Hindu scriptures, and it helped a lot. But it wasn’t until one day I picked up a copy of The Mother’s Prayers & Meditations that I found deep consolation and comfort – like honey for a sore throat. Though I had known her teachings by heart from childhood, that day, as I read those pages, I questioned whether I had ever really read them before.

The words quenched my thirst. “Have I been sitting on this treasure all these years? And if so, why did I have to travel so far and long to be reunited with it?” – I complained to Her like a child would.

For some periods, I lived an almost monastic life and began retreating to the woods. They were moments of great replenishment – so much so, that I began to question why I ought to ever go back. Eventually that question always gave way to more pressing concerns – like the need for a hot shower or tending to tick-bites.

I always found my way back sooner rather than later, but one thing was clear: in those brief periods of solitude I found more fulfillment than years dwelling aimlessly in the cities.

My psychology professor told me something that helped me make sense of my predicament. “Auro!” he’d say, “If you stay in the world all the time, you’ll spread yourself too thin, losing your being. But if you stay out of it too long, you risk losing the pulse of life itself. Think of yourself as an accordion, Auro. At times, you must fold inward and gather yourself. But then, when you expand back into the world, you create music – offering your melody, without ever questioning why.” This touched me. It was a poetic analogy and it was also akin to the Integral Yoga I’d grown up with. For now, it felt like the right solution to my existential tug-of-war.

What are you currently studying?

I'm finishing up a master's degree that combines psychology and the healing arts. The decision came from a newfound sense of duty to align my creative efforts to something more...useful. And if I was to rejoin the circus of western society after COVID, I couldn’t, for the life of me, go back to wine-painting, so at the ‘ripe’ age of 29, I decided I ought to go back to school. I was awarded a scholarship and moved to Milan to undertake the intensive two-year degree. In this time I met my professor and other important teachers who shaped my practice and work. The programme was full-on. Over those two years, between wading through pages on Freud and Jung, I worked with individuals, psychiatric patients and even gypsy communities. It wasn’t easy, and it took a lot of my time – time, I confess, I would have sometimes preferred to spend in solitude.

What is an art therapist, and how does psychology, art and healing come together? Is it something that also enriches your own artistic expression or something you primarily offer to others?

Well, I’m not a physician, nor am I a healer with a magic wand – unfortunately. My role as an art therapist is more that of an investigator, one who works alongside someone to uncover the hidden resources they already possess within themselves to overcome a crisis or difficulty. At the heart of the practice is the quest to reclaim that luminous segment of our being unyielding to circumstance and untouched by the tides of the mind. I don’t rely on my skills as a therapist alone, but rather, on the belief that, as creative beings, we are capable of transforming even our darkest shadow into light. It’s in this certainty – or perhaps I should say faith – that I base the work. While we may not be able to find solutions to all of our life's trials, we may certainly, with a bit of grace, discover the resources we need to endure them.

In this context, then, creativity isn’t just something that bears fruit – it’s a seed for transformation, a way for life to push itself forward, away from immobility, ignorance and disease. In a moment of sorrow or hardship, even picking up a brush and doodling, however badly, or singing, however off-key, can become a sacred act – an ode to light. The healing arts are a language that speaks not in mastery, but in honesty. And every hand, no matter how inexperienced, deserves to express itself.

I’ve seen this while working in therapy with convicts in a high-security prison. These weren’t petty criminals; they were felons serving life sentences: people who’d been well acquainted with hell on earth before coming in there. When the opportunity was offered to me, I accepted it immediately because I wanted – and still hope to – understand the nature of suffering, and how could I do that if I was too afraid to even look at it? This is something my professor insisted on often: “We must be like alchemists of our own being,” he would say. “How can you expect to transform your lead into gold, if you’re too afraid to look at your sorrows? And we mustn’t despair, the more sorrow someone finds in themselves – the more lead they find – the richer with gold they will be when they finally decide to transform it.”

My colleagues and I spent months visiting the convicts to carry out workshops behind bars. One of the activities we proposed was making little spheres out of glue and newspaper, which were then painted yellow – like little balls of light. Hundreds of them! What at first seemed like a tedious and almost silly activity, in that context, became an act of joy. There were smiles and pats on the back when their work finally came together and hung on the gray prison walls. It was a strange magic, seeing a group of hardened prisoners, tattooed from head to toe, make coloured paper balls and proudly showcasing them to their fellow inmates and prison guards. I now understand that if we see our creative efforts – no matter how big, small, beautiful, or ugly – as important contributions not just to our community, but to life itself, as an offering for the sake of offering, then we’re on the right track. This was also the hope behind Bhumilucis, the project I carried out while volunteering with Auroville schools.

What was that like, making the exhibition?

Bhumilucis is a collaborative art exhibition involving nearly 100 Auroville school youth, aged 3½ to 14, using only Auroville earth and flora. It was inaugurated at the Citadines Centre d’Art in January. The project was deeply personal, and it offered me an opportunity to reconnect with the home I hold so dear – a home that has given me so much. I was also moved to see the school teachers, some many years ago, were my own teachers, playing a crucial role in sustaining the students and enriching the project with their dedication.

The project evolved very organically. We began by introducing the young artists to the idea of working together to create a unique earth-based exhibition. They were divided into groups, taking on responsibilities such as foraging, painting, or crafting their own earth-based paint, affectionately called “mud-goo.”

The focus was on creating something beautiful while fostering cohesion and harmony in their collaboration – a quality that, ironically, seemed to come far more naturally to them than it did to most adults I’ve worked with. At times, I heard the children say they didn’t like the piece they were working on, or that they thought a classmate had a better hand at drawing or colouring. But when all the pieces came together, they sang as one. It was no longer “my work” or “your work,” but a symphony that stood on its own. And the words in this melody spoke of their story – of who they are and where they’re from.

Finally, with our shared intention, three of Auroville’s schools came together to unite their individual pieces and, in the end, collectively forge our exhibition with a variety of installations, paintings, and “mandalas”.

The exhibition was always at the heart of what they did. It was important that, in the end, their efforts be displayed for all to enjoy. This gave the work a great deal of value. Each piece became a dialogue between the artists and their home, a homage to the land from which they hail. And when they inaugurated it, together with their parents, teachers, brothers, sisters and friends, it stood as a gift to the community – a celebration of their talent, unison and belonging. The overwhelming response from within and outside Auroville was deeply touching for everyone involved.

How did the idea come about? What inspired it?

The exhibition, Bhumilucis or Land of Light, is an attempt to create a visual union between spirit and matter through creative expression...an easy task! The name too reflects this well: Bhumi, meaning ‘land’ in Sanskrit, represents the material realm where we keep one foot firmly planted, while Lucis, meaning ‘of light’ in Latin, represents the ethereal realm where we place the other.

I like to think that we needn’t look very far to find spirit in matter. Our soil, especially Auroville’s earth, is so raw, vibrant, alive, and yes, I like to think, Divine. This project was born from a desire to honour it. And who better to collaborate with than Auroville’s school youth, who are so deeply tied to their land?

It is part of their lives; they play and run on it. No matter how much a parent might scrub – and scrub they do – their clothes remain coloured with it. It’s on their hands and feet, it’s in their hair and under their nails. It’s in their very being!

On some days, while working with them – hands dusted with earth, covered in the leaves and seeds we foraged – I’d find myself thinking that there is as much of a Work tree seed in the heart of an Auroville child as there is an Auroville child in the Work tree seed. Both carry the quiet promise of growth, of blossoming into tall, noble beings – rooted, reaching, and full of life.

Making the exhibition has been both an honour, and a learning experience. I cannot imagine that they learned from me even half as much as I did from them. The work the children created is, I believe, a promising testament to the community of their brilliance. It shows us that our creative gifts are, in fact, of utmost importance to the Order of this universe. And, like the accordion that asks not why it must fold inward and expand again, we too, with our music, can blossom from any internal hardship, back unto the light.