Part 4: Symbolism in the Visual Arts

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You ever stop and think about how much meaning we pack into things, things that aren't literally saying anything, like a certain shape, maybe an animal, even just a rock.

They could all trigger these really deep feelings,

understandings, even without a single word.

Absolutely.

Fascinating.

So today we're plunging into that, well, that often hidden world.

You're about to take a deep dive with us into symbolic imagery, the power of archetypes and the ever influential unconscious mind.

Exactly.

And our guide for this whole exploration is a really insightful chapter, Eniela Jaffe's Symbolism in the Visual Arts.

It's from that classic work, Man and His Symbols.

I know the one.

And this isn't just about pretty pictures, it's really about trying to understand the fundamental language of the human psyche across all of time.

Okay, so what's our mission here with this chapter?

What are the kind of key insights we're hoping to pull out?

Well, Jaffe's work here, it has this really interesting two -part structure.

First, she shines a light on these universal, almost primal symbols, the ones that really resonate across cultures throughout history, things like the stone, the animal, the circle.

The big ones.

The big ones, yeah.

We'll be tracing their significance and looking at why they hold such, well, enduring power.

Then she kind of shifts her focus to the 20th century, exploring how modern art itself,

how it can be seen as a powerful symbol reflecting the psychological state of our times.

Oh, okay.

So it's really a journey from the ancient to the modern all through this lens of symbolism.

Sounds like we're decoding a hidden language today.

Let's start with something that seems so basic, so grounded,

the stone.

You might just see a rock, but Jaffe shows there's this whole universe of meaning packed inside it.

Absolutely, think about it.

Before we had elaborate architecture, carefully crafted objects, these natural, unhewn stones, they often held immense symbolic weight.

Just as they were found.

Pretty much.

Jaffe points out that in many early societies, these weren't just inert objects.

They were often seen as dwelling places for spirits or even gods.

Essentially, nature's temples, right?

They also served as really powerful markers, from simple tombstones connecting us to the afterlife, to boundary stones, defining territories, both physical and maybe spiritual territories.

And of course, they were frequently objects of deep religious veneration.

It's almost like the earliest form of sculpture, isn't it?

Just picking a stone, placing it with intention that transforms it, gives it this inherent expressive quality.

That's a great way to put it.

And you can really see that in the story from the Old Testament about Jacob's dream.

Oh, that's a perfect example.

It shows how a seemingly ordinary stone becomes this really potent symbol.

So Jacob uses a stone as a pillow, right?

And in his dream, he has this profound connection to the divine.

Right, the ladder to heaven.

Exactly, but the story doesn't just end there.

When he wakes up, that stone isn't just tossed aside.

He sets it up as a pillar, anoints it with oil, and it becomes the cornerstone of a sacred place he names Bethel, house of God.

So this rock literally transforms from something functional, a pillow,

to this powerful symbol of a divine encounter,

a tangible link between the human and the sacred.

Precisely.

And Jeffy then broadens this out, looking at how in many ancient holy sites, you find not just one sacred stone, but like collections of unhewn stones arranged in specific patterns.

What's the significance there?

Well, think of those massive alignments at Karnak where the iconic circle of Stonehenge, these deliberate geometric arrangements of rough stones dating way, way back.

They suggest complex rituals, maybe religious processions, and a deep understanding of cosmic order.

But then Jeffy offers this really fascinating contrast with the seemingly random arrangements you find in Zen Buddhist rock gardens.

Oh yeah, those gardens are so intriguing.

They look almost haphazard, yet Jeffy emphasizes that their arrangement is actually a casually cultivated expression of profound spirituality.

Exactly.

It makes you wonder if sometimes the absence of obvious human -imposed order can be an even more powerful symbolic statement.

That's a really insightful point.

And this brings us to the next stage in the stone's symbolic journey, the point where humans actually start to work the stone, shaping it into more recognizable forms.

Right.

Jeffy highlights the ancient menhirs, sometimes bearing rudimentary carvings of faces, the Greek herme that evolved from simple boundary markers into more defined figures, and those early stone idols with clear human features.

What's the shift in meaning here?

This is where it gets really interesting, I think.

Jeffy suggests that this act, giving the stone a human -like form,

it's a projection of unconscious content onto it.

It's like they're imbuing this inanimate material with aspects of their own inner world, their own understanding of themselves, and maybe the divine.

That's a key insight.

And it's pretty remarkable to see how that impulse continues to resonate even in modern art.

Jeffy discusses this trend in contemporary sculpture where artists consciously try to let the stone speak for itself, you know, minimizing their intervention, allowing the natural form of the material to take center stage.

She mentions artists like Hans Eichbacher and James Rosati, and especially Max Ernst.

His words really stick with you.

He talked about working with these glacier boulders already shaped by nature and simply scratching runes of our own mystery onto them.

I like that.

It's like he's collaborating with the ancient history held within the stone itself.

That quote is so evocative, this idea of a deeply personal mystery being inscribed onto something so ancient, so elemental.

Jeffy doesn't offer like a definitive interpretation of Ernst's mystery here, but she implies that these modern artistic explorations, this desire to connect with the inherent qualities of the stone, it isn't so far removed from the ancient reverence for the spirit of the stone.

Right.

It really blurs that line between religion and art, doesn't it?

The stone, in its many forms, remains this enduring symbol, whether it's revered in some sacred grove or contemplated in a modern art museum.

And shifting from the stillness of the stone, Jeffy then guides us to another incredibly powerful and long -lasting symbol,

the animal.

It's a realm just brimming with meaning, isn't it?

Oh, the animal kingdom, yeah.

What an endless source of symbolism that is.

Jeffy starts by taking us way back, like to the Ice Age, those breathtaking cave paintings in France and Spain.

It's almost impossible to really grasp the sheer timeframe we're talking about.

It truly is, and Jeffy emphasizes that initially, the profound importance of these images was, well, underestimated.

It wasn't until the early 20th century that archeologists fully recognized that these weren't just primitive sketches.

They were evidence of a sophisticated prehistoric culture with a complex understanding of their world and a really powerful artistic tradition.

And there's this sort of strange magic that seems to still emanate from these caves.

Jeffy mentions Herbert Kuhn's accounts of local people in those regions actually avoiding them, filled with a sense of religious awe or even fear of spirits.

Incredibly.

It's incredible to think that even today, some nomadic peoples in North Africa leave votive offerings before these ancient rock paintings.

It speaks to this kind of unbroken connection across millennia.

It really underscores the enduring sense of the sacred tied to these sites.

Jeffy even mentions a 15th century papal decree prohibiting religious ceremonies in a specific cave that contained horse pictures.

It highlights just how long these animal images have been associated with religious significance and potentially even, you know, pre -Christian beliefs.

And the sheer effort involved in just getting to some of these painted chambers, those narrow dark passages you have to crawl through it, strongly suggests a deliberate act, right?

A desire to protect their mystery and maybe to create an overwhelming, transformative experience when you finally encounter the artwork.

It points to the immense value and importance these images held for those early humans.

And while the Paleolithic cave paintings primarily depict animals with just astonishing artistic skill,

Jeffy highlights that there are numerous details suggesting something far beyond just, you know, naturalistic representation.

What else might they have signified?

Well, one of the more startling aspects is the evidence that many of these paintings seem to have been used as targets.

The horse at Montespan covered in spear marks, that clay bear model with dozens of holes.

It feels almost disrespectful to our modern sensibilities,

but Jeffy connects this to the practice of hunting magic, which is still found in some indigenous cultures today.

The underlying idea there is that the painted animal serves as a kind of double of the real creature.

And through sympathetic magic, the belief that what happens to the image will affect the real thing and the hunters could influence their success.

Jeffy notes that the same principle, this identification between image and reality, might explain why many traditional cultures show a reluctance to be photographed even today.

That makes sense.

And beyond just ensuring a successful hunt, some of these cave pictures clearly relate to fertility rites, depicting animals mating, like those famous bison in the Tuktutu Bear Cave.

So the animal image isn't just about survival in a practical sense, it's also deeply connected to the continuation of life itself.

But perhaps the most captivating figures are these enigmatic semi -human beings, the ones in animal disguise found alongside the purely animal depictions.

Oh yeah, those are wild.

The flute player in the Trois Frères Cave, the dancing Lord of the Animals figure with antlers, a horse's head, bear's paws.

These are powerful and mysterious images that have puzzled researchers for ages.

They really ignite the imagination.

And Jaffe draws on contemporary examples from traditional African societies to offer potential insights, the significant role of animals and animal disguises in initiation ceremonies, secret societies, even within the structure of monarchy, where kings and chiefs are symbolically linked to powerful animals like lions and leopards.

We even see echoes of this in historical titles, like the Lion of Judah or the Lion of Nyasaland.

The crucial point here, Jaffe argues, is that in these more primal nature -connected cultures, the chief or the ritual figure in full animal disguise isn't merely putting on a costume, he becomes the animal spirit.

He embodies the ancestor, the primal god, the totem animal of the group.

So he is the animal in that moment.

Exactly.

So that dancing figure in the cave, Jaffe suggests, could very well be interpreted as a transformed animal demon, a powerful representation of the spirit world.

And Jaffe even mentions the Burmese Buffalo dance as a more modern example of these animal dances, where mask performers seem to be almost taken over by the very essence of the animal they represent.

It really highlights the enduring nature of this ancient connection between humans and the animal world in a symbolic and spiritual sense.

Over time, Jaffe explains, the complete animal disguise often evolved into the use of animal and demon masks in rituals.

The remarkable artistry of these masks, the reverence they were accorded, and their symbolic function allowing the wearer to temporarily shed their individual identity and embody the archetypal animal demon, all point to a sophisticated understanding of the power of symbolism.

And dance was clearly an integral part of these rituals, wasn't it?

The movements completing the transformation,

almost as if the spirits themselves were being invoked through the act of dancing.

Kuhn's discovery of those heel prints and circling the animal figures in the Tugdudu Bear Cave really brings that to life.

You can almost imagine those ancient bison dances performed for fertility and a successful hunt.

This all ties in beautifully with Dr.

Young's concept of the individual in a traditional society and their totem animal, what he called the bush soul.

The initiation rites, like circumcision, can be seen symbolically as a kind of sacrifice of the individual's animal being in order to gain the animal soul and fully enter the human world, become a man.

And Jaffe brings in that striking East Coast African description of the uncircumcised as being considered animals, because neither their human nor animal aspects have fully become conscious, leading to a dominance of their instinctual animal side.

It really powerfully illustrates this profound understanding of the delicate balance between our instinctual and conscious selves.

Ultimately, Jaffe concludes, the animal motif in art generally symbolizes humanity's primitive and instinctual nature.

And while we, in more civilized societies, might like to think we've transcended this, we all still experience the powerful pull of autonomous, unconscious emotions.

This is even more pronounced in cultures with perhaps less developed conscious awareness.

And she uses that powerful example from Dr.

Young of the African man who, in a fit of rage, killed his son and was then immediately overcome with remorse.

The animal demon becomes such a vivid and relatable symbol for those sudden,

overwhelming, unconscious impulses that can just erupt within us.

The very act of giving it a name, a symbolic form,

allows for a relationship with this powerful inner force, even if that relationship is one of fear and attempts at appeasement through sacrifice and ritual.

We see echoes of this in so many myths and legends, the story of a primal animal being sacrificed for the sake of fertility or creation, like the Persian myth of Mithras slaying the bull or the Christian tale of St.

George babbling the dragon.

These stories just resonate deeply within the human psyche.

The widespread practice of ascribing animal attributes to supreme gods or even representing them entirely as animals across various religions, the Babylonian zodiac, the Egyptian deities with animal heads, the Hindu pantheon with its many animal gods, or even creatures like elephants and lions are sometimes placed hierarchically above humans.

It really underscores just how deeply ingrained this symbolism is in our collective consciousness.

Even in the mythologies of Greece and the Germanic tribes, we see this Zeus transforming himself into various animals or the creatures sacred to goddesses like Freya and gods like Lotan.

And surprisingly, animal symbolism plays a significant, though perhaps less obvious, role even within Christianity.

How so?

Well, you have the symbolic animals of the four evangelists, Christ depicted as the lamb and the fish, the serpent on the cross, and the powerful imagery of the lion and the unicorn.

It's striking, as Jaffe points out, that even the ultimate representation of humanity, Christ himself, is so closely linked to these animal symbols.

It suggests that even the divine cannot fully separate itself from our inherent animal nature, symbolizing that the sacred encompasses both the subhuman and the superhuman realms.

Yeah, a beautiful idea really captured in the humble scene of the Christmas stable.

This leads to a truly vital point.

Jaffe argues that for us to achieve psychological wholeness, it's crucial to integrate the psychic content embodied by these animal symbols, our instincts, into our conscious lives.

An animal in its natural state is neutral, right?

It just follows its inherent nature.

But human instinct, if it remains unrecognized, unacknowledged, and unintegrated, can become incredibly dangerous.

We have the capacity to suppress, distort, and even wound our instincts, often leading to far greater inner conflict and potential harm.

And that common dream, the one where you're being chased by an animal, it suddenly takes on a much deeper meaning in this context.

It's like that split -off, unacknowledged instinct trying to break through and be reintegrated into our conscious awareness.

Jaffe says that the more menacing the animal in the dream, the more deeply unconscious our primitive soul has become, and therefore, the more critical that process of integration is to prevent potential psychological harm.

Jaffe then draws a crucial distinction between the dangers faced by those in more civilized societies who tend to oversuppress their instincts and those in more primitive societies who may have more uninhibited drives.

In both cases, she argues, the animal aspect of the self becomes alienated from its true nature.

The key to wholeness, she emphasizes, lies in accepting and integrating our animal soul.

For those of us in the modern world, this often means healing the wounded animal within, while for those in more traditional settings, it might involve learning to appropriately channel and tame those powerful instincts.

It's a powerful message about the need for inner harmony.

And while other contributors to man and his symbols delve into these animal motifs in the context of dreams and myths, Jaffe here uses them as these foundational examples of living symbols within art, particularly religious art,

before turning our attention to another profoundly significant and universal symbol, the circle.

Ah, yes, the circle.

Or as it's sometimes considered, the sphere.

It's a truly fundamental symbol of the self, representing the totality of the psyche and that intricate, essential relationship between humanity and the encompassing world of nature.

It's amazing how ubiquitous the circle is, isn't it?

It just pops up everywhere, in everything from ancient forms of sun worship to modern religious iconography, in countless myths and dreams, in the intricate patterns of Tibetan mandalas, even in the very layout and ground plans of our cities, and in early understandings of astronomical concepts.

It really is everywhere.

Jaffe underscores its consistent and powerful connection to this deep -seated human longing for wholeness and completion in life.

She brings in that beautiful Indian creation myth of Brahma, seated on a thousand -petaled lotus, surveying the four cardinal directions.

It's such a potent image of a preliminary psychic orientation, like laying the groundwork before creation can even begin.

And then there's the story of Buddha's birth, where he immediately steps onto an eight -rayed lotus and gazes out into the 10 directions.

Jaffe interprets this as a symbolic gesture of his unique, already -formed personality and his predestined path towards enlightenment, as if he was born already imprinted with this inherent sense of wholeness.

That's fascinating.

Jaffe connects this theme of spatial orientation in both the Brahma and Buddha myths to our fundamental human need for psychic orientation, a way of understanding our place in the world, both internal and external.

She links this to Dr.

Young's four functions of consciousness,

thinking, feeling, intuition, and sensation.

Our psychic compass, basically.

Exactly, our primary tools for perceiving and responding to the impressions we receive.

Brahma's four -fold survey, she suggests, symbolizes the necessary integration and balance of these core psychic functions.

And in visual art, particularly in Eastern traditions, we often see the circle depicted with four or eight rays.

Jaffe explains that the eight -rayed circle often represents the interplay and overlapping of those four primary functions, creating these more nuanced intermediate states within our psychological landscape, like feeling deeply influencing our thoughts.

In the visual arts of India and the Far East, these four or eight -rayed circles become central to religious imagery and are frequently used as powerful instruments for meditation.

Particularly in Tibetan Lamaism, the richly detailed mandalas serve as representations of the entire cosmos as it relates to various divine powers and energies.

Then Jaffe also explores the purely geometrical meditation figures of the East, known as yantras, with that recurring and significant motif of two interpenetrating triangles, one pointing upwards and the other downwards.

What's the symbolism at play there?

Traditionally, these interlocked triangles symbolize the sacred union of Shiva and Shakti, the divine masculine and feminine principles.

Psychologically, Jaffe explains, this represents the essential union of fundamental opposites within ourselves, the ego and the non -ego, the realm of the temporal and the timeless, ultimately leading towards the soul's profound union with the divine.

So it carries a similar symbolic weight to the circular mandalas.

Very similar, yes.

Both representing the fundamental wholeness of the psyche, encompassing both our conscious and unconscious aspects.

It's interesting how the triangle yantras and the depictions of Shiva and Shakti really emphasize that dynamic tension between these opposing forces and the ongoing process of striving for wholeness, whereas the four or eight rayed circles seem to represent a more established state of wholeness, an already existing entity.

That's a great distinction.

And the abstract circle also holds significant meaning in Zen painting.

Jaffe mentions the Zen master's interpretation of Sangai's simple yet profound work, The Circle, as a direct representation of enlightenment and the attainment of human perfection, a symbol of ultimate completeness and emptiness simultaneously.

And we see the emergence of abstract mandala -like forms in European Christian art as well, don't we?

Like the breathtaking rose windows in Cathedral.

Oh, absolutely.

Which Jaffe describes as powerful transpositions of the self onto a cosmic scale, much like Dante's mystical vision of the white rose mandala.

Even the halos surrounding depictions of Christ and the saints can be understood as forms of mandalas.

And the fact that Christ's halo is sometimes depicted as divided into four sections is also significant, alluding both to his suffering and death within the earthly realm and to his ultimate differentiated wholeness in the divine.

Jaffe also points to those more abstract circular figures found in early Romanesque churches, suggesting they might have originated from earlier pagan sunwheels.

Which brings up Jung's important point that while we might externally label them as sunwheels, their true and enduring significance lies in the underlying archetypal inner image.

They represent that universal human impulse to symbolize wholeness.

We also encounter more pictorial representations of mandalas within Christian art, such as depictions of the Virgin Mary within a circular frame of a tree echoing the symbolism of the burning bush or Christ surrounded by the four evangelists, a motif that actually has its roots in ancient Egyptian imagery of Horace and his four sons.

What I found particularly fascinating was Jaffe's exploration of the often overlooked role of the mandala in the realm of architecture.

She explains how the circle or the squared circle often forms a fundamental ground plan for both secular and sacred buildings across a vast array of civilizations from classical and medieval times right up to modern town planning.

The example of the founding of Rome, as recounted by Plutarch, is so illustrative.

The establishment of a round pit known as the mundus, symbolizing the cosmos, the symbolic offerings placed within it, and Romulus ritually drawing the circular boundary of the city with a plow, it's all deeply rooted in mandala symbolism.

But then there's that seemingly contradictory description of Rome as both circular and herbs quadrata, the square city.

How do we reconcile those two seemingly different forms?

Jaffe presents one compelling theory suggesting that the term quadrata might have originally meant quadripartite, indicating a circular city that was symbolically divided into four distinct sections by major intersecting arteries, all converging at that central mundus.

Ah, that makes sense.

A way of integrating both circular wholeness and a sense of ordered structure.

Exactly.

And another fascinating theory views this apparent contradiction as a symbolic representation of the mathematically challenging and therefore deeply significant concept of squaring the circle, which held great importance in ancient Greek thought and later in alchemical traditions.

Right, the unsolvable problem.

Precisely.

Jaffe points out that Plutarch himself mentions both Roma quadrata and the circular founding ceremony, suggesting that Rome actually embodied both symbolic forms.

And Jaffe emphasizes that regardless of the specific interpretation, each theory involves a fundamental mandala pattern.

Linking back to Plutarch's statement that the Etruscans taught the city's foundation, as in the mysteries,

implying a secret ritualistic significance that went far beyond mere outward form.

The mandala ground plan, therefore, elevates the city and its inhabitants beyond the purely secular realm, connecting it to a larger cosmic order and to the realm of ancestral spirits, symbolized by that central mundus and the soul stone that covered it, which was ritually removed on certain significant days.

We see echoes of this in the layout of many medieval cities, with their circular defensive walls and major roads dividing them into four quadrants, often with the central church or cathedral at the very heart of the city.

It's like a terrestrial reflection of the celestial order.

Perhaps even inspired by visions of the heavenly Jerusalem with its square plan, 12 gates, and God's presence at its center.

Even modern city planning, like that of Washington, D .C., seems to retain elements of this archetypal pattern.

Jaffe stresses that this prevalence of the mandala ground plan in both classical and more primitive foundations wasn't driven primarily by aesthetics or economic considerations,

but by a deep -seated human desire to transform the city into an ordered cosmos,

a sacred space deeply connected to the other world, aligning with the vital religious feelings of humanity.

So every building, every city with the mandala ground plan becomes, in essence, a projection of that unconscious archetypal image of wholeness onto the external world.

The city, the fortress, or the temple itself becomes a potent symbol of psychic integration, profoundly influencing the individuals within its boundaries.

And as Jung so eloquently put it, these kinds of projections are unconscious processes arising from those forgotten depths of our psyche to express profound insights and intuitions, seamlessly merging our present conscious experience with the vast age -old history of humanity.

Precisely.

Now, having explored these fundamental sacred symbols that have resonated across millennia, Jaffe shifts the focus of her chapter to the second part.

Here she invites us to consider 20th century art, specifically what she terms modern imaginative painting, not just for the individual symbols it might contain, but as a powerful symbol in itself, reflecting the overarching psychological condition of the modern world.

Okay, this is where the conversation takes a really interesting turn.

We're not just looking for familiar symbols within the artwork anymore, but considering the entire artistic movement of modern art as a symbolic expression of our collective inner state.

And Jaffe is careful to clarify that she's approaching modern art from a more general layman's perspective here, right?

Not getting lost in all the specific movements.

Right, and she wisely avoids getting bogged down in the intricacies and distinctions between all the various isms, cubism, surrealism, expressionism, and so on, focusing instead on the broader phenomenon of this significant shift in artistic expression.

The underlying principle here is the enduring psychological truth that the artist has always served as a kind of instrument and spokesperson for the prevailing spirit of their age.

So an artist's work isn't just a reflection of their individual quirks and personal history.

It also consciously or unconsciously mirrors and even shapes the dominant nature and values of the society and the era in which they live.

Precisely, and Jaffe includes these really insightful quotes from artists and critics like Jean Bazin, Frantz Marc, and Wassily Kandinsky, all acknowledging this deep and reciprocal relationship between the artists and their time.

The ongoing and often passionate debate surrounding modern art for the past half century or more, the strong yeas and nays it continues to evoke, and yet its undeniable persistence and even triumph as a significant form of cultural expression, despite repeated predictions of its demise.

Yeah, it just keeps going.

All of this points to something far deeper than mere aesthetic preference.

Even the situation in the Soviet Union where non -figurative art was officially discouraged underscores the perceived power and potential influence of this artistic movement.

And despite the often fierce controversy, the general public continues to engage with modern art exhibitions, even if that engagement is sometimes characterized by hostility or just bewilderment.

And the often astronomical prices that modern artworks command, that definitely signifies more than just simple curiosity.

Right, it reflects a certain status and value conferred upon it by society.

Exactly.

Jaffe argues that this enduring fascination, whether positive or negative, ultimately arises from a deep stirring within the unconscious mind.

The profound effect of modern art, Jaffe suggests, cannot be fully explained by its immediately visible forms.

To those whose artistic sensibilities have been primarily trained in classical or more traditionally sensory forms of art, modern art can often appear alien, lacking recognizable objects or a familiar visual language.

Right, it can be jarring.

Yet despite this apparent disconnect, there exists a powerful human bond, perhaps even a more direct connection to the unconscious than an art that relies on more representational imagery.

Because, as Jaffe explains, the modern artist often aims to express their own deeply felt inner vision of humanity to tap into the spiritual undercurrents of life and the world.

Modern art has, by and large, moved beyond the purely concrete, the strictly naturalistic, the overtly sensuous, and even the narrowly individual, often becoming highly collective in its impact, touching a wide range of people, despite its sometimes abstract or unconventional language.

Individuality, she notes, still remains in the specific manner of representation, the artist's unique style, and the overall quality of their work.

Jaffe acknowledges the understandable difficulty that many laypeople experience in discerning genuine artistic intention and spontaneous expression in modern art, emphasizing that it often requires a process of acclimatization, a learning to read these new languages of line, color, and form.

And she points to the unprecedented number of artists' manifestos that emerged in the 20th century as these often earnest attempts by artists to articulate and justify their creative endeavors, both to the wider public and, perhaps more importantly, to themselves.

They become almost like artistic confessions of faith, often deeply poetic, yet sometimes inherently contradictory, as artists grapple with and try to make sense of this new and often uncharted territory of artistic expression.

But ultimately, as Jaffe reminds us, the direct and personal engagement with the artwork itself remains the most crucial path to individual understanding.

However, for the psychologist seeking to understand the broader cultural psyche, these writings offer incredibly valuable insights into the underlying motivations and anxieties of the modern artistic spirit.

Jaffe pinpoints the early 1900s as the crucial period for the emergence of modern art as we understand it, highlighting the profoundly influential personality and forward -thinking ideas of Wassily Kandinsky.

She quotes a significant concept of the spiritual matured to the point of revelation, which he saw embodied in the growing separation between what he termed great abstraction and great realism.

That was split.

Yes, a divergence that occurred after a long history of their more harmonious combination.

And she illustrates this widening gap with two pivotal examples.

Kazimir Malevich's grand breaking 1913 work, Black Square on a White Ground, perhaps the very first purely abstract painting.

Radical.

And his powerful declaration of a desperate struggle to liberate art from the ballast of the world of objects.

It's a radical rejection of traditional representation.

Contrasting sharply with this is Marcel Duchamp's equally revolutionary gesture in 1914.

The exhibition of a randomly chosen bottle rack simply placed on a pedestal.

Jaffe includes Jean Bazin's evocative description of this act.

The bottle rack invested with a lonely dignity, living a disturbing, absurd life, becoming both an object of veneration and a source of mockery, its inherent reality somehow annihilated by the act of artistic framing.

Jaffe concludes that both of these seemingly disparate gestures,

Malevich's move towards a naked, non -objective spiritual realm, and Duchamp's focus on the naked, unadorned object, while perhaps not strictly art, in the conventional sense, marked the extreme poles within which subsequent imaginative art would largely operate.

And from a psychological viewpoint, Jaffe argues that these radical gestures towards pure spirit and pure matter pointed to a significant collective psychic rift that had been brewing even before the outbreak of World War I.

This rift, she suggests, had its early stirrings in the Renaissance as the growing tension between knowledge and faith.

Civilization's increasing detachment from our fundamental instinctual roots had created a widening gulf between the realms of nature and mind, the unconscious and conscious awareness, and it is precisely these fundamental oppositions that found powerful expression in the diverse forms of modern art.

This brings us to the intriguing concept Jaffe explores of the secret soul of things, and she uses Duchamp's provocative bottle rack as a starting point for understanding the rise of the obje -truvet, or the ready -made.

It's fascinating that Duchamp himself even considered himself an anti -artist, yet his ideas proved so influential.

The core idea here is the notion of finding the artistic within the mundane, the everyday object that is often overlooked.

Jaffe provides compelling examples like Joan Moreau, who would collect seemingly random objects he found on the beach, seeking to discover their inherent personality and then incorporating them into surprisingly poetic compositions.

Or Picasso and Braque's collages.

Exactly, often constructed from scraps of everyday rubbish.

And Max Ernst took this further, transforming familiar bourgeois imagery into something unsettling and dreamlike, almost demonic, through his innovative collage techniques.

And then there's Kurt Schwitters,

who worked with the literal refuse of urban life, the contents of ash cans, to create works that, surprisingly, often achieved a strange kind of beauty.

But his obsession with these found materials sometimes veered into the absurd, famously culminating in his ambitious project, The Cathedral Built for Things.

Jaffe argues that Schwitters' intense focus and this almost magical elevation of the ordinary object hint at modern art's deeper connections to intellectual history.

She suggests it represents an unconscious continuation of the traditions found in hermetic Christian brotherhoods and alchemists who, in their own way, sought to find spiritual significance and even dignity within the realm of matter during their religious contemplations.

And she draws a parallel between Schwitters' almost reverent treatment of gross material in his cathedral and the ancient alchemical tentative seeking to find precious and transformative substances, even within filth and decay.

She also brings in Kandinsky's insightful observation that everything has a secret soul, which is silent more often than it speaks.

Psychologically, Jaffe suggests that these modern artists, much like the alchemists of old, were likely unconsciously projecting aspects of their own psyche, their own hidden depths, their own longings and fears onto the physical world, onto these seemingly inanimate objects.

This projection resulted in a kind of mysterious animation where even the most discarded rubbish could take on a profound and unexpected value.

So they were projecting their own darkness, their shadow.

In a sense, yes, their earthly shadow, their own lost or unacknowledged psychic content.

But there's a crucial contrast to be made here, isn't there?

Well, the alchemists often operated within a Christian framework, seeking spiritual transformation through matter.

Artists like Schwitters, in their almost monomaniacal focus on the material world, stand somewhat apart.

That's right.

Jaffe notes that paradoxically, this very intense focus on the concrete object eventually led to its own kind of transcendence.

By isolating and recontextualizing these objects, Schwitters transformed them into abstract compositions that begin to lose their substantiality and even dissolve into pure form.

A symbolic expression, perhaps, of our modern scientific understanding where atomic physics has revealed the elusive and ultimately not so concrete nature of matter itself.

This contemplation of the magic object and its secret soul also resonated with other painters.

Jaffe quotes Carlo Carrà, who felt that common everyday things could reveal a profound simplicity that hinted at a higher state of being.

And Paul Klee believed that the object, when truly seen, exceeded its mere outward appearance, revealing a greater essence known through our deeper understanding.

Jean Bazaine spoke of objects awakening a kind of love within us, suggesting they are bearers of a greater unseen power.

These ideas seem to echo that ancient alchemical concept of spirit and matter, the notion of a vital force or consciousness existing within or behind inanimate objects.

Psychologically, Jaffe interprets this as the unconscious mind beginning to emerge and assert itself when the limitations of conscious rational knowledge are reached.

It's as if humanity has an inherent tendency to fill the inexplicable with the contents of the unconscious, projecting meaning onto what might otherwise be perceived as a dark, empty vessel.

This sense of something more beneath the surface finds a particularly compelling expression in the work of Giorgio de Chirico, an artist who deeply felt that the object was more than met the eye.

Ah, de Chirico.

Jaffe highlights his mystical temperament and his lifelong, often tragic quest for meaning, evident in the poignant inscription on his self -portrait.

And what am I to love, if not the enigma?

De Chirico, of course, is the founder of pittura metaphysica, or metaphysical painting.

Jaffe quotes his explanation that every object possesses both a common, easily perceived aspect and a ghostly, metaphysical dimension that can only be glimpsed by rare individuals in moments of heightened clairvoyance.

His core belief was that true art must strive to communicate something that is not immediately visible within its mere outward form.

And indeed, de Chirico's works feel like dream -like transpositions of reality arising from the depths of the unconscious, yet they are often expressed with a striking, almost unsettling rigidity, and imbued with an atmosphere of profound, almost fathomless melancholy.

Think of those overacute perspectives of deserted Italian city squares, the looming towers, and the seemingly ordinary objects illuminated by a cold, unidentifiable light source, often juxtaposed with antique heads and statues that evoke a sense of a forgotten classical past.

And Jaffe describes that particularly disturbing painting where de Chirico places a pair of red rubber gloves, a seemingly arbitrary magic object, right next to a serene marble head of a goddess with a solitary green ball acting almost as a strange unifying element, perhaps preventing a complete psychic fragmentation.

She emphasizes that this truly feels like a picture sprung directly from a dream.

Jaffe also notes de Chirico's deep intellectual connection to the philosophies of Friedrich Nietzsche and Arthur Schopenhauer, quoting his own acknowledgement of their profound influence.

He saw them as the first to teach the deep significance of life's inherent senselessness and its potential transformation into art and the dreadful void that underlies existence, a soulless yet strangely beautiful aspect of matter.

However, Jaffe raises the question of whether de Chirico himself ever truly achieved an untroubled beauty in his work, noting the persistent, disturbing, and nightmarish qualities that often pervade his canvases.

Ultimately, she concludes that in his relentless effort to give artistic expression to this underlying void, de Chirico penetrated to the very core of contemporary humanity's existential dilemma.

This concept of the dreadful void that de Chirico grappled with leads us back to Nietzsche's powerful declaration, God is dead, a phrase Jaffe connects to Kandinsky's similarly stark statement in The Spiritual in Art, heaven is empty, God is dead.

It's a proclamation that can sound quite shocking, but Jaffe reminds us that this idea of the death of God and the resulting metaphysical void had been troubling poets and thinkers throughout the 19th century before finally finding more overt discussion and artistic expression in the 20th, marking a significant and perhaps final break between the dominant trends in modern art and traditional Christian belief.

And Dr.

Jung himself recognized this death of God not as a theological pronouncement, but as a profound psychological fact of our time.

Exactly, Jaffe references Jung's 1937 observation that it was the era of God's disappearance or death based on the recurring theme of the fading or absence of the traditional Christian God image in the dreams of his patients.

The unconscious landscape of modern individuals reflecting the loss of a central, all -encompassing source of meaning and value.

But Jaffe is careful to emphasize that Nietzsche's assertion that Chirico's artistic exploration of the void and even Jung's psychological deductions are ultimately human interpretations based on the contents of the unconscious mind entering conscious awareness and not definitive statements about the ultimate reality of God.

Right, the origin and the underlying causes of this significant psychic transformation remain in many ways a mystery.

And Jaffe points out that de Chirico's own struggle with this void ultimately led to a kind of artistic impasse, particularly evident in his representation of the human figure.

Given the changing religious and philosophical landscape, one might expect to see humanity accorded a new sense of dignity and individual responsibility aligning with Jung's concept of an increasing responsibility to consciousness.

But that's not what happened in his work.

No, in de Chirico's work, the human form often devolves into the Manichino, the faceless puppet, seemingly devoid of inner life and conscious awareness.

Those recurring faceless figures, often enthroned amidst piles of discarded objects and rubbish in his variations on the great metaphysician,

become this consciously or unconsciously ironic representation of the seeker of metaphysical truth in a seemingly meaningless world, a stark symbol of ultimate loneliness and a profound sense of senselessness.

Jaffe even suggests that these figures might be an early premonition of the emergence of the faceless mass man that would become a recurring motif in the work of other contemporary artists as well.

And it's a poignant observation that de Chirico himself eventually abandoned his pitura metaphysica around the age of 40, turning towards more traditional artistic modes.

However, as Jaffe notes, this shift resulted in a noticeable loss of depth and the powerful unsettling quality of his earlier work, ultimately proving the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of truly going back for a creative mind that has grappled with such fundamental and deeply modern dilemmas.

As a compelling contrast, Jaffe introduces the work of Marc Chagall, whose art also explores a mysterious and lonely poetry and delves into the ghostly aspect of things.

Right, but very different feel.

Very different.

His rich symbolic language is deeply rooted in Eastern Jewish Hasidism and a fundamental warmhearted feeling for the enduring power of life.

Unlike de Chirico, Chagall doesn't seem to be confronting the same sense of void or the death of God in his artistic vision.

Sir Herbert reads insightful observation that Chagall never fully ventured into the depths of the unconscious, always keeping one foot on the earth that had nourished him, is highlighted by Jaffe as perhaps representing a more psychologically right relationship between the conscious and unconscious realms, emphasizing Chagall's significant and enduring influence on the art world.

This stark contrast between Chagall and de Chirico then raises a crucial question, doesn't it?

How does this complex relationship between consciousness and the unconscious ultimately take shape in the work of modern artists?

Where does humanity find its footing in this shifting psychological and spiritual landscape?

One significant artistic movement that directly grappled with this question, Jaffe suggests, is surrealism, with Andre Breton as its principal founder, though she notes that de Chirico's work could also be described as having surrealist elements.

Breton, with his background in medicine and his introduction to the work of Sigmund Freud, placed immense importance on the world of dreams.

Right, the famous question.

Famously asking, why should not the logic applied to waking life also be applied to the realm of dreams in the hope of resolving fundamental problems of life?

This led to the core surrealist belief in the potential for resolving the apparent antagonism between dream and waking reality in a higher synthesis they termed surreality.

So Breton's aim was, in essence, to bridge the gap between the conscious and the unconscious mind.

However, his primary method for achieving this experimenting with Freud's techniques of free association and automatic writing seems to have largely bypassed the crucial role of conscious awareness.

Exactly, Jaffe emphasizes Dr.

Young's crucial counterpoint, that while the unconscious holds a vast reservoir of images and energies, it is ultimately consciousness that holds the key to understanding the values contained within the unconscious and plays the decisive role in determining the meaning and significance of these images for the individual in their present reality.

It needs that conscious engagement.

Precisely, the unconscious only truly proves its worth when it engages in a dynamic interplay with conscious reflection, potentially overcoming the melancholy of the void that artists like De Chirico explored.

Leaving the unconscious to its own devices, Jaffe warns, carries the risk of its powerful contents becoming overwhelming, unintegrated, and potentially manifesting in negative or even destructive ways.

Viewing surrealist pictures in this light, like Salvador Dali's often disturbing the burning giraffe, we can recognize the incredible wealth of fantasy and the raw power of unconscious imagery, but also that undercurrent of horror and the symbolic representation of the potential end of all things.

The unconscious, like untamed nature, is undeniably profuse in its gifts and its creative potential, but it also possesses the capacity to destroy them if not met with conscious understanding and responsible integration.

Another key aspect of modern painting that touches on this relationship between consciousness and the unconscious is the significant role that chance began to play in artistic composition.

Jaffe quotes Max Verst on the surrealist discovery of a new kind of poetry that could be ignited by the unexpected association of seemingly alien elements on an unfamiliar plane, referencing L 'Autre Amon's famous image of a sewing machine and an umbrella on a surgical table.

And she includes Breton's rather provocative comment about the supposed idiocy of anyone who couldn't visualize a horse galloping on a tomato.

Which, as Jaffe points out, bears a certain resemblance to Deshiyuko's own use of unexpected juxtapositions.

Right.

While some of these chance associations were undoubtedly playful or even intended as jokes, Jaffe stresses that for most modern artists exploring these techniques, there were deeper, more serious concerns at play.

Chance took on a particularly significant role in the work of Jean, Hans Arp, who would create woodcuts of leaves and other organic forms simply by throwing them together randomly onto a surface.

He saw this seemingly arbitrary process as a way of expressing a secret primal meaning slumbering beneath the world of appearances, as evidenced in titles like Leaves Arranged According to the Laws of Chance.

In these works, Jaffe suggests, chance itself becomes a tool for uncovering deeper meaning, pointing towards an unknown yet actively ordering principle, a kind of secret soul inherent in the universe.

This desire to harness the power of the accidental led other surrealists like Paul Klee to want to make chance essential to their creative process.

They would use natural textures like wood grain or the patterns in cloud formations as starting points, allowing these chance occurrences to spark visionary painting.

Jaffe mentions Ernst's reference to Leonardo da Vinci's essay on Botticelli's Observation of Seeing Forms in the Accidental Splashes of a Sponge.

And she recounts Ernst's pivotal experience in 1925 when, while staring at a scratched tiled floor, he had a sudden vision that led to the development of his frottage technique, making rubbings from textured surfaces.

He was astonished by the hallucinatory series of images that emerged through this process, which he later collected and published as Stuart Naturel.

It's interesting that Ernst often placed a ring or a circle over or behind these frottage images, creating a peculiar sense of atmosphere and depth.

Psychologically, what might be the significance of that circular motif appearing in conjunction with these chance -generated forms?

Jaffe interprets this as representing the unconscious drive towards wholeness and integration.

The circle, as we discussed earlier, is a potent symbol of the self, and its presence here suggests an unconscious attempt to counteract the inherent chaos of the chance -produced image, to bring a sense of order and self -contained psychic unity to the natural language of the unconscious.

So the circle imposes a kind of order.

Yes, the dominance of the ring or circle signifies the underlying power of psychic wholeness to govern and give meaning to the seemingly random forces of nature.

Jaffe connects Ernst's pursuit of these hidden patterns within chance to the 19th century romantics, who similarly saw nature as possessing its own kind of handwriting, a pervasive symbolic language.

So Ernst naming his chance -produced pictures natural history was, in a way, a romantic gesture, acknowledging that the unconscious mind, which conjures these images, is itself a part of nature.

And this exploration of chance in Ernst's natural history and Arp's random compositions leads to a crucial question for the psychologist, as Jaffe points out.

What is the inherent meaning of a chance arrangement for the person who observes it?

This is where the human element, conscious awareness, enters the equation, allowing for the potential interpretation and discovery of meaning within what might initially appear as purely accidental.

So while the aesthetic qualities of a chance -created picture might determine its artistic value in a traditional sense, they don't necessarily satisfy the psychologist who is seeking to decode the secret code.

Embedded within the chance arrangement, the specific number and forms of Arp's randomly placed objects, the particular details that emerge from Ernst's fraudages, all of these become potential symbols open to individual interpretation.

Jaffe then discusses a common line of criticism leveled against modern art, often focusing on the apparent retreat of the human figure, the perceived lack of conscious reflection, and the overwhelming dominance of unconscious expression.

Critics have frequently drawn comparisons between modern art and the art produced by individuals experiencing psychosis or mental illness.

That old comparison.

Right, where a key characteristic is indeed the submergence of conscious awareness and the ego by the raw, unfiltered contents of the unconscious.

But Jaffe notes a significant shift in attitude over time, with such comparisons becoming less automatically dismissive or odious today.

She mentions Jung's own 1932 essay on Picasso, which initially sparked considerable indignation.

But contrast this with more recent examples, such as a Zurich art gallery catalog casually mentioning an artist's almost schizophrenic obsession, or Rudolf Kastner describing the great poet, George Trackel, as possessing something schizophrenic that could be felt within his work.

This increasing acceptance of such comparisons, Jaffe suggests, reflects a growing realization that the realms of schizophrenia and artistic vision are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

This shift in understanding may have been influenced by experiments with mescaline and other similar drugs that can induce intense visual and perceptual experiences akin to those reported by individuals experiencing schizophrenia.

And it's also known that some modern artists themselves sought inspiration from such altered states of consciousness.

This brings us to Franz Marx's really insightful and almost prophetic saying,

the art that is coming will give formal expression to our scientific conviction.

Jaffe highlights the profound influence of Sigmund Freud's psychoanalysis and the widespread rediscovery of the unconscious mind in the early decades of the 20th century as a major factor shaping this new artistic landscape.

But perhaps even more surprisingly,

Jaffe draws a crucial and often overlooked connection between the development of modern art and the revolutionary discoveries being made in nuclear physics research during the same period.

It's fascinating to think about how seemingly disparate fields could be influencing each other.

Can you elaborate on that connection between art and nuclear physics?

Well, in simple terms, the groundbreaking work in nuclear physics fundamentally undermined the long -held concept of matter as being absolutely solid and concrete.

Scientists were discovering that at the atomic and subatomic levels, reality was far more mysterious and dynamic.

Right, things weren't so solid anymore.

Exactly.

With the interchangeability of mass and energy and the limitations on the traditional understanding of cause and effect, this led to a revolutionary shift in the very concept of reality, revealing a new, often irrational reality existing behind the natural world as described by classical physics.

So the very foundations of our understanding of the physical world were being shaken.

And Jas suggests this had a parallel in the psychological realm.

Precisely.

Concurrent with these discoveries in physics, there was a growing understanding of corresponding relativities and paradoxes within the human psyche, revealing another complex and often irrational world existing on the margins of conscious awareness with its own set of laws that often seem to mirror the strange principles being uncovered in nuclear physics.

Jaffé mentions the frequent and significant discussions between Dr.

Young and the renowned physicist Wolfgang Pauli, who explored the profound parallelism between the findings of quantum physics and the psychology of the collective unconscious.

They even considered the space -time continuum of physics and the collective unconscious of psychology as potentially being outer and inner aspects of the same fundamental reality that lies behind our everyday perceptions.

It's mind -boggling to think that these seemingly separate domains were pointing towards a similar kind of underlying reality.

Indeed.

And a crucial point for understanding modern art, Jaffé argues, is that the fundamental laws, processes, and even the very contents of this one world behind the worlds are largely unimaginable to our conscious minds.

This is also, in a sense, the primary subject matter of much of modern art, the attempt to grapple with and give form to that, which is inherently beyond our easy comprehension.

Which explains the move towards abstraction.

Exactly.

This is why much of modern art became abstract, with great artists seeking to give symbolic expression to the life behind things, pointing towards that fundamental one reality, or life, that serves as the common background for both physical and psychic appearances.

It's not necessarily that these artists consciously understood the intricacies of nuclear physics, but rather that they were tapping into a similar underlying shift in the collective understanding of reality.

Exactly.

Although, Jaffé does note that a few artists were indeed consciously aware of these scientific developments.

She mentions Kandinsky as being deeply moved and even emotionally shaken by the early discoveries of modern physics, quoting his experience of the collapse of the atom, feeling like the collapse of the whole world.

Powerful.

This led to a sense of profound instability and the feeling that the very foundations of science had been annihilated, resulting in the artist's withdrawal from the traditional realm of nature as a primary subject.

He famously added, it seemed as if I saw art steadily disengaging itself from nature.

And Jaffé points out that this sense of separation from the direct representation of nature occurred around the same time for other significant artists as well.

She includes a powerful quote from Franz Mark, who stated that, the more pitilessly appearance is mirrored for us, the more appearance becomes eternally flat, arguing that the goal of art was to reveal unearthly life dwelling behind everything, to break the mirror of life so that we may look being in the face.

Paul Klee echoed this sentiment, suggesting that the modern artist no longer ascribes the same significance to the mere outward appearance of nature as traditional realists do, feeling less bound to that external reality because they cannot perceive the true essence of the creative process within nature's formal products.

They are, he argued, far more concerned with the underlying formative powers than with the finished formal products themselves.

And Pete Mondrian, in his pursuit of pure abstraction, even accused cubism of not going far enough, of not pursuing abstraction to its ultimate logical conclusion, the expression of pure reality, which he believed could only be attained through the creation of pure form, entirely unconditioned by subjective feelings or ideas, believing in a changeless, pure reality existing behind the ever -shifting forms of the natural world.

So Jeff Faye summarizes, many artists sought to move beyond the superficial appearances of the world and delve into the deeper reality of the background, the spirit and matter, either through a kind of transmutation of things using fantasy, surrealism, dreams, and chance encounters.

While others went fully abstract.

Right, while abstract artists took a more radical approach, turning away from recognizable objects entirely and focusing on the creation of pure form itself, as Mondrian advocated.

But Jeffy stresses that this quest was about far more than just formal experimentation.

Their ultimate goal was to reach the very center of life and things, their unchanging essence, and inward certainty in a sense, art had become a form of mysticism.

And Jeff Faye identifies the spirit that lies at the heart of this mystery as being akin to the earthly spirit called Mercurius by the medieval alchemists, a complex and multifaceted symbol of the very spirit that artists were intuitively divining behind the veil of nature and things behind the appearance of nature, as she puts it.

Okay, Mercurius.

This kind of earth -centered mysticism, she argues, was fundamentally alien to traditional Christianity because this mercurial spirit is distinct from a more heavenly spiritual focus.

Indeed, Jeff Faye suggests that in this shift, the traditional adversary of Christianity was, in a way, beginning to emerge within the realm of art.

That's a provocative idea.

It is.

This perspective reveals the deeper historical and symbolic significance of modern art as a kind of mysticism of the earth spirit, perhaps even a compensatory expression to the dominant Christian worldview, much like the earlier hermetic movements of the Middle Ages.

Jeff Faye highlights Kandinsky as someone who particularly sensed and passionately articulated this mystical undercurrent within art,

stating that the true importance of great art lies not in its external forms or representational skill, but in the mystical content of art.

He famously advised the artist's eye to turn inward and the ear to listen for the inward necessity that compels them to express their mystic visions.

Kandinsky viewed his own abstract pictures as nothing less than spiritual expressions of the cosmos, a kind of music of the spheres, a harmonious interplay of colors and forms.

He believed that even seemingly abstract geometrical forms possessed an inherent inward clang or resonance and were, in essence,

spiritual beings with effects that directly corresponded to their visual form.

And Jeff Faye includes a powerful aphorism from Franz Mark in 1914, who declared that matter is barely tolerable, that man refuses to recognize it, and that the contemplation of the world has become its penetration, noting that perhaps no mystic before had ever attained the level of perfect abstraction seen in modern thought.

Jeff Faye also quotes Paul Klee, whom she aptly describes as the poet among these modern painters.

Klee saw the artist's mission as to penetrate to the secret ground where primal law feeds growth, expressing his desire to dwell at the central organ of motion in space -time, the very brain or heart of creation, where he believed the secret key to all things lies hidden within the womb of nature, driven downwards to this primal ground by our own beating heart.

He felt that what was encountered in this deep exploration must be taken with utmost seriousness when fused with artistic means, making the secretly perceived visible.

Klee famously said of his own creative process, my hand is entirely the instrument of a more distant sphere.

It is something else.

In his work, Jeff suggests, the spirit of nature and the spirit of the unconscious became inseparable, drawing both the artist and the viewer into their potent magic circle.

Jaffé concludes that Klee's work represents perhaps the most complex expression, both poetic and at times even demonic of this quathonic earthbound spirit.

She notes how his use of humor and bizarre ideas often serves as a bridge between the underworld and the human realm, and how the deep connection of his fantasy to the earth is evident in his careful observation of nature and his profound love for all creatures.

Jaffé then turns to Jackson Pollock as a significant later figure in abstract painting, whose work had a profound influence on his contemporaries.

She quotes his description of his creative process as almost a trance -like state.

When I am in my painting, I am not aware of what I am doing.

The painting has a life of its own.

I try to let it come through.

So Pollock's approach was a very direct channeling of the unconscious onto the canvas.

Exactly.

Jaffé describes his practically unconscious pictures as being charged with intense emotional vehemence, almost chaotic in their seeming lack of preordained structure, a glowing lava stream of vibrant colors, energetic lines, dynamic planes, and scattered points.

She interprets this as a parallel to the alchemical concept of massa confusa, or prima materia.

The primordial chaos.

Right.

The essential starting point in the alchemist's quest for the essence of being.

Pollock's paintings, in this view, represent the nothing that is also everything the unconscious itself seemed to exist prior to conscious form and being, or perhaps as fantastic landscapes existing after their extinction.

Jaffé notes that purely abstract pictures, lacking any regular or discernible order, became increasingly prevalent by the mid -20th century.

What's the implication of this increasing abstraction?

Jaffé suggests that the deeper the dissolution of recognizable reality in the artwork, the more the picture tends to lose its specific symbolic content.

Because the traditional symbol functions by connecting something known to something unknown.

Merely abstract paintings, lacking those recognizable anchors, struggle to provide that clear bridge of meaning.

However, Jaffé then points out a rather unexpected and even paradoxical development.

Yes.

Despite their apparent lack of representational content, these purely abstract paintings often reveal a surprising and almost hidden sense of connection to the natural world, bearing an astounding similarity to the structures observed at the molecular level.

That's bizarre.

It is.

This perplexing phenomena, utter abstraction, seemingly becoming naturalistic, is illuminated by a quote from Jung, who suggested that the deeper layers of the psyche lose their individual uniqueness as they approach the realm of autonomous biological systems, becoming increasingly collective and universalized within the body's very materiality, stating that at bottom, the psyche is simply world.

So it's as if, at the most fundamental levels, the inner world of the psyche and the outer world of matter begin to mirror each other.

Precisely.

Jaffé concludes that a comparison between these purely abstract paintings and micro -photographs of molecular structures reveals how this seemingly utter abstraction of imaginative art has, surprisingly, converged with a kind of naturalism, its subject becoming the very building blocks of matter itself.

So the great abstraction and great realism that Kandinsky saw separating,

they came back together.

In a profound and unconscious way, yes.

They came back together again, echoing Kandinsky's own later realization that the poles open two paths, which both lead to one goal at the end.

That's a remarkable convergence, and it leads to an important point about the artist's role in this process.

Jaffé emphasizes that if the artist is working primarily from the unconscious, they're not as entirely free as they might believe.

They are, in a sense, being guided and even controlled by natural laws that have their parallels in the laws governing the psyche.

It was the great pioneers of modern art who perhaps best expressed the true underlying aims of this movement and the profound depths of the spirit that was influencing them.

Later artists may not have always reached the same depths of insight.

However, Jaffé points out a crucial caveat.

Neither Kandinsky nor Clee nor many of these other early masters were fully aware of the potentially grave psychological danger inherent in this mystical submersion into the Chicanic spirit, the primal ground of nature.

This is a danger that needs to be explained.

What is the potential pitfall of this deep dive into the unconscious, this connection with the Earth spirit?

Jaffé begins by referencing Wilhelm Warringer's interpretation of abstract art as an expression of a profound metaphysical unease and anxiety, particularly pronounced among Northern European peoples who felt a deep suffering from the constraints of reality and longed for a kind of super real world that could only be expressed through abstract forms.

And Sir Herbert Reed observed that this metaphysical anxiety seemed to have become a universal condition in the modern era, quoting Paul Clee's poignant diary entry from 1915.

The more horrifying this world becomes, the more art becomes abstract, while a world at peace produces realistic art.

Even Franz Marx's abstraction as a kind of refuge from the perceived evil and ugliness of the world, noting his disillusionment with humanity and even animals, leading his own painting to become increasingly schematic and abstract.

Jaffé then recounts a fascinating 1958 conversation between the sculptor Marina Marini and the writer Edward Rudidi, focusing on Marini's recurring motif of a nude youth on a horse.

He explained that his early versions of this theme, created in the aftermath of World War II, were intended as symbols of hope and gratitude.

Right, the rider leaning back.

Exactly, depicting a rider with outstretched arms leaning back in a gesture of release.

However, over the years, his treatment of the subject became increasingly abstract, gradually dissolving the more classical form.

And Marini revealed the deeply felt emotion behind this shift, didn't he?

Yes, he described an increasing sense of panic in the horse, frozen with terror, not rearing up in defiance or fleeing, but seemingly sensing an impending cataclysm, believing that we are approaching the end of the world.

This deepening fear and despair in his work, Marini felt, symbolized the final stages of the dying myth of the individual victorious hero, the humanist ideal of virtuous humanity.

So the breakdown of the traditional heroic figure in art reflects a broader cultural anxiety.

Exactly, Jaffé connects us to the idea that the victorious hero in mythology is often a symbol of consciousness itself.

His defeat, as Marini expressed, signifies a kind of death of the individual, which manifests socially as a submergence within the anonymous mass, and in art as a decline of the human element as a central subject.

And when Roditi asked Marini directly about abandoning the classical canon in favor of abstraction,

what was his response?

Marini stated quite plainly, as soon as art has to express fear, it must on itself depart from the classical ideal.

He found himself increasingly drawn to the forms of the preserved bodies from Pompeii, those frozen figures in their final moments of terror.

Which led Roditi to aptly describe Marini's later work as having a Hiroshima style, powerfully evoking visions of world's end.

Marini himself admitted to feeling expelled from a kind of earthly paradise, noting that his sculpture now preferred forms that were in a state of disintegration.

Jaffé concludes that this conversation between Marini and Roditi offers a powerful explanation for the broader transformation of sensory art into abstraction in the modern era, revealing the underlying currents of fear, despair, aggression, and even mockery that can be felt in many modern works, regardless of one's formal aesthetic appreciation.

This metaphysical anxiety may stem from a deep despair about the fate of the world, as in Marini's case, or from the feeling that God is dead, as others expressed.

Jaffé notes the close connection between these two sentiments.

And at the very root of this profound distress, Jaffé argues, is the defeat or retreat of conscious awareness.

The powerful upsurge of mystical experience, this deep dive into the unconscious, has often cast aside or dissolved everything that traditionally bound humanity to the human world, to earth, to time, to space, to matter, to the natural cycle of life.

And unless this powerful force of the unconscious is balanced by strong and engaged conscious mind, it inevitably reveals its more negative and potentially destructive aspects.

The initial creative harmony can give way to feelings of destruction and despair, with artists becoming passive victims of the overwhelming forces of the unconscious.

It's a sobering thought, and Jaffé draws a parallel with the discoveries in physics as well, doesn't she?

Yes, she points out that in the realm of physics too, the exploration of the fundamental background of reality revealed its own paradoxical nature.

The very laws governing the atom ultimately led to the development of destructive weapons and the potential for global annihilation.

Ultimate knowledge and the potential for world destruction, two sides of the same coin.

When humanity delves into the primal ground of nature, yes.

And Jung, as Jaffé reminds us, firmly believed that only the development and strengthening of individual consciousness can ultimately combat catastrophe, despite how simple that might sound and how arduous the process can be.

Consciousness is absolutely vital as it counterpoise to the immense power of the unconscious, providing meaning and purpose to life, and it also has a crucial practical function, recognizing the potential for external evil as also existing within our own psyche as the crucial first step towards changing our collective attitudes.

So those darker aspects of the unconscious, like envy or lust, which might manifest positively as a creative spirit of nature or a thonic spirit in art, can also manifest negatively as a destructive spirit of evil if left unchecked.

Exactly.

Jaffé reiterates the alchemist's insightful personification of this powerful and ambiguous force as Mercurius Duplex, the two -faced Mercury, and its parallel in Christian theology as the devil, noting that even the figure of the devil has a kind of dualistic aspect as Lucifer, the bringer of light, in a more positive sense.

Viewed through these lenses, modern art as a symbolic expression of this chauvinist spirit also carries this inherent duality.

It can be seen as a positive and profound expression of a deep connection to nature's mysteries, but also as a potential expression of darker, more destructive forces.

The two sides are inextricably linked by the paradoxical nature inherent within the unconscious itself.

And Jaffé concludes the section by re -emphasizing that these considerations are solely about interpreting modern art as a significant symbol of our time and our collective psychological state, and not about making judgments regarding its artistic or aesthetic value.

Jaffé then shifts to the latter half of the 20th century, noting that the spirit of the age is in constant flux, like a river, and even a decade can bring significant changes in our rapidly evolving world.

Yes.

She observes that around the mid -20th century, a subtle but significant shift began to occur in painting, not as revolutionary as the breakthroughs of the early 1900s, but marked by new artistic aims emerging from within the realm of abstract painting itself.

Photography had largely taken over the role of representing concrete reality, allowing painters to continue their inward and imaginative explorations.

However, many younger artists began to find the established forms of abstract art somewhat unadventurous, and they started to seek the new, not just in pure form, but in a renewed engagement with nature and the human figure, not for the purpose of mere reproduction, but as a way to express their own deeply felt emotional experience of the natural world.

Jaffé quotes Alfred Manassar, who defined the aim of his art as a kind of reconquering of lost reality, a forging of a new human connection to heart, spirit, and soul.

He felt that true reality lay neither in pure abstraction nor in strict realism, but in reclaiming one's own weight and being as a human being.

He saw non -figurative art as offering a unique opportunity to approach one's inner reality, to achieve a deeper sense of self -consciousness.

And Jean Bazaine echoed these sentiments, speaking of the temptation to simply paint pure, unadulterated feeling, which he felt had led to a certain monotony and impoverishment and abstract expressionism.

He argued that true art should be a form of communion, allowing humanity to recognize its own, as yet, unformed potential within the world around them.

So there's a sense of artists consciously striving for reconciliation,

a reunion of their inner subjective reality with the objective reality of the world and nature, a new integration of body and soul, matter and spirit, their own unique way, as Manassar put it, to reconquer their weight as human beings.

Exactly.

Jaffé interprets this shift as a sign that the earlier, often stark divide between abstraction and realism in modern art was becoming a more conscious issue, and therefore potentially on a path towards healing and integration.

And Jaffé notes that this evolving artistic intention is often evident to the observer in the changed atmosphere of these later artists' works, mentioning figures like Manassar and Gustav Sinker, whose paintings often radiate a sense of belief in the world and a harmony of forms and colors, frequently achieving a surprising serenity despite their abstract nature and the intensity of feeling they convey.

She also highlights Jean -Lercas' exuberant tapestries as a vibrant example of work that is both deeply sensuous and richly imaginative.

She also revisits the work of Paul Klee, noting the serene harmony that permeated much of his later output, reflecting his lifelong striving for inner balance and his eventual realization of not denying evil, but rather seeing it as a collaborating force within the larger cosmic dance.

However, she points out that Klee's artistic starting point was often cosmically distant, whereas these younger painters seem to be more firmly rooted in the earthly realm.

And in a fascinating development, Jaffé observes that modern painting, as it begins to discern this potential union of opposites, starts to take up explicitly religious themes once again.

The earlier sense of a metaphysical void seems to be giving way to something new.

This shift leads to a rather unexpected phenomenon,

the church itself becoming a significant patron of modern art, as evidenced by the inclusion of modern artworks in churches like All Saints in Basel, the Assi Church in France, Matisse's Chapel in Vince, and the Church in Audencourt.

Jaffé sees this admission of modern art into the sacred spaces of the church as signifying something far more profound than mere broad -mindedness on the part of religious institutions.

Yes.

She interprets it as indicating a fundamental change in the relationship between modern art and Christianity.

The earlier compensatory function of those ancient hermetic movements, which often stood in opposition to mainstream religious thought,

seems to be evolving towards a new kind of collaboration.

The forces of light and the euthanic earthly spirits, she suggests, are perhaps beginning to be recognized as belonging together.

She even posits that the moment for a new stage in the resolution of this millennial problem might have arrived.

It's a hopeful perspective.

But Jaffé also acknowledges that the future remains uncertain.

Absolutely.

She notes that we don't yet know the ultimate outcome of this ongoing process of bridging these fundamental opposites, whether it will lead to truly positive and integrated results or potentially to further catastrophes.

Too much anxiety and dread still persist in the world, and these feelings remain a dominant undercurrent in both art and society at large.

Above all, she highlights the persistent individual unwillingness to truly apply the insights gleaned from art to one's own personal life as a significant factor, despite a growing intellectual acceptance of modern art.

Right.

Artists, she suggests, can often express profound truths unconsciously and without direct confrontation, while similar statements made by psychologists or spiritual teachers are often met with resistance due to their more direct challenge to the individual psyche.

The message of art in our century, she observes, often remains somewhat impersonal.

However, Jaffé concludes on a cautiously optimistic note.

Yes.

She sees the emergence of a more whole, more human form of expression in contemporary art as an important development, a glimmer of hope that she symbolizes with the paintings of Pierre Soulage, where a clear blue or radiant yellow light often shimmers from behind huge, imposing black forms.

As he himself wrote in 1961, light is dawning behind darkness.

So in this incredibly rich and multifaceted deep dive, we've really journeyed from the primal significance of ancient sacred stones and the enduring power of animal spirits all the way to the complex symbolism of the circle and the profound psychological reflections embedded within the diverse landscape of 20th -century art.

Jaffé's chapter beautifully illuminates how these seemingly disparate visual expressions are all deeply interconnected, reflecting humanity's ongoing and evolving relationship with the unconscious mind, the enduring archetypes that shape our understanding, and the ever -shifting spirit of the age we inhabit.

And it really makes you contemplate how these fundamental symbols we've discussed continue to resonate in our world today, often operating beneath the surface of our conscious awareness,

unconsciously influencing our perceptions, our beliefs, and our behaviors,

constantly prompting us, maybe, to reflect on that never -ending dialogue between our inner and outer realities.

We highly encourage you to delve into Aniela Jaffé's chapter, Symbolism in the Visual Arts, within Man and His Symbols, to continue your own exploration of this fascinating and essential aspect of the human experience.