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A forest of one’s own: why even Virginia Woolf was felled by trees We’re sorry, this service is currently unavailable. Please try again later. Dismiss By Janine Burke Save Normal text size Advertisement I’m in a forest in a gallery. It’s a labyrinth made of drifting voile curtains in tones of mauve and silver, imprinted with towering images of trees. It reaches from ceiling to floor. Though in a public place, this forest makes me feel sequestered. It’s shadowy; tantalising. What’s around the bend? Revelation? A nasty surprise? I think of Little Red Riding Hood and the other fairytale children whose exploration of the forest symbolises maturity, courage and independence. The trek into the unconscious, the reward of self-knowledge, a process psychologist Bruno Bettelheim described as “the uses of enchantment”.

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