I’ve got my eye on a project in the future that makes my ideas on meta-myth and pop mythology more cohesive and coherent (I hope). This means I have to turn my mind’s eye back to the sort of philosophical thinking that excites me so much and probably mystifies so many of you. Ah, well, if you must blame someone or something, blame my recent read of Supergods. Regardless, it’s time for a return to my four-color philosopher roots.
Today I’d like to take a look at the contrast and possible dialectic of the Apollonian and the Dionysian. A little background on the source of the names. Apollo is the perpetually youthful Greek god primarily associated with the sun, dreams (especially in terms of prophecy), and (the light of) reason. Dionysus is the perpetually youthful Greek god primarily associated with wine, intoxication, and the accompanying ecstatic madness that came with drinking. The Greeks themselves didn’t seem to see the two Olympians as opposing forces per se, that literary and philosophical school of thought came later. However, Parnassus, the mythic home of poetry, drama, and all other arts, was tied tightly to both Apollo and Dionysus so they were connected at the fault line of art in the Greek mind.
A great deal of effort and evolution has gone into contrasting Apollonian and Dionysian modes of thought, especially the explicit use of them as rivals or opposite forces; a sort of yin-yang of the artistic Western world. I want to zero in on the more modern and, especially, post modern look at the concept as a dialectic rather than an antagonism. Putting the two modes at opposite ends of a spectrum with myself in the middle of an ongoing conversation between the two feels more true to the artistic process and, of course, is the sort of “majority rule” philosophy that has trickled down into literature and, especially, my pet corner of pop myth – comics.
I gravitate toward the dialectic because it is, frankly, how I work and how, it seems, the majority of artists work. My Apollonian mind, the place of reason and order, is not the source of my stories (or, were I a differently oriented artist, my visuals or poetic phrasing). Art begins in the emotional, in the visceral, in the feeling of things. I feel something, even if it’s as simple a concept as “excitement” or “adventure” as in a lot of “low” art, and the feeling is so strong that I have to create a conduit that will share it from me to another person or group of people. I have a Dionysian urge to share the ecstasy (or agony; they’re two sides of the same coin that is Extreme Human Feeling) with others. It is overwhelming and, if not given an outlet, will find its own way out in a manner I may not enjoy as much.
But how can I do that? Emotion is the foundation of all human thought, as any good psychologist will tell you, so I should, in theory, be able to share it with others. But for all its foundational power, it is also a slippery, ephemeral, and notoriously difficult to quantify area of human experience. Which is also something any good psychologist will tell you. Even communicating anything about my emotion at least requires some sort of language (even if it’s visual as opposed to verbal). And here enters Apollo and his light of reason. While my stories cannot start in logic and reason, they must pass through that lens so that they can be ordered into something others can understand. I must filter the raw, emotional power through a logical framework in order to communicate any of it to my fellow humans.
That logic might be a conventional three act story structure or it might be recognizing that our minds are programmed to think of reds and oranges as hot and blues and violets as cold. It might be something more slippery yet still logically purposeful such as juxtaposing two words with rhyme (there’s language again) and thereby connecting them in the mind of your audience to create whole new ripples of interconnectedness.
It might be any of a million such things and these are the things one is taught in “art classes.” So the auteur who says that classes have nothing to teach her because the rules will only shackle the raw, visceral power of emotion with which she’s working has a point. Without that power, she will have no fuel for her art. However, she is also deeply wrong because without those rules, even should she choose to ignore or flaunt them, her art will be a mess devoid of meaning to any but her. Apollo and Dionysus are not enemies. They share a complicated, symbiotic relationship to create art.
So you can imagine that a lot of artists have personified this dialectic into their work. A sizable number of artists + years of working with broad, mythic characters and concepts + tight deadlines + the freedom to innovate as they saw fit + literalizing every internal concept = superhero comics = Apollonian & Dionysian pop mythology.
So now that we are armed with a basic understanding of Apollo and Dionysus as artistic concepts and now that I’ve given you a basic idea how that can filter down to superheroes, we’ll give a loving look to some of my favorite examples. I’ve got a few in mind, especially some obvious ones, but anybody feeling clever should put some ideas into the comments. I’d love to incorporate your ideas.
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