The other day I had the great, good fortune to sit down with Carl Jung’s Red Book for a few minutes. Within three or four pages I came across the description of Carl’s latter years during which he forsook directed thinking to explore the fantasies of the unconscious mind.
Carl took the same intended journey that occupies my drawing labors, but over a hundred years earlier than I. Jung’s drawings are in color, while mine favor the black ink of an old map maker. Jung’s drawings tend to be geometrical and iconic. My drawings erupt from the who-knows-where with surprises for my startled eyes.
Old conflicts resolved, some clarity appears on the page ... for the moment. Tanda Shadowself’s inky blackness drains into a gravy boat crucible where it awaits further transformations, while my bloody fingerprints give texture to the leafy tops of skinny trees.
Click picture to enlarge.
Tanda's Ink. My Blood.
I never know where an ink drawing will start. If I can’t find an area to begin doodling, I might pour an ink wash onto the paper, then start looking for shapes to extend.
Like Jung pointed out, I’ve noticed my thinking switching back-and-forth between directed and associative or imagistic thinking. I am aiming to convene with my unconscious mind while drawing. This kind of drawing feels like a dance for equilibrium.