A stack of 215 enveloped that were holding the letters I have received.
28 January 25

The Making of my ACE project “Letters to Forever”: my 12 months’ journey

I am so excited to finally start sharing the process of my ACE project, Letters to Forever *. Documenting it in writing has been on my mind for a while. Thoughts come and go, and making them tangible feels like a good opportunity to see what works and what doesn’t. Being a solo concept creator, artist, project manager, curator, publisher, and speaker often feels overwhelming and lonely. Writing about it here helps.

Months 1-5 

So, what have I achieved since September 2024, when I received that life-changing email from ACE confirming my project grant (for which I am forever grateful)?

I locked myself in and read all the letters in three days. When I submitted my application to ACE, I included 150 letters. By the time I was approved, I had about 200. I spent three days binge-reading them. A note: I have been collecting these grief letters through an open call since 2021—three years by the time I applied for the grant. During that time, when letters arrived, I set them aside without opening them because I physically and emotionally couldn’t face it. I intuitively felt that something bigger was coming and that I should be patient and listen to my heart.

That weekend was so emotional. I cried and was buzzing with everyone’s stories of love, loss, pain, regret, anger, unresolved emotions, longing, respect, gratitude, and hope. It was an experience I had never felt before. It also brought me closer to my own grief. I realised that by plunging into other people’s stories and I wanted to run away from my own. But they were bringing me back. The process of reading, helped me develop my introspection, work through my of loss and build a new connection with my dad.

I chose a few letters and started responding to them intuitively. (Summertime, while I was waiting for the results, was filled with lots of tools, paper, and mark-making experimentation—fun! By then, I already knew what materials I would use for this project.) I read each letter aloud, recorded it on a voice app, played it back, and really listened to the words, focusing on the moment. Then I closed my eyes and started making marks with oil sticks, using my hands to glide the pastel across the paper. It was a process of being in the letter, having a dialogue with the author, and responding to them through drawing.

This felt heavy. The weight of responsibility kicked in. These people trusted me with their private grief stories. I had to honour that trust and do everything I could to make them seen, make the people they were written for remembered, and ensure this pain was acknowledged. To honour their contributions, I’ve also been seasonally updating all the authors of the letters to keep them in the loop about the process and express my gratitude. Without them, this project wouldn’t be happening.

In November, I stepped out of my comfort zone and did a test performance where I read 10 letters live for an audience of 20 people. It was nerve-wracking and very out of my element, but I wanted to challenge myself fully: no expectations of the outcome, being in the moment, and no rehearsals. I collaborated with a local guitar virtuoso who responded intuitively to my readings. This created a powerful impression on everyone, including us. It was an incredible exercise with lots of good lessons, especially as I plan to incorporate some live readings in my show in August.

Eventually, I made a plan: work on a maximum of three letters per session because doing more was too overwhelming. Over five months, I’m proud to say I processed and responded to all the letters with drawings. These drawings serve as a continuation of the words. Every letter became an artwork because I took care and time to sit with the pain, choose materials, assemble words, and, in some cases, include photographs, memorabilia, sketches, and notes.

Only one letter remains a blank page because I couldn’t do it. It was just too difficult.

As is typical, new ideas kept coming after the grant and project were approved. Juggling what’s possible has been tricky. The challenge is making decisions: Does this new idea add value to the project, even if it’s unique? What does it contribute?

I’m including all letters and a selection of my drawings, but I’m also working on other pieces like video, sound, scent work, and sculpture. Collaborating with other artists on this has been exciting—it’s also challenged my high levels of control! Learning from others and stepping back to incorporate their ideas is both thrilling and humbling.

I wrote a manifesto—a short list of rules guiding me through the process. My key point: Less is more. I often struggle to filter ideas and make decisions, as everything seems so important. Taking time to strip ideas down to their core is what I’m focusing on now. What to include? What to exclude? What are the key essentials?

Like many, I struggle with imposter syndrome: Is it good? Is it worth it? Does anyone care? I’m working on this because receiving the ACE grant is proof enough. A constant reminder to myself!

Beyond my creative work, I’ve been learning, exploring, and diving deeper into the topic of grief. I’ve been engaging with different online platforms and attending live events, which has been incredibly enriching. Some of my key inspirations at the moment include the Good Grief Festival, Tara Nash events, Curating Grief, Reimagine, and Grief Gang. Books: Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of Grief by David Kessler, The Grieving Brain by Mary-Frances O’Connor.

I’m also working on an art book that will include all the letters. Some letters are three pages long. This will be a heavy piece of compressed paper. Working with a publisher is another new experience I’m navigating.

The next few weeks will focus on marketing and exposure—planning workshops, finalizing aesthetics, and reaching out. I’m also arranging interviews with a local radio station and art and grief experts.

I had a photoshoot with the lovely @stephaniebeltonphotogtaphy who made the process easy and straightforward. She captured the story of my project beautifully.

I’ve also had meetings with the venue, St. Peter’s Church,  St Albans, where the exhibition and events will take place. It’s not a gallery space but a working church, so I have to consider functionality and layout. For example, I’ll need to make my 3x2m installation mobile so it can be folded away for Sunday services!

I chose this venue because I wanted a special space steeped in memories and history—a place for solace and reflection. It’s associated with key life events like birth, marriage, and death. The space has been newly refurbished. The white marble reflects the light, while the old stained-glass windows juxtapose beautifully with modern materials. I can’t wait to see my work in this space, even though I know it’ll take hours of adjusting and moving things around.

I’m thrilled to be working with Cruse, a leading UK bereavement charity. They are providing training for workshop leaders, offering support during events, and sharing useful resources. They even visited me in the studio! I believe inviting people into my studio to absorb the project helps them connect with my vision and goals.

Another organisation I’m collaborating with is Memory Support in Hertfordshire. I’m designing a workshop for companions of people with dementia, offering a few hours of self-care.

I’ve recently updated my website with the latest information on the show and events. Head over to www.nataliamillmanart.com to learn more on the story and the origin on this project. The best places to see its documentation will be my Instagram @nataliamillmanart and this platform, where I’ll share updates monthly.

Right now, I’m also on the hunt for chairs to include in the installation outside the venue. My garage storage space is officially non-accessible anymore—time to tidy up!

 

*“Letters to Forever” – A Visual Art Installation Turning Stories of Grief into Community Healing.

Letters to Forever is a 3-week immersive exhibition with interactive workshops on grief and loss. It is developed and led by British Ukrainian-born, Hertfordshire based multidisciplinary artist Natalia Millman, in partnership with Cruse Bereavement, Grief Encounter, Carers in Hertfordshire, with public funding from Arts Council England.

Held 6th-28th August 2025, at St Peter’s Church, St Albans, Hertfordshire, it is aimed at individuals experiencing or curious about loss, with a focus on the Ukrainian community and companions of people with dementia. It redefines societal views on grief and loss as a platform for public creative expression, using personal storytelling to advocate for a more holistic and empathetic approach.

The exhibition features an installation of over 200 public letters and the artist’s responses to them through drawing, sound, sculpture, a book, community canvas, and performance.

The letters have been collected since 2021 in response to an open call, with consent to exhibit. The show includes three sound pieces: a meditation on loss, a sound bath, and a piece transferring text into music. The performance incorporates letters, sound, video, movement and live readings. During the exhibition, five community workshops are held by local art and grief practitioners, with two focused on the Ukrainian community and companions of people living with dementia, created in collaboration with project partners and under expert supervision. Workshops will include: mindful clay, somatic movement, writing, art.

Focusing on Hertfordshire, the artist fosters local engagement, making it accessible and impactful. The exhibition is held in one of the oldest churches in England, a space that embodies reflection, community, and solace, inviting all to explore themes of loss and healing, regardless of spiritual belief.

The artist says: “‘Letters to Forever” is a deeply personal journey, born from my own grief after my father’s loss, shaped by the grief of others. I believe in the power of art to connect and heal, to turn pain into something that breathes empathy, supporting a model of continuing bonds. My exhibition seeks to offer gentle tools for those navigating grief, highlight the power of art creating a safe and inclusive space where vulnerability is welcome.”

A drawing in response to a greif letter.

 

 

 

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26 February 25

Month 6/12

February was a strange month—partially optimistic with spring approaching but also filled with doubt as many decisions needed to be made. Time is ticking, and I am halfway through my project. I met some lovely people through a few courses I got involved in. One is run by the Good Grief Festival, based in Bristol, whose work I always appreciate. They provide online webinars and workshops on grief education, psychology, and the science behind it. One of my favorite scientists studying the grieving brain, Mary-Frances O’Connor, was part of it, sharing her new book on the grieving body. I am excited to get it soon when it reaches the UK!

Another course I am doing now is run by Annie Frost Nicholson in collaboration with the Loss Project. I am grateful for her holding space for our group, where we share, create, and sit with our grief.

I am loving Conscious Grief book by talented Tara Nash- a spiritual psychologist, grief coach and Kundalini yoga practitioner.

I have finished drawing all 215 letters! Yes, I managed to get through it. That was the plan—to get the hardest bit out of the way. Now, I will be working on selecting drawings to include in the installation, as not all of them will fit.

The main challenge of reading the letters and drawing them was the variety of emotions that seeped through the pages. There is so much tenderness, but also so much confusion and, on some occasions, anger. This shows how complex grief is as an emotion, and how grieving, as a process, is multi-dimensional and not bound by time. According to Mary-Frances, 60% of people are resilient enough to move through grief naturally. Grief is learning, adapting to a new reality, rewiring our brains, mindfully dosing it, being present, and noticing the opportunities for connection and joy.

I could only handle three letters in one sitting and had to create a sort of emotional wall for protection. I keep telling myself that I can’t fix this—the only thing I can do is take responsibility for honouring the authors and those to whom the letters are written, by telling their story and responding to them with my drawings. A dialogue between two strangers. There is a clear need for these shadows to arise, for people to be heard.

It is interesting to notice how grief transforms lives—new shoots arise, hope emerges amidst the darkness and pain, new skills are learned, self-discoveries are made. Looking at other people’s grief helped me examine my own in more detail instead of numbing it. I looked through some letters and notes my dad left. He always left brief, descriptive notes if we missed each other—telling where he was, when he would be back, what was in the fridge, what he had done, and what needed to be done. These made me laugh and cry at the same time.

Why am I drawn to some letters more than others? Some stories sink deep within me. Some drift past. I guess we connect to what we store in our own memory bank.

In terms of the creative process, I feel like I am in my own bubble, boiling in this grief juice, and the more I am in it, the more I want to be here. I have reduced my perfectionist expectations by acknowledging that mistakes will happen and that imperfection is fine. In the end, this is my project. I am fully absorbed in the process, and the rest of the world doesn’t exist. This is probably not the healthiest or best way to approach it. I push myself to meet other artist friends, to switch my attention, and to see other shows before I return to my own deep waters.

One of the revelations was how somatic this experience is—making this kind of work. The physiology of grief is scientifically proven; it lives within us and manifests in various ways. I have created a selection of full-size figure drawings mapping grief inside me. My throat chakra is struggling, my chest is congested. Breath is what pushes grief through. Breath is everything.

My art has always been reluctant to be close to form, so abstracting it even more was an interesting approach—creating the fluidity of emotion. Reading each letter is a kind of ritual, a meditation. With each breath, I visualize pictures, imagine the characters from the letters, and guess what they feel. It is all a big guess, a try, an attempt to connect. It is a disciplined, conscious way to sit with discomfort until it shifts and a drawing grows—something new emerges.

I am working on a new piece incorporating frequently used phrases from the letters: I miss, I am sorry, I hope, I wish. Nearly every letter contains one or more of these. The fabric is embroidered with these words.

I created a scent in collaboration with my very good friend Laura who runs Evolve Beauty. Together we combined a perfect blend of organic aromatherapy oils that stimulate curiosity, soothe the aching heart while giving you a glimpse of the abyss. Cypress oil is the main character here with the legend of the boy’s grief was such that it transformed him into a cypress tree, a classical symbol of mourning.  I am working on the way to present it at my show in August.

 

It is fascinating to observe how varied people’s understanding of energy and continuity is—how some feel their loved one’s presence, while others do not. How our religious and spiritual beliefs shift or newly form. How we see the void behind the vanishing point.

 

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