Painting for Hygeia:

embodied non-verbal expression for the soul of a Jungian analyst

by Nora Swan-Foster, Jungian Analyst

After the recent IAAP Congress in Zurich, I made a pilgrimage to Pompeii and was captivated by the remarkable frescoes that had been restored and by the numinosity of the ancient spaces, where impressive details and gorgeous colors adorned the walls. The sense of a genius loci could be deeply felt in Pompeii. But I was equally, if not more, delighted—even inspired—by the mysterious, abstract, unformulated areas where lines, shapes, color, and texture intersected, as in the images I’ve included. These walls ignited somatic reactions that moved me into a soulful, primordial connection with history and ancient times—an etheric experience that also awakened the ancient creative instinct within me. The swaths of unformulated abstractions that edged up against the precision of pictures touched me in a visceral way, stimulating a desire and longing to return home to paint and engage in a creative activity.

While analysis is an incredibly creative and embodied process, having a creative process outside the consulting room is essential. As Jungian analysts, we are well trained to sniff out the shadow as a creative process. We trust that the overlooked, unformulated, and imperfect carry the seeds of transformation; however, if we become too determined to unearth “the bone” in another’s psyche, we may hurriedly foreclose on the affect within the moment. Process painting is a practice that slows down my inner dog so that it stays close to home. This creative process is a form of analytic hygiene, allowing me to return to my seat as an analyst and access an inner clear vessel, or “hollow bone.” Process painting also offers plenty of wonderful metaphors for the vicissitudes of analysis.

Process painting always carries risk and uncertainty because I never know what will emerge. I may discover parts of myself that daily pressures have obscured or pushed into the background. Through spontaneous, healthy vulnerability and abandon, I can reclaim these parts. I can also act more directly than I typically would in an analytic session, bringing to the foreground what lies beneath the surface and awaits discovery.

With an empty sheet of paper or canvas before me, there is always hesitation, or what could be referred to as threshold anxiety. I check in with all my senses, and then, at some point, I must simply take what Kierkegaard referred to as “the leap of faith” and put down my first mark, capturing the ethers of the moment. The mystic and the activist work together, as Jung explained through directed and nondirected thinking. He wrote: “The creative activity of imagination frees man from his bondage to the ‘nothing but’ and raises him to the status of one who plays. As Schiller says, man is completely human only when he is at play” (Jung, 1929, CW16, para. 98). Any thoughts, feelings, or recent sensory experiences are momentarily acknowledged and then put aside. Those of import will surface later through an inner active imagination, or what Joan Chodorow (2005) more specifically referred to as a “multisensory imagination” (Spring 72).

There is a contained time and place allocated for painting. The preparation of squeezing out paint fills the air with a sweet smell. I arrange the brushes, gather materials, and organize the space. I may feel eager and ready, like a racehorse, or slow and thoughtful, like a turtle—the animal body can express a felt sense. I might do some bodily warm-ups, swinging my arms or jumping to let my body shake out whatever is lodged in the fascia. There is the beautiful sound of brushes swishing through water and of the different art materials that destroy and disrupt the illusion of the purity of whiteness through marks on the paper or canvas: scraping, scratching, or tearing that my psyche/soma can react to with a swell of emotion—not only uncertainty, but also joy, curiosity, abandon, discovery, and a sense of utter freedom. I breathe and stay as loose and spontaneous as possible. I observe the alchemical intersection of materials: how colors intermingle and where negative space becomes meaningful. What was embryonic takes its first breath before me through lines, shapes, and colors. The autonomous image deserves to be respected and honored as it arrives, without criticism or questioning. What pushes to become known and visible to me is always unpredictable, has its own unique expression, and deserves my receptivity as well as my protection from interpretation. Definition—and, obviously, judgment and criticism—only interrupts the psychic energy and can cause the image to retreat into invisibility.

I know that images from the soul bid for a relationship as they are—there is a shared vulnerability that resembles the newness of a relationship, the birth of an insight within an analytic third space on the paper. Something from the soul has become known. Something new is documented. I breathe, allow the results to rest and find a rhythm, and adjust to their visibility. I might wonder: What does it need or want? What is missing? What could be changed slightly? Patience and observation are essential. The image always looks different to me the next day. Because it captures a moment in time, it often looks better weeks later. As in analysis, the image unfolds according to its own rhythm.

While painting, the shapes and forms speak to me: I might hear a story that takes me into the imaginal realm, or there may be an affective flash of memory. The playful, spontaneous lines, shapes, and colors call me to follow, develop, and cultivate them. My attunement requires a patient ego, close attention, and room for silence. At other times, there is humor, a larger or messier expression, a request for more green or blue, or a covering of white or black. Eventually, the painting demands more time and space to exist without further interference from me. As in analysis and contemplative practice, I regularly remind myself to listen deeply to the moment—to what is unfolding within me as well as between me and the painting.

Listening is not done only with my ears; it involves all my senses, encouraging a process of respect, rhythm, and pacing while creating some distance for reflection. Sitting in silence allows me to observe the tension of opposites and to be curious. I try to restrain my impulsivity to repair too quickly. I have to tolerate the tension and reject the desire to assuage my anxiety. Instead, I center on being with the painting, knowing that if I leap in too early with my brush or add another color or line, I risk disrupting what is forming. While the painting is almost always forgiving, what was working can suddenly be altered, even destroyed.

My painting process reminds me that destruction, with its subsequent loss, creates a temporal past while simultaneously creating the possibility of something new. Sabina Spielrein (1912) got it right when she defined “destruction as a way of coming into being.” She understood that the deep creative process of the feminine yin principle undergoes a continuous birth/death/rebirth process. Painting keeps me close to this process and reminds me not to grasp an image too tightly. Knowing we can’t live in the nostalgic past, our analytical work is concerned instead with the past that lives within us, even as we look toward the future. I am reminded of Jung’s references to “the way” and the “blue star” in The Red Book as formations of psychic energy that illustrated for him the development of consciousness.

When I paint for Hygeia, my process painting shifts slightly to compensate for my analyst’s body, which sat for hours each day. Spontaneous image-making and associative drawings are approaches I have used to attend to my own affective reactions toward those clinical moments that have a stronghold on me (Swan-Foster, IAAP, 2025). The scribble process addresses my countertransference reactions, allowing me to gain consciousness of my complexes rather than dissociating, avoiding, or defending in order to maintain a certain professional and ethical position. Following a session, the emotions for which I may have had no words can then find their rightful place as images. My own pocket of knowing opens so that I can begin to differentiate the subjective reactions and experiences enough to regain my thinking and reflecting mind. Only then can the clinical experience begin to find a new shape, a new formulation. There is plenty of research supporting the somatic benefits of this nonverbal form of release through our hands. When I ask, “What is this about?” regarding my response to an analytic hour, the spontaneous nonverbal response sublimates and gives form to the etheric qualities associated with my affective and somatic experiences—this supports the differentiation between subjective and objective experiences.

Similar to contemplative practice or daily exercise, I empty my mind of thoughts and feelings. The spontaneous work releases what my body has unwittingly taken on, which is why I rarely share my process paintings; they are deeply personal, providing me with a private space for energetic hygiene. While I may lack a clear understanding of the visceral experiences, emotions, or thoughts that direct the images, I remain faithful to the creative imagination as a process of exploration because I know it is always fruitful for the soul. When it is given space and time, I can reclaim my own mind, and my relationship with my inner imaginal world is honored. The Transcendent Function was one of Jung’s most daring and significant essays, in which he attempted to explain the tension between process and product. He also wrote a great deal about imagination and the creative process, including the following: “[T]he concrete shaping of the image enforces a continuous study of it in all its parts, so that it can develop its effects to the full…these rough-and-ready pictures do indeed produce effects which I must admit are rather difficult to describe” (Jung, CW16, para. 106). When we take the risk of creating these pictures, something is discovered, and possibilities come into being.

References
Chodorow, Joan. 2005. “Multisensory Imagination.” Spring 72.
Jung, C. G. 1929. The Collected Works of C. G. Jung, vol. 16.
Spielrein, Sabina. 1912. “Destruction as the Cause of Coming into Being.”
Swan-Foster, Nora. 2025. IAAP Congress presentation, Zurich.