TO

SEE FEELINGLY:
ART AND PSYCHOANALYSIS

by Gilbert J. Rose
 e-Book 2017 International Psychotherapy Institute

From Trauma & Mastery in Life and Art by Gilbert Rose

All Rights Reserved

Created in the United States of America

Copyright © 1987 by Gilbert J. Rose

 9

TO SEE FEELINGLY: ART AND PSYCHOANALYSIS

We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first
time.

T. S. Eliot, "Little Gidding” (1942)

We have seen in the last chapter that (1) art anticipated both science and psychoanalysis
in stressing the permeability, rather than the separateness, of basic boundaries like inside and

outside, subjective and objective; (2) experimental work and theoretical refinement in

psychoanalysis gradually has resulted in a change from the closed to the open system model of
the organism; (3) along with this, the primary and secondary processes may be viewed as being

in interaction rather than as sharply demarcated; (4) this opens the organizational mode of the

primary process to the possibility of development.

This brings us to a final contribution of art. Among other boundaries that are relative

rather than firm are those between affect, on the one hand, and perception and thought, on the

other. Art helps restore an awareness of the degree to which feeling and sensuousness always

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remain integral to thought and perception. Emotion is a subject on which art is especially
qualified to speak because, if it has to do with anything, art has to do with emotional experience.
One definition even has it: “one way of identifying a work of art [is as] an object made for

emotional experience” (Kubler 1962, 80). Langer argues for the central role of feeling in aesthetic

experience, as does Dufrenne. Feeling is the nodal point at which subject and object merge in a
unique sort of “communion”-the aesthetic experience. “Instead of being a flight from the real. . .
art illuminates the real. But it does so only through feeling. . . .In art. . . the affective and the

sensuous-feeling and perceiving-adumbrate each other” (Casey 1973, xxxiii).

Clinical observation, like the experience of art, shows that thought and perception tend to

be invested with feeling. But theory historically clung to the idea that affect was sequestered
from thought and perception.

When, as part of the closed-system model, Freud placed the primary and secondary

processes in opposition to each other, it was as part of a yet more fundamental dichotomy-that of

the pleasure and reality principles. Affectivity was viewed as essentially a secretory and
vasomotor discharge into one’s own body without reference to the external world. Therefore,

affects, along with the primary process, were subsumed together under the pleasure principle.
There they long remained as second-class citizens, isolated from and alien to perception and

“pure” secondary process thought, which were directly related to the outside world and firmly
ensconced under the reality principle. Though Freud (1933) later recognized that anxiety was a
signal of impending danger and not a transformation of libido, not until recently was it

appreciated that affect is not the antithesis of thought but basic to it as an early form of
communication (Modell 1973; Ross 1975; Basch 1976).

In addition, a further complication was that the province of pleasure was largely
restricted to the gratification which accompanies the lowering of a heightened level of instinctual

drive tension. There were few exceptions to this, notably a brief early reference to the pleasure

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inherent in activity (Freud 1905, 95-96). Freud maintained, moreover, “that pleasure remains
throughout life what it was in the [earliest] state . . . and that development to maturity consists in

the superimposition of a relatively thin layer governed by the reality principle which is an

unwelcome and enforced detour” (Schachtel 1959, 62).

Infant observation, however, shows that following the first few weeks of life infants no

longer experience all stimuli from the environment as disturbances leading to unpleasure. What

Freud described, essentially, was not positive pleasure but relief from unpleasure. Almost from

the outset, the pleasure in directed, sustained activity is distinct from the pleasure of a sudden
decrease of accumulated excitation and returning to a state of untroubled rest. In contrast to the

tranquility of quiescence, exploratory play and a growing relatedness to reality offer a source of

inexhaustible stimuli to the senses, thoughts, and motor functions. Shortly after birth "the nature
of pleasure ... is no longer restricted to the negative experience of relief from irritating

disturbance . . . but now includes positive, joyful expansion of relatedness to the new and rapidly

enlarging environment. . . . The former is a return to a stable state of rest, the latter the
enjoyment . . . of the process of relating to the world” (64).

More recent observations in the first year of life (Shapiro & Stern 1980) confirm the
conclusion that pleasure is also derived from and embedded in stimulus-seeking. Significantly,

the affective components of this are a sine qua non for establishing object ties in the outside

world of reality. This means that the reality principle is not in fundamental opposition to the
pleasure principle. On the contrary, it is pleasure-seeking that guides the developing ego toward
the most gratification in its relations with the real world (Harrison 1986).

Thus, infant observation highlights the shortcomings of the closed-system model and the

affect theory that is subsumed under it. This places us in a better position to appreciate that the
open-system model carries its own implications for a theory of affects and, possibly, our

understanding of aesthetics as well.

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 The primary process is associated with release of tension; the secondary process with the

building of tension. If, as the open-system model holds, they are not segregated under the

pleasure and reality principles, respectively, and in opposition to each other, but rather, their
working together and mutual enhancement underlies all thought and perception, then their

interplay entails a continuous flux of tension and release. It is precisely such tension/release that
is at the core of feeling-in fact, is its central dynamic (Arnheim 1956). One must conclude,

therefore, on theoretical grounds, that feeling is embodied in the interplay of primary process

release and secondary process tension inherent in all thought and perception. In short, the
dynamics of feeling invest thought and perception from the outset.

Let us spell this out more specifically. Tension reduction and “letting go” accompany the

movement from secondary to primary process-departing from the stringencies of logic,

knowledge of reality, delineation of sharp boundaries, and heading for the relaxation of
imagination, togetherness, wholeness, dedifferentiation-and all points in the direction of

quiescence, narcissistic withdrawal, and passivity. The opposite movement, from primary

process to secondary process, is active, object-oriented, and associated with the stimulation and
excitement of challenge. Of course, since this is a microscopic and hypothetical description of the

rapid, oscillating interchange between primary and secondary processes, the actual quality of the

affects would depend largely on the nature of the ideational components (Brenner 1982).

It should now be possible to enlarge upon Langer's philosophical proposition that the arts

enable one to think and perceive more feelingly. First, however, it is necessary to clarify
something that has been implicit in the discussion, which has been limited largely to form rather

than content-a tactical emphasis meant to highlight the role, in theory, that form alone plays in

generating affect.

However, in order to avoid the reductionist implications that such a tactic entails, let us

admit that, for all practical purposes, form and content are often inseparable; content without

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form cannot be communicated; and form without content cannot exist because the very way the
form itself is organized conveys content. Even where there is no discursive content, as in abstract

art or music, the structure of the imaginative mode of the primary process bears unconscious

wishes embedded within it. The principles of organization of the primary process-that opposites
may coexist (as in music), or that time is reversible (as in painting, by transforming time into

spatial relations)-are themselves the expression of the content of standard, ubiquitous, and

universal unconscious wishes. Such unconscious content, embedded in the form of the primary
process, may well account for the lowering of tension associated with the primary process.

Having made the distinction between form and content, the “how” and the “what” of a

work of art, and having qualified it, let us return to the question, “How do the arts help us to

perceive and think more feelingly?” The contribution that the content of a work of art makes to
more feelingful thought and perception is maximal in literature or representational art and

minimal in abstract art or music. In any case, whatever the art form, the enhanced interplay

between the formal modes of the primary and secondary process generates a continual flux of
tension, release of tension, then renewed challenge and rebuilding of tension. Since

tension/release/tension is the heart of affect, such primary and secondary process interaction is
associated with a flow of affect.

Moreover, just as the arts stimulate the advancement of primary process imagination by

encouraging its interplay with the problemsolving logic and knowledge of the secondary process,
(as we have reasoned and illustrated with examples from Escher and Monet), the arts also help
refine the feelings that accompany this interplay. In other words, art educates the emotions;

there is, therefore, a sound psychological justification for the belief that a healthy and vigorous
state of the arts is of central importance not only to the individual but to society at large; for “a
society that neglects {artistic development], gives itself up to formless emotion” (Langer 1957,

74).

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 Aside from content, the arts restore sensuousness to perception and emotional coloration

to thought by speeding the traffic between primary and secondary processes. These bodily

qualities are inherent in thought and perception and always remain to some extent. But in the
inevitable attrition of everyday life they get calloused over. Of course, a certain amount of

screening is not only useful but even essential. Without it, one might well be flooded, that is,
traumatized, by the bombardment of stimulation impinging upon one’s adaptive resources.

Especially in our present world, overstimulation leads to familiar syndromes: on the one hand,

counterphobic, frenetic, and insatiable stimulus-hunger; on the other hand, phobic, numbed
withdrawal from all potentially threatening stimuli.

When I suggest that the arts restore the feeling and sensuousness that were once integral

to thought and perception but which were isolated to protect against traumatic flooding, I mean

to indicate that they restore an optimal degree of stimulation-a balance of distance and closeness,
neither escapist nor overpowering (G. J. Rose 1980). The various forms of art counteract some of

the inevitable and necessary jading effect of everday life. They reinvest the quality of experience

with some of the freshness it had in the beginning-but now in the light of the broader realities
and heightened awareness of maturity.

Why is it refreshed? Because returning to the familiar we find that, just because it had
become familiar, it was no longer known. Everyday thought and perception easily slide into the

misleading laziness of common sense. The arts recover metaphorical abilities which, far from

being a substitute for reason, lie at the heart of creative thought. The merging and reseparation
from art is a way of relieving dailiness, taking a fresh look, intuiting the possibility of new

connections, discovering the novel in the midst of the familiar, the familiar in the strange, an

unsuspected unity amid variability, and vice verse.21

Poetry is a way of reviving the physical and semantic resonances of a language deadened
through overuse. Martha Graham said something similar about the function of dance: making

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apparent again the hidden realities behind the accepted symbols. And Picasso spoke of wishing
to wake up the mind by drawing it in a direction that it is not used to-setting up the most

unexpected relationships possible, provoking a movement of contradictory tensions and

oppositions.

Finally, by facilitating the reintegration of emotion with thought and perception, art

illuminates reality in a particular way-from within. This is related to the power of imaginative

insight or empathy-the capacity to enter other minds and situations and intuit them from within-

first set forth by Vico as a mode of understanding in its own right. The kind of illumination that
art provides does not take place by virtue of the discovery of new factual knowledge or concepts

but, rather, fresh percepts-without which, concepts, alone, are blind. Monet did not discover light

or postulate its structure in the form of either particles or waves. His paintings of sensuous form
evoke feelings that reveal light anew. Likewise, a crucifixion is not a lesson in anatomy; a

Vermeer does not teach Dutch interior design-it is, more precisely, an entree into a world of

tenderness and gentleness (Dufrenne 1953, 527).

In other words, with due regard for the fact that form and content are basically

inseparable, one might yet argue that a work of art is true not in what it recounts-it may, after all,
be literally a lie, or surreal--but how: its sensuousness awakens feelings and reunites them with

thought and perception. I suggest that it is this inner reintegration of feeling, thought, and

perception in the mind of the viewer that permits a transitory sense of union with the art object-
the characteritic aesthetic moment. It draws upon that earliest form of knowing: the transient
blurring of the boundaries between self and other, inside and outside-“fusing” with the outside

world momentarily and then reseparating. It is this type of mastery-through temporary oneness
followed by redelineation-that illuminates the art work from within. It allows us to grasp its
reality-not so much from the point of view of objective knowledge as from the world of feeling it

opens up, having sampled it.

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 Toward the end of King Lear, the Earl of Gloster, though sightless, appears to be the only

character who seems to understand what is going on. Lear, marveling at this, declares: “No eyes

in your head . . . yet you see how this world goes.” To which, the blind Gloster replies: “I see it
feelingly.”

The performance by Billy Whitelaw of Samuel Beckett’s fifteen-minute play (or

monologue) Rockaby condenses and illustrates the foregoing discussion of concept, emotion, and

percept becoming one-of our becoming one with a work of art-and of knowing from within,

something old yet for the first time. With almost no words, no movement, and no scenery, this
great drama and interpretation compress the weight and desolation of a lonely old woman’s

descent to death-its banality, its horror, its peace.

She had searched for “another creature like herself”-“one other living soul.” Now she sits

in her mother’s old rocker. The only word she speaks on stage is “More,” repeated four times. The

other words are scant, incantatory, colorless language, recorded by the actress on tape. The
phrase, “time she stopped,” serves as a refrain. Her eyes have closed. The rocking has stopped.

The single light that holds her face has become almost one with the surrounding blackness.

In the longest of Beckett pauses, we watch the light within the face’s
hollow eyes and chalky cheeks dim, too. During the long stillness, the
actress doesn’t so much as twitch an eyelash-and yet, by the time the
darkness is total, we're left with an image that’s different from the
one we’d seen a half minute earlier. . . . What remains is a death
mask, so devoid of blood it could be a faded, crumbling photograph.
And somehow, even as the face disintegrates, we realize that it has
curled into a faint baby’s smile. . . . And there you have it. . . . We at
last reach the “close of a long day.” Then Mr. Beckett and Miss
Whitelaw make time stop, and it’s a sensation that no theatregoer
will soon forget (Rich 1984).

If one reads Rockaby after having seen it on stage, one is forced to wonder at the near-

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irrelevance of the words. Would it have the same-or nearly the same-effect if it were chanted,

say, in Latin? Still more would one have to wonder about the role of “facts.” What are the facts? A

lonely old lady dies in a rocking chair. Her spoken thoughts turn to silence. Open eyes close.

Rocking motion ceases. Light turns to darkness.

True, a microanalysis of the words invites a flight of imaginative speculation. One might,

exercising “analytic” ingenuity, read into the script a transition from self-object differentiation
back to selfobject mirroring and to rapprochement with the primal mother-the rocker serving as

a transitional object. Beyond that and reaching further back one might discern the concretism of

words-rocker = rock her-and fusion with the mother. "Rocker” becomes a symbol of time-life

itself. Rockaby invites the silent association, “Rockaby baby-bough breaks-down comes baby.” So,
from the beginning, Rockaby foretells that life is foredoomed. And autoerotic rhythm plays

accompaniment. Among the last lines are, “rock her off / stop her eyes / fuck life. ” Is this a

masturbatory litany with "eye" a pun for “I," as a waning sense of self heralds the approaching
climax of le petit morti Etc., etc.

All of which, in the final “analysis,” perhaps, being almost as irrelevant to the impact of
Rockaby as moonlight to the “Moonlight Sonata. ”

What lies at the heart of the emotional impact of this poetic drama, I suggest, is not such

inferred latent unconscious content, and least of all the conscious narrative manifest content, but,

rather, the form. It resembles the spare melody and three-beat meter of the sonata. Like the
sonata, an accumulation of waves of mounting feeling are concentrated within this simple

constantly recurring structure; they focus intense, laser-like attention on each swollen particle of

minute change-in syntax, intonation, tempo and pause, shadow and light-to the point that the
boundaries between thought, percept, and feeling dissolve, illuminating and reunifying present

experience.

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 What does the creative artist draw on from within himself? What does he attempt to

shape? How? To what end?

For the creative person, the inner processes achieve objectification in the form of fictional

characters and objects of art. The creative work is a building up and melting down, again and
again, a losing and refinding oneself by proxy, a rapid oscillation between imagination and
knowledge of reality; in more technical terms, between primary and secondary processes, and

between self-images and object-images within the ego. It continues until the work itself takes on

a reality and autonomy of its own, whereupon the author also becomes free, or at least freer, to
go on to something else. Samuel Beckett (1955 p. 302) writes: “For to go on means going from

here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by

little the same as always, in another place.”

As Dewey (1934) emphasized, aesthetic experience is continuous with the normal

processes of living. Creative work serves the same function for the artist as any person’s work for
himself: externalizing inner processes and connecting the person more intimately to the outside

world. In addition, however, the artist draws upon his sensitivity to past experience and

traumatic intensity of stimulation. He attempts to master this past by reshaping aspects of

himself, of space and of time, in the externalized forms of his work. His work objectifies his
experience and subjectifies his world. As a result of an interplay of imagination and knowledge,

the artwork strikes a new balance between internal and external. What began as the common

task of mastering one’s personal past, becomes for the creative artist a process of externalizing
and transcending it-to disclose new aspects of reality itself.

As I have reasoned elsewhere (G. J. Rose 1980), aesthetic form has a biological function in
the sense that it helps to sharpen the coordinates of orientation as to time, place, and person.
Pursuing the same direction, the present discussion explores how the arts further facilitate

mastery: expediting the interaction of primary process imagination and secondary process

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knowledge of reality that underlies all perception and thought.

Summarizing the important consequences of this quickened interchange of knowledge

and imagination: (1) The objectification of primary process modes of organization opens the

imagination to the possibility of growth and elaboration in the light of secondary process
knowledge of reality. (2) The flux of tension and release that accompanies the interplay of

primary and secondary processes is experienced as a flow of affect; the interplay itself helps

refine the quality of this affect. (3) The refined affect associated with the traffic of primary and

secondary processes restores sensuousness to perception and emotional coloration to thought.

(4) By this fresh integration of feeling with thought and perception, ordinary reality becomes
newly illuminated from within.

Psychoanalysis, like art, also awakens one to submerged and split-off currents of feeling.
As in the aesthetic experience, during the course of analysis affect also becomes more available,

better tolerated, more complex, and better expressed. Both the psychoanalytic and the aesthetic

experiences are conducive to a type of mastery that is characterized by the inner reintegration of
feelings with thought and perception. One must therefore inquire into the differences between

these two experiences, the clinical and the creative.

In the attrition of daily life, percepts are denied, or their emotional impact attenuated or

isolated. These are defensive efforts to anticipate the danger of traumatic overstimulation and
dampen it down in advance. Functioning is protected, but at the cost of becoming more

routinized and colorless. Art counteracts these tendencies through the fresh impact of sensuous

forms. The re-assimilation of emotion to thought and perception leads to the illumination of the
real from within-the characterise fusion-reseparation experience of the aesthetic moment.

And psychoanalysis? In accordance with the closed-system model of the organism, Freud

theorized that affect and the primary process are sequestered together, under the auspices of the

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pleasure principle-in opposition to the reality principle and secondary process thought. Ego

defenses are drawn up like pioneer wagons in a circle against the onslaught of stimuli and

protect the mind's tendency to withdraw to the lowest level of stimulation approximating the

quiescence of a state of nirvana.

In actual practice, however, it often appears that this is a secondary restructuring.

Contemporary psychoanalysis is conducted more in accordance with the open-system model of

the organism. Through the interpretation of unconscious defenses both within the ongoing

patient-therapist relationship and as it unfolds in current life as well as the developmental

history, memories are recovered directly and via the transference. For all that has been said

against it, verbalization is, of course, the single most important instrument in this process. Since
repression essentially consists of a disruption of the link between the repressed idea in the

unconscious and its verbal representation in the preconscious system (Freud 1915), it is

verbalization that restores the connection and thus undoes the repression of feelingful
memories.

Both the psychoanalytic and the aesthetic experiences tend to overcome various splits
that occur under the traumatic impact of inner and outer stimulation: repressed memories,

isolated feelings, denied percepts. Psychoanalysis undoes repression and, largely if not wholly
through verbalization, reunites memory and affect. Art counteracts denial and, through sensuous
forms, reunites perception with affect. Through different routes, they both make affect available

again for reintegration with thought and perception. Both the psychoanalytic and the aesthetic

experiences thus tend to restore wholeness, “reuniting our original nature, making one of two,
and healing the state of man” (Plato, p. 158).

To compress the issue of increased mastery into more precise intrapsychic terms: both art

and psychoanalysis strengthen the integrative function of the ego; this helps overcome splits in

the ego caused by denial (Freud 1940a & 1940b) and repression and broadens the scope of the

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ego’s reality-testing, thus enhancing mastery of inner and outer reality.

Like an ongoing exploration, the problem of the overlap of the psychoanalytic and the

aesthetic experiences raises fresh questions. One might ask, “Why add further, possibly needless,

complexity to unresolved issues?” After all, the means by which psychoanalysis exerts its
therapeutic action is still a matter of considerable debate within the field; perhaps as much so as

the ways in which art brings about an aesthetic experience. Why compound the situation by

adding one unsolved question upon an other?

And yet . . . one cannot help wonder: is the affect that is made available through the
recovery of repressed memories by the (verbal) psychoanalytic process the “same” as that which

is tapped in the aesthetic undoing of split-off percepts? Does the former represent a “horizontal”

split and the latter a “vertical” one? What about the role of internalization?

Any contemporary discussion of how change takes place-whether in the course of normal
growth and development or aided by psychoanalysis-must take account of the fundamental

position of internalization. The central importance of internalization in current thinking has

superseded the traditional faith either in insight (achieved through interpretation), or

gratification (provided by a beneficent, nonjudgmental environment).

The mechanisms by which internalization operate are (1) through the establishment of a
gratifying involvement followed by (2) the experience of incompatibility in that involvement
(Behrends & Blatt, 1985). In other words, interactions with others that had formerly been

gratifying and then disrupted are transformed into one’s own enduring functions and
characteristics.

One cannot help noting a striking formal similarity between the structure of
internalization and that of art. For internalization to take place the opposite elements of

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gratification and incompatibility need to have been experienced in sequence. Art, on the other
hand, is characterized by a dynamic equilibrium of opposites, each needing the other for its
fulfillment. Among these are tension and release, control and ambiguity, variability and unity-

but, perhaps above all, continuity and discontinuity in time, space and personal identity (G. J.
Rose 1980).

Are such parallels between aesthetic form and psychic process anything more than
linguistic similarities between constructs used to describe different phenomena or are they

causal in nature (Spitz 1985)? This touches on the core of the deconstructionist critic’s tenet that

the language of a text tends to be circular and refer to itself or other languages and not some
extratextual reality. It is similar to Spence’s (1982) question as to whether psychoanalytic

interpretation taps the “truth” or merely exploits the flexibility of language. Being beyond my

philosophical expertise to judge,22 I subscribe to Alfred

North Whitehead’s position that the test of an idea is not its ultimate ''truth'' but its ability
to stimulate new and interesting thought.

Putting aside the philosophical merits of the question, therefore, let us pursue a bit

further one implication of the similarity between aesthetic structure and the process of

internalization. In the course of normal growth and development, the child’s favorable
experience with the mother’s responsive mirroring gradually becomes generalized through

imaginary companions and transitional phenomena into the world of real relationships.
Gradually experiencing an increasing discrepancy or incompatibility between inner wishes and
outer reality, these interactions are internalized in the form of a trusting yet challenging and

critical interplay between one’s own imagination and knowledge. In psychoanalysis, too, the

benevolent yet detached ambience of the analytic relationship becomes internalized in the form

of an increasing freedom to experience one’s thoughts and feelings and at the same time
permitting them to interact in the light of judgment and experience.

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 Even though the concept of internalization pertains to such human relationships rather

than inanimate objects, does something analogous to internalization take place in the course of

repeated, intensive involvement with aesthetic experiences? Stated most baldly, can art induce
inner changes in some way comparable to the emotional maturation that takes place both in

psychoanalysis as well as normal development?

One hastens to add that it would be misleading to imply that the psychoanalytic and

aesthetic experiences are interchangeable with each other or with normal growth. The analyst

may be called upon to exercise whatever gift he may have for artistic sensitivity but his work
produces no art; the creative artist may occasionally provide an experience of therapeutic value,

but he undertakes no responsibility for ongoing treatment. Moreover, it is a familiar fact that

emotional maturation does not necessarily take place with any of the above. Conversely, it should

be no surprise that major maturation can and usually does continue to unfold well into
adulthood without the benefit of psychoanalysis (Emde 1985).

To put it in literary terms: to transform tragedy, meaning inexorability, via various means

including even comedy, meaning chance, into an increased measure of choice is the promise of

growth. Neither art nor treatment guarantee growth. What they do is to draw on the wellsprings

of feeling, via aesthetic form and memory, helping to reintegrate it with thought and perception
as in the beginning. This is a form of inner mastery which is conducive to growth.

Yet, while insisting on the separate uniqueness of psychoanalysis, aesthetics and growth,

would it not be a logical extension of this discussion, to wonder (if only half-aloud): Might the

sentience of the aesthetic experience also lead, at least theoretically, to reviving and reintegrating

dormant memories? Conversely, may the reordering of psychoanalysis also open one more fully
to the aliveness of our teeming surround?

It is time to step back from the outer reaches of speculation, return to the firmer ground of

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clinical experience, and conclude with a final vignette.

A phone call came in from an internist colleague referring a new patient. A German-born
woman with depressive symptoms, she was the daughter of a Nazi officer. I began to demur. He
interrupted: “Try anyway.”

We worked together over the course of several years. Much of it centered around her

early identification with and idealization of her father, his skill and generosity, followed by her
severe disillusionment in him. Hitler came into power when she was nine years of age. By age

eleven she was detesting her father’s posturing in his S.S. uniform, his vulgarity, brutality,

sentimentality. As an early teenager in the Hitler Youth she knew and did not know what was
going on. She befriended a Jewish girlfriend who was later sent to Dachau. She began to know

about Dachau by age seventeen (1942), but denied it. The next year her finance was lost on the
Russian front, and this she could no longer deny. By the following year, at nineteen, she was
actively resisting. Tormented with guilt for not having let herself realize what she did not wish to

acknowledge, she berated herself for not having resisted earlier. It was probably this factor
which, after the war, led her to marrying an ex-prisoner of the Nazis. He turned out to be as much
of a bully as her father, and thus her married life consisted largely of joyless, expiatory

slavishness to him and their children.

The treatment was successful in large measure. It turned largely upon dealing with the

split between her masochistic attachment to her father, on the one hand, and what she knew and
did not want to know, on the other. Integrating memories, perceptions, and feelings, and working

this through in the transference, she achieved greater mastery over her past and became freer to

assert herself in her marriage and career.

She arrived for her last session and, with a good deal of feeling, said that there were many
things about the treatment she deeply appreciated, but one above all. Still under the influence of

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earlier teaching as to the primacy of insight in the analytic process, I half-expected a tribute for a

particularly canny piece of reconstruction or interpretation and the illumination it brought. I

anticipated feeling proud and modest. The truth lay elsewhere.

She was now able once again, she said, to bear the intensity of highly emotional music.

Instead of fearing that she might feel threatened by its intensity and compelled to avoid it (lest

she be overpowered by affects, thoughts, and images flooding over her?) she could now listen
with pleasure. There was one especially beautiful piece-the Bachianas Brasileiras No. 5 of Villa-

Lobos-and it so happened she had a tape of it in her car outside. Did she wish me to play it, I

asked? Indeed she did! She went to get it and we listened to the first aria together.

A rich soprano voice ascends softly and lyrically, swelling, lifting, and subsiding in an

unbroken romantic melodic line flowing over the pizzicato accompaniment of a dozen violincelli.
The music maintains a delicately subtle tension between the continuity of the melodic voice and
the discontinuity of its plucked accompaniment. One’s senses are alert and soaring and,

paradoxically, in a state of deep repose at the same time. In short, one experiences that
remarkable characteristic of the aesthetic experience: opposite states are present simultaneously
in a combination of hyperacuity and tranquility.

We sat in silence after the music ended, both of us moved. She arose, shook hands, said,

“For this, I thank you." And departed.

Somewhere, William Carlos Williams wrote, “This, in the end, comes perhaps to the

occupation of the physician after a lifetime of careful listening: setting down on paper the
inchoate poem of the world.”

Is this, in the end, what comes to the patient after successful analysis: assimilating

emotion to thought and perception-feelings to meanings?

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 And if this mastery is the fruit of analytic integration, is it not congruent and

complementary to that of the aesthetic experience?

www.freepsychotherapybooks.org 21
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Notes

21 The Russian formalists earlier in this century put forward the idea that the function of art is to
defamiliarize or “make stranger" the world, to overcome the deadening effect of

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 habit in consciousness.

22 This “ontological” question is classically raised in a metaphysical context having to do with

proof of the existence of God.

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