~ Hello darkness, my old friend ~
Shadow Theory in Art:
Shadows formed, shadows cast, perception shift a “darkness” task.
Shadows formed:
Light reflected on the surface of an object is a flat part of the story. If you line up the highlights, there is only a glassy frozen lake surface. No ripples, no movement, no depth to perceive. Shadows formed create movement and texture…signs of life.
Shadows cast:
Light caresses a three-dimensional object and the object in turn casts a two-dimensional shadow. This shadow grounds the object in space and time.
Shadow work is not so different.
Personally highlighted or culturally “acceptable” traits are allowed on the surface to provide a delicate level of security and ease.
Shadow or “unacceptable” traits are hidden for similar reasons.
Two sides of the same apple, we cannot bite into life without creating depth in space and time. Chewing, we integrate, dissolve, absorb, and transform. A pendulum swings between what is presented as an acceptable personality trait and what is unacceptable, hidden, or buried. Live on the swing, the now in between. The motion is an integration, a shifting balance. We need to recognize shadow to savor the flavors of life.
Ease into the descent—form taking shape in the shade.
Meditation can help quiet and focus the mind for the journey inward. The depth of each crevice is measured in deep lines like wrinkles in time down the heart-beat steps of a spiral staircase, deeper into the abyss. As eyes adjust to the thick veil of the void, the static rasp of shallow breath draws the perceptive eye inward at last, to wash over the flesh of a cast-away trait.
Find these curious cryptids in life’s labyrinth of mirrors. Take notes on who or what is frustrating, catch the tail reflection of why, and follow the flicker to the heart of irksome. A so-called wretched beastie will be there, cawing, crawling, and toothy-pawing within, (though secretly relieved that its bump in the night on the surface of life finally knocked loud enough for you to come looking).
Shadows formed; shadows cast—depth perception changing fast.
Shifts in shadow, shifts in perspective, shifts in time and space. Darkness is the mysterious outline of a journey for those who are curious.
Now that the knocking pursuit revealed a cryptid shadow trait, the portal of empathy and understanding opens. Since this is less about learning a new technique, and more about flow state exploration, consider using familiar materials. Removing distractions can serve to increase focus in a safe space. It grounds and spreads roots as the story unfolds. Personally, I prefer writing, drawing in ink, or sliding through oil paint—whatever calls to me in the moment, whatever feels right as I meet and hold the gaze of my shadow trait.
Grab a pen and step through the portal.
Consider building a world experiencing crisis based on one or many personal fears. The house is on fire, the asteroid is near, the forest is dying. Now, consider the cave-dwelling cryptids creeping in the sub-level sewers. Subconscious. Fashion that creature with extreme style to exaggerate portions of self that have been personally deemed unacceptable. Break open those frustrating turds in the mirror. Seven years in the sewer with the sirens of loneliness.
Now consider the opposite—a trait that is fresh-faced and not starved of oxygen (the surface-dwelling mask masquerade) and build an exaggerated character. Toss the two into the environment of fear and these become poles arcing electricity and magnetism—a ball of chaos swirling ether into a story of its own design.
Again, the pendulum swings between two characters of extreme opposites. The self is found somewhere in the within the movement. Polarity.
Shadows formed and shadows cast, grounding power swift and vast.
Sunrise? High-Noon? Sunset? Too soon?
A personal example of worlds and characters born of shadow work extremes as follows:
[My environment of fear] On the edge of Suncity Strange, as we near the thousandth heralded and unprecedented end of days, an ever-expanding Amusement park encroaches on the last remaining wilderness. Wild screams ripple echoes of insatiable consumption—pain, greed, and gluttony gush through the sewers beneath Lytle Amusements and urge its boundaries to swell. More action, more entertainment, more food, more drink, more More MORE.
[The exaggeration of the cryptid I found knocking] Here, Trick “Chaos” Ink is running the park in perpetual circus as she capitalizes on the one thing left to consume—the self. The park randomly takes from its visitors—teeth here and there, an eye for a ride, a flap of skin for a spin. Blood and bits drain to the sewer, and fuel the rides riders alike. She presides and provides creative consumption to the extreme, content in cannibalized content—hasn’t every story already been told anyway? And keeps company—strange loyal servants, a stalker or two, and a “Treat” of her very own.
She is extreme innovation in destruction. She is quick, clever, ruthless, and selfish. She is in a position of power. She is seen, heard, and feared. By apocalyptic standards, she is absurdly rich. Weaver of spirals; alchemist.
[The exaggeration of the acceptable surface level opposite] Fear not, for on the utmost uptick tip of the highlight mountain, there is warmth in the cottage window on Cold Hollow, a fire in the hearth bubbling a stone soup in a crow-kept cauldron, a siren song calling from moon-glade electric midnight meadows. There, hails a Bleu witch that has protected the sacred grove, Coyote Labyrinth, for an age. Self-sacrificing for the greatest perceived good and sealed away in the heartwood of an old oak, her energy serves to shroud the beloved space in a sacred maze and mist for a thousand years and anxious longings… until the pendulum crow that travels between worlds wakes her to the encroaching terror.
She is profound protection and all-consuming kindness. She is creative, savory, and spiritual. Weaver of loops, alchemist.
[The movement and integration unfold with the story—how these opposites interact and what happens to each as they merge in the middle of the movement]
As cannibalized cannon goes, there is a blur of motion, an emergent merging. A pale swallowing of a dark potion, a fading poison that becomes a controversial cure. But each movement is integration—it is not a static integration, it is an ever-changing, ever-flowing radical river of chaotic acceptance of self.
