DATE
August 14, 2026
CATEGORY
Reflections
READING TIME
4 Min
My Scars—I Am Entirely Woven from Them
BY DR. STEPHEN MURPHY-SHIGEMATSU
French artist Hélène Gugenheim applies gold leaf to the scars of those who have lived through illness and surgery — then removes it. What remains is not a prettier scar, but a witnessed one.
A project by the French artist Hélène Gugenheim offers one of the most striking contemporary extensions of kintsugi. In a carefully structured ritual, she applies gold leaf to the scars of people who have undergone illness, surgery, and bodily transformation. When the gold is later removed, the scar remains unchanged, but it has been touched with care, made visible, and witnessed. The purpose is not to declare the injury beautiful, but to honor the healing — the life that has continued through and beyond it.
The project began around 2015, when Gugenheim saw the mastectomy scar of a woman named Marie.
"When I saw Marie's scar, I saw a mix of strength and fragility. It was amazing. I saw not only the injury, but the healing. At one point or another, you're hurt: in your skin, in your heart, sometimes. You have to go on with that. And you can't go on exactly the same way you were used to: you have to create a new way to go on."
Gugenheim subsequently worked with others, including Olivier, who had undergone numerous skin grafts because of a large facial hemangioma. What she created was more than body decoration. The participant enters a quiet studio and undresses. A craftsperson applies gold leaf to the scars, and the person then rests and breathes, with permission to sleep, cry, sing, or simply remain silent. The participant decides when they are ready to have the gold removed and placed in a small vial marked with their name and the date.
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The process is documented through photography and film. The artist, the gilder, the photographer, and eventually the viewer become witnesses — not only to the wound, but also to the healing.
Not a return, but a continuation
The removal of the gold shows that the ritual is not an attempt to beautify or conceal the scar permanently. The scar remains a scar, part of the fabric of the self. Healing is not a return to the person we were before. It is discovering how to continue as the person we have now become. What may change is how the scar is seen and held.
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Gugenheim moves kintsugi from metaphor into the body. The cracked vessel is no longer merely like a wounded person. The human body itself bears the golden line. Yet her emphasis is on healing rather than injury. The gold does not proclaim that the wound was good or necessary. It honors the work that the body and the person have done to live beyond it. The scar becomes precious not because of the injury, but because of the healing.
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The person bearing the scar also retains agency. Participants choose to enter, choose to reveal their bodies, determine the pace, and signal when the ritual is complete. The witnessing is consensual and reverent, not intrusive.
Complicating the cliché
I find it refreshing that Gugenheim's work complicates the cheerful cliché that kintsugi makes everything "more beautiful than before." Her participants bear marks of cancer, surgery, congenital illness, and repeated medical intervention. Gold does not compensate for these experiences. It creates a temporary space in which the scar can be regarded without shame— as evidence not only of what happened, but of the person who continued living.
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Gugenheim hopes that people looking at the photographs and films will see themselves as if in a mirror and ask, "Where are my scars? How am I rebuilding myself, inside and out? Everyone has a body, everyone gets injured, and everyone heals. The scar is the mark of our humanity."
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Vulnerable and poetic, her project reminds us that we all must go on with our wounds— emotional or physical — and find ways to reinvent, regenerate, and heal.