Chapter 1
Encountering the Mask

I have always been captivated by the power of images. My earliest memories are of gazing at storybooks for hours, and drawing characters from my own dreams and fantasies. Witches, fairies, goblins, and talking animals populated my mind both in waking life and in sleep. These beings seemed to whisper of a secret world hidden just below the surface of ordinary life, a world of mystery and awe. As my life path unfolds along the road of inner work, I have begun to think of my early fascination with these images as an instinctive attraction to the unconscious and all its hidden terrors and treasures. As an adult, I continue to be drawn to archetypal symbolism in a myriad of forms: storybook illustrations, film, theater, dance, ritual, dreams, and mythology. When I encounter these images I feel as if there is a crack opening before me through which a universal truth is revealed; I glimpse the human condition as seen through the eyes of the Divine. Of all these different modes of creative expression, none has captivated me as deeply as the mask. The total transformation of identity that is possible through wearing a mask provides a unique opportunity for inner work.

My earliest memory of wearing a mask revolves around a costume I designed when I was six years old. I had decided to be an owl for Halloween. I was drawn to the mystery and power of owls, with their night vision and silent flight. I created the mask myself, using paper maché to sculpt the round eye sockets through which I hoped to gain authentic owl vision. I then had the opportunity to wear my owl costume to school for some special Halloween activities. My teacher arranged for us to dance in our costumes, and she invited each one of us to individually perform in front of the group. A stereo played energetic music as each child got up and whirled around in their costume. I remember the mood being very festive, but I did not feel playful about this performance. I was taking it very seriously. When it was my turn I looked at the teacher and said, “Please turn off the music. I am an owl and owls fly silently.” She did as I asked, and I took flight, running in silent circles with my wings outstretched. I remember that the air felt charged, crackling with energy. It is one of my earliest memories of experiencing power. My mother tells me that when the class was over I showed signs of doubt about my performance. Once I had removed the mask I seemed to shrink. I became my small child self again, full of insecurity. The mask had given me access to a more powerful aspect of myself that I did not ordinarily experience.

Recently, my mother gave me two photos of myself at age six wearing the owl costume; one taken at home, the other at the school dance class. In the photo at home I am wearing the costume, but not my mask. My face is round and babyish, glowing with the gleeful expression of a child on the verge of trick-or-treating. The second photo captures quite a different vision of me. Wearing my owl mask, I am standing proud and fierce, arms outstretched (see Figure 1). The mask hides the innocence of my face, and instead presents a haunting visage that is part human, part animal. It reminds me of photographs I have seen of shamans wearing masks, transfigured in states of ecstatic trance. The photo captures some essence of the altered state that I experienced when I danced in silence as an owl.

When I reflect on that experience of my six-year-old self, I am struck by the intensity of feeling that took hold of me while I was wearing the owl mask. My ordinary, small self receded behind the mask and another character, a strong, wise presence, gazed out through those round eye sockets. I am reminded of the story that psychiatrist Carl Jung (1961) recalled from his own childhood, where he became aware of having two distinct selves. He noticed that he had an ordinary, everyday self that played games and went to school, and in addition there was another self, a wise, ancient, mysterious self (1961). My encounter with the owl mask gave me a glimpse of a hidden self that transcended the limitations of my youth and innocence. I feel that the experience brought me into contact with an archetype from the collective unconscious.

Carl Jung (1959) defined archetypes as designs or motifs of the psyche that appear throughout time and across cultures. These motifs are also contained in the collective unconscious, a vast common well of psychic material extending across time, place, culture, and personal experience (1959). I believe that intentional interaction with archetypal images can help facilitate personal growth, bringing illumination and insight to the parts of the self that lie hidden beneath the surface. As a child I was instinctively drawn to archetypal images; later, as a student in the Depth Psychology program, I found ways of consciously interacting with these images and figures.

I have found that masks serve a dual function for me – the most obvious aspect is that the mask allows me to wear a different face, with its own set of characteristics and emotions. However, the mask also has the novel quality of covering up my ordinary face, the familiar visage of my persona. Jung (1959) defined persona as the personal façade that one presents to the world, a social interface defined by such parameters as status, culture, or profession. The term “persona” is derived from the masks used by the ancient Greeks in their ritual theater performances. These masks presented exaggerated features of familiar characters that could be easily recognized by members of the audience (Taylor, 1983). The use of masks can also transport the wearer beyond the persona, allowing hidden parts of the self to be experienced. Steven Larsen (1990) writes:

When one enters “concealment” behind the mask there is a paradoxical freeing of behavior. A transformation of character may take place, as hidden or suppressed parts of the self come to the fore. Ultimately the transformation is revealing rather than concealing. There is a glimpse of the inner cast of characters that inhabits each one of us (p. 236).

Indeed, with the help of the masks, I am cracking through the shell of my persona to discover a pantheon of characters within myself. By liberating myself from the face I ordinarily identify with, I am able to connect with aspects of myself that normally lie hidden in the unconscious.

Personal History
I was a prolific artist as a child, and my drawings were often accompanied by stories and myths that I invented. My family encouraged my obvious passion for art, and when I came of age they supported my decision to go to art school. I enrolled at the California College of Arts and Crafts and studied illustration and printmaking for two years, but I discovered that I did not feel fulfilled by my experience there. I was learning a wide variety of techniques, but somehow I didn’t feel that my whole spirit was involved in the process. It was a time in my life when an awareness of my personal issues was surfacing, and I found it difficult to concentrate on my studies. I left school and went on a ten-year odyssey of exploring different modes of expression.

During this time I discovered my great love of dance as I delved into the kaleidoscopic world of the urban underground dance scene in San Francisco. Dance provided me with a powerful and direct connection to an essence that I can only describe as the Divine. I discovered that I could go into a trance while dancing, transported into exhilarating, mystical states of consciousness. I have spent the intervening years searching for a way to incorporate dance more fully into my life. Recently, the art of mask making has brought me back to the world of dance, as I shall describe in a later chapter of this creative project.

Another life-changing experience was my trip to India at age twenty-six. I traveled to various places in India, and everywhere I went I was struck by the deep spiritual devotion of the Indian people. In particular, I was fascinated by the construction of altars, which are found everywhere and in every conceivable form. These beautiful creations range from the most humble personal shrines to exquisite and elaborate temples. I was also struck by the use of costumes in rituals. I had the good fortune to observe several religious celebrations and even a couple of weddings; in each instance I was captivated by the transformative effect of costumes, makeup, and masks. The people engaging in the rituals were no longer their everyday selves, but were transfigured into images of gods and goddesses. I developed a fascination for the art of transforming the human figure with costumes.

After I returned from my travels, I decided to go back to school and complete my bachelor’s degree. I chose New College of California for its unique and holistic approach to learning. I focused on visual art, dance, and ritual theater. For my final project, I presented a ritual performance, which blended dance, music, ceremony, and projected imagery. I feel that this early performance planted the seed that later grew into the mask performance that I created as the culmination of my work in the Depth Psychology program.

In 2002 I moved to Santa Rosa and decided to take some classes at Sonoma State University. I had always been interested in dreams, so the class titled Myth, Dream, and Symbol caught my attention. I enrolled in the class and embarked on a journey into dreams that would eventually lead me to the Depth Psychology program. The class was taught by Dr. David Van Nuys, who became a mentor for me in the world of inner work. I became fascinated with the rich and vivid landscape of my dreams, a realm populated with mysterious figures who represented hidden aspects of myself. I felt compelled to delve deeper into this world. I went on to be a teacher’s assistant in Dr. Van Nuys’s class for two more semesters. I found that working with dreams and mythic imagery was immensely satisfying. I felt as though I had come home. Seeing my enthusiasm for the subject, Dr. Van Nuys encouraged me to investigate the Depth Psychology program. I attended a thesis presentation and immediately felt that I belonged in the program. I set a course for the realm of Depth Psychology and was accepted into the program in 2004.

The Depth Psychology program provided me with a safe, supportive container in which to explore my inner world. The coursework for the program included various art-based techniques, one of which was mask making. The more I worked with masks, the more impressed I was with their power to reveal hidden aspects of the psyche. This creative project represents the culmination of my work in this unique and life-changing program.

Chapter 2
Methods: The Mask that Conceals also Reveals

This creative project documents my exploration of mask making as a tool for personal growth and transformation. The earliest images of masks can be found in cave paintings dating back 30,000 years. Masks appear in every culture throughout the world in mythology, religion, ritual, dance, and theater (Nunley & McCarty, 1999); I have joined this lineage of mask makers in the context of psychological exploration. Through my own creative process of interacting with images from my unconscious, I am seeking insights into my own psyche. The vehicle of the mask allows me to embody these images and bring them viscerally to life. My research was art-based, following the practitioner research model described by Shaun McNiff (1998). This model includes the “use of the arts as objects of inquiry as well as modes of investigation” (p.15). In this method, the artist/researcher observes internal experiences while engaged in the artistic process, and notes any changes in the psyche as a result of having made the art.

My methods included several different levels of interaction with the masks. First, there was the process of creating the masks using plaster, leather, fabric, and a variety of other materials. Then there was the experience of wearing them, moving with them, and feeling them come alive in and through me. I interacted with the masks through the technique of active imagination, entering into visualization and dialogue with each mask. Sometimes this took the form of a ritual, while at other times the process unfolded spontaneously. I also incorporated dream work into my mask-making experience. Eventually, I integrated all of these techniques in the creation of a mask dance performance that I staged in October 2008. All of these mask explorations have helped me manifest positive change and growth within my psyche.

Working with Archetypes
Much of my work with masks revolves around the concept of the archetypes as described by Carl Jung. June Singer (1972) notes that the concept and term “archetype” can be traced back to ancient Greece, but it was Jung who integrated the term into modern psychology (p.126). Through observing the delusions of mental patients, the rituals of primitive tribal peoples, the mythology of ancient cultures and the dreams of his own clients, Jung found the same motifs and images playing out in the human psyche. He came to the conclusion that all humans shared a mysterious inheritance of collective imagery and symbolism. He referred to this as the collective unconscious. Within the realm of the collective unconscious dwell the archetypes, in the form of consistently recurring figures, images, and situations (Jung, 1964). These figures manifest throughout time and across cultures in mythology, rituals, literature, film, fantasies, and dreams. Some examples of archetypal figures are the Great Mother, the Warrior, the Divine Child, the Fool, the Wise Old Man, and the Trickster, to name only a few. Some examples of archetypal situations are the Night Sea Journey, the Crossing of the Threshold, and the Road of Trials.

Many of these titles for archetypal figures and experiences were devised by Joseph Campbell (1949). He elaborated on the concept of archetypes by describing the universal story of the hero as a mythic experience shared by all of humankind. In his classic work, The Hero With A Thousand Faces, Campbell refers to this phenomenon as the “monomyth” (p. 3). Campbell observed that the same basic storyline of the hero’s quest could be found in every culture of the world from ancient civilizations to modern societies. A version of this myth is also played out within each individual. We are each the hero of our own story, struggling forward on our quest for meaning and self-realization. I later created my own version of the hero myth, which I named the Journey of the Wounded Artist (see Chapter 5).

Mask Making
In this phase, I employed various art techniques to bring the archetypal image out of my imagination into the form of a mask. The masks were constructed over castings of my own face, so the process included transforming my own visage to reflect the images of various archetypes (Larsen, 1990). I created the castings in plaster and constructed the masks primarily from leather, with the addition of other materials such as cloth, feathers, and found objects. I focused on embodying the archetype not only in appearance, but emotionally and energetically as well. In this way, I hoped to capture the essence of the archetype as it exists within me. The masks served as both an expression of the archetype and a mirror through which I might glimpse the archetype within myself.
Enacting and Expressing

After crafting each mask, I wore it and explored its character through movement and dance. I did this in different ways: sometimes alone in my studio, sometimes in the presence of others, as a performance, or as part of a formal ritual. I drew inspiration from the work of Kaleo Ching (2006), a mask maker who incorporates ritual and guided imagery into his creative process. I often immersed myself further into a mask’s character through the use of costumes and props. Some of these enactments were photographed and incorporated into collage images that added another layer of reflection to the process. Finally, I created a dance performance with my masks to tell the story of my creative process and the archetypal figures that influence it.

Active Imagination
Active imagination is a technique developed by Carl Jung as vehicle of communication between the conscious and unconscious areas of the psyche. It engages the spontaneous imagery of the unconscious while allowing the conscious mind to participate. It is similar to dreaming in that images are allowed to arise out of the unconscious, but the process takes place while one is awake. The conscious self is thus able to have a dialogue with the inhabitants of the unconscious. In his book, Inner Work, Robert Johnson (1986) describes the surprising insights that can arise from this process:
Through Active Imagination, it becomes increasingly clear that the images that appear in imagination are in fact symbols, representing deep interior parts of ourselves. Like dream images, they symbolize the contents of our unconscious. Because these interior beings have “minds of their own,” they say and do things that are new to us - startling, often enlightening, sometimes offensive to our egos. (p. 139)

I employed the technique of active imagination to explore the intricacies of each mask I worked with. I created a receptive atmosphere within myself by sitting quietly in meditation, emptying my mind of distracting thoughts. After entering a meditative state, I used my inner eye to conjure an image of the mask character I wished to encounter. I then either engaged the figure in a dialogue, or simply observed and let the figure unfold in my mind. During this process I was also open to receiving other images related to the mask, such as figures from mythology, totem animals, plants, symbols, landscapes, and dreams images. When I emerged from the active imagination experience, I wrote an account of any dialogue or interaction that took place and made sketches of any visual imagery that surfaced. In the following chapter, I describe some of my experiences with active imagination in detail. Much of the imagery in my final performance was derived from active imagination as well.

Dream Work
I have found dream work to be one of the most powerful methods of discovering and interacting with images from my unconscious. In the Myth, Dream, and Symbol class, I was introduced to a variety of techniques for working with dreams. During my time in the Depth Psychology program, I also had the privilege of taking classes with renowned dream worker and author Jeremy Taylor. Under his guidance, I was able to further deepen my relationship with my dreams and their unique symbolic language. I have kept a dream journal for many years, which not only helps me recall the vivid details of my dreams, but also allows me to make connections between dreams that occur months, or sometimes years apart. My journal also helped me keep track of the many synchronicities that arose as I worked on my dreams. Carl Jung (1961) developed the word “synchronicity” to describe the phenomenon of meaningful coincidences. He defines synchronicity as an “acausal connecting principal” (p. 221), where external events seem to intersect and align with the personal experience of an individual.

Many of my masks originated as dream images. Bringing these images out of the dream world and into physical form has been a powerful vehicle for integrating the various archetypes they represent. I focused on “presenting the essential energy” (Mellick, 1996, p. 110) of my dream characters by allowing my intuition to guide the process. I have also encountered many images of actual masks in my dreams. Working with these dreams has provided me with a way to interface between the persona of my waking self and the various faces of my unconscious self. In the following pages, I give an example of a dream image that I developed into a mask.

A dream becomes a mask: the serpent and the phoenix. Choosing an image to use for a mask proved a mysterious and unpredictable process. Often an image would surface in my mind and linger there, sometimes gently coaxing me to bring it into form, other times roughly prodding at me from within. In one instance, a dream from several years earlier began to bubble up in my mind’s eye, continuously urging me to create a mask for it. I had the dream while I was a student in the Myth, Dream, and Symbol class. The main images in the dream were a tree, a bird with brilliant plumage, and a black snake. Now, four years later, this dream came dancing back into my mind, inspiring me to incorporate it into a mask. The masks that I had made up until this point each depicted a single character, but I felt this dream needed to be represented as a whole. In my mind’s eye, I saw a mask that contained the bird, the snake, and the tree. I wanted the mask to express the dream as a multi-faceted entity, rather than focusing on just one character from the dream. I decided to look back at my journal entry of the dream before starting the mask:

I am sitting in my car, parked on a city street. There is a tree growing out of the paved sidewalk next to me. Movement catches my eye, and I look up into the tree to see a bird with fiery golden plumage sitting on a branch. It reminds me of a phoenix. I am thrilled by the beauty and majesty of this bird. Suddenly, it flies down and lands on the hood of my car. Out from under the hood slithers a large, black snake. It bites the bird, killing it instantly. As the bird dies, all the color drains from its feathers, turning ashen grey. I know that the snake needs to eat the bird for its nourishment. (Personal Dream Journal, January 5, 2003)

I felt enchanted by the images in this dream. They seemed to be offering me a gift of personal insight. What were these images telling me? I began to create a mask of a face branching out in the form of a tree, with the bird and the snake on opposite sides of the face (see Figure 2). The bird fluttered into the leaves from above, while the snake slithered up from the roots. As I was creating the mask, I let my mind wander in circles around the images, making associations, looking for clues into their meaning. On one level, the snake seemed to hold aspects of my Shadow, the archetype that contains the repressed, unsavory aspects of the psyche. June Singer (1972) writes:

The shadow is a dominant of the personal unconscious and consists of all those uncivilized desires and emotions that are incompatible with social standards and with the persona; it is all that we are ashamed of. It also has its collective aspects, which are expressed mythologically, for example, as the devil or a witch. But the shadow also has a positive value, at least in its potential. There is no shadow without consciousness, no darkness without light. The shadow is a necessary aspect of man; he would be incomplete, utterly shallow without it. (p.165)

Black and poisonous, the serpent slithered out of the darkness to bite and kill. However, I remember that upon awakening I was not left with a negative feeling about the snake, but rather a feeling of empathy towards it. I felt that the dream was indicating my Shadow’s right to existence and need for sustenance. I also found a strong theme of death and rebirth running through the dream. The dying bird’s brilliant feathers that faded to the grey color of ashes suggested the fiery death and rebirth of the mythical Phoenix (Jacobi, 1964). A snake also goes through a cycle of renewal when it sheds its skin. Even the tree can be seen as a symbol of death and rebirth, as it drops its leaves in winter and sprouts new growth in spring.

I went on to use the technique of archetypal amplification to find examples of my dream images in mythology and ancient traditions. In archetypal amplification, one examines dream images in the context of mythology, which can reveal the universal aspects of these images and unveil hidden layers of meaning for the dreamer (Johnson, 1986). I found numerous ancient images of birds and snakes combined as symbols of healing and rebirth. One illustration of this is the Pre-Colombian image of the feathered serpent, which was “recognized as the power that casts off death to be resurrected” (Campbell, 1974, p. 284). Another striking example is the caduceus, the staff of Hermes, which is entwined by two snakes topped by a pair of bird wings (Henderson, 1964). This symbol reflects the idea of the transcendent function, which indicates the psyche’s striving towards wholeness and integration. Joseph Henderson (1964) writes:

A sense of completeness is achieved through a union of the conscious with the unconscious contents of the mind. Out of this union arises what Jung called “the transcendent function of the psyche,” by which a man can achieve his highest goal: the full realization of the potential of his individual Self. (p. 149)

As I worked with these associations, I found that the dream was more than a personal story; it contained images of the collective unconscious as well. It was an expression of my individual self, and at the same time it was bigger than I. It offered me an image of my own process of individuation, the instinctive drive to grow and develop into my greatest potential self (von Franz, 1964). The mask that grew out of this dream became an object of empowerment for me. It formed a meeting place where the primal energies of my unconscious could mingle with my waking consciousness. The tree provided a supportive, growing environment for the snake and bird to play out their dance of death and rebirth. I saw the snake as a primordial image of the unconscious welling up from below, while the bird seemed to hold aspects of my higher spiritual awareness. The snake devours the bird, becoming one with it. I had the sense that these images were in a constant flow of recycling and regenerating energy. When I wore the mask and looked into a mirror, I felt uplifted by the sight of my own eyes gazing through a scene of balance and integration. I named the mask the Serpent and the Phoenix; this title seemed to best reflect the mythic quality that the characters had taken on.

At the same time as I was creating the mask, the International Association for the Study of Dreams Conference was about to take place on the Sonoma State campus. I decided to enter the Serpent and the Phoenix mask in the dream art exhibit for the conference, along with another dream-inspired mask I had created. To my great delight, my masks won the first place award for the exhibit. I felt honored, validated, and encouraged. The positive recognition of my work gave me a new sense of confidence in my art. This growing confidence was an intrinsic part of the individuation process that the dream mask had revealed to me.

Chapter 3
Inner Dialogues: Masks and Active Imagination

The Masks of Inanna and Ereshkigal
In my first year of the Depth Psychology program, I had an experience that beautifully illustrated the power of mask making as a tool for gaining personal insights. At the time I was struggling to write a paper for the Methods of Depth Psychology class taught by Dr. Laurel McCabe. Our assignment was to write about our reflections on the ancient Sumerian myth of Inanna. The myth relates the story of the Goddess Inanna, Queen of Heaven, and her perilous journey to the Underworld. Inanna is drawn to this descent in spite of the warnings of all the other gods. To gain admittance to the Underworld, Inanna must give up all of her queenly ornaments, until she is stripped completely naked. In the depths of the Underworld Inanna meets her sister, Ereshkigal, who is ugly, wretched, and wrathful. Ereshkigal kills Inanna in a fit of rage. Inanna is eventually resurrected, and forever after maintains a connection between her own realm and the Underworld (Wolkstein & Kramer, 1983). I was deeply affected by the myth, but was having a difficult time articulating my thoughts and feelings about it. The due date for the paper was approaching, and I was frustrated by my inability to wrap words around my reflections on the story of Inanna and Ereshkigal.

Meanwhile, in the same class, Dr. McCabe was conducting a three-part workshop on mask making. On the first day we created plaster masks cast from our own faces. On the second day we decorated the masks with paint and mixed materials. The final day of the workshop involved creating personal rituals with our masks. Each member of the cohort was invited to step into the circle and wear their mask, allowing any spontaneous movements, words, sounds, or gestures to come through them.
Throughout the process of making my mask I felt a growing sense of frustration, disappointment, and self-judgment. It was dawning on me that I was not taking any risks, that I was making the same kind of pretty, meticulous art that I have always made. I was choked by a feeling of stagnation. When we finally gathered for the mask ritual, I was overwhelmed by a sense of shame. I felt like a failure for producing this dainty, decorative piece of art instead of an expressive, powerful spirit mask as I perceived the others in the group had done. I was almost too ashamed to step into the circle, but I knew that I would feel like even more of a failure if I allowed my shame to keep me from participating. Soon I was the only one in the group who had not yet stepped into the circle. I sensed everyone waiting to see what I would do. My mask was stashed next to my chair inside a brown paper bag. At the last second I was seized by an impulse to hide by putting the bag over my head. It seemed like the perfect way to express what I was feeling. It was a very instinctive and spontaneous act that came directly from my unconscious. I put on my mask and shakily stepped into the circle. I allowed my mask to be seen for a brief moment, and then pulled the paper bag over my head. I slunk back to my seat, fighting back tears.

After we had all done our mask rituals, we were invited to share our experience in a group discussion. Again, my sense of shame stifled me, and I shrank down in my chair while everyone else spoke of the feelings that their mask ritual had evoked in them. Again, I was the last one left, and I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. Finally I spoke up, and admitted to the feeling of shame that had flooded me during my ritual. Tears welled up out of my eyes. I don’t cry often in front of groups, but this experience had shaken me so strongly that I could not restrain my emotions as I usually do. The mask ritual had touched something very tender inside of me.

After this incident, I returned to my struggle with the paper on the Inanna myth that was soon due. Suddenly I saw my mask experience as an interpretation of Inanna’s descent. The decorative mask presented a symbol similar to the figure of Inanna - beautiful and radiant, yet somehow incomplete; aesthetically pleasing, but lacking depth. In the myth, Inanna becomes aware that there is a part of her world that is unknown to her, a place that she feels compelled to explore despite the warnings of others. To get there she must strip away all of her ornaments and heavenly powers. When she finally arrives in the Underworld she is confronted by her dark, ugly, chaotic sister who is furious at having been left all alone in that desolate place. The wrathful indignation of Ereshkigal was similar to the feeling that welled up in me when I had my outburst of anger at the superficial beauty of my mask. There was another mask inside me that was very angry to have been overlooked!

Experiencing this inner conflict through my mask was a pivotal moment, not only for my art, but also for my entire being. The explosion of disgust, dissatisfaction, shame, and frustration catapulted me into unknown territory where I was able to start exploring some long-neglected parts of myself. It was a synchronicity that we were studying the Inanna myth at that time, for the figure of Ereshkigal presented a mirror for the feelings that were arising in me. She had been suffering alone and neglected in the dark while Inanna basked in light and glory, worshipped and revered. No wonder Ereshkigal felt jealous, abandoned, and full of rage! There was some part of me that experienced those feelings as I looked at the "pretty" mask I had made and saw an incomplete picture; a vital part of my self was not being represented and it was furious! I had been giving all my attention and energy to making aesthetically pleasing art at the expense of the raw, rough, unpolished art that was hidden inside of me. I now see my act of climbing into the bag as a symbolic gesture akin to Inanna's descent into the Underworld. This descent offered me an incredible opportunity for growth and transformation.
Through this experience I am finding that the part of me that makes pretty art has to die in order to give the neglected, uglier side of my creativity a chance to express itself. I am now breaking through artistic blocks that have stifled me for years. However, there is another important element of the Inanna story; the quality of beauty must be brought back to life and reintegrated - as long as the connection to the Underworld is maintained and never forgotten. I am realizing that I don't want to reject the part of me that creates pure beauty. My aesthetic sense is a valuable attribute, part of my unique gift. The frustration I have felt is not because of beauty itself, but because other "non-beautiful" parts have been repressed and neglected. These rejected fragments of self become part of the Shadow, the area of the psyche that contains all that is unacceptable to the ego.

These insights are helping me grasp the meaning of individuation, the instinctive movement of the psyche towards wholeness and integration. Part of the path of individuation is that the dark and light parts of the self must find equal representation for a greater experience of wholeness. The contents of the unconscious must be acknowledged and integrated, including the uncomfortable, messy, distasteful elements of the Shadow. Carl Jung expresses this idea beautifully in his article titled Conscious, unconscious, and individuation (1959):

Conscious and unconscious do not make a whole when one of them is suppressed and injured by the other. If they must contend, let it be at least a fair fight with equal rights on both sides. Both are aspects of life. Consciousness should defend its reason and protect itself, and the chaotic life of the unconscious should be given a chance of having its way too – as much of it as we can stand. This means open conflict and open collaboration. That, evidently, is the way human life should be. It is the old game of hammer and anvil: between them the patient iron is forged into an indestructible whole, an ‘individual’. (p.288)
Jung’s quote beautifully describes my experience of integrating the lessons of my mask and the Inanna myth. I feel like my soul is the “patient iron” being pounded between the hammer of my conscious ego and the anvil of my deep unconscious. It is a sometimes-painful process that requires courage and a willingness to surrender. I am learning to relinquish control and simply witness the drama of the transformation.

I had been unable to make any headway on my Inanna paper until I made the connection between my mask experience and the Inanna myth. Until that moment, I had been feeling uninspired and stuck, but the eruption of emotion from the mask incident gave me a fresh burst of energy. I was suddenly inspired to make a mask to invoke Ereshkigal, the Goddess of the Underworld. In homage to my ritual of putting the bag over my head, I decided to make the mask entirely out of paper bags. I started experimenting with torn-up bags, glue, and paint, making a huge mess in the process. It was a completely different way of working with art materials for me - much looser and more intuitive than my usual serious, tightly controlled approach. I completely immersed myself in the creative process, losing track of time and space for hours on end. I reveled in the experience of art as pure play and unfettered exploration.

When I completed the mask, it occurred to me that I could use it as a medium to contact the essence of Ereshkigal. Likewise, the mask that I made in class could be a vehicle through which I could communicate with Inanna. I say that it occurred to me to do this, but really it was as if the masks told me to do it. I became excited by the creative process that was spontaneously unfolding through me. I had a distinct sense that the characters of the myth were alive and that they were creating physical representations of themselves through me. I felt like an open channel, an instrument being used by forces beyond my own will. I realized that the active imagination process had already begun! I was fully engaged in a dialogue with these characters, although it wasn’t exactly a dialogue of words. They communicated to me through images and feelings. They compelled me to act, to feel, to create.

This immersion in the Inanna myth stretched out over a period of several days. I was obsessed with and possessed by the story. It engulfed my waking thoughts and seeped into my dreams. In one dream I saw that I had put too many coats of varnish on the Ereshkigal mask. I peeled layers of varnish off like strips of cellophane. “Don’t get stuck on the shiny surface, said the dream. “Peel away the layers and see what’s underneath it all. Dig deeper…”

Over the course of this journey I periodically dipped into Robert Johnson’s (1986) book, Inner work, for guidance in this process that had so dramatically affected my consciousness. I especially related to his story of being gripped by a dream character that he was working with through active imagination. Johnson had decided to use active imagination to explore the image of a lion that had appeared in a dream. Like me, he dove so deeply into the imagery that he could not cut it off. Every time he walked into his study the lion was there, day after day (p. 173). It was the same for me with the characters from the Inanna myth. They became my constant companions and guides, whispering in my ear and flooding my inner eye with visions.

Soon the Inanna characters made it known that they wanted me to honor them with a ritual performance. They began to transmit an intricate series of visions, which formed a dramatic enactment of Inanna’s descent. I was guided to wear the Inanna mask and enact her descent, stripping away her ornaments until she arrived in front of her dark sister, humbled and bowed low. Then the mask of Ereshkigal demanded to be worn. As soon as I put on the mask I felt Ereshkigal’s rage and indignation. She angrily tossed aside the mask of Inanna and flung a black cloth over it. The spirit of Ereshkigal danced wildly through me, whirling like a dervish. Her dance was wrathful and chaotic, but there was a sense of deep satisfaction in it. Finally, she was being allowed to express herself!
As the passionate dance of Ereshkigal ended, I became aware of a new presence. From a place of profound stillness, an image arose of Inanna and Ereshkigal fused together as one. This new, integrated being guided me to put the Inanna mask on backwards while still wearing the mask of Ereshkigal. I immediately noticed that the Inanna mask was much more comfortable worn on the back of my head than on my face. I began to turn in a circle, giving both masks equal time in the light and darkness. This final stage of the ritual left me with a feeling of completeness and integration. In that moment I grasped the meaning of individuation with a whole new level of clarity. I felt a sense of solidarity between the different parts of myself that had not been there before.

Unfortunately, I do not have any photographs of these masks to include here. I ended up dismantling them and recycling the materials to use on other masks. I was somewhat surprised to find that I had no attachment to the Inanna and Ereshkigal masks as objects. They had existed solely to guide me through a specific process of self-discovery, and when that process was complete, I felt free to use them as raw material for creating new artwork.

A New Enthusiasm for Mask Making
After my experience with the Inanna and Ereshkigal masks, I completely immersed myself in mask making. It had become obvious to me that this was a highly effective method that could help me gain access to the unconscious realm within my self. I began experimenting with various mask-making techniques. Up to that point I had mainly used the plaster bandage method that we had employed in Laurel McCabe’s mask workshop, but I wanted to branch out and try something different. I remembered a red devil mask that I had once seen which was made of leather. I had always wondered how the artist had achieved the sculptural effect with that material. As my interest in masks intensified, I thought of the devil mask and decided I wanted to learn how to sculpt masks from leather. I searched for books and websites on wet-forming leather and gathered enough information to get started. I acquired some vegetable tanned leather and started experimenting. I delighted in the yielding, supple texture of the leather. It transforms with the elements of water, heat, and air. When wet it becomes soft and malleable. The heat of the water affects how hard the leather will become when it dries. I loved that the material I was working with underwent its own transformation, a kind of alchemical process.

At this time I also discovered several other mask makers who were working in leather and was greatly inspired by them. I was captivated by the work of Lauren Raine, who has created a pantheon of goddess masks and conducts ritual performances and workshops on mask making. Her use of masks as sacred, transformative tools inspired me as I began my own exploration of mask making. Another artist who has had a profound influence on me is Jack Chuites. His mystical, ornate leather masks are alive with mysterious power. On his website, Jack Chuites writes, “Masks are tools which enable us to visualize reality in the spirit of our imaginative natures, allowing us to transform our inner and outer selves according to our vision” (2006).

The Mask Speaks in its Own Voice
I became immersed in playing with my new favorite art material, and produced my first series of leather masks. I continued to work with active imagination within the framework of the Depth program, engaging in the technique with my masks. I entered into active imagination with the masks, and surprising images and memories came to the surface. One of the most striking examples came from an interaction I had with a mask that I later named the Creek Spirit (see Figure 3). This mask spoke with a distinctly different tone than the voice of my everyday persona. It had a dreamy, poetic quality. I am including a description of this encounter to illustrate my discovery of inner characters distinctly different from my familiar persona. I started the dialogue with the mask as I was still creating it, rather than waiting for it to be completed. Unlike my previous masks, this one arose without a plan or guiding idea. I cut the leather without tracing any outline, which was an unusual approach for me. I drenched it in water, and then draped it in wet folds over a plaster cast of my face that I had made long ago. I sculpted the leather in a kind of trance, no plan, no design, just shapes forming. I began to wonder where it was leading me.

When the form was dry I stared at it for a long time. It was waiting to be painted. How was I supposed to know what colors to use when I didn’t know what the mask was about? I softened my gaze and waited. I traced the shape of the mask with my finger, my
mind drifting. After a while I started to sense a voice inside, a voice that splashed and trickled like water over stones. “Green and gold and blue,” it whispered. “Paint with your fingers! I am of your childhood. I delight in the free touch of a child. Let your mind wander and it will lead back to me.”

An image arose in my mind. I saw the creek that flowed along the border of the garden at my childhood home. I spent endless hours there as a girl, clambering down the tilted brick steps to the little bend in the stream where ferns bowed their heads over the water. Vibrant green moss cushioned the stones where I sat dreamily moving my toy animals through make-believe adventures. I did not have words for it then, but as I glimpse the memory now I am struck by the relationship I had with that creek. I knew I could have relationships with people and animals, but no one had yet told me I could have a relationship with a place. The creek and I shared a friendship, a kinship. We had conversations, not with words, but with gesture, movement, light, and touch. We played together. The creek offered me smooth pebbles with which I would make designs. It joyfully floated the little leaf boats that I placed on its sparkling surface, carrying them away around the bend so that I would wonder about their destinies. It even revealed a hidden vein of clay to me, which I formed into animal shapes and left drying on the wall in the splintered sunlight.

And what did I offer the creek? Did it enjoy my laughter? Was it pleased with my little clay offerings and stone spirals? Was it happy to know that I loved it? The voice that I heard as I gazed at the mask said “Yes.” It confirmed the special connection that I felt in my heart. The creek and I belonged to each other.

Holding the creek in my mind’s eye, I began to paint the mask. Dark green dye flowed over the leather in memory of the mossy stones in the shadowy pool beneath the wall. I dipped my fingers in iridescent green and gold and blue, smoothing the colors into one another with the memory of rippling reflections. All the while, the voice of the creek trickled and whispered:

“You glimpsed my face in the flow of the stream that hurried through the stones on its secret journey. Your child-self knew that I was not the laughing water, nor the whispering leaves, nor the leopard spots of sunlight, but something in between… I was the place where all these things met and danced, came together and fell away in a shimmering moment. My face is ever changing and eternal. I taught you that water is not always blue, the way coloring books suggest it should be. My water holds all the colors of this special place. Every tree that bends over me sees its face in my quicksilver chameleon skin, my sinuous, shape-shifting surface. My water glimmers with the pewter reflections of grey blackberry brambles and tangled roots, with the golden glances of dying leaves, and a thousand shades of green. And here and there, a pool of blue, where the sky peeks down through the oak branches. I showed you where the clay was hidden in the cool shadows of my bed, so different from the plastic colored clay that you rolled into balls on the kitchen table. My clay is alive and ancient. My clay rose up in grey and brown marbled swirls from the heart of the earth, until it rested just under the pebbly surface of my sanctuary. There it waited for your tender young fingers to find it. In the shifting light your hands prodded and explored until they discovered with delight the true nature of the gift. I shared with you the mysterious joy of making shapes. I carved curving hollows into the mud, polished the roots and rocks to a smooth sheen, and you sat beside me, echoing my art with your own shapes, swirling a stick across the wet sand. We are both artists, always creating. We shape the fabric of our worlds in ways that please us. It is our nature. We are kindred spirits. We are allies.”

As I smoothed the last streaks of paint onto the mask the voice faded to silence like wind-tossed trees coming finally to stillness. I looked down and saw the imprint of my own face merged into swirling water, mirrored sunlight, floating leaves. I put it on and looked in the mirror. The Creek Spirit looked back at me. “Now you see,” it whispered. “We are one.”

Chapter 4
Masks in the Outer World

The World of Festivals
As the end of the Depth program approached, I found myself making more and more masks. Friends and family started commenting on them, wanting to buy them, encouraging me to make more. I took the plunge and started my own mask making business. I chose the name Mythica to reflect the connection of masks to mythology. I began selling my masks at craft fairs and festivals, and even started getting commissions. I decided to take a leave of absence from school and focus on my business. During this time away from academic work, I experienced the masks from another angle. When I set up my booth at fairs I was fascinated by the transformation that took place when people tried on the masks. It didn’t matter if it was a child or an adult - everyone seemed to be captivated by the sight of an unfamiliar face peering out of the mirror. Even before looking in the mirror people exhibited an instant change in body language and energy. They often became more animated, doing dance-like gestures or taking on the movements of an animal. This phenomenon is described by Steven Larsen (1990) in his discussions of the mask workshops he conducted. He observed participants in the workshops expressing themselves with movements they would not ordinarily make. These movements came about only when the participants wore their masks.

Mask Workshops
Intrigued by the transformative effect of the masks, I decided to try facilitating a mask workshop of my own. I offered a workshop to the women’s group I belong to, and thirteen women signed up. I began the workshop with a group discussion. Each participant was able to speak about her intentions for her mask as well as any emotions that were surfacing. I was struck by the large number of people who voiced fears of judgment and failure regarding the artistic process. There was a prevailing sense of inadequacy, an inner voice that said, “you’re not really an artist.” I have battled the voice of this inner critic myself, so I was familiar with it. Still, it was shocking to see just how common this negative voice is, and how thoroughly it stopped people from expressing their creativity. Many women in the group had not made art for years, believing themselves to be incapable. I began to see this inner critic as a kind of archetypal figure from the universal myth of the hero, a dragon that had to be vanquished in order to claim the object of the hero’s quest.

In contrast to this critical voice, there were the dreams and hopes of the women in the circle, visions of their masks as vessels of meaning. One of the most profound intentions in the group was shared by a friend who had just undergone her first round of chemotherapy. She was in the early stages of battle against leukemia, and wished for her mask to become an image of a warrior fighting the disease in her blood. She was among those who felt intimidated by the art process and was afraid she wouldn’t be able to make a “good” mask. Over the course of the weekend-long workshop, she created a beautiful, powerful mask in the form of red vein-like shapes. When she put it on she was transformed into a mythic warrior character. It was simply awe-inspiring to witness her power coming through her mask. She later brought the mask with her when she went into the hospital and kept it near her bed as a guardian and symbol of strength. Making the mask was a healing process for her, not only as a symbol of her fight against cancer, but as an expression of her own long-suppressed creativity.
The experience of facilitating the mask workshop was deeply satisfying and illuminating. I was impressed by the transformation I saw in the participants as they worked with their masks. I gained a new sense of conviction about this work that I felt called to do. I saw that mask making was a technique that anyone could benefit from. The possibilities for this work seemed unlimited. I experienced a fresh enthusiasm for mask making and the potential for exploring it further in the future. With this new infusion of energy, I returned to school to complete my graduate degree in depth psychology.

Chapter 5
The Journey of the Wounded Artist

The Creative Project: Finding My Story
After returning from my leave of absence, I began working on my master’s thesis. I struggled with the task of writing about my mask making experiences. Writing seemed like an awkward and incomplete way to describe the visceral experience of working with masks. Seeing my frustration, my committee members suggested that I do a creative project instead of a thesis. With a creative project I could present my artwork in the form of an exhibit or performance in addition to a body of written work. My first impulse was to create a performance with my masks, but fear and self-consciousness rose up inside me at the idea. A gallery exhibit seemed like an easier, safer route, and for a while I considered it. The thought of performing in front of an audience made me feel anxious and vulnerable. To be honest, it terrified me. However, the characters of the masks kept nagging at me from deep inside, clamoring to play, to move, to dance, to live. In my mind’s eye, I kept seeing the masked characters interacting with one another in a dynamic way. A story was unfolding in images and gestures. There was also a sense of needing to be witnessed, as frightening as that seemed. In the end, I decided that a performance would be the most powerful way to share my work. It was also an opportunity for me to incorporate dance into my work, something I had desired for a long time. I chose Warren Auditorium on the Sonoma State campus as the venue where the performance would take place. With mingled excitement and trepidation, I began the process of bringing my masks to the stage.

My personal myth. At first, I had no idea what form my performance would take. I delved into my imagination and waited to see what would come forth. In the beginning, I only caught fleeting glimpses of images in my mind’s eye. Slowly the images coalesced into characters, and the characters began to form relationships with each other, as if a mythic thread were weaving them together. I began to recognize fragments of well-known myths in the unfolding story, as well as aspects of my personal life. My own personal myth was rising to the surface of my awareness. I was captivated by the idea that my life was a mythic journey that continued to unfurl before me like a winding road. Edward Whitmont (1969) writes:

The myth of one’s life does not ordinarily appear in a single installment. There is a “to-be-continued” element and no single dream or situation is the myth. Each dream sees the myth from a new angle. As we go on the story unfolds and may even change direction. The myth for each individual is to be intuited from the total tableau as it reveals itself in time and space. The actual development is one of a constant dialogue which interacts between conscious and unconscious. We react to the dream, the dream reacts to our reaction, and so on. (p. 92)

Whitmont’s observation illustrates the experience I was having as I formulated my performance. There was a constant dialogue between me as the artist and the art itself. As I imagined the story, images of masks came to me; as I created the masks, the energy they revealed influenced the progression of the story. It was not a linear progression; instead, the story unfolded in loops and spirals like a winding labyrinth.

I found that this story revolved around my experience of the creative process. As an artist, I often struggle with feeling blocked. My creativity is frequently stifled by perfectionism, which causes me to freeze up in fear of making a mistake. I also have a cruel, critical inner voice that judges whatever I create. However, when I overcome the obstacles set by these negative forces, I am able to access a child-like, playful quality that allows me to create prodigiously. However, this child-like creativity can in turn become a trap, leaving me drifting in formless fantasy with no structure or direction. I began to see these inner forces as distinct characters with their own personalities and features. They had relationships with one another, and the dynamics of these relationships affected my own relationship to making art. Creating masks for these characters made them tangible, and more knowable. What was once formless, abstract energy now became a community of characters, each with its own face and personality. This allowed me to relate to these aspects of my psyche as though they were interesting people I was trying to get to know. I could question them, argue with them, play with them, battle with them, and dance with them. By giving them forms and faces, I opened a door of deeper communication with my inner selves.

A recurring theme of creative struggle. I noticed that this story had repeated itself in a spiraling pattern throughout my life. I felt compelled to share this story, as I saw it unfolding not only within myself, but also in people around me who were struggling with their own versions of the wounded artist story. I was reminded of the fear and doubt I had witnessed in the participants of the mask workshop I had facilitated. I felt there was healing to be found in this story, for myself and for others. For guidance in working with the wounded artist image, I referred often to The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron (1992). Her work is directed towards artists who wish to overcome the obstacles and blocks that prevent them from experiencing unfettered creativity. I set out on a journey to heal the wounded artist inside myself.

Meeting the characters of the artist’s path. I identified six distinct characters that played roles in my creative process and began to create masks for them. The process unfolded in a kaleidoscope of multiple layers. There were the hours spent alone in my studio, imagining and creating, coaxing the images into masks made of leather, fabric, feathers, broken shards of mirror. Then there was the process of distilling the energies of the characters into a story, which would unfold upon the stage. I developed choreography, lighting design, props, and storyboards to show the progression from one scene to the next. Finally, there was the experience of actually performing, dancing the characters into life in front of an audience. This included collaborating and rehearsing with two other dancers who I enlisted to perform with me. At times, I felt utterly overwhelmed by the process; I was swimming in images, fighting to keep my head above the churning waves of my imagination. At other times, the flow took over, and I effortlessly glided through a story that seemed to have already been written by an unseen hand.

Conjuring the Images. I created the masks as a group, working on them simultaneously. I also branched out into creating some costume pieces, drawing upon the inspiration I found in the ritual costumes of India. The more I worked on the masks and costumes, the more vivid the characters became, and I began to have a deeper understanding of the roles they played within my psyche. I noticed that some of the characters were female while others were male. The male characters became reflections of my animus, the archetype that holds the masculine qualities of my psyche (Jung, 1964). This brought a feeling of balance to the story.

In the following pages, I present a synthesis of the story and images that came up in my active imagination over a period of several weeks, culminating in the final performance. At first, I struggled with finding a clear, linear way to present this story, but I have since surrendered to the elusive, shifting form that it has taken. As I reflect on the experience in writing, I see it as a collage of images, movements, feelings, insights, bursts of energy, periods of introversion, wild outpourings of creativity, and immersion in myth, all moving backwards and forwards in time. My attempts to tame this tangle of experiences into a neat, tidy form only resulted in frustration. Instead, I allowed the various fragments of active imagination and scenes from the performance combine in the telling of my story here. It begins in the depths of my imagination...

%The cocoon and the queen.%The first image to rise to the surface is a white cocoon. I see a figure entering the cocoon and metamorphosing into a new character, but the features are hidden from me. I stay with the image and the figures slowly reveal themselves. I see a regal Queen clad all in white, her lacy mask glittering with gems (see Figure 4). She is beautiful and graceful, but also stiff and formal. Her attachment to perfection keeps her from exploring new territories of creativity. I recognize her rigidly composed face as an obstacle in my creative process, particularly writing. She keeps me frozen, waiting until each sentence is flawlessly formed before feeling satisfied enough to commit it to the page. The result is a frigid wasteland of blank paper, barren and empty. This blank whiteness is the domain over which the White Queen rules.

The catalyst of transformation. As the White Queen approaches the cocoon another figure emerges; a gatekeeper who guards the threshold of the cocoon’s opening. He is the Alchemist, transformer of energies, shifter of shapes. The Alchemist’s face is fluid, like water, and black as the shadows of a deep well (see Figure 5). This blackness is flecked with mirrors, reflecting the myriad facets of the self that have yet to be revealed on the surface. His dark mask is streaked with veins of gold, hinting at the treasure to be gained from mining the depths of the unconscious. Just as the alchemists of legend turned lead into gold, the Alchemist character has the power to transform the fractured elements of the psyche into a unified whole. He acts as a catalyst in the transformation of one character into another. In a discussion on the symbolism of alchemy in analytical psychology, Whitmont (1969) writes:

Jung has conclusively demonstrated that this process of transforming the “vile,” “primitive,” “base” facets of our personality into new life energy underlies the symbolism of alchemy in its endeavor to transform base substance into gold - a gold other than ordinary gold. (p. 220)

The Alchemist is part of the driving force of individuation. He generates the mysterious compulsion to grow and expand. He promises to show the White Queen a realm of her kingdom she has not yet explored. He leads her to the entrance of the cocoon, but when she tries to enter, he bars her way. He demands that the White Queen relinquish her adornments before entering the cocoon, just as the gatekeeper demanded that Inanna give up her regal garments before entering the Underworld. The removal of her finery is crucial; as Perera (1981) writes in her analysis of the Inanna myth, “this unveiling suggests the removal of old illusions and false identities that may have served in the upper world but count for nothing in the Netherworld” (p. 59).

The Queen relinquishes her feathered scepter, her jeweled breastplate, her crown, and her mask. With her regal identity stripped away, she is more vulnerable than before, but also more open and malleable. Faceless, she crawls into the gauzy, womb-like structure of the cocoon.

Metamorphosis. For the performance, I built the cocoon from willow branches, muslin and cheesecloth. One of the members of my cohort assisted me in its construction, acting as my depth midwife. The cocoon is a translucent container for the White Queen’s transformation. As she changes form, the cocoon becomes illuminated from within, and shadow puppets of cut-out leather move dreamily across the inner surface, projecting the form of a metamorphosing butterfly and the curious, magical face of a child. The White Queen’s icy shell melts, and her creative essence flows like fresh water. The cocoon rotates like the earth turning away from winter and towards spring. A new being climbs from the opening; The Harlequin.

Exploration, creativity, and play. The Harlequin is childlike and playful. She emerges from the melted icicle of the Queen’s heart, clad in sparkling rainbow colors. Her mask is a fanciful patchwork of colored fabrics jumbled together (see Figure 6). She tumbles out of the cocoon and immediately begins to explore with enthusiastic curiosity. The Alchemist sets out toys for the Harlequin to discover, glowing orbs of color and light. The Harlequin begins to play with them, creating shapes and movements. She is not afraid to take risks or make mistakes. She is free and wild. The positive aspects of the Harlequin are her unfettered creativity, her willingness to explore new territory, and her joyful passion for life. However, she also has negative aspects; she is undisciplined, chaotic, and immature. She contains the archetype of the puella aeturus, or “eternal youth.” (von Franz, 1970). This archetype is able to tap into cre