40 Jung & Alchemy • Part II: River of Gold

 

Beneath the surface of Western history,
deep within its cavernous tunnels,
flows a river of gold.

A living mass of liquid metal,
that moves unseen and unperturbed
and only beckons to a chosen few.

Those whom alchemy deigns fit
are blessed and cursed in equal measure.
What they pursue not many will understand.
But the few that do will aid each other in their opus
to purify the soul of matter.

That craft which fades into obscurity will come alive again with each new generation. Whose select few will hear the call and seek that golden river by the light of will and revelation.

[extended music]

It’s time to take a journey to the heart of alchemy. And see the landscape of this rich tradition in all its splendor. Our guide through its many winding paths will be Dr. Carl Gustave Jung, whose interpretations of countless alchemical texts and symbols will lead us closer to its transcendent truth.

Thank you for joining me on this journey. This is Creative Codex and I am your host, MJDorian.

Let’s begin.

[cue Intro music]

Chapter 2: Projection & Paradox

When Jung starts his research into alchemy, in 1928, he is taking on a task of unknown dimensions. There are no books on alchemy, there is no movement to understand it as a spiritual tradition––its fate has been sealed as a failed attempt at early chemistry. This fate started centuries ago—for example: when the scientist, Isaac Newton, died in 1727, his assistant set fire to all of his many writings on alchemy. He feared that if the scientific community happened upon Newton’s alchemical treatises, his scientific theories would be labeled as nonsense. Such was the stigma of alchemy by that point.

And so, for over two centuries, there was no effort to translate the great alchemical treatises, in fact, many of them were simply lying in storage bins of museum collections still in their original Latin, Greek, or Arabic forms—gathering dust.

In the book, Alchemy, by Marie Louise von Franz—who we introduced in the last episode—von Franz confirms this fact in a lecture series from 1959. Two years before Dr. Jung’s passing, she states:

“As you know, Dr. Jung has devoted many years of study to this subject, which he practically dug up from the dunghill of the past, for it was a forgotten and despised field of investigation which he has suddenly revived. The fact that now the smallest pamphlet sells for about 100 Swiss francs, while about ten years ago an excellent book on alchemy could be bought for two or three francs, is actually due to Dr. Jung, because except for the interest displayed by some Freemason circles, and later developments by Rosicrucians, nobody really knew anything about the subject when he began his work on it.”

By the 1900’s, alchemy had been relegated to the trash heap of history, and the thought that any serious scholarly inquiry could be applied to it…was laughable.

And then—along comes CG Jung. What does Jung see in alchemy? What value does he find in it that two centuries of other brilliant minds missed?

I’ve been studying Jung’s many writings on the subject and I’ve arrived at these answers:

1. Jung believed that the rich imagery of alchemy told a story—the story of individuation. In the many artworks, epigrams, and woodcuts of alchemy, Jung saw an artistic visualization of the profound journey our Self takes over the course of a lifetime.
2. Jung saw alchemy as a form of visionary psychology before psychology existed. As such, he understood alchemy as the spiritual successor to Gnosticism.
3. Alchemy proved all of Jung’s theories—including: the existence of archetypes, the practice of active imagination, the benefits of dream analysis, understanding a symbol through amplification, the existence of synchronicity, the phenomenon of unconscious projections, and perhaps his most impossible theory, the one which still continues to be shunned by ‘modern’ psychology: the collective unconscious.

Now I know, there’s a lot to unpack there. And we will. But we also have to contend with a satisfactory explanation of alchemy. Because, you see, the two work hand-in-hand: if we understand alchemy we understand Jung.

So as we explore this rich tradition over the course of this episode, we will circle back to each of these points periodically to deepen our understanding.

So what is alchemy?

After having read dozens of alchemical treatises and manuscripts here is my personal definition:

Alchemy is an esoteric spiritual tradition whose practice centers around the manipulation and transmutation of matter. It achieves this using processes observable in nature which the alchemist performs in a personal laboratory.

That’s as clear a definition as you’re likely to find of ‘alchemy.’ Because objectively speaking, that’s what it is––an individual in a personal laboratory, working largely in solitude, causing and observing processes of nature on a chosen piece of matter.

That’s the essential element that distinguishes alchemy from any other spiritual practice or tradition. Are you engaging with matter and causing transformations in it? No? Then you are not an alchemist. Not in the traditional sense.

So what pieces of matter do alchemists work with? And what are these processes or transformations?

An alchemist largely works with plants, liquids or metals. Placing them in various laboratory vessels such as glass alembics, retorts, flasks, and pelicans. And no alchemical lab is complete without a furnace, or crucible, for operations involving especially high temperatures.

There are traditionally four stages to the alchemical process, and these take on a tremendous amount of symbolism in the artwork of alchemy. Discussion of these four stages can be traced back to the very earliest treatises on alchemy from two millennia ago. The four stages are the nigredo, the albedo, the citrinitas, and the rubedo. Each one of these stages is associated with a color that the matter changes into, as the alchemist is working with it, signaling that the work has reached that respective stage.

The names for the stages, as all names used in alchemy, come from their original latin. The first stage is the nigredo, which translates as the blackness, it is often represented in artwork as a raven or a corpse or a black sun. The second stage is the albedo, or whiteness, oftentimes associated in artworks with the soul, white birds, or a lunar queen.

The third stage is the citrinitas, or the yellowing, this is seen as a transitional moment between the second and the final stage, which is the rubedo, or the reddening, often represented as a red king, a red sun or a phoenix. You can visualize the order of these four stages by thinking of their respective colors side by side: black, white, yellow, and red.

By around the 1500’s, the citrinitas is removed from its place as a primary stage, leaving only the three stages of alchemy still referred to today: nigredo, albedo, and rubedo. You can see all of these stages beautifully represented in the alchemical masterpiece: Splendor Solis, by the fabled alchemist, Salomon Trismosin. Who is said to have been the teacher of Paracelsus.

You know it’s surprisingly difficult to find a good high quality scan of all 22 paintings from Splendor Solis anywhere online so in true Creative Codex fashion, I’ve included them on my site. You’re welcome. Just head over to mjdorian.com/alchemy and you can find them there. There’s also a link in the episode description.

Let’s take a look at some of the paintings in Splendor Solis, which are labeled as 22 Plates. These beautiful artworks were originally included in this treatise accompanied by written discourses on the alchemical processes the imagery represents.

Let’s first take a look at Plate No.3. The Knight of the Double Fountain.

Here you can see a decorated and regal looking knight standing atop a strange fountain, which seems to spew out silver or perhaps mercury on the righthand side and liquid gold on the left. The fountain streams out of the left side into a river of gold that stretches into the distant landscape.

The knight’s breastplate is uniquely decorated with the four colors of the traditional stages of the alchemical process, in order from left to right they show: black, white, yellow, and red. Nigredo, albedo, citrinitas, and rubedo. Pretty cool.

This is a perfect example of the veiled symbolism that alchemical art is so well known for. If you were looking at this painting without any context, you might not even notice the four colors on his breastplate, I certainly didn’t the first time I stared at it.

We can see the importance of these stages of alchemy appearing in several other artworks in the treatise. In Plate No. 13 you’ll see an alchemist’s flask with three birds entwined within it. The birds are in the colors of the three primary stages: black, white, and red.

In Plate No. 15, there’s a three headed dragon, whose heads are again in those same three colors.

Plate No. 17 depicts The White Queen standing atop a flaming sun, likely a symbol for the albedo—the whitening, and the following Plate No. 18 shows The Red King, atop an inverted crescent moon, again, no doubt a symbol for the last stage, the rubedo—or reddening.

These three stages of alchemy are so prevalent because one of the consistent goals of the work is transformation or as alchemists call it: transmutation—meaning a significant change, such as a state change from solid to liquid, or even changing one metal to another would also be called a transmutation.

Often the intent of these changes is to purify the subject material. This concept of the ‘purification of matter’ is central to alchemical philosophy. It is believed that one can purify something by causing it to undergo multiple transmutations—and in the process, sifting off the imperfections, and reuniting it in a more perfect form or uniting it with something else.

For example if one heats a substance and finds a vapor or condensation gathering at the top of your glass alembic, that vapor is more pure than the matter it’s leaving behind.

In the discourses of Splendor Solis, we find this passage stating:

“…heat cleanses the impurity taking away mineral excess and bad odors. Through sublimation the matter is purified. Separate the earth from the fire. The impure must be removed by cleansing, washing and separation before the operation can be completed.”

Now, there is a spiritual component that enters here, because what happens in the alembic happens in the alchemist. This is the first paradox of the work. One which is hard to imagine or accept without experiencing it firsthand.

The processes that the alchemist performs on matter he / she also performs on themself. One can argue this is occurring symbolically, psychologically, or spiritually. As within so without, as above so below. And I think we can make the argument that this is also what happens when an artist is creating art, whether that be a painting, or a film, or a piece of pottery. Something in the transmission between the physical creative material and the individual’s consciousness results in a transcendent experience.

But in alchemy, there is an even more profound implication—the matter being transmuted reacts to the inner state of the alchemist. And in some cases, the effect viewed in the alembic is a direct reflection of a transformation in the alchemist.

Matter reflecting consciousness.

I told you this rabbit hole goes deep.

One element of this interplay between alchemist and the work itself is commented on by Jung. He presents us with a psychological explanation for this metaphysical phenomenon—but one which is no less profound.

Important side note: when we hear Jung say psychic or psyche he is strictly referring to the contents or processes of the mind, and not to anything supernatural or metaphysical. This term, psyche, is one found in early psychological writing of the 1900’s, again specifically referring to the mind of an individual—their ‘psyche’.

In the book, Psychology & Alchemy, Jung states:

“The real nature of matter was unknown to the alchemist: he knew it only in hints. In seeking to explore it he projected the unconscious into the darkness of matter in order to illuminate it. In order to explain the mystery of matter he projected yet another mystery—his own unknown psychic background—into what was to be explained:

Obscurum per obscurius, ignotum per ignotius! (The obscure explained by means of the more obscure, the unknown explained by the more unknown.)

This procedure was not, of course, intentional; it was an involuntary occurrence.

Strictly speaking, projection is never made; it happens, it is simply there. In the darkness of anything external to me I find, without recognizing it as such, an interior or psychic life that is my own.

[…] I am therefore inclined to assume that the real root of alchemy is to be sought less in philosophical doctrines than in the projections of individual investigators. I mean by this that while working on his chemical experiments the operator had certain psychic experiences which appeared to him as the particular behavior of the chemical process. Since it was a question of projection, he was naturally unconscious of the fact that the experience had nothing to do with matter itself […]”

This is a remarkable insight—that we project our unconscious content onto all things that are mysterious or ambiguous in nature. In a sense, our mind views a void of meaning and seeks to fill it. Sometimes the projection proves true, but oftentimes, the projection has nothing to do with the person or thing but rather with our own psyche. We are not interacting with the world…we are interacting with our mind.

Now, how might this phenomena, in its psychological form, appear during an alchemist’s work?

Let’s take for example the first stage of alchemical work, which we spoke of earlier, called the nigredo, or blackness. It is unanimously represented throughout alchemical treatises with the same types of visual metaphors—ravens, black suns, corpses, and death. In fact, the names for the processes associated with the nigredo are mortificatio and putrefactio, respectively meaning: mortification and putrefaction—the process of decay.

Why does the first stage of the process have this association? Why would death be the first step and not the last?

Well, because psychologically this is true: the first stage of any meaningful growth or transformation must be death—the death of your former self.

Without the death and letting go of who you were you cannot be who you will become.

At times people hold on to who they are so tight that when they see any change coming in their life it’s felt as a personal grief. For example, I’ve seen this scenario play out several times to people I know:

Let’s say you’re in your early 20’s, and a close friend of yours, a person who you go out to bars with and events with every week, someone you’ve known since high school, they sit you down, and tell you the news: they are going to be having a baby—their first.

Well, if you’re honest, your initial reaction won’t necessarily be happiness for them. Strange right? Often it’s the opposite, rather than an implicit “congratulations, I’m so happy for you” I’ve heard some people who are close friends with each other respond with “Oh…wow…”

It’s a kind of shock followed by a sense of grief, who you were and who you and your friends were together is now in doubt—the new circumstances force a reality upon you—it’s time to let go of a piece of who you were to allow your friend to grow into a new chapter of their life.

Meaningful growth is painful—that’s why some people avoid it like the plague.

And so, you—as the alchemist—are doing your operations on matter, working on a part of the process using calcination—the heating of a substance to high temperatures—and then the first stage occurs, the nigredo, and you see your matter turn to blackness. In that moment, this insight about death being the first step toward transformation may come to you, and you reflect on an aspect of your life that you have perhaps been avoiding confronting.

Your unconscious projection onto this ambiguous material has drawn meaning out of obscurity. Naturally, like a good alchemist, you write the details of this experience down in your journal and reflect on them as you continue your work. This is psychology before psychology.

The author and colleague of Jung, Marie Louise von Franz, gives another example of this psychological phenomenon in her book: Alchemy. She states:

“…we could not recognize anything without projection, but it is also the main obstacle in arriving at the truth.

If one meets an unknown woman, it is not possible to make contact without projecting something; you must make a hypothesis, which of course is done quite unconsciously: the woman is elderly and probably a kind of mother figure, and a normal human being, etc. You make assumptions and then you have a bridge.

When you know the person better, then many earlier assumptions must be discarded and you must admit that your conclusions were incorrect. Unless this is done, then you are hampered in the contact.

At first, one has to project, or there is no contact, but then one should be able to correct the projection, and it is the same not only as regards human beings, but everything else also.

The projection apparatus must of necessity work in us, nothing can even be seen without the unconscious projection factor. That is why according to Indian philosophy the whole of reality is a projection, which it is, in a subjective manner of speaking. To us, reality exists only when we have projections on it.”

And this is the first paradox of alchemy: what happens in the alembic happens in the alchemist. But with Jung’s theory of projection we have only tackled one side of the equation. I’ve read statements from alchemists that clearly say—without any poetic license—that the result of the work in the vessel depends upon the inner state of the alchemist. That this act of reflection is not only occurring on the alchemist’s end, it is also occurring in the matter itself.

Take for example this statement I found in a modern alchemical treatise written by a French esotericist named Jean Dubuis. Concerning the state of mind of the alchemist during the work, he writes:

“If his thoughts are not well-ordered, then his substance cannot be properly manipulated. If both are in good order, he has to muster the courage to go deep within his inner resources in order to understand the relationship between his own soul and the soul of the matter he is working with.”

This idea that the inner state of the alchemist transfers into the work is much more difficult to prove, and borders on claims of metaphysical occurrences. Many people who misinterpret Jung’s work or deliberately deface his theories often label him with being unscientific and believing in metaphysical phenomenon. But these people grossly misrepresent him and only prove they have instead completely misunderstood his work.

In the book, Alchemical Studies, Jung clearly lays out his stance on metaphysical phenomena. Stating that their existence is nearly impossible to prove scientifically, they exist as a paradox of subjective experience, and as such, his focus is not to prove or disprove metaphysical phenomena. Instead, it’s to present the observable fact of the psychological aspects surrounding such experiences.

If one has a dream that functions as a premonition of things to come and correctly foretells the future—like the passing of a relative, or one that seems to imply knowledge of things unknown, then in Jung’s view, the psychologist can separate the metaphysical aspect of the dream from the psychological aspect. We can still analyze the experience and its effects and its possible origin point in the unconscious, because that event was meaningful to the one who experienced it.

Whatever the origin point in reality may be is inconsequential, it happened as a real experience to the individual, and should not be disregarded simply because of its possible supernatural or metaphysical nature.

So, we now have a sense for where Jung stands on the topic of metaphysical phenomenon—such as the potential possibility that the inner state of the alchemist creates a reaction in the material they are working with. Publicly, Jung chooses not to get tangled up in proving or disproving it, he leaves that to the parapsychologists, instead he focuses on the psychological effects, and the origin point of these experiences in the unconscious.

But still, you have to wonder…what did he really think? What did he think privately?

When he wasn’t writing a clinical research paper meant for an audience of fellow psychologists, what would he say on the topic if you were having a beer with him?

Well, I have a very special passage to share with you. This one I found in a passing comment that Marie Louise von Franz makes in her book, Alchemy. We should remember that von Franz was Jung’s assistant in translating those countless alchemical treatises, and so, she is intimately familiar with the good doctor’s personal views.

On this topic concerning the interplay between the psyche and matter von Franz states:

“We can make two hypotheses. Dr. Jung is inclined to think—though he has never formulated the thought, or only hypothetically, because we cannot do more, we can only speculate or make a hypothesis—that probably the unconscious has a material aspect, which would be why it knows about matter—because it is matter—it is matter which knows itself, as it were. If this were so, then there would be a dim or vague phenomenon of consciousness even in inorganic matter.”

Wow…that bears repeating ’the unconscious has a material aspect, which would be why it knows about matter—because it is matter—it is matter which knows itself. If this were so, then there would be a dim or vague phenomenon of consciousness even in inorganic matter.’

At the heart of alchemy is this paradox between consciousness and matter.

 

INTERMISSION

And now it’s time for a brief intermission.

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And now, back to Codex 40: Carl Jung & Alchemy • Part II: River of Gold

 

Before we shift our attention to the next chapter, it will be helpful for us to get a better sense for what the fundamental concepts of alchemy are. As these concepts will appear time after time in artwork, treatises, and dream symbolism in various ways. And if we are familiar with them we will better appreciate what they mean.

The bulk of what I will be describing here I’ve included on my website at mjdorian.com/alchemy. I highly highly recommend you head over there and read my article titled: Rudiments of Alchemy. Especially for those of you who prefer to learn by reading or simply to have a helpful resource for later. I have found that despite there being a near limitless font of knowledge online for this stuff, hardly anyone lays out the core concepts in a clear and direct way on one page. So again, you can find that resource at mjdorian.com/alchemy and click on Rudiments of Alchemy. I’ve also uploaded many beautiful alchemy artworks there that illustrate these concepts.

Moving on.

There are three concepts you need to know:

The Four Elements. The Three Principles. And The 7 Metals.

The Four Elements of alchemy are those traditionally spoken of in ancient Greek philosophy: Fire, Air, Water, Earth. Respectively represented as triangles with or without a horizontal line through their center. Fire is represented as an equilateral triangle pointing upward, Air is the same upward triangle but with a horizontal line through its center, Water is an equilateral triangle pointing downward, and Earth is the same downward triangle with a horizontal line through its center.

A trick to remember which direction the triangle is supposed to point for which element is this: Fire and Air rises, Water and Earth fall.

The first mention of the four elements goes as far back as Heraclitus’ fragments from roughly the 500BC, his statement on them is so filled with poetry that it truly captures the elegance of framing the world in this way. Heraclitus said:

“Fire lives in the death of earth, air lives in the death of fire, water lives in the death of air, and earth in the death of water.”

Reflecting on this quote will give you an understanding of how ancient alchemists saw the world. The elements don’t just react to one another—they complete each other—they rely on each other—and they live and die through each other. These aren’t elements in the modern scientific sense, this is a poetic framing of the processes and behaviors of the matter around us. Remember that this way of seeing the world is borne from ancient cultures who were rooted in a mythopoetic view of nature and life. Matter was imbued with the stuff of myth and Gods spoke to you in dreams.

A great mystery of the four elements is that at the same exact moment that the ancient Greeks were seeing the world through the interplay of fire, air, water, and earth, the philosophers of ancient China were doing the same thing—ten thousand kilometers away. And their reflections on matter brought them to also pursue alchemy in a parallel yet separate track to the Western path.

The next concept to understand about alchemy: The Three Principles.

These being Salt, Mercury, and Sulfur.

Now I know what you’re thinking: but these aren’t principles, these are two minerals and one metal. Right, well, here we find another paradox of alchemy. Salt, Mercury, and Sulfur are not only their physical compounds, but in alchemy, they are symbols.

They are symbols for processes, symbols for aspects of matter, and also symbols for physical compounds.

The easiest way to conceptualize them is to first arrange them in vertical order. Salt at the base, Mercury at the center, and Sulfur at the top. The reason will become clear shortly.

Salt is represented by a perfect circle with a horizontal line through its center. Mercury is represented by the traditional astrological symbol for the planet Mercury, which resembles a cross at the base connected to a circle above and a crescent on its side connecting to the circle’s upper edge. Sulfur is represented by an equilateral triangle with a cross connected underneath.

Salt is symbolic of the physicality of matter and the body. Salt is often what is left over after you burn matter, such as a plant. So alchemists associate it with solidity, the physical body, non-combustibility, and non-volatility—or that which does not vaporize.

Mercury is symbolic of the spirit of matter and the body. It is associated with the act of melting a substance or metal. Imagine the fluidness of mercury, how it is in a perpetually melted state. It is also symbolic of the ability to fuse metals together. And it represents the aspect of volatility—or that which can vaporize.

Sulfur is symbolic of the soul of matter and the body. It is associated with the act of burning or the aspect of being combustible. This is easy to remember if you have ever been in a science class in school and the experiment of the day involved burning sulfur. Sulfur is highly flammable, and so it represents combustibility. It is also associated with sublimation, which is when matter skips a state while transforming from solid to liquid to gas and back. When sulfur is heated it will sublimate directly from solid to gas.

Notice that the traits and processes associated with Salt, Mercury, and Sulfur are all based on characteristics of those substances.

Finally we come to the third concept which will help us understand how alchemists see the world: The 7 Metals.

There are seven metals which alchemists traditionally work with, these are: lead, tin, iron, copper, mercury, silver, and gold.

One of the goals of the work of alchemy is to ‘redeem’ the base metals by turning them into the noble metals (silver or gold) through various processes of transmutation. It was believed that gold was the purest and most perfect metal, and through an extended process of purification, one could transmute a metal like lead into gold. 

The alchemist’s furnace is a microcosm which mirrors the processes of nature. The prevailing theories of the time argued that the earth naturally turns imperfect metals like lead into gold over the course of centuries. Alchemists believed that by human influence, these processes could be sped up and replicated in the laboratory.

Each of the seven metals is also paired with a celestial body––one of the seven classical planets. These are the celestial bodies which have always been visible to the naked eye in the sky: the Sun, Moon, Jupiter, Mercury, Venus, Mars, and Saturn.

In order of their pairings they are: Sun-Gold, Moon-Silver, Jupiter-Tin, Mercury-Mercury, Venus-Copper, Mars-Iron, and Saturn-Lead.

The metals and their respective planets have curious traits in common which explain some of these pairings.

The writer, Nick Kollerstrom states:

“Belief in a linkage of these seven metals with the ‘seven planets’ reaches back into prehistory: there was no age in which silver was not associated with the Moon, nor gold with the Sun. These links defined the identities of the metals. Iron, used always for instruments of war, was associated with Mars, the soft, pliable metal copper was linked with Venus, and the chameleon metal mercury had the same name as its planet.”

An alchemist must have a reliable understanding of the movements of the celestial bodies as the success of his work depends on them. If you were working with copper, you would consult with the position of Venus; and likewise with lead / Saturn, Iron / Mars, etc.

This means that Astrology also plays a part, as it often does in ancient cultures. The overall effect being that though the alchemist may pursue the Magnum Opus in secret, he sees his place in the choreography of the universe, and knows himself also to be a force therein.

And that completes our crash course in the three main concepts. The Four Elements. The Three Principles. And The 7 Metals.

You can read about these in greater detail on the page I’ve created for this introduction called the Rudiments of Alchemy, at mjdorian.com/alchemy. The link is also in the episode description.

Now…back to the laboratory.

 

CHAPTER 3: Visions & Revelations

There is a strange quality about alchemical artworks—when you stare at all of these paintings and illustrations you begin to notice a distinct effect—it feels like you’re staring at someone’s dream material. The imagery seems to function within a kind of abstract dream logic.

Take for example a painting from Splendor Solis—the alchemical treatise we were exploring in the last chapter. Plate number 10 shows a noble looking knight with a dark beard and long hair, in his right arm he is holding an immense broad sword, at his feet lies the dismembered body of a naked man. The appendages have been severed, the bones cleanly cut, leaving the limbs inches from their connecting points. And in this knight’s left hand, we see the severed head, seemingly made of pure gold.

Or how about an example from another alchemical treatise, this one by Michael Maier, titled Atalanta Fugiens. We see in Emblem number 5, a woodcut, depicting a knight in armor placing a toad up to a woman’s exposed breast. The epigram reads: “Put a toad to the woman’s breast, that she may suckle him ‘till she dies and he becomes filled with her milk.”

Then there’s Emblem 24, which shows a king being eaten by a wolf in the foreground and in the background the wolf being burned on a pyre and the king escaping. The epigram reads: “A wolf devoured the king, and being burnt, it restored him to life again.”

Or how about another alchemical treatise: The Book of Lambspring, by the German alchemist, Lampert Spring, in Emblem 13 we see an illustration of a bearded king sitting on his throne, in mid-embrace with his son, the prince, but the king has his jaw unhinged about a foot, like a cobra, and is about to devour his son face first, crown and all. In the background, a figure looks on approvingly, a man with a beard, dressed in a long robe, with angelic wings.

What is going on here? Something about all of this art feels distinctly dreamlike. It’s not just that it’s surreal, it feels like there is something else at play in the logic of the symbolism—as if dreams and alchemical art are speaking the same language.

But how is that possible?

Jung noticed this correlation as well. He was a master of dream analysis after all. I would wager to say that during his lifetime he was the world’s leading expert on dreams. The sheer amount of time alone which he spent analyzing them and writing about them would earn him this title.

In Man & His Symbols, Marie Louise von Franz mentions that according to Jung’s own estimates—during his lifetime—he analyzed roughly 80,000 dreams. And so it makes sense, that Jung would feel drawn to alchemy because it appears to be made of dream material. When he started diving into the alchemical material in 1928, his great insight was that one could apply dream analysis methods to alchemical imagery, and this was one of the keys to decoding their meanings. This could explain why for two hundred years other brilliant minds before Jung took no interest in alchemy, because they did not take dreams seriously.

But we can confirm that alchemists did. They show tremendous respect for their dreams, in some instances, they even credit dreams for their alchemical discoveries.

The spiritual work done in waking life continues in one’s dream life. And that’s the way alchemists see their manipulations of matter, these aren’t trivial pursuits, these actions have spiritual consequences. Alchemists believe the work is not only done on the physical realm but also on the subtle realm. They define the subtle realm as the place where matter becomes spirit and spirit becomes matter. We’ll be diving more into that by the next episode.

So, so far we have examples of alchemical art that feels dreamlike. But what about some examples of dreams that feel alchemical? Or that contain overtly alchemical symbolism.

In the book, Psychology & Alchemy, Jung has an entire chapter devoted to just that. He extensively lists the dreams of a specific male patient and offers his analysis of their main symbolic content—content which confirms all of Jung’s suspicions regarding the primacy of archetypal and alchemical symbolism.

Jung makes an effort here to be very empirical with the method in which he obtains these dreams from this patient, as for the purposes of this research he does not want to influence the dreamer in any way, shape, or form. Even by reviewing the dreams in an objective way, Jung is concerned that he might let something slip in conversation which may influence the patient’s forthcoming dream material. So for the benefit of psychological research he devises a unique workaround. He writes:

[cue music – nocturne piano or satienne used in Jung Red Book episodes]

“In the present study I should like to put before you an individual series of such symbols in chronological order. The material consists of over a thousand dreams and visual impressions coming from a young man of excellent scientific education. For the purposes of this study I have worked on the first four hundred dreams and visions, which covered a period of nearly ten months.

In order to avoid all personal influence I asked one of my pupils, a woman doctor, who was then a beginner, to undertake the observation of the process. This went on for five months. The dreamer then continued his observations alone for three months. Hence conditions were really ideal for unprejudiced observation and recording.”

Among the various dream symbols mentioned by Jung is this one, labeled Visual Impression no. 5. It starts with a description of the symbolic event and then an analysis. Jung states:

“A snake describes a circle round the dreamer, who stands rooted to the ground like a tree.

The drawing of a spellbinding circle is an ancient magical device used by everyone who has a special or secret purpose in mind. He thereby protects himself from the ‘perils of the soul’ that threaten him from without and attack anyone who is isolated by a secret.

The same procedure has also been used since olden times to set a place apart as holy and inviolable; in founding a city, for instance, they first drew the sulcus primigenius or original furrow. The fact that the dreamer stands rooted to the center is a compensation of his almost insuperable desire to run away from the unconscious.

He experienced an agreeable feeling of relief after the vision—and rightly, since he has succeeded in establishing a protected temenos, (a piece of land set apart and dedicated to a god) a taboo area where he will be able to meet the unconscious. His isolation, so uncanny before, is now endowed with meaning and purpose, and thus robbed of its terrors.”

It’s clear that the snake circling the dreamer describes the ancient symbol of the ouroboros—the serpent that bites its own tail, and represents the eternal balance of creation and destruction that forms our physical reality. Jung points out this ouroboros association within the text in a footnote reference to an alchemical artwork included in the book—from a treatise called Pandora from 1588.

It’s an elegant drawing showing a circular vessel which contains a serpent eating its own tail within, from which three roses grow. But there is an even more appropriate comparison to be made to an artwork a few pages later, from an alchemical text which I cannot locate anywhere online which must be from Jung’s own private collection. It’s on page 64 of Psychology & Alchemy for anyone following along.

It’s credited as being from a text called ‘De Alchimia’ from the 16th century, written by pseudo-Aquinas. The artwork shows a serpent-dragon standing on four legs, biting its own tail, with its mid-section rooted into the earth by a tree. Again, the symbolic event mentioned: “A snake describes a circle round the dreamer, who stands rooted to the ground like a tree.”

Another symbolic event mentioned by this same dreamer, but from a different dream states:

“A globe. The unknown woman is standing on it and worshipping the sun.”

In Jung’s analysis he references one of the paintings from Splendor Solis, the treatise which we discussed earlier. The artwork in question is Plate 4 of Splendor Solis, which depicts a woman standing atop a globe with her hand raised in dialogue with the symbolic Red King, who has a blazing sun floating above his head, and who represents the rubedo of the alchemical stages. Again, the dreamer’s symbolic event stated: ‘A globe. The unknown woman is standing on it and worshipping the sun.’

We know that the patient never encountered this particular symbol, so how do we explain this striking overlap?

And a further question: have you ever had any dreams with alchemical symbolism?

I would bet you have. The challenge of course is recalling them—that’s where a dream journal comes in handy. Because if you don’t attempt to transcribe a dream, it will disappear as swiftly as it came. Again, we should remember that alchemists believe dreams can contain revelations—a point which itself lends a tremendous dignity to dream life.

In researching this topic I was reminded of a dream I jotted down from two years ago which struck me as particularly alchemical in nature. Mind you, this was way before I began studying any of this material, and so, even then it stuck out as something noteworthy in its strangeness.

In my dream journal, the entry states:

“July 2nd, 2021,

I had a strange and evocative dream. I was in some school setting, and was directed to a room, there was someone there functioning as a teacher or guide… and in front of me, at the room’s center, was presented what I was to view: a pit bull fighting an eagle.

The pit bull tried to reach out and bite the eagle, but it couldn’t, as the majestic bird easily evaded it and flew just out of reach. The eagle then then grabbed the dog’s snout, and with its talons digging into the dog’s lips, the eagle pulled the pit bull’s skin backward, and over the back of its head, revealing its large skull.

The eagle did this effortlessly.

And then, as if I was intended to see it, the pit bull turned to show me his other side, which I saw had a much larger eye socket, five times the size of the one on the right. No eyeballs were present.

I was horrified.

I then noticed that the cavity of the eyes was filled with something gritty and brown. A dirt or a marrow. It was strange and disturbing, and immediately, the scene left its mark on me.”

It was an intense dream, and the visual character leaves such a strong impression. If I imagine it as an illustration, it immediately calls to mind alchemical art. An eagle fighting with a dog, pulling its skin upward to reveal its skull. But does the symbolism have alchemical elements?

For our purposes, let’s isolate just the two animals: the eagle and the pit bull. What associations do they have?

My first step in attempting to understand these symbols was to follow a dream analysis method put forward by the author and Jungian analyst, Robert A. Johnson, in his book, Inner Work. I first wrote a list of associations around the word Eagle, they are: dangerous bird, effective, controlled / deliberate / discerning, self aware, highest ideals, celestial, unemotional, and Air.

Under that I wrote associations for pit bull, which state: aggression, lust, impulsive, animalistic, ‘fear’ impulse, dog with strongest bite, commonly least trustworthy, and Earth.

It’s these last two aspects of both lists which I’d like us to focus on: the eagle as a creature of the air and the pit bull as a creature of the earth.

This calls us back to one of the rudimentary concepts of alchemy: the four elements. In classical traditions, the air quality is associated with all that is celestial, spiritual. The earth quality is all that is earthly and physical.

The symbol of an eagle with this air association takes on even more meaning, it represents our highest ideals, it is our spiritual self. And in its ultimate form, it is also the phoenix that rises from the ashes.

The symbol of a dog, and not just a dog, but a pit bull, which I admit carries some of my personal baggage from some bad experiences—including being present when my own dog was attacked by a pit bull—it is associated with animal impulses: rage, lust, aggression. Impulsivity. If you have ever walked a dog on a leash you feel this in a very tangible way, the leash in your hand is the only thing keeping your dog from fulfilling all its animal impulses.

The fact that the eagle attacks the dog so effortlessly, and reveals the skull beneath, further filled with dirt…that is the symbolic action which the dream wanted me to see. It seems to present the soul—the highest ideals—wrestling with the body—the lowest impulses. And revealing in the struggle the end game of animal impulses: death and dirt.

The association of certain animals with certain aspects of human experience, this goes really far down into the unconscious. Humans have been playing this game with animal symbolism for a very long time. And we have proof of this, one of the most ancient pieces of art we have is a sculpture of a lion-man. This is a sculpture made from mammoth tusk showing a standing human form, on two legs, with the undeniable head of a lion. And it’s not wearing the lion head as a fur covering, the head of the human is a lion. This ‘Lion-Man’ sculpture dates to 40,000 years ago.

We will never truly know the origins and intention of such an ancient work of art, but of all the possibilities, the idea that the original artist saw such a figure in a visionary dream or a meditative state is a very real possibility. And the idea that we continue to feel the influence of such symbols through our dreams and unconscious content is an undeniable fact.

In alchemy we see a connection, in the way alchemists use lions in their artwork and metaphors. The lion is an animal of elevated importance in alchemy. It is commonly associated with mercury, and is often seen in representations as the warm blooded counterpart to the dragon. We also see it represented famously as the green lion which devours the sun.

Jung would argue these symbols exist in our collective unconscious—and that much of it is rooted in archetypes. Both are concepts which we will be exploring in the next episode.

These archetypes are revealed to us most clearly in visionary dreams and moments of revelation—such as those we can arrive at in deep states meditation. There is something in those moments that opens the doorway into our unconscious. This is the doorway Jung tried to show us with the practice of active imagination. It’s a powerful method for venturing downward, along the ladder of consciousness, and interacting with our inner world but also a timeless world that exists underneath.

The author, Jeffrey Raff, who was a student of Marie Louise von Franz, and wrote the book, Alchemical Imagination, states this: “Active imagination is Jung’s technique for the transmutation of the soul.”

And with that, it’s time we turn our attention again to The Red Book. It’s been too long. And there are still some secrets and easter eggs it holds for us.

While preparing and researching for this series, I re-opened my tattered copy of The Red Book, hoping to find something which connects Jung’s visionary experiences with his eventual interest in alchemy. As it was alchemy that gave him perspective on those experiences, he states this himself on the final page, writing “…With the help of alchemy, I could finally arrange them into a whole.”

I stumbled on a passage which occurs in the chapter titled The Gift of Magic. What struck me immediately, and came with waves of realization, is the many specifically alchemical concepts Jung uses in this passage. But if we follow the dating, Jung writes this chapter around 1921, that’s 7 years before he becomes fully engaged with alchemy, and begins translating the first alchemical texts.

How is this possible? At this point, he is not supposed to know anything about alchemy.

In the following text he makes use of the ‘above and below’ dictum most famously associated with the Emerald Tablet, which we read in the ending of the last episode. He also speaks of cauldrons—one of the tools of alchemists, he makes mention of healing potions—known in alchemy as tinctures, he also references the four elements, he makes clear statements about the sacred union of opposites which is central to alchemical philosophy, and most notably, a final startling connection, Jung mentions red-hot ash—an undeniable symbol for the final stage of the alchemical process—the rubedo.

Is it possible that in a state of deep exploration of the unconscious, which Jung engaged through active imagination, he found a vein of golden ore, or the river of gold itself?

The references in this writing are so direct that it cannot be a coincidence. This is why his eventual discovery of alchemy, seven years later, felt like a revelation to him—because it was.

In the passage in question, Jung writes:

“Great is the power of the way. In it Heaven and Hell grow together, and in it the power of the Below and the power of the Above unite. The nature of the way is magical, as are supplication and invocation; which is represented as a serpent precisely on the account of its particular nature, malediction and deed are magical if they occur on the great way.

Magic is the working of men on men, but your magic action does not affect your neighbor; it affects you first, and only if you withstand it does an invisible effect pass from you to your neighbor. There is more of it in the air than I ever thought. However, it cannot be grasped. Listen:

The Above is powerful,
The Below is powerful,
Twofold power is in the One.
North, come hither,
West, snuggle up,
East, flow upward,
South, spill over.

The winds in-between bind the cross.
The poles are united by the intermediate poles in-between.
Steps lead from above to below.
Boiling water bubbles in cauldrons.
Red-hot ash envelops the round floor.
Night sinks blue and deep from above,
earth rises black from below.

A solitary is cooking up healing potions.
He makes offering to the four winds.
He greets the stars and touches the earth.
He holds something luminous in his hand.”

 

On the next Creative Codex:

What is the luminous miracle that the alchemist holds in his hand? Answering this will lead us to the true goal of alchemy. What are the archetypes and the collective unconscious? How do we understand them and how did Jung see their influence in the Great Work? And finally, we will wrestle with the meaning of Salt, Mercury, and Sulfur, and in the process, completely unravel our understanding of reality. I’ll see you then.

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