A pattern of forms and figures endowed with unity and significance.
It is implied in the theory of form—and is true, also, of melody—that the whole
is greater than the sum of its parts being, in a sense, their origin and justification.
If for Sartre the image is a degraded awareness of knowing, for other psychologists the image is, in fact, the highest form that knowing can assume, for all
knowledge tends towards a visual synthesis. Also to be borne in mind is the
theory propounded by Sir Herbert Read in Icon and Idea, according to which
every creation in the visual arts—and, in fact, every kind of pattern—is a form of
thought and therefore corresponds to an intelligible mental concept. This leads us
towards an intuition of the world as a vast repertoire of signs that await being
‘read’. We may note here that some of the works of Trithemius and Athanasius
Kircher tend towards this interpretation.

If you dream that you see images, you will have poor success in business or love.

To set up an image in your home, portends that you will be weak minded and easily led astray. Women should be careful of their reputation after a dream of this kind. If the images are ugly, you will have trouble in your home.

We could compile and catalogue an immense repertoire of graphic
signs. There is perhaps greater symbolic significance in these signs than in any
other aspect of symbolism, because of the clear intention behind them to express
an explicit meaning. One contemporary scholar, Ernst Lehner, tells us that he
himself collected 60,000 symbols, signs and marks of different kinds, from varying sources, cultures and periods. The graphic symbol (whether engraved, etched
or drawn, or contrived in the form of a diagram, emblem or plan by any other means, such as that of papermakers’ watermarks) offers a clear illustration of the
mystic doctrine of form, such as it was developed by oriental civilizations in
particular. As Shukrâshârya has said with such lyric fervour: ‘The character of the
image is determined by the relationship between the worshipper and the worshipped’; in this he is unconsciously echoing the biologist’s definition of form as
‘the diagram between the inner urge of a body and the resistance of the (physical)
medium’. In Hindu doctrine, beauty is the result not of external characteristics
but of the emanation of a spiritual attitude; and the same is true of other aspects
of form, such as direction, order, arrangement, or the number of components.
German mystics, as Luc Benoist recalls (6), have also applied themselves to
shape (both in the round and diagrammatically) as a manifestation of the spirit.
As Anna Katerina Emmerich observed: ‘Nothing is pure form. Everything is
substance and action, by virtue of signs.’ The symbol as crystallized in creative
art involves a high degree of condensation, deriving from its inherent economy of
form and allusive power. This, then, is the psychological basis of the symbolism
of graphics (the basis of the magical interpretation is to be sought in the literal
interpretation of the theory of correspondences). It underlies the graphic symbolism of amulets, talismans, pentacles and divinatory signs from prehistoric
times right up to the present day. Hence the strong and perfectly justified attraction exerted by certain shapes, emblems, flags, coats of arms, marks and medals,
based not upon convention, as is usually suggested, but upon inner bonds of
symbolic ‘common rhythms’ (30). Quite apart from their function as integrating
or synoptic symbols, graphic symbols possess a singular mnemonic power, as
Schneider has shown. He points to the fact that such figures as the spiral, the
swastika, the circle with a central point, the lunar crescent, the double sigma, etc.,
were capable of conveying the most varied of philosophical, alchemical or astronomic data—a technique of interpretation capable of applying all the information
supplied by these three disciplines to a single plane of significance. Any one given
figure (with its series of multivalencies—that is, embracing several meanings
which are not irrelevant or equivocal) varies in appearance and in significance
with the ‘rhythm-symbol’ (that is, the idea and the intended direction) pervading
it. Schneider adds, in connexion with Tanew’s Das Ornament die Elbetiza (Ipek,
1942), that this constitutes one of the predominant features of ancient art, which
‘is often unfortunately called decorative or ornamental art’ (51). To enumerate
some of the fields of activity which have been profoundly influenced by graphic
symbolism: mythological attributes and figures, signs in astronomy and astrology, alchemy, magic and primitive mysticism, religions, heraldry, fabulous figures
and monsters, ornaments, signs of diverse offices, numismatic signs, marks on porcelain, watermarks, etc. (36). If we pause to consider the prodigious variety
offered by only one of these categories—ornaments, for example—it will become
apparent that even a rough inventory of the symbolic ramifications would be
impracticable here for material reasons. And we could add further headings: alphabets, for example, or ideographs, pictographs, metagraphs and mandalas, as
well as graphic artistic compositions, embracing abstract painting for example,
which—like Celtic, Anglo-Saxon and Nordic ornamental art—provides an unceasing flow of significant forms, expressed willy-nilly, for Man is quite incapable of creating anything which does not bear the marks of his subtle, urgent and
all-embracing need for communication. To widen now the scope of this exposition, let us consider the lapidary signs to be found in the stones of many architectural edifices. A great many kinds of different marks have been catalogued, and,
without doing violence to their esoteric meaning, we may group them, as follows,
into: initial letters, anagrams, astrological, numerical, magic or mystico-Christian
signs, or marks pertaining to associations or groups, or to building, or to nationality or race, or to benefactors, etc.
In ornamentation, Greek frets, wavy lines, series of spirals, coils of varying
rhythms, sigmas, X-shapes, diamonds, circles, ovals, arrows, triangles, zigzags,
triskeles and swastikas are all graphic shapes which, in symbolism, are grouped
under the general heading of ‘cosmic background’, because they are all in effect
symbols of the activity of natural forces and of the four Elements (41). In varying
degrees, depending upon the period and personal or cultural prejudice, scholars
researching into the history and pre-history of art—since few of them have taken
any interest in the autonomous doctrine of symbolism—have either lumped
these graphic symbols together as sun-symbols, or else as symbols of the hurricane and the heavens. J. Déchelette, for example, says in his Manuel d’Archéologie
préhistorique that all the signs concerning dual, bilateral symmetry or the irradiating Centre ‘were employed as images of the sun from the Bronze Age onwards’.
We must not fail to mention one important fact, and that is the connexion of the
symbolism of form with divination. The Chinese Pa Kua—whose system is
described in the I Ching (The Book of Changes)—the random dots of geomancy,
and the innumerable ‘-mancies’ which have come down to us from Antiquity in a
great many works upon the subject, are all founded for the most part upon the
symbolism of form; this can be seen both in the identification of a given ‘matrical
shape’ with the figure of a particular being (as happens in the case of Rorschach’s
tests with ink-blots) whose symbolic implications will determine the augury, and
in the splitting up of a shape into its numerical components and its tendency
towards a particular direction in space, in which case its symbolic sense is determined by the significance of the numbers and the space-zone associated with it. Frazer, for example, describes the Chinese belief that the life and destiny of a city
is so influenced by its shape that its fortunes must vary according to the character
of the thing which that shape most nearly resembles; and he relates that, long ago,
the town of Tsuen-cheu-fu, the outlines of which were like those of a carp,
frequently fell a prey to the depredations of the neighbouring city of Yung-chun,
which was shaped like a fishing-net (21).
Jung has shown great interest in the question of graphic symbolism, geometric diagrams and numbers determined by the quantitative factor of component
elements, without, however, working up his interesting—and valid—findings
and conclusions into a comprehensive theory. He observes, for example, that the
relationships between number and shape depend not only upon the quantity of
the elements but also upon their individual shape and direction, because the
direction influences the quantitative factor in the same way as fracture does. By
way of illustration, he mentions that in the ninth key of the Duodecim Claves
Fratris Basilii Valentini (in Museum Hermeticum, Frankfurt, 1678) there is an
instance of triunity appearing as unity, realized by splitting a Y-sign in the centre,
so that it becomes three strokes; and another of duality as a quaternary, by
forming a four-armed cross not with four lines but with two independent but
counterbalancing right angles, so that they can be said to be two components by
virtue of their continuity but four from the point of view of their direction. He
comments also upon the fact that irregular quadrilaterals are expressive of the
tendency in the equilibrium of the symbolism of the number four to adapt itself
in conformity with the direction of the major axis. If the horizontal line is predominant, then it reveals the superiority of the merely rational intellect, whereas
if the vertical line prevails then it denotes spiritual non-rationalism. The sign of
the conjunction of the quaternary (the cross or the square) with unity is expressed through the union of the numbers four and one, that is, of the square (or
the cross) and the circle. The relationship between two intersecting diameters and
the circumference is emphasized by sometimes depicting the centre visibly as a
small circle symbolic of the mystic ‘Centre’. The figure thus arrived at is of great
symbolic value: it expresses the original Oneness (symbolized by the centre), the
‘way out to the manifest world’ (the four radii, which are the same as the four
rivers which well up from the fons vitae or from the foot of the Cosmic Tree in
Paradise), and the return to Oneness (the outer circumference) through the circular movement which ‘smooths away’ the corners of the square (these corners
implying the differentiation characteristic of the multiplicity and the transitoriness
of the world of phenomena). By adding a further cross, shaped like an X, to this
figure, the wheel is obtained; and the wheel is the commonest symbol of the ‘Centre’ and of the cycle of transformations. The importance of the relationship
between the circle and the square is quite extraordinary; religious and symbolic art
as well as profane works provide us with a great variety of shapes incorporating
both the circle and the square. But to limit ourselves to religious symbolism, let us
quote two instances which are entirely unrelated yet produce the same result:
first, the so-called ‘pentacle of Laos’, a squared figure with a small square at its
centre and four circles inside the angles, each divided into four internally; and
secondly, the retable in the Cartuja de Miraflores (the Carthusian monastery near
Burgos), which is arranged in a similar pattern, but incorporates figures of the
Pantokrator and of tetramorphs. The underlying logico-symbolic force of such
figures is so strong that, when one has recourse to an abstract image of a cosmic
order, capable of expressing the intimate and intense relationship between the
‘two worlds’, one turns inevitably to this coniunctio joining the symbol for earth
(the square) with that for heaven (the circle). The fact that figures incorporating
the irradiant ‘Centre’ are cosmic symbols of the ultimate destiny of the spirit
accounts for the fact that they are also psychological images of this same destiny,
that is, of its presentiment and of the way of fulfilling it—in short, of the mystic
idea of consummation (32). Hence, psychoanalysts have noted that the joining of
the square with the circle (in such forms as the star, the rose, the lotus, concentric
circles, the circle with a visible central point, etc.) is symbolic of the final stage in
the process of individuation, or, in other words, of that phase of spiritual development when imperfections (irregular shapes) have been eliminated, as have all
earthly desires (represented by malignant, biological symbols of monsters and
wild beasts), for the sake of concentrating upon the achievement of Oneness and
a vision of Paradise (such as that described by Dante at the end of his masterpiece) (56).
Other conclusions of Jung concerning the psychology of shapes are these:
opposites are symbolized by a cross (signifying inner urges) and by a square
(standing for the horizon); the process of rising above these urges is symbolized
by the circle (33); exact duplication implies confirmation, but when the two
symbols face in opposite directions they express the longing for wholeness, that
is, the desire not only to explore the two spheres but to conquer all space; to go
towards the left is to turn towards the unconscious and the past, to go to the right
is to face consciousness and the future. Jung points, as an example, to an illustration in the Viatorium of Michael Maier (Rouen, 1651), showing two eagles flying
in opposite directions (32).
Concerning graphic compositions proper, and their corresponding symbolic
significance, we must not overlook the existence of the theory that they were originally ornamental, a thesis which is upheld by Baltrusaitis among others. He
insists upon the a priori thesis that artists are faced with a certain area to fill up
and the need to achieve certain artistic effects, proceeding from concepts of order,
symmetry, logic and clarity. But man’s aesthetic urges arose long after his need to
express cosmic significances; and the contemporary concept of art as a sign and
testimony of a state of mind, rather than as the creation of beauty or of aesthetic
pleasure (which would seem automatically to preclude many modern works of
art lacking in positive or loveable qualities), appears to favour the view that the
primary impulse is to express a symbolic meaning. According to tradition, symmetrical forms in art spring from the same source (the Gemini) as the bilateral
symmetry of the human figure, a symmetry which is echoed in the duplication of
certain organs; such symmetrical forms include, for instance, the distribution of
figures on a Romanesque or Gothic tympanum, or the arrangement of the supporters, the shield and helmet on an escutcheon. But if this idea of a common
origin seems unacceptable, then the artistic preference for symmetry may be
conceived as a simple anatomic projection, granted that the conviction of primordial rightness can only be experienced when the artificial is felt to be parallel,
analogous or corresponding to the natural. A being with two arms at the sides of
a body surmounted by a head must tend to formulate primarily an order or
pattern in which one principal shape is located in the middle and two secondary
shapes are placed at the sides. These elementary notions were first appreciated
not—in all probability—in the Palaeolithic Age (an age about which our knowledge is scant, and when man was, in any case, living under constant pressure from
the need to exert himself in utilitarian ways), but in the period of the dawning of
history, from the latter part of the Neolithic up to the Bronze Age, or, in other
words, from 5000 to 3000 B.C. This was the period, then, when cultural factors
first appeared or when they reached a definitive stage of development. Ortiz is
right to suggest that man not improbably, before arriving at a generic configuration
of life, first created ideograms of the tangible realities of life, and specially of
those entities, such as the wind, which have no concrete shape. Fire was seen as
flame; water as a succession of waves; rain was likened to tears; lightning to the
zigzag, and so on (41).
We do not wish to suggest that all pictographs or ideographs, let alone signs,
of primitive or astrobiological cultures owe their origins to such motives as these,
or that they disclose a similar, morphological process of development. We must
here distinguish between: realistic, imitative images in the first place (properly,
drawings or paintings); in the second place, diagrammatic, imitative images (which
seek after the inner ‘rhythmic’ meaning of a given figure, as well as its outer form); and, in the third, pure, rhythmic images (such as signs for animals deriving from
their tracks). Schneider observes that, in intermediary cultures, animal-symbols
are not representations of physical shapes but rhythmic lines determined by the
animals’ movements. He adds that, in Malacca, the symbolism of a given animal
may be applied to one of the four Elements: so that, for example, the symbol for
water is derived from the rhythmic movements of the frog’s legs (which, in any
case, are comparable with the rhythm of the waves); similarly, ants, as well as
centipedes, are signified by the rhythm of their movements (50). This concept of
‘rhythm’ opens up enormous possibilities when applied to the conception of the
light of the spirit. Every man has his own rhythm; and so has every culture. Style
or personality are in the last resort simply expressions of rhythm. Germain
Bazin, in his Histoire de l’art (Paris, 1953), suggests that abstract art is the
attempt to externalize the essential rhythms of the human, individual and collective soul (the process being closely related to that of endopathy as conceived by
Aristotle, Vischer, Kant, Lipps, etc.).
Consequently, in order to decide upon the significance of any graphic figure,
we must bear in mind the following factors: (a) its resemblance to figures of
cosmic beings; (b) its shape, whether open or closed, regular or irregular, geometric or biomorphic; (c) the number of component elements making up the shape,
together with the significance of this number; (d) the dominant ‘rhythms’ as the
expression of its elemental, dynamic potential and its movement; (e) the spatial
arrangement, or the disposition of its different zones; (f) its proportions; (g) its
colours, if any. Factor (a)—its resemblance to other figures—is so wide in scope
and so obvious in its implications that comment would be superfluous, (b) The
significance of shape depends upon the relevant geometric symbolism, which we
have examined above, (c) The number of its components confers an added symbolism to the secondary—though at times very important—consideration of the
shape (for example, the seven-pointed star derives its significance as much from
the septenary symbolism as from the stellar shape), (d) Concerning the ‘rhythms’,
we have already pointed out the connexion with the number of component elements and with animal-movements (Greek frets, and the broken line fashioned
after the trapeze are usually said to correspond to earth-symbolism, the wavy
line to air-symbolism, a succession of incomplete spirals—or waves—as well as
the broken line, to water-symbolism, although fire is also associated with water
because of the triangular shape of the tongue of flame), (e) Regarding the spatial
arrangement: along the vertical axis, it is the symbolism of level which matters
most (implying qualities of morality and energy), and on the horizontal axis, the
left side is, as we have said, retrospective (for it is the zone of ‘origin’, linked with the unconscious and with darkness), and the right side looks to the outcome.
Hence, the line running from the left downwards and then upwards towards the
right does not indicate a fall but an ascent, the converse also being true. And for
this reason, the St. Andrew’s cross, with its two intersecting and opposing lines
standing for fall and ascent respeclively, is symbolic of the intermingling of the
‘two worlds’, and is therefore comparable with the mystic mandorla. In those
figures which feature a centre together with dual, bilateral symmetry, we have
two symbolic tendencies: first, that in which the rhythmic movements tend
inwards, denoting concentration and also aggression (as, for example, in the classical symbol of the four winds blowing towards the centre); and secondly, that in
which rhythms well up from the centre towards the four cardinal points, indicating the defence of ‘wholeness’ (the cross of St. Ferdinand is related to this) and
bearing a certain relationship with the tetramorphs and the ‘four archers’ of
megalithic culture. Irradiating figures denote dispersion, growth and involution. It
must also be borne in mind that lines, in addition to their morphological properties, are also means of communication and of conjoining; this is why their significance must always be closely linked with the nature of the zones which they
bring into contact. There are, it must be said, some theorists who carry the study
of graphics to extremes of prolixity and detail. Ely Star, for example, examines the
various shapes suggested by an upright line crossing a horizontal, simply by the
process of linking the upright with the active principle and the horizontal with
the passive. He comments that straight lines are always expressive of activity,
compared with curves which denote passivity (54). To turn now to the way the
first ideographic signs were associated with the constellations, it is very important to note that the modern view favours the theory that the constellations were
the source of the alphabet. Gattefossé, Fenn and others are quite explicit upon
this point. Zollinger shows how the Great Bear is the origin of the sign representing a bond, a link or an item of knowledge, how the Gemini gave rise to the number
8 and the letter H, how the eternal cyclic laws of the sun’s orbit or the polar
rotation of the earth gave rise to the swastika, the division of the increate into
different forms inspired the Chinese Yang-Yin sign, the manifest world inspired
the horizontal line, the ‘Centre’ the cross, and, finally, how the union of the three
principles as represented by the signs for the Sun, the Moon and the cross
originated the graphic symbol known as the emblem of Hermes. He goes on to
mention the family resemblance between forms of bilateral symmetry such as the
Yang-Yin sign, the labrys (the twin-bladed axe), the labarum and the cross (61).
Bayley found that, among his collection of watermarks, were a large number of
graphic signs with a precise meaning to them: three circles, or the clover-leaf and its derivatives stand for the trinitarian; the labyrinth shaped like a cross, denotes
both inscrutability and close ties; wheels indicate the sun as the motivating force
behind change and cycles (4). Concerning the symbolism of crosses, of which the
varieties are numerous, we shall confine ourselves to indicating that they depend
upon the shape of their arms and the ‘rhythmic direction’ which these arms
suggest (as in centrifugal, centripetal, neutral or rotatory crosses) (47). The symbols for planets and many other marks which cannot be reduced to a simple
geometric figure or explained as a combination of simple component elements,
but which disclose a certain complexity of pattern, may nevertheless be interpreted with the help of the principles enumerated above. To give just one example: In alchemy, the sign for ‘antimony’, representing the intellectual ‘soul’
alive with all its virtues and faculties, is a cross placed upon a circle; the sign for
‘green’, denoting the vegetative ‘soul’ or the physiological world, is a cross inscribed within a circle; the sign for Venus, corresponding to instinctive behaviour
or the base urges, is a cross placed below a circle. In short, there is nothing
arbitrary about graphic symbolism (59): everything obeys a system which develops out of a single point and expands into more complex forms in which shape,
rhythm, quantity, position, order and direction all help to explain and define the
pattern.