Shadow is one of those unusual things that we probably think about more in its metaphorical sense that in its literal sense.
Sure, we experience shadow every day; when we cross the street to be in or out of the shade, when we pick a place for our picnic blanket, or when we are simply walking, and cannot help but drag along our other, two dimensional self. But unless you’re an artist and have trained your eye to see it, most of us bumble about not paying shadow much mind.
This is peculiar, given that our ability to navigate the world is delimited by our access to light. As light technologies developed—first fire, but more dramatically, electricity—the potential for human activity greatly increased. It would seem logical that with the technology to produce as much light as we want (thereby resisting the natural binary of day and night) we would be able to conquer darkness entirely. And yet light’s presence always brings the necessary by-product of shadow. Only light in a vacuum—a black hole of light—would fail to cast a shadow. In simple terms, there is no light without shadow.
And thus, trying to stick with the material, we have landed upon the metaphorical. Why is the idea of there being no light without shadow (and all manner of idiomatic parallels: “it’s always darkest before the dawn,” “there’s a light at the end of the tunnel,” etc.) such a common cultural refrain? And are we potentially losing some nuance in our thinking by smudging the difference between shadow, and darkness? Is shadow merely a gesture at true darkness, the imitative younger sibling?
The word umbra, which means ‘shade or shadow’ comes from the Latin for ‘phantom’, or ‘ghost.’ It is the root for our word ‘umbrella’ (which casts shade over us), but also for our word ‘umbrage’, which means ‘anger,’ or ‘inclined to take offense easily.’ This is an intriguing pairing, but makes a certain kind of sense if we come to see umbra as reactionary by nature.
First, there was light, and then something existed in that plane of light, and as a result, cast a shadow. Or, first there was some action put out into the world, and as a result, anger occurred in relation to it. Anger is always reactionary, thereby secondary to whatever it is reacting against. This interpretation is also in line with the etymological root of ‘phantom’ or ‘ghost’ as entities that are secondary to life: only after something has lived and died can it become a ghost.
I find this to be a hopeful interpretation of the world. Light always brings shadow with it, but shadow is second fiddle, an afterthought, the necessary by-product of light. When we use light and shadow as a metaphor for our lives, we tend to use it during times of darkness, when we have lost touch with the light and fear that it will never return.
The dualism of light and shadow serves as a reminder not only that the darkness will pass, but that it is natural—and indeed necessary—to have both. Unlike Game of Thrones, winter does not come to stay. Engrained deep in all of us is a fundamental trust in cycles: that within the timeframe of our lives, darkness and light circle around each other in relatively quick intervals. The night really does pass.
How comforting it is, to think of darkness as both transient and necessary, and to have that reflected in the natural world.
Most hopeful of all is the fact that we have the ability to think in metaphor at all: that light and shadow don’t merely exist as phenomena in the world, but that we tell ourselves stories about them—that we can tell the stories of our lives in relation to them.
Story is what renders meaning, and, like shadow, it’s attached to everything, if we merely take the time to look.
Words - Finnegan Shepard www.finneganshepard.com
Photography - Mischa de Stroumillo www.mischadestroumillo.com