Apollo: The Rational God of the Irrational Arts
Hello everyone! Today I want to explore the archetype of Apollo and compare how he is typically described with how he has revealed himself to me. In my reflections, I have drawn on psychoanalysis, but I want to note that I am more involved in the study of occultism than in professional psychology, therefore, my analysis is neither a scientific article nor the ultimate truth. Your perspective may differ from mine, and that is perfectly normal, because the same archetype reveals itself to each person from different angles.
When I first started exploring Apollo — both as a deity and as an archetype — I kept encountering the same judgment everywhere: Apollo embodies the power of the mind, intellect, control — in other words, everything that belongs to the rational field of our thinking. It is also rightly noted that Apollo is considered the patron of the Muses, of art, music, poetry, and philosophy; since ancient times, his veneration has gifted people with inspiration and success in creative work and prophecy.
Inspiration itself is irrational: it comes suddenly, spontaneously, chaotically — it is difficult to interpret through the laws of logic alone. Nevertheless, Apollo as an archetype finds his reflection precisely in this sphere. I believe that interpreting his archetype solely through “the Logical and the Rational” means missing another vast layer — the one through which the rational lives, rather than merely exists.
Since this topic is dedicated to archetypes, it is worth noting how psychoanalysis has transformed our view of the psyche. Before psychoanalysis, people held the view that a person could know anything, that they could comprehend and explain any mystery of the universe. Here, a person operates solely with rational knowledge, from which they derive their judgments — as if there exists an absolute level of understanding of our world, requiring only logical connections and all available foundations.
But before that scientific progress, people worked closely with gods, forces of nature, and used tools such as shamanism — and is that rational? I think the nature of spirits and gods themselves is not — but it is important for us to understand the context of their work. Back then, survival was more important to people than personal fulfillment, and their practices had the same character: divine power was not appropriated; rather, a person explained it to themselves as “The rain finally came because I made an offering to the deity; inspiration came to me because I asked the Muses for help.” So here again we see rationalization — a logical explanation.
Psychoanalysis, however, with its study of the unconscious, introduces a new concept — the “Irrational” — something that lives within us, does not obey the laws of logic, and moreover, influences us without our awareness. Now, from this perspective, we cannot say that there exists some absolute knowledge that we will uncover through our logic, because within ourselves there is a zone that cannot be understood logically. We begin to appropriate the chaos we cannot explain. Thus, we can finally say: “I feel inspiration because it was born within me, not because I prayed diligently to Apollo and he gave it to me.”
What is the rational without the irrational? It is a cold machine that can only execute logical programs embedded within it. It is a state where we are so absorbed by routine or by studying a particular question that we cease to be aware of having any feelings at all — we stop understanding whether we even feel anything anymore.
What is the irrational without the rational? It is chaos, whose unmanageable storms can knock you off your feet. It is a state where so much that is incomprehensible accumulates inside you that you want to either cry, or shout at someone, or laugh for no apparent reason. It manifests in the thought “I feel something very, very intensely, but there are simply no words to describe this feeling.”
To me, the separation of these two concepts feels like learning a new language. You may have experienced this yourself — that moment when you have seemingly learned the vocabulary you need, but doubts begin to creep in: “In this new language, love doesn't sound like love, and hatred doesn't sound like hatred.” Not because “other” people have invented “other” feelings, but because these dry constructions have not yet been supported by any spontaneous life contact, because you have not yet had the chance to integrate the sensual into the logical. And of course, the realms of art and philosophy become the quintessence of these two forces. The irrational breathes life and soul into rationality, while rationality becomes a form for the irrational. The irrational, once given form, can be spoken, seen, and interpreted. Thus, the archetype of Apollo no longer appears as some cold, inanimate stone, but rather as an embodiment of the genuine contact between one side of our psyche and the other.
In the union of the two, expressiveness is born. Interestingly, Apollo is also the god of the Sun, and the Sun as an archetype (which we can trace very clearly in the Tarot or in a natal chart) reflects the core of our personality, our individuality, and our life force. The Sun, as the core of the personality, is not just warmth and cheerfulness — it is a whole system in which different parts coexist beautifully, complement and harmonize with each other. A personality can only be seen in contact, and in order to be in contact, we need to express ourselves. Hence this connection.
As we have already observed, the idea of separating the rational from the irrational is not a very viable one, because it fails to address the question of the expression of our individuality and authentic will. Therefore, I believe that when examining the archetype of Apollo, we cannot simply separate his Logic from his Art and claim that he manifests exclusively through cold reason and ruthless, precise decisions. Perhaps. I am not trying to say this is untrue. But that would only be one facet of the archetype, not the whole truth.
In general, when we attempt to truly live a myth, to feel our knowledge deeply, that in itself is an immersion into the irrational. For me, Apollo here becomes not so much the god of art, but rather — if I may say so — the god of contact. He becomes that structure that helps us not drown in our feelings, but gives them form — a form that can be shown to the world, which is represented by the Other, — and that is precisely the manifestation of one's Self.
Painting: “Apollo Playing the Lute” (1874) by Briton Rivière