Psychological photography: Francesca Woodman and Carl Jung (The alchemical symbolism and the feminine unconscious)
It is once again time to return to my favourite photographer, the enigmatic Francesca Woodman. This time we’ll be looking at her art from Carl Jung’s psychological perspective. This essay explores where psychology and photography intersect through alchemical symbolism.
Art doesn’t represent the unconscious, it is the unconscious speaking. (Photographs by Francesca Woodman.)
Francesca Woodman and depth photography
There are plenty of photographers out there, who are in the business of merely pressing buttons, never really reaching the potential that photography has to offer as medium. Then there are the other ones who are somehow able to tap into something much deeper.
There are plenty of ordinary photos out there, that are completely forgettable and doesn’t resonate in any way. Looking at them, doesn’t seem to evoke any reactions. We look, nod, and move on. Nice composition bro, we might think, or sharp lens… great shot. In contrast, there are also photos that are like a vortexes that can mentally devour you and leave you completely speechless. Francesca Woodman’s photography falls into the latter category. Her work isn’t just a pile of ordinary images, but portals to the caverns of our minds. That is to say, deeply psychological photography.
When I look at her work, I’m captivated and, indeed, left without words. This article is an attempt to touch upon what I think about her, even though it is hard to find the right words.
To talk about Francesca’s art in terms of bokeh, exposure, film stock, rule of thirds, tonez, vibez… you know, the sh*t photographers usually talk, would feel absurd. Her photographs operate on another frequency entirely. The vocabulary is beyond the one you’d find in a generic Portra 400 review or something like that. Her work reaches a level of unbelievable ambiguity. It is as haunting as it is mystical. I guess metaphysical is the word that I’m trying to find. A quality that seems to require a different kind of viewpoint and language.
Jungian framework
At this point, I’d like to introduce another name to the conversation. Enter the infamous Swiss psychologist Carl Jung, who is able to provide a more suitable viewpoint and a psychological framework for discussing the depth of Francesca’s photography. He’ll be our guide today, as we crawl through the funnels and tunnels of the human mind, from the psyche to the matter.
Carl Jung’s psychology is complex and it, perhaps rather surprisingly, borrows language from ancient alchemy, where Jung saw interesting parallels with the depths of our minds. He interpreted alchemy as a symbolic system that reflected unconscious processes, especially the process of individuation. Jung saw alchemy as a historical expression of the unconscious psyche before the emergence of modern psychology, a part of our psychological origin story and thus, was able to use alchemical concepts as metaphors for psychological concepts. It is definitely not the most obvious conclusion for a layman, who might view psychology only as a clinical study of the psyche, but that is the nature of jungian psychology; to look back at where we came from, to study what stemmed from our minds in the ancient times. It is a school of thought for old souls. Or perhaps ancient souls to be more precise.
But what on earth could alchemy and Francesca Woodman have in common? Contrary to the common misconception, alchemy is not about turning lead into gold, but about transforming the soul through suffering. This is the view point. That is the level Francesca’s work seems to operate. Jungian psychology focuses on transformation and inner symbolism, which speaks most clearly to what I sense in Francesca’s photographs and why I’m compelled to view her work from a jungian perspective. Sure, one could look at Francesca Woodman’s body of work and concentrate merely on the composition, wonder what kind of camera she used or whether she was pushing Kodak Tri-x to 1600, but in case of Francesca, focusing on the form instead of the depth of the content, would really be missing the greater point.
Personal Jungian awakening
Before continuing with Francesca, I should explain how Jung found his way into my life. I’m not going to lie — this is going to be a longer and more complicated (i.e. experimental) article than usual. I realise that this is a dense topic, but don’t worry, we’ll tie all the threads and loose ends together as we go along.
I initially became interested in Carl Jung’s psychology about five years ago, just when I was turning 40. I started to experience something called active imagination (even though back then, I didn’t know it was called that). Active imagination can be described as dreaming when you’re still awake. And I mean literally, you are seeing a dream, like some cinematic sequences unfolding in front of your eyes and inside your head at the same time.
The imagery is usually very rich and symbolic. Almost shamanistic. Like having a trip from psychedelics, without actually taking any drugs. (I’m not into drugs by the way — just wanted to point that out.) It can occur, for example, in a meditative state or during bed time, a half-way of being awake and falling asleep, when the dream imagery starts to sneak in, but you’re still fully conscious an able to observe them like watching a movie. The imagery can be extremely weird and even disturbing, but allowing it to take its on shape is important, even when seeing something unpleasant. One set of images will morph into another within every few seconds and when allowed to unfold without trying to control or deny them, they can display unbelievable visions, that you simply are not able to envision otherwise, when awake. Much like dreams, they can show you stuff you had no idea your own imagination was even capable of. Have you ever woke up from a dream wondering how you own mind was able to come up with something like that?
The imagery can manifest in moving images or even sounds. In addition to the visions, I’ve personally heard a cheerful female laughter, wind chimes and on few occasions, full spoken sentences. The clinical scientific term is for the phenomenon hypnagogic hallucination. It may sound psychotic, but it’s not a medical condition. There is no detachment from reality happening in a way that would render it alarming. Usually I just see these moving images how ever. Often times they are distorted faces morphing into another, cosmic wounds, sculptures made out of elemental materials (clay, stone, silver, gold), animal or human figures, ancient landscapes and places such as caves and shrines.
During the time I didn’t know that there was a name for this phenomenon, but after discovering the works of Carl Jung, I found out that he had documented it thoroughly and called it active imagination. A pivotal point in my life, but it was only the beginning.
Incidentally, soon after, I experienced something even more startling. Much like with my previous experience, at first I didn’t know that it was a well documented phenomenon too.
Synchronicity and loss
One does not make much new friends at the threshold of middle age, especially us introverts. An unlikely event, how ever, took place just when I had just turned 40. A unicorn sailed into my life. I got to know a lady called Madeleine through our mutual fascination for photography. We bonded quickly and became close friends. Soulmates if you will.
Sometimes though the brightest flames burns out the fastest, as I was soon to discover. Madeleine was suffering from a severe illness and she took her own life in 2022, after running out of strength to endure. The crippling pain of the loss is impossible to describe with words, nor the transformative power of grieving over a lost loved one. No one comes out from an experience like that as the same person who went into it. No one. No matter how often grief is spoken of, no one is prepared for its strangeness.
Around the time of her death, something uncanny happened, a series of events that can only be described as synchronicity, which, incidentally, is another key jungian concept. What I experienced, is too personal and complicated, so pardon me for sparing all the horrible details, but let me just say that it was earth-shatteringly strong, intense and even netherwordly experience.
Synchronicity is a psychological experience where meaningfully strong and contextual coincidences happen. And not just any coincidences, but ones that has strong, important relevance to you, to the point that they almost seem to be impossible to occur. What separates synchronistic coincidences from mundane ones (like for example seeing two registration plates with the number 666 on the same day) is that they seem miraculous, mystical and way, way, WAY beyond what should be statistically possible.
While synchronicity feels deeply personal and meaningful, modern science suggests it can be explained through cognitive biases, probability and complex system dynamics. Whether one interprets it as a psychological phenomenon or a deeper, underlying connection in reality, remains an open question. Even if synchronicities don’t involve any mysterious forces, they can still have unbelievably deep psychological meaning for the person experiencing them. Jung’s insight was that these events matter psychologically because of what they reveal about our inner state, our symbolic world and our sense of connection.
Emotional and spiritual impact
Synchronicities often occur during emotionally charged or transitional periods: times of crisis, transformation or decision. In my case, it revolved around Madeleine’s death. Not just after the fact, but it actually started before it, which added to strangeness of it. It made it feel like a death omen. If that doesn’t shake emotionally, I don’t know what does. A synchronicity experience gives a person the sense that the universe is speaking to them, which can strengthen their sense of purpose help integrate unconscious material into awareness, provide symbolic confirmation of an inner process (e.g., seeing symbols that mirror one’s dreams or feelings). In Jungian terms, this supports the process of individuation, the psychological journey toward wholeness and self-realization.
I am not a religious person, quite the opposite actually, but this was THE time in my life, when I was really revaluing my stance over religious, or at least mystical spirituality. A red curtain of another place (much like the Black Lodge in Twin Peaks) was presented in front of me and I was almost like allowed to lift its corner to have a look to the other side. In other words, it felt like opening a portal. The experience didn’t feel like simple coincidence, nor was it rationally explicable, but it carried the unmistakable feeling of design instead, as though the outer world had conspired to reflect the inner one. Jung wrote of such moments as the psyche’s way of revealing that it participates in a deeper order. For me, it was the moment the invisible world turned its face toward me. It also gave birth to a whole new photography project, called I see an image sleeping in the stone. Using art was an important way for me to process the loss and grief.
Jung viewed synchronicity as a bridge between the subjective inner world (psyche) and the objective outer world (matter). When something in the external world mirrors our inner thoughts or emotions, it produces a profound sense of unity or coherence, what he called an acausal connecting principle. Psychologically, such moments can foster a feeling of belonging to a greater order, a sense that life has coherence and meaning and a relief from existential isolation.
Jung believed that synchronicities often involve the activation of archetypes, universal, unconscious patterns of meaning (such as death and rebirth, the hero’s journey or transformation). When archetypal material is constellated in the psyche, we begin to perceive external events that symbolically reflect that pattern. For example, dreaming of death and then encountering real-life symbols of transformation. These experiences act as mirrors for inner psychological states and can guide personal development.
From a psychological standpoint, synchronicities are powerful because they evoke awe, mystery, and a sense of the numinous, experiences Jung associated with the spiritual dimension of the psyche. They can shift a person’s worldview, inspire creativity, and enhance resilience by giving meaning to suffering or uncertainty. My worldview certainly changed and I really feel like my life was divided at forty.
After these experiences, a whole new world (and view) emerged and — transitioning back to Francesca Woodman here — it would be impossible for me to experience art in the pre-jungian way anymore, especially in the case of someone like Francesca, who was able to channel so much of honest archetypal and unconscious content into her work. She had to be very intuitive, trusting her creative instincts without questioning her drives and impulses. A creative process like that is almost like a straight tube from the unconscious to the material world, completely bypassing the ego-consciousness, doubt and mental censorship.
Two eternal maidens and the archetypal feminine
Sadly though, as you may know, Francesca took her own life as well, at the age of 22, which draws a parallel between her’s and Madeleine’s fate. I see much similarities in both of them. Sometimes I see Madeleine’s ghost in Francesca’s images. Almost like the same person in a different body.
Madeleine did not know about Francesca, which is a shame, because I’m sure that she would have seen a kindred spirit in her. I’m sure she would have been deeply fascinated by her. Both Madeleine and Francesca became symbols, not of death, but of psychic transformation. They embodied what Jung called the nigredo, the dark night of the soul where dissolution precedes rebirth.
Some artists especially seem to thrive on jungian symbolism, whether they realise it or not. Intuitively, they just seem to channel deep symbolism of the collective unconscious, that creates this haunting feeling, that can be hard to pinpoint. On a conscious level, it is hard to determine, what exactly resonates, but on an intuitive, unconscious level, you just pick up the subtle cues, which is the resonation that you’re feeling.
I don’t know whether Francesca ever read Jung, I doubt it, but most likely neither did Tolkien (presumably, I probably should fact-check it), even though Lord of the Rings is basically a textbook of psychological archetypes. Archetypal imagery stems from the same source, the collective unconscious, that is populated with the archetypal figures. That’s why they appear in myths and stories in cultures across the world independently. It is the inner ancient world that binds us together.
Francesca’s art functions as a dialogue between her persona (the artist-photographer performing before the world) and her shadow (the repressed or disowned aspects of the self that emerge through symbolic imagery.) I don’t see her self-portraits as narcissistic or attention seeking, but ritualistic. They stage the oscillation between visibility and disappearance, the persona dissolving into the shadow. Often she blurs her body, merges with walls, disappears behind curtains, or turns herself into ghostly shapes. I see this is a visual enactment of ego death, the conscious self surrendering to unconscious material.
In jungian terms, this could be seen as the confrontation with the shadow, a stage in the individuation process where the artist faces and integrates the darker, neglected, or chaotic forces within. Yet, unlike Jung’s ideal of integration, Francesca’s imagery often stops short of reconciliation. Her figures remain half-dissolved, caught between form and formlessness. Her art becomes a record of an incomplete individuation, or perhaps an ongoing alchemical process, the nigredo stage of transformation.
Ever since I stumbled upon Francesca Woodman’s works, I got the sense that I was in a dialogue with her, through her images. She died before I was even born, so where does this sense of connection come from? It feels like I know her. Of course I don’t, but it is a psychological experience non the less, which, on the other hand, is real. I hate to admit that I haven’t known about Francesca for that long. I feel like I should have know her way earlier, like any self-respecting photography enthusiast, but I was, surprisingly enough introduced to her around the same time Madeleine passed away. I suppose it only makes sense that these events align like that, because it was definitely the right time for it. I doubt whether Francesca’s art would have opened up to me without these parallel experiences.
Wombs and tombs
Francesca’s photographs almost always feature the female body (often her own) as a psychic symbol, not merely a physical one, thus stripping away shallow eroticism. In jungian psychology this symbol, anima, represents the soul-image, the feminine principle within the psyche that mediates between ego and self.
Her self-portraits embody the anima’s descent into the unconscious realm: decaying rooms, mirrors, water, dust and dilapidated walls. These spaces are wombs and tombs simultaneously, alchemical vessels of transformation. The body itself becomes a threshold symbol: between life and death, presence and absence, image and invisibility.
The constant motif of metamorphosis, the merging of body with environment, the appearance of wings, animal forms, blurred motion, suggests the self’s attempt to transcend ego-boundaries. Her images are populated by archetypes: the maiden, the ghost, the nymph, the sacrifice, all aspects of the archetypal feminine undergoing transformation. I would actually go as far to say, that I see her as embodying the psychopomp, the guide between worlds, leading the viewer into the imaginal realm, where the personal and archetypal intermingle. Maybe that explains the haunting sense of connection.
Psychological alchemy and it’s symbols
Jung’s studies of alchemy was metaphor for psychic transformation containing four main stages: nigredo/blackening, albedo/whitening, citrinitas/yellowing and rubedo/reddening. Francesca’s photographs can be read as this alchemical tableaux, where base matter (the body, the mundane) undergoes symbolic transmutation.
Decay, dust, and ruin as a reoccurring theme in her photographs can be translated as dissolution and the death of form. In the alchemical vocabulary, this is known as the nigredo (blackening) stage, the moment of the darkest time, maximum despair, ergo, dark night of the soul. Her work often remains in the nigredo phase, where death and potential coexist. The intensity of her imagery, simultaneously erotic and ghostly, intimate and alienated, reflects the tension of being in this in-between state. Knowing that she ended her own life, further suggests, I think, that she wasn’t able to completely break out from the nigredo stage in order to continue her transformation.
Mirrors and reflections, a constant pattern in Francesca’s art, can be seen as illumination, the confrontation with the inner image, that aligns with the alchemical stage of albedo, the whitening. Blurring and light can be seen as integration, rebirth through fusion of opposites (rubedo, the reddening)
I wasn’t able to find the exact quote, but I remember Jung writing something along the lines of that often times our hardest times, while unbearable by the time experiencing them, might be seen in a completely new light afterwards and turn out to be the most beautiful times of our lives. I interpret this as breaking out from the nigredo stage after being transformed. All growth comes with a cost. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Experiencing the dark night of the soul, being in the nigredo stage, is not nice, but the transformative power is immense. No one comes out from it as the same person who went into it. No one.
Francesca Woodman’s legacy as an archetype (the eternal maiden and the artist martyr)
Francesca’s early death at 22 sealed her image in the collective imagination as an archetype, the tragic, visionary maiden-artist. Her suicide gives her work a mythic dimension, aligning her with figures like the poet Sylvia Plath or Ophelia from Hamlet, the feminine sacrificed to the demands of transformation. Jung warned of psychic inflation during individuation, the danger of being consumed by archetypal forces. In Francesca’s case, one could interpret her artistic and psychic immersion as so total that the boundaries between art and being, self and symbol, became perilously thin.
Her legacy, then, is both a cultural and archetypal phenomenon. She becomes not just Francesca Woodman, but the eternal feminine in her visionary, destructive and creative aspects, the Sophia archetype (divine wisdom, feminine figure, analogous to the human soul) trapped within the material world
Francesca’s art is the record of a psychic experiment, a sustained exploration of what it means to dissolve into image. She enacted, through her camera, a descent into the unconscious that few sustain for long. Her photographs do not offer resolution. They remain suspended between being and non-being, a space Jung might have called the transcendent function, where opposites hold tension until a new form is born. In that sense, her true legacy is not her tragedy but her alchemy: she made the invisible visible, and in so doing, gave shape to the soul’s own movement between form and dissolution.
