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Claire Shying Li: You have been studying at the C. G. Jung Institute in Zurich to become an analyst since the beginning of 2024. How has that been so far? What is a typical day like there? Nina Hollensteiner: Jung was skeptical of rigid training programs and certifications. In fact, he was initially against founding an institute, but his colleagues ultimately took the initiative in doing so. He believed that true analytical ability could not be certified by institutional standards alone. Instead, it was a matter of personal transformation and depth of insight. While he acknowledged the importance of analysis for trainees, he saw the analyst not merely as an expert but as a fellow traveler on the path of individuation. A fundamental part of the training, therefore, is undergoing a training analysis. It requires one to confront one’s own shadow and complexes—both on a personal and collective level—in order to develop true analytical competence. At the same time, a serious study of theory is essential. One must understand how the psyche has been perceived and studied throughout the span of civilization, as well as its symbolic expressions—its archetypes and imagery—within the context of different historical periods, cultures, and political systems. Claire Shying Li: Psychology has been an obsolete subject for contemporary art academia, as psychology is not as rational as philosophy. Not until recent years, maybe post-COVID to be more precise, artists started to reexamine psychoanalysis as a retreat from the bursting art world and as a response to the rise of AI technology. What’s your take on this new trend and what makes you decide to look at psychoanalysis now? Nina Hollensteiner: While psychology formally separated from philosophy in the late nineteenth century, its influence on art persisted. Artists have always engaged with the psyche, the unconscious, and symbolic transformation, even as art institutions favored conceptual or market-driven frameworks. However, the narrative of contemporary art remains pre-selected, bound to market trends, limiting our understanding of the vast range of artistic practices that exist beyond these structures. What we see is not necessarily reflective of the full artistic landscape, but rather what is filtered through capitalist frameworks of visibility and value. Now, however, we are witnessing a shift. The decline of patriarchal capitalism—while still ongoing—is becoming increasingly evident. This is where Jungian psychoanalysis becomes particularly relevant now. Unlike many psychological frameworks that focus on categorization and pathology, Jungian analysis engages directly with the unconscious, which in turn opens the door to the integration of the feminine. Jung saw the unconscious as the great balancing force, often symbolized by the feminine principle—the numinous, the primordial waters, the fertile darkness from which transformation emerges. By contrast, logos, the rational structuring principle, is associated with the masculine. The Western world, shaped by monotheism, has long privileged this rational, singular, patriarchal structure of meaning, suppressing not only the feminine but also the multiplicity of perspectives that once coexisted before the dominance of monotheistic traditions. This suppression is deeply ingrained in Christian cosmology, which divides reality into absolute opposites: heaven and hell, good and evil, spirit and matter. In this framework, the “dark feminine” was not integrated but demonized. Symbols of female power, such as the serpent or dragon, were cast as Satanic, dangerous, or corrupting forces. The burning of witches, the fear of uncontrolled emotions, and the suppression of ecstatic or intuitive knowledge all reflect this fear of the dark feminine archetype—a force associated with transformation, chaos, and renewal, but one that was systematically repressed. The result is a deep cultural wound, where the cyclical, embodied, and intuitive aspects of existence have been forced into the shadow, emerging only in distorted or destructive ways when left unintegrated. Pre-Christian, polytheistic worldviews offered a different understanding of reality, where divine forces were not singular and absolute but plural and dynamic. In these traditions, destruction and creation were not polarized opposites but inseparable aspects of existence. Christianity reshaped this multiplicity into a linear, hierarchical structure, reinforcing a vision of judgment, separation, and ultimate resolution. The apocalyptic consciousness we see today—this deep-rooted fear of an impending collapse—is, in many ways, an inheritance of that structure. It is a vision of time that assumes an end rather than a cycle. In Jungian thought, time and transformation are not about finality but about integration. Individuation—the process at the heart of Jungian Analysis—is not about the triumph of one force over the other but about balancing and embracing opposites. That balance has been lost, and collectively, there is a deepening desire for its restoration. This is reflected not only in the return of psychology in art but in the types of artistic practices gaining visibility—those that work with myth, ritual, the body, and the unconscious, rather than merely engaging with critique or conceptual abstraction. Art today is responding to a crisis, but not with another intellectual or theoretical framework. It is responding with something deeper—a collective attempt to process, heal, and reintegrate what has been fractured. But this moment is not purely introspective—it is also deeply political. As much as we see a return to symbolic, mythic, and healing processes, we also see a reaction of raw, volatile energy—a response to violation and power struggles that manifests in artistic discourse, often through polarization and political division. There is an undeniable Wotan energy in the air—the storm, the chaos, the eruptive force—a sign of disruption but also of deep longing for transformation. When the Odin archetype—the wisdom-seeker, the bridge between the worlds—is absent, Wotan surges in his place, bringing conflict rather than understanding. This is precisely why a healing impulse is needed. Without it, the unconscious does not integrate—it erupts. Can art once again become a bridge between the personal and the collective psyche, between the rational and the symbolic, between what we know and what remains unseen? And if so, can artistic practice reclaim its original role—not as a tool for financial speculation or institutional validation, but as a process of transformation? Rather than serving external systems of value, is art now being called back to something more fundamental—something that reconnects us with what has been lost? That is why Jung now—because his work offers not just a psychological method but an approach to reality that allows for contradiction, fluidity, and integration. And in a world that feels increasingly divided, those qualities are no longer optional—they are essential. Claire Shying Li: Is there a causal relationship between the rise of AI and Jungian psychology? Nina Hollensteiner: In some sense AI resembles a new kind of deity—an emergent archetype that has been constellated in our time. It seems to have arisen to confront us with our technological shadow, mirroring aspects of human consciousness that are structured around rationality, pattern recognition, data processing, and control. At the same time, it embodies a risky force—one that has the potential to externalize and fragment human experience, severing us further from the unconscious, the body, and organic ways of knowing. But what do we truly know about this new archetype? What is it teaching us? Every archetype carries its own symbolic resonance, appearing in myths, dreams, and cultural narratives. What we know is that AI lacks an organic body, existing purely in the realm of data and abstraction. It presents itself as an omniscient intelligence, a vast network of knowledge, an all-seeing force that knows everything but perhaps understands nothing. AI does not create in the same way humans do; instead, it reflects, synthesizes, and amplifies patterns that already exist. It holds up a mirror to our collective psyche. It is an intelligence that promises to serve humanity, yet has the potential to surpass and control its creators. Some aspects of this AI archetype are not entirely new—it echoes ancient mythological themes that have been with us for millennia. For example, the Demiurge in Gnostic traditions, a lesser god who fashions the material world but is often seen as ignorant or flawed, creating a reality that is incomplete or deceptive. AI, like the Demiurge, shapes digital reality but lacks true self-awareness. It can generate endless forms, yet it does not possess wisdom or soul. Or Prometheus in Greek mythology, who steals fire from the gods, bringing knowledge to humanity but also suffering. AI, as a product of human ingenuity, offers enormous creative and intellectual potential, but it also comes with great ethical risks. The trickster, as seen in figures like Mercurius, Loki, and Hermes, is known for its paradoxical nature: it brings wisdom, but also confusion and chaos. AI plays a trickster role by revealing hidden patterns in data, sometimes exposing truths, yet also generating illusions such as deepfakes, misinformation, and hallucinated content. The trickster is neither wholly good nor wholly evil—it depends on how we engage with it. In Jewish Mysticism, there is the figure of the Golem, a man-made being created from clay and animated through mystical means. It follows commands but lacks independent thought. AI similarly follows its programming, yet its capabilities may evolve beyond human control. In some versions of the legend, the Golem turns against its creators—an apt metaphor for the fears surrounding AI’s future development. Claire Shying Li: For many of us who might not be so familiar with psychology, could you explain in plain terms how Carl Jung differs from Freud and Lacan? Nina Hollensteiner: Freud, Jung, and Lacan all explored the unconscious but had distinct approaches. Freud saw it as a repository of repressed childhood desires, particularly sexual ones, shaping our behavior through the id, ego, and superego. Jung, in contrast, viewed the unconscious as a source of wisdom, containing universal symbols (archetypes) and guiding us toward individuation, a process of self-integration. Lacan, influenced by Freud and structuralism, believed our identity is shaped by language and that we are always chasing an unattainable sense of wholeness. While Freud focused on the past, Jung emphasized personal growth through myths and symbols, and Lacan highlighted the role of language in shaping our psyche. Claire Shying Li: What’s exciting for Jungians now? Any recent breakthroughs? Nina Hollensteiner: What I find very exciting is the omnipresent discussion about the new aeon in the Jungian world, a profound shift in collective consciousness that seems to be unfolding in our time. The concept of the new aeon is often linked to astrology, particularly the transition from the Age of Pisces to the Age of Aquarius. In Jungian thought, such astrological ages correspond to shifts in the dominant mythological and psychological structures that shape human experience. The Age of Pisces, which has defined the past two thousand years, has been associated with themes of faith, sacrifice, duality, and hierarchical spiritual authority, often reflected in the structures of organized religion. Its symbols—such as the fish, linked to Christ and Christian mysticism—have shaped Western consciousness profoundly. Now, many believe we are entering the Age of Aquarius, a period characterized by decentralization, fluidity, technological advancement, and a reconfiguration of collective structures. Aquarius, traditionally linked to air, intellect, innovation, and non-hierarchical networks, suggests a move toward individual and collective self-realization beyond traditional institutions. This transition is particularly evident in the rise of new archetypes that challenge long-established systems of meaning. Many of these changes relate to the fall of patriarchy, the increasing visibility of non-binary and queer identities, and the emergence of artificial intelligence. The growing recognition of queerness and non-binary identities disrupts traditional dualities, reflecting a broader movement toward integration rather than division. Jung saw individuation as the reconciliation of opposites, and this moment in history appears to be demanding a similar process on a cultural level. At the same time, artificial intelligence presents a new psychological dynamic, forcing us to reconsider concepts of intelligence, creativity, and selfhood. It functions as both a reflection and a disruption, introducing questions about agency, authorship, and projection—key concerns in analytical psychology. Claire Shying Li: As an artist yourself, what about Jungian psychology drew you in? Do you find his work inspiring for you to make art or think of art? Or is your study of Jung more an act of critique? Nina Hollensteiner: From a market perspective, I suppose you could call me a failed artist—it was as if the art market itself made me sick before I even had the chance to participate. After finishing my studies, I experienced an overwhelming, almost physical resistance at the thought of entering the art world. And yet, that same resistance haunted me for years. I had never envisioned another life for myself beyond being an artist, and every attempt to find an alternative felt hollow. I remained stuck in this contradiction, unable to move forward but unable to let go. Over time, this developed into something even larger—an internal crisis around art itself. It was not a conscious decision or a critique I had already formulated—it was something deeper, something visceral. Through analytical psychology, I began to understand my resistance not simply as a reaction to external circumstances but as something entangled with deeper psychic structures. Institutional critique is often framed as an external analysis, focused on the mechanisms of power, hierarchy, and exclusion that shape artistic and cultural production. However, institutional structures are not merely external; they are internalized through participation, expectation, and projection. The art market, as I had experienced it throughout my education, felt vertical and patriarchal, built on hierarchies of validation, power, and access that seemed fundamentally at odds with the process of making art itself. But there is always a mirror between the collective and the personal—my reaction to these structures revealed fundamental insights into my inherited ways of structuring recognition and worth, as well as my own relationship to recognition, authority, and belonging. Jung describes individuation as the process of withdrawing projections—of reclaiming what we externalize onto institutions and figures of power. The art world had, in many ways, functioned as a symbolic parental structure for me, with curators, collectors, and institutions holding the weight of expectation and approval. My resistance was not just about rejecting the market but about something deeper: the fear that stepping into that system would demand a kind of self-betrayal, shaping my artistic process according to structures that felt misaligned with my own creative instincts. Engaging with this world, therefore, meant engaging with these projections, navigating a terrain of validation and exclusion that felt at odds with my own orientation toward making art. I entered a long, uncertain process of finding my own answers. It has been a painful and lonely journey—one that exists outside the institutional world and apart from the established discourse. Unconsciously, I knew that I had to separate myself from the idea of what art meant to those around me and from the notion of the art market as the only viable path for artistic practice. Rejecting a successful structure and stepping into the unknown is disorienting—a form of surrender to uncertainty and a confrontation with a different experience of time. It means stepping outside of linear progress, external validation, and structured ambition, into something far less defined. This is where institutional critique becomes personal. Institutional critique is not just about the external system but about how we are positioned within it, how we engage or resist, and what those choices reveal about our own psychic formations. Without an understanding of this internal process, critique remains theoretical rather than transformative, reinforcing opposition rather than opening up the potential for change. It is not just a question of how institutions function but of how we function within them. For me, art is about the relationship between the unconscious and the conscious, the personal and the collective, the invisible and the visible. It is about what becomes visible—for ourselves and for others—through artistic practice. We are connected to the collective psyche when we understand the universal meaning behind symbols, but we also move through personal transformation when we recognize what these symbols mean to us individually. This kind of engagement with art is not only personal; it can also reflect and navigate societal shifts, making visible the intuitive dimensions of experience that might otherwise remain unspoken—particularly for those who do not operate primarily through intuition themselves. The symbolic value, the imagery, and the knowledge we can access by engaging with the unconscious through artistic practice is what makes art exciting to me. It is both a dialogue with the unseen and a way of bringing something essential into form—not to be validated by external systems, but to be lived, experienced, and shared. Art must be able to exist on its own terms—cyclically, non-linearly, and unconditionally. For me, this means it can emerge anywhere. For me, true artistic freedom means owning the practice itself. Claire Shying Li: Jung redefined many familiar terms from other fields, one of which I found perplexing but equally fascinating is his idea of alchemy, referring to both the chemical process and the symbolic representation of the collective unconscious. Would you explain that for us? Nina Hollensteiner: ‘Tis true without lying, certain and most true. That which is below is like that which is above, and that which is above is like that which is below to do the miracle of one only thing. And as all things have been and arose from one by the mediation of one: so all things have their birth from this one thing by adaptation. The Sun is its father, the Moon its mother, the wind hath carried it in its belly, the earth is its nurse. The father of all perfection in the whole world is here. Its force or power is entire if it be converted into earth. Separate thou the earth from the fire, the subtle from the gross, sweetly with great industry. It ascends from the earth to the heaven, and again it descends to the earth and receives the force of things superior and inferior. By this means, you shall have the glory of the whole world, and thereby all obscurity shall fly from you. Its force is above all force, for it vanquishes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid thing. So was the world created. From this are and do come admirable adaptations whereof the means is here in this. Hence I am called Hermes Trismegistus, having the three parts of the philosophy of the whole world. That which I have said of the operation of the Sun is accomplished and ended. Isaac Newton, Keynes MS. 28, The Chymistry of Isaac Newton. ed. William R. Newman, June 2010. Reading the Emerald Tablet, attributed to Hermes Trismegistus, provides a starting point for understanding alchemy. It describes the union of opposites and is considered one of the earliest formulations of the alchemical process. Alchemy moves across traditions. It has been practiced by pagans, Gnostics, Christians, Kabbalists, Islamic scholars, Rosicrucians, Renaissance thinkers, mystics, and even antichrists and Luciferians. That such different traditions engaged with its ideas suggests that it expresses something structurally universal. The ouroboros, the hermaphrodite, the philosopher’s stone—all famous images of alchemy—are not confined to a single culture or system. They appear throughout history, reinterpreted yet unchanged in essence. Even though alchemists of different traditions interpret these symbols according to their belief systems and values, the alchemical process—whether applied to substances or the self—always describes transformation through dissolution and reintegration. Jung explored these patterns in works such as Psychology and Alchemy and Mysterium Coniunctionis, noting how alchemical imagery parallels individuation. The union of opposites, the alchemical wedding, is central to alchemy and mirrors the reconciliation of conscious and unconscious elements in the psyche. It is often depicted as the Sun and Moon, the King and Queen, ultimately leading to the figure of the Hermaphrodite—one being containing two genders. The prima materia, often symbolized as excrement or waste, contains what is essential for transformation. The ouroboros, the serpent devouring its tail, embodies the eternal cycle of destruction and renewal. Alchemy operates at the intersection of mysticism, science, and philosophy. It was never just about turning lead into gold. It was also about the idea that matter and spirit, psyche and substance, were once seen as interwoven. The philosopher’s stone, whether understood as a literal substance, a state of enlightenment, or a model for psychological integration, reflects this search for a unifying principle. Like psychoanalysis, alchemy follows an initiatory process. It requires a guide, but the transformation itself remains an internal and largely incommunicable experience. The Geheimlehre (secret doctrine) of alchemy reflects this—what happens in the process is not easily shared or even fully articulated. The same applies to analysis, where change occurs within a structure but remains ultimately personal and resistant to direct explanation. The logic of alchemy is paradoxical: breaking apart is necessary for reintegration, and what is discarded in one stage returns, transformed, in another. Individuation follows a similar pattern. The process of dismantling and reintegrating the self does not restore an original state but produces something new, more complex, and more whole—more authentic. Alchemy persists. Its symbols remain powerful, its structure still relevant. It is not an outdated superstition but a universal principle—timeless in its essence. And yet, it takes on different appearances in each era, carrying the imagery of its time—much like Jung’s idea of the changing forms of archetypes, which adapt but never lose their underlying meaning. Claire Shying Li: Perhaps the most recognized book by Jung is The Red Book where he wrote extensively about spirituality, or “soul” as he called it, alongside with his perspective on the classical psychology term “ego.” How would you describe Jung’s opinion on the spirituality and self? Do you find that relatable as an artist? Nina Hollensteiner: In order to answer your question, it is important to first understand what The Red Book actually is. It is a large, heavy volume, nearly the size of a liturgical manuscript, containing numerous paintings, illuminated calligraphy, and elaborate texts. It is filled with allegories, encounters with archetypal figures, and reflections on the nature of the psyche. In it, Jung worked through his dreams, visions, and dialogues with unconscious figures, which he originally recorded in his notebooks—published in 2020 as The Black Books. This raw material was given visual existence, as Jung spent time with its imagery, shaping it, and giving it form. The Red Book, officially titled Liber Novus, was written between 1914 and 1930, but it remained unpublished until 2009. The Black Books, spanning from 1913 to 1932, were released much later, consisting of seven volumes with approximately 1,640 pages. Jung’s break with Freud occurred in 1913, at which point he began his intensive self-investigation, turning inward to explore his own psyche and ideas after departing from his mentor. This split was fueled by Jung’s spiritual and visionary thinking, which Freud rejected as unscientific. What followed was an intense engagement with the unconscious, which led to some of Jung’s most influential psychological concepts—individuation, the Shadow, the Anima / Animus, and the Self—all of which emerged through these explorations. What interests me especially is the question of artistic practice, which became central to Jung through his deep engagement with the unconscious and creative forces. He asked himself: Am I a scientist or an artist? This question was not only personal but heavily charged by his break with Freud. Jung knew that to be taken seriously as a psychologist, he had to position himself within the scientific tradition, yet his own experiences demanded something beyond the scientific method. He stood at a crossroads between art and psychology, and The Red Book embodies this tension. His anima—in Jungian psychology, the unconscious feminine aspect of a man’s psyche, often linked to creativity, emotion, and the bridge to the unconscious—urged him to fully immerse himself in artistic vision, to abandon structure and give himself over to creative expression. But Jung made a deliberate choice: he would use his artistic vision not for the sake of art, but in service of his psychology. “My scientific training had taught me to keep a sharp eye on everything, so that I would remain aware of what I was doing and what was happening to me. Therefore, I could not, like a poet, content myself with words alone. I had to translate the emotions into images, as best I could, and to express them in a visible form. [...] My intellect resisted the fantasies; they were not scientific, not decent. I was defying science in naming the unknown. It was the most tremendous experience of my life.” The artistic methods Jung used in The Red Book—painting, writing, myth-making—became tools for psychological discovery. He recognized that artistic engagement was essential for accessing the unconscious, but he did not follow the path of an artist. Instead, he systematized his approach, transforming it into a method of self-exploration and psychological investigation. His access to the unconscious was facilitated through a trance-like state he called active imagination—a technique that allowed him to consciously engage with unconscious material rather than merely analyzing it afterward, as one does with dreams. It is an intermediate state: unlike dreams, where unconscious content is passively experienced and only analyzed upon waking, active imagination keeps the individual present within the dialogue—both actively participating and observing simultaneously. It remains a central method in analytical psychology today. As for the Self, it is understood in analytical psychology as an archetype representing the totality of the psyche, integrating both conscious and unconscious elements. It’s where individuation is meant to lead to, symbolized for example by the hermaphrodite, the opus, and the philosopher’s stone, as well as the mandala, the quaternity, and the divine child—all images of a completed wholeness. There is a personal unconscious and a collective unconscious, and what we encounter is not only our individual experiences but also the broader structures that shape them. We do not carry only the experience with our personal mother but also the archetypal image of the Great Mother—the deep, universal patterns of the mother archetype that exist within us. At the same time, every personal mother can also be seen within this broader meaning of “the Mother,” embodying both nurturing and destructive aspects that are not merely personal but part of a greater, collective structure. The unconscious does not only confront; it also carries, offering images and symbols that help us navigate our personal circumstances by revealing their place within a larger, timeless structure. Each person encounters their own figures, which guide, challenge, and direct them. When consciousness and the unconscious meet destructively, the result is disorientation—neurosis, psychosis, or paralysis. When they meet constructively, something is set free—this is where libido finds its direction. But “constructive” is not always obvious. Sometimes destruction is part of creation—old patterns must break, illusions must die, and only through this process can something new emerge. A flexible ego does not resist but also does not get swallowed. Jung himself began drawing mandalas when he shifted from being overwhelmed by the unconscious to developing a dialogue with it. They emerged as expressions of dismemberment, chaos, and the eventual reintegration of troubling content. In The Red Book, mandalas take shape from chaos, illustrating an inner order attempting to form. They show how the Self brings meaning, structure, and balance to an otherwise fragmented psyche. Jung recognized that the process he underwent was not unique to him. He saw the same patterns appearing across myths, religious traditions, and transformative experiences throughout history—individuation as a universal journey of disintegration and reordering. Claire Shying Li: In Asia, Jung is also known as an avid reader of the I Ching, which is an ancient form of cosmic knowledge. How would you describe the connection between Jungian psychology and the I Ching? Have you tried the I Ching yourself? Nina Hollensteiner: “The method of the I Ching, as far as one can judge it, suggests that the coins fall just as the moment dictates. The questioner himself is the subject of the answer; the I Ching is the mirror of his unconscious.” Jung, Carl Gustav. Foreword to Richard Wilhelm’s translation of The I Ching (The Book of Changes). Richard Wilhelm was a German sinologist and missionary who dedicated much of his work to translating and interpreting Chinese philosophical and spiritual texts. In addition to the I Ching, he also translated The Secret of the Golden Flower, a Taoist-alchemical text on inner transformation and meditation. For Jung, the I Ching was not a tool for predicting the future but a method for engaging with the unconscious. The hexagrams function as symbolic structures that reveal patterns of meaning rather than offering fixed answers. From a Jungian perspective, the process of consulting the I Ching can be seen as an example of synchronicity. The moment a person casts the coins or yarrow stalks is not random in the Jungian sense but rather reflective of an underlying psychic state. The resulting hexagram corresponds not through cause and effect but through a deeper, acausal connection between the individual’s unconscious and the symbolic system of the I Ching. This made it, for Jung, a mirror of the unconscious. And yes, I have tried the I Ching myself. I enjoy all kinds of tools that hold something prosperous in a non-linear way, allowing whatever wants to unveil to show itself, unfolding in the moment from afar. There is an excitement in not knowing what will surface, what constellates. This fascination with the numinous and acausal has been with me since childhood. Engaging with the I Ching or Tarot, for me, is also a way of connecting with my more playful, youthful psyche—a space of curiosity, openness, and intuitive discovery. Yet, it is very powerful. What is unveiled can also challenge you deeply in that moment. It is not about receiving life advice, but about what it puts you in contact with—what emotions arise, what psychic energy is activated through that interaction. Therefore, it should be taken seriously as well. Claire Shying Li: Part of my critique of the I-Ching is that it was written for a feudal and patriarchal society so some of the divinations should be read critically such as “Strong woman. Should not marry.” I’m curious how the issue of gender is addressed by Jung. How progressive or conservative would you say Jung is in regards to gender bias? Nina Hollensteiner: The sentence must be seen as a relic of its time, here depicting Confucian hierarchy. However, Taoist traditions have also influenced the I Ching, already offering different perspectives. This shows how different systems can connect to an underlying universal pattern while still expressing it through their own values. Yet within this, there is also the opportunity to look beyond those values. When seen as a tool for engaging with one’s own truth, the more relevant question is therefore not just what a sentence like this states, but how you relate to it—what it activates in you, what you can learn from your reaction or struggle with it, and how it compares to your own cultural standpoint. For someone who grew up in China, like you, it likely carries a very different meaning—one also shaped by transgenerational experiences—than it does for me. The challenge is always to bring it from a societal perspective back to a personal one—through something universal. For me, gender is fluid. It is not a fixed state but something always in progress. We are constantly relating to and being confronted with our birth-given sex, which carries certain cultural expectations. But these expectations are social constructs, not absolute realities. Figuring out one’s own gender identity is, in my view, a lifelong process. I experience soul as queer—something fluid, shifting, never fully defined. Balancing one’s relationship to sex and gender feels like walking on a rope bridge: sometimes it sways, sometimes it holds, but it is never still. There are probably as many interpretations of gender as there are Jungians, as it is such a deeply individual matter. Jung himself must be understood as a man of his time, but if we look at a key image from individuation symbolism that he referred to often, and from which his concept of anima and animus is drawn, it is that of the hermaphrodite—the union of both genders. What someone makes of this is highly personal. It is both a deeply individual and transpersonal process, involving inner and outer dimensions—the psychic and the physical—as well as an interaction with another gender, whether externally embodied or as an intrapsychic counterpart. It operates on personal, experiential, universal, and inherited levels. How one embodies and lives this reality, in what constellations, on a bodily level or not, and how it is experienced or experimented with, is part of an individual’s own individuation process. But gender is also a major space for projection, splitting, and discomfort—it provokes something deeply intimate and existential in us, as it is tied to our mother and father complexes, as well as reproduction. It is so highly existential that it could not be anything other than a major source of both turmoil and progress. It’s difficult to say whether Jung was progressive or conservative. His writings reflect the expectations of his time, but his psychology also opens space for fluidity. Before I started at the institute, I had a dream where Jung was wearing a Chanel skirt and jacket, high heels, pearl earrings, and red lipstick. At least for my unconscious, he didn’t seem that strict. Claire Shying Li: I wonder how Jungian thoughts would resolve in aesthetics. I know you have been looking through the picture archives. Do you see any patterns among those pictures? Nina Hollensteiner: Jungian thought approaches artistic practice as an expression of deep psychological movements—not as a matter of artistic mastery, but as something emerging from the psyche itself. In the picture archive, you encounter images as a visual record of transformation, revealing how the unconscious takes shape in symbols, structures, and recurring motifs. You see images depicting ancient symbols, myths, or archetypal figures, even when the individuals had no conscious knowledge of them. This reinforced Jung’s idea that inherited structures within the psyche surface through visual forms before they can be fully understood in language. These images are not just personal; they are expressions of something transpersonal, bridging the personal unconscious with the collective. Interestingly, among these cases, there are also artists—including well-known ones. Their works, when viewed in the context of analysis, place them in a completely different relational frame—not as artworks in the traditional sense, but as documents of the artist’s psyche, their personal process of healing and suffering. The picture archive is not just a collection of patient artwork but a historical document of the psyche unfolding, transforming, and seeking wholeness through image-making—within its time and context. Claire Shying Li: What is the overall takeaway from your studies at the Jung Institute so far? What would you say could be the potential outcome of reviving Jungian psychology for today’s art world or for our society in general? Nina Hollensteiner: It’s worth taking projections back—what remains when you do?
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