“Gentlemen, there is more in heaven and earth than is dreamt up in our philosophy.”

Art is weirder and more powerful than most of us give it credit for. As an artist, it can sometimes feel difficult to see any purpose in what you make. In grey moments, it seems meaningless. That is far from the truth. In reality, art is an outpouring of unseen forces that lie beneath and above us, of which most of us are not aware.

Here I will examine and reflect on this perspective through Jung’s concept of archetypes as they appear through art. First, in a general sense, and then in one specific instance within my own art. Finally, I will address a fundamental question that arises from engaging with art from a Jungian perspective, and consider the implications in relation to my art production. 

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Archetypes in Art

“Whoever speaks in primordial images speaks with a thousand voices; he enthrals and overpowers, while at the same time he lifts the idea he is seeking to express out of the occasional and the transitory into the realm of the ever-enduring. He transmutes our personal destinies into the destiny of mankind, and evokes in us all those beneficent forces that have enabled humanity to find a refuge from every peril and to outlive the longest night… That is the secret of great art, and of its effect upon us.” – Jung

What is an archetype? In Jung’s “On the Relation of Analytic Psychology to Poetry”, which is the predominant text I draw from when discussing Jung’s ideas in this essay, he defines them as this: “The primordial image, or archetype, is a figure be it a daemon, a human being, or a process – that constantly recurs in the course of history and appears wherever creative fantasy is freely expressed. Essentially, therefore, it is a mythological figure. When we examine these images more closely, we find that they give form to countless typical experiences of our ancestors.”

When examining the human mind, psyche, and imagination, you quickly become aware that there is much more existing within than can be accounted for simply by childhood experiences, the influence of the environment and the parents. And you also become aware of one way this vast web we experience inside us, some of which can be called archetypal, expresses itself in our physical world: through art.

Art is storytelling, and stories are powerful. What we repeat about ourselves and our lives always becomes true. Myths are a form of truth. Eras and empires are defined by their stories and art. Propaganda is a form of art. Stories get stuck to us. What does it mean if these things do not come purely from “us”, but are rather independently recurring patterns external to us which have followed us through our evolution? When you start engaging with them, they clearly respond. The inner world and the outer world are aligned, are the same. To dismiss the power of the unconscious over the universe is to make a foolish error.

This is best shown through synchronisty. There is Jung’s famous incident with the scarab beetle, wherein he was listening to a woman explain her dream about a scarab beetle, when one flew against the glass behind him. I, too, routinely encounter my own synchonisties, especially when I make art, but I do not have the space to explain them here. Their nature is that they are most meaningful when you personally experience them, and they sound hollow when you recount them. I will not do them that disservice here. But the existence of this phenomena speaks to the reality and capability of that which inhabits the human mind.

Are these archetypes “real” independent entities or are they just patterns evolved in the human psyche? Well, why not both? Images have power: in the imagination, on paper or canvas, and when they show up in waking life, too. Why does it matter if they are “real”, when even if they are not, they still have immense say and sway over the course of humanity?

Before I further examine what I consider to be a specific archetype recurring in my work, note that I do not consider the concept of archetypes rationally when I am making and organising them on paper and canvas. They are spontaneous, and I can only theorise in this detached, academic way about them after time has passed from making my art and I can look back. I have no specific context in my mind when I make them. Context always comes afterwards for me.

I think it is gross and uncomely to overly discuss art, to overly theorise it about it, and specifically for the artist themselves to do so. It is better that other people, with the interest to do so, theorise about what an artist has made. Viewers should find their own meaning themselves, and it should never be handed to them on a silver platter.

Wounds and Healing

“God is both omnipotent and in pain. […] In the Old Testament scenes of hurt, Jehovah enters sentience by producing pain; Jesus instead enters sentience by healing, and, even more important, by himself becoming the object of touch, the object of vision, the direct object of hearing.” – The Body in Pain, Elaine Scarry 

We have always had to deal with wounds, ever since we have had bodies. Wounds are cyclical events we will always live with. The archetypes surrounding wounds and healing are a central theme in all art, and also within my art.

Images of wounds are very deep in the collective unconscious, due to all mankind has endured throughout history. We generally turn our noses up at gore, but imagine all that your ancestors witnessed. We were, and are, hunters, custodial herdsmen, we are victims and perpetrators of war, we suffered at the hands of nature, and at the hands of our fellow people. Therefore, images of wounds evoke a primal response in us. Blood is life and loss. Sustenance and trauma, at once. It is present at birth, and often also at death.

In Papua New Guinea, there is a traditional initiatory rite into adulthood which involves ritual scarification. Depending on the tribe, it is done to both men and women, from varying ages- usually anywhere from puberty to thirty years old. While staying in a spirit house, the skin of the initiates is cut in dotted lines and patterns, and then tended to with clay and oil in such a way that the scars heal as raised bumps. While the wounds heal, the initiates stay in the spirit house and are taught important life skills. The entire process can last two months.

This gives those who complete the rite the look of a crocodile, a sacred animal. It is a terribly painful process. It is common to pass out, and there have been cases of initiates not surviving. It is a powerful, symbolic rebirth- once someone has completed this ritual, they know they can handle anything that life serves them. They become more fully respected members of their community.

“The ceremony is actually quite beautiful, seeing this rebirth of the women,” said Simet. […]

Pain plays a big role in the process, he said. It’s said if these women can endure this amount of pain, they can become stronger, more knowledgeable people.

“It’s scientific really,” Simet said. “When someone is in pain, they tend to remember what they are learning. So it’s kind of like that.” (x)

The crocodile scarring is an extreme example. Other cultures have and have had various types of initiatory rituals which are not always so painful. However, many of us in the “West” do not live in a culture which still enacts this type of rite of passage at all, in any form. But sometimes life springs one upon us, and forces transformations, and we do not get the luxury of consent in the matter. These spontaneous “initiations” do not happen in a safe, ritual context which we can control, guided by our living elders, but rather are thrown at us chaotically, dangerously. That is the price western culture pays for not taking transitory rituals seriously.

I am certain you know what I am speaking of- either it has happened to you, or to someone you know, to a greater or lesser extent. Integrating these experiences, surviving, and thriving with them, speaks to one’s stability, wisdom, endurance.

To live with a healed wound is a sign of strength. It is worthy of both respect and compassion. Every person lives with some degree healed wounds, because wounds happen in accordance with the flow of life. Therefore, everyone deserves compassion. Healing happens, too. Healing is personal and you must learn how to do yourself. Routes towards healing are different for every person. To discover how to heal yourself and possibly also how to support the healing of others, is to unlock an essential and mystic skill. It is “shamanic”. Healing elevates you. It demonstrates wisdom and knowledge of the constitution of one’s self and the world, and the relation between the two. Healing shows you know how to live in balance.

A healing wound sits in between two states: that of injury and severance and that of life and wholeness. Destruction and creation. In a comparable way, many spiritual paths seek to balance their practitioners between two worlds: the seen and unseen world. It is this ability to cross back and forth between the worlds which makes healing possible, both emotionally and physically. To be wounded is to be struck with knowledge, like Eve biting the apple and being cast out. To then heal is to learn to live in balance with that knowledge, and to make your own Eden.

I must interject that I do not mean to imply that those who cannot heal are weak. Eventually we all will pass, and sometimes healing means knowing when it is time to move on from this life. That is not weak. In the best case scenario we do that in old age and with dignity, after a full life. But for some people, that time comes earlier than we would like it to. It is also shamanic to comfort those who must make this transition, to be a psychopomp.

These themes of wounding and/or healing show up everywhere in art and myth, and the majority must be excluded for brevity. A classic image would be the Crucifixion and the Pietá. Another western story would be St. Sebastian. As far as contemporary artists who repeat these themes, I immediately think of Francis Bacon, and of his middle figure in his triptych “Three Studies for a Crucifixion” that Bacon described as “shot to pieces on a bed.” (x)

There is no way to escape being wounded in life, so you also have to learn how to heal those wounds. No one else can do that for you. Other people can help only to a certain extent. When I paint a wound, or blood, it eventually takes on this higher meaning for me. It is an expression of beauty and resilience of life, of the human mind and spirit, of my own mind and spirit. It’s a language of duality, which only some of us consciously know how to speak.

Possession vs. Free Will?

“People don’t have ideas. Ideas have people.” – Jung

Now, after sitting with idea that art comes from primordial archetypes, and from outside of the artist, a dilemma arises for the artist: Do I express my art, or is my art expressing me? This is a comical question, because it assumes that the conscious self is one whole person, who is completely in control. We only like to pretend that we are a linear identity who is in control of ourselves, when in reality we are wholly subject to our subconscious drives, which is like being piloted by a multitude of ghosts. That is the conclusion that Jungian psychoanalysis comes to.

Yes, we need to hold onto that linear, conscious concept of self in order to function in our day-to-day lives, but it is an illusion. Some artists are aware of this. Others confidently delude themselves into thinking their ideas come only from them, and not from the ghosts swarming underneath them. The ghosts swarming underneath you do not care if you know about them or not- they will still use you either way. Though, if you consciously reach out to them, they undeniably reach back.

When an artist gets to business making art, and locks themselves up in their studio, and envelops themselves in their chosen medium, it is comparable to a séance session. For those who seek paranormal encounters, one method is simply to sit in dim light and scribble on paper. Eventually, words will come through the paper, and they are thought to be from entities outside you, which use your writing as a medium to communicate. This is called automatic writing. I see no reason why artists would be exempt from “automatic art-making”, even if that is not their intention. For me, a similar mental state is achieved in the flow of painting, as is achieved within ritual space. Messages and symbols then easily come through- what could stop them?

Jung argues that the artist is separate from the art, and indeed is only a medium or tool which the art uses to express itself in the world. He explains that to psychoanalyse the artist is to say nothing useful about the art itself, and that artistic inspiration is a separate entity from the artist which uses the artist to manifest its purpose and will. According to Jung, approaching the analysis of art from a Freudian perspective, in which the psyche is contained within itself and the artist’s intentions and psychology are interrogated, yields almost no information about the actual art.

When evaluating art, the question should not be, “for what reason or with what motivation did the artist make this work?” But instead, “For what reason and to what end is this art using this artist? And what is the motivation and symbolism of this art by itself?”

So yes, artists are possessed. But everyone else is also possessed. Therefore you should not be afraid of artists, unless you are also going to be afraid of all other people, and yourself, too. Free will exists; it just might not be “your” will.

This line of thought explains why certain people become militant towards certain ideologies and their ends- it is because the ideology is using them. Keep that in mind when someone harshly espouses something you disagree with.

The Effect of These Ideas on The Production of My Art

“The only duty and destiny we acknowledged was that each one of us should become so completely himself, so utterly faithful to the active seed which nature planted within him, that in living out its growth he could be surprised by nothing unknown to come.” – Demian, Herman Hesse

People ask me why I paint what I paint, or where the ideas come from, and I usually say something along the lines of “I don’t know” or “I just felt like it” or “It came to my mind and I liked it.” This response is seen as dodging the question, being evasive, secretive or stubborn. Some people have been frustrated when I give this response. But in reality, it is none of that. I am being quite honest, and my response is more complex and nuanced than it seems. Sometimes I cannot easily explain my art, and I do not believe that all art needs to be explained.

I do resonate with the content and form of my paintings, and I do feel like some of my paintings are explorations of parts of “me”, and they say something about “me”. But how did the images I paint become attached to my psyche in the first place? How did they become part of “me”? I view them as upwellings of the human past. I think of myself as being in conversation with the unseen other. Because I recognise this eternal conversation, because I play and rejoice in it, I am able to be an artist.

I was recently struck when looking back through my sketchbooks from my teenage years just how often certain images and scenes repeat themselves, and also renew themselves. I had forgotten that they started so young.

When you live in conversation with yourself and with the current of other people and the world around you, when you understand the constitution of the times and seasons, it is no longer mysterious why artists paint certain images. You no longer crave clear explanations of art. You can engage with art on its own terms. As I have mentioned, according to Jung, the artist is not the right person to interrogate about the art- instead, you should interrogate the art itself.

Personally, I’m excited to have the space to make art again, and I’m excited to uncover what lies ahead of me, and I know I’m still only at the beginning of my journey. I know I am still a fledgling. I’ve only just started. I have so, so much to do, and I can’t stand any more delays.

“A lifetime is not so long. You cannot wait for a tool without blood on it.” – Joseph Beuys

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This has only been a very surface and preemptive dive on the subject of art and archetypes, and there is much more to say that I was unable to fit here.

We cannot conclude without again recognising, that while artists are most visibly under the influence of these archetypal patterns and powers, everyone is subject to them. It is not only autonomous artists which express the creative impulse. All media also expresses it, all music, all movies and all design, all comedies, all tragedies, all horror, all academic institutions and publications and research, dance and performance, fashion, the layouts of cities and streets, of businesses and public spaces, of games and gatherings, of everything that humans do and make, of everything both good and evil and every mixture and shade of good and evil. There is a volition behind all of it that does not come from “us”, but which we also cannot extricate our identities from.

When you become aware of this, everything in life is much more fun, more playful, makes more sense, and tastes much better. You learn to ride with the waves the collective unconscious, and let them wash over you. It’s better and more effective than struggling against them. These waves lead to exquisite paths when you are able to engage them in a healthy way which is in tune with the heartbeat of existence. Human lives should be enjoyed to their fullest extent, and it is easier to do that when you have an awareness of the underlying archetypal machinations upon which we float.