The boiling universe: When matta mapped the cosmic unconscious

We are in 1938, in a Paris on the verge of collapse. Matta, a 27-year-old Chilean architect, has just left Le Corbusier’s studio. He wanders the cafés of Montparnasse, sketchbook in hand, when suddenly a revelation strikes him: what if space were not a matter of walls, but of the psyche? That night, in his small studio on rue du Dragon, he begins a series of paintings that will revolutionize modern art. Not with recognizable forms, not with obvious symbols, but with what he would later call inscapes—topographic maps of the unconscious.

What makes these works so fascinating is their dual nature. They are at once deeply personal—the intimate diary of a mind in turmoil—and universal, as if Matta had captured the very essence of modern anxiety. His canvases from 1938–1939, with their swirling acid colors and biomorphic shapes, seem to predict the discoveries of quantum physics as much as the nightmares of the approaching war. Look closely at Psychological Morphology (1939): those luminous filaments cutting through the darkness—do they not eerily resemble the first photographs of atomic particles?

01The painter who stole secrets from scientists

Matta was not an artist like others. Before picking up a brush, he had studied architecture, a discipline that taught him to think of space in three dimensions. But it was another passion that would nourish his work: science. In the 1930s, physics was in the midst of revolution. Einstein had upended our understanding of space-time, Heisenberg had formulated his uncertainty principle, and Hubble had discovered the expansion of the universe. Matta devoured these ideas as others devour novels.

What particularly fascinated the artist was the notion that reality was not fixed, but relative, shifting, almost alive. In a letter to his friend Gordon Onslow Ford, he wrote: "Matter is not solid—it dances. Atoms are not bricks, but musical notes." This vision would directly influence his technique. Instead of painting objects, Matta sought to capture forces, energies, states of consciousness.

Take The Vertigo of Eros (1944), one of his most famous works. At first glance, it is a chaos of swirling forms. But look longer: are those spirals not like the arms of a rotating galaxy? Do those luminous filaments not recall the trajectories of electrons around a nucleus? Matta was not copying science—he was stealing its spirit to create a new form of art, where the human psyche and the cosmos became one.

This approach was revolutionary. At a time when Surrealists like Dalí still painted figurative dreams, Matta offered something radically different: an abstraction that was not formal, but psychological. His canvases were not representations of the unconscious—they were the unconscious itself, made visible.

02The studio as alchemical laboratory

To create these strange worlds, Matta developed techniques that verged on alchemy. His Greenwich Village studio, where he settled after fleeing the war in Europe, resembled a laboratory more than a traditional creative space. There were open paint pots, sponges, shards of glass, even a small blowtorch—an entire arsenal for transforming matter.

One of his most original methods was what he called "automatic drawing in reverse." Instead of starting with a sketch, Matta would first cover his canvas with thick layers of black paint. Then, with a turpentine-soaked rag, he would wipe away the surface to reveal random forms. It was as if the canvas itself were revealing what it contained. Sometimes, he would even use his fingers to scratch the paint, leaving organic traces that evoked the furrows of a brain or the veins of a leaf.

Another favorite technique was decalcomania, which he had learned from Max Ernst. By pressing a glass plate onto freshly painted canvas, he created organic textures that suggested cells under a microscope or lunar landscapes. But Matta didn’t stop there. He would then add layers of transparent paint, creating a sense of depth that made his forms seem to float in space.

What is fascinating is that these methods were not mere technical tricks. They reflected his philosophy of creation. For Matta, painting was not an act of control, but of revelation. He did not seek to impose a vision, but to discover what emerged spontaneously from matter. In a 1950s interview, he explained: "I don’t paint pictures. I provoke accidents, and then I try to understand what they’re telling me."

This approach had something almost mystical. Matta believed that painting could reveal truths deeper than reason. His canvases from 1938–1939, with their biomorphic forms and electric colors, seem to emerge straight from a waking dream. But these are not ordinary dreams. They are visions, glimpses of a vaster reality where the human psyche and the universe merge.

03The war of colors: when the cosmos turns toxic

If you look at Matta’s paintings from this period, one thing strikes immediately: their palette. These are not the soft hues of classic Surrealist dreams. No, Matta uses electric tones—acid blues, toxic greens, burning oranges—that seem almost aggressive. As if the paint itself were radioactive.

This palette is no accident. It reflects the anxiety of the era. In 1938, as Matta began his series of psychological morphologies, Europe teetered on the brink. The Spanish Civil War raged, the Munich Agreement had just been signed, and Kristallnacht had revealed the horror of Nazism to the world. In this context, Matta’s colors take on a nearly prophetic dimension.

Take The Disasters of Mysticism (1942), a canvas painted after his arrival in the United States. The background is a deep black, like a starless sky. But at its center, an explosion of yellow and orange forms seems to tear through the darkness. These colors are not beautiful in the traditional sense. They are violent, almost painful to look at. As if Matta had captured the destructive energy of war itself.

What is remarkable is that these colors are not merely symbolic. They also serve a psychological function. Matta had read Goethe’s theory of colors, and he knew that certain hues could evoke specific emotions. Electric blue, for example, was meant to suggest intuition and the unconscious. Toxic green, on the other hand, was associated with anxiety and decay.

But Matta didn’t just follow existing theories. He pushed them further. In his paintings, colors are not static. They seem to move, vibrate, as if alive. Look at Morphology of Desire (1938): do those streaks of red paint not resemble flowing blood? Do those blue splotches not look like bolts of consciousness?

This revolutionary approach influenced an entire generation of artists. Jackson Pollock, who met Matta in 1939, adopted a similar palette in his early abstract works. Later, artists like Mark Rothko and Barnett Newman would also use intense colors to evoke emotional states. But in Matta’s work, these colors are never decorative. They are always charged with meaning, as if each hue were a fragment of the collective unconscious.

04Matta’s code: when painting becomes language

If you look closely at Matta’s canvases, you’ll notice something strange. His forms are never entirely abstract. They always seem on the verge of becoming something—a face, a machine, a landscape. As if Matta had invented a new visual language, halfway between symbol and abstraction.

This approach reflects his fascination with linguistics and semiotics. Matta believed that art could function like a language, with its own rules and grammar. In his psychological morphologies, he created a vocabulary of forms that recur from one canvas to another. These forms are not fixed—they evolve, transform, like words that change meaning depending on context.

Take what one might call the "Matta Man"—that schematic humanoid figure that appears in several of his paintings. In The Vertigo of Eros, it seems trapped in a whirlwind of colors. In Psychological Morphology, it almost dissolves into the landscape. This figure is never the same, yet always recognizable. Like a word that takes different forms depending on the sentence.

What is fascinating is that this visual language sometimes seems to contain coded messages. In 2015, during the restoration of The Vertigo of Eros at MoMA, conservators discovered hidden drawings beneath the paint layer. Faces, sexual forms, strange symbols—as if Matta had first written a secret message, then covered it with a layer of abstraction.

This discovery reignited speculation about the exact nature of the psychological morphologies. Some critics see them as a map of the Freudian unconscious. Others read them as a disguised political critique—after all, Matta was a committed antifascist. Still others view them as an attempt to create a new universal language, capable of transcending cultural barriers.

Whatever the interpretation, one thing is certain: Matta’s canvases are not mere decorations. They are visual enigmas, puzzles waiting to be solved. As if the artist were telling us: "Here is the world as I see it. Now it’s your turn to decipher it."

05The invisible legacy: when Matta reinvented modern art

Though Matta is now considered one of the most important artists of the 20th century, his influence is often underestimated. Yet without him, modern art as we know it would not exist. He was the missing link between European Surrealism and American Abstract Expressionism, a bridge between two continents and two eras.

His most visible impact can be seen in the work of Jackson Pollock. When the two artists met in 1939, Pollock was still a figurative painter. But after seeing Matta’s inscapes, something changed. His canvases became more abstract, more dynamic. Look at Number 1A (1948): do those drippings not recall the luminous filaments in Matta’s paintings? Does this "all-over" composition, where every inch of the canvas is treated equally, not owe something to Matta’s spatial approach?

But Matta’s influence doesn’t stop there. Arshile Gorky, another pillar of Abstract Expressionism, adopted his biomorphic forms in works like The Liver is the Cock’s Comb (1944). Robert Motherwell borrowed his automatic approach in his Elegies to the Spanish Republic series. Even contemporary artists like Julie Mehretu and Matthew Ritchie acknowledge their debt to Matta.

Yet despite this immense influence, Matta remains an artist little known to the general public. Why? Perhaps because his work is difficult to categorize. Too abstract for fans of classic Surrealism, too psychological for purists of abstraction. Or perhaps because his message is too radical: the idea that art could be a map of the unconscious, a universal language, a window onto the cosmos.

Today, as we live in an increasingly virtual world, Matta’s paintings take on new resonance. Are his psychological morphologies not the ancestors of the digital landscapes we explore today? Do his biomorphic forms not recall the generative algorithms of contemporary art? And is this idea of space as something not fixed, but constantly evolving, not at the heart of our experience of the digital world?

Perhaps it is time to rediscover Matta. Not as an artist of the past, but as a visionary whose ideas have never been more relevant. His canvases are not relics of a bygone era. They are windows onto our own unconscious, maps of a territory we are only beginning to explore.

06The workshop of possibilities: how Matta continues to inspire us

If you walk into a contemporary artist’s studio today, you will likely find traces of Matta’s legacy. Not as slavish copies, but as a diffuse, almost invisible influence. That is Matta’s true genius: he did not create a style, but a way of thinking about art.

Take Julie Mehretu, for example. Her monumental canvases, with their layers of marks and symbols, owe much to Matta’s spatial approach. Like him, she creates landscapes that are neither entirely abstract nor entirely figurative. Like him, she uses painting as a language, with its own grammar and syntax.

Or look at Matthew Ritchie’s work. His complex installations, which blend painting, sculpture, and virtual reality, seem to emerge straight from Matta’s inscapes. Like him, Ritchie explores the connections between science, mythology, and the human psyche. Like him, he creates worlds that feel both familiar and profoundly alien.

But Matta’s influence is not limited to the art world. It extends to fashion, design, even architecture. Take Iris van Herpen’s creations, for instance. Her futuristic dresses, with their organic forms and innovative materials, seem to come straight from a Matta canvas. Or look at Zaha Hadid’s buildings. Her fluid structures, which seem to defy gravity, uncannily recall Matta’s psychological spaces.

What is remarkable is that this influence is not merely aesthetic. It also touches on the philosophy of creation. Matta believed that art should be a process of discovery, not control. This idea has inspired an entire generation of artists who see creation as a form of exploration, almost scientific.

Today, as we are overwhelmed by digital images, Matta’s canvases remind us of something essential: art is not just a matter of technique or style. It is a way of seeing the world, a means of exploring the unknown territories of human consciousness.

Perhaps that is why his works continue to fascinate us. They are not mere paintings. They are doors opening onto the unknown, invitations to explore the hidden dimensions of our own minds. In a world where everything seems mapped, measured, analyzed, Matta’s psychological morphologies offer something rare: the experience of mystery.

And what if that is the true power of art? Not to represent the world, but to reveal what we cannot see. Not to create images, but to make us feel the invisible. From this perspective, Matta is not just a great artist. He is a guide, an explorer of the uncharted territories of the human soul.

So the next time you find yourself before one of his canvases, don’t try to understand it. Simply let its forms, colors, and energies carry you. Let it reveal what you didn’t know you knew. For that is Matta’s genius: he does not show us the unconscious. He makes us live it.