I went to see the Giacometti show at the Tate yesterday and found all the fear of the world in most of the things he made. I recognised, in my own unease as I walked through the gallery, the soul-substance of TV and the Internet. The many special forms of fear that drive viewers or users: jealousy, envy, competitiveness, loneliness and misogyny, each with their awful textures, like kinds of intention I could almost separate into different painful, hateful senses of space, time, distance and intensity. I saw the actual forms of television sets and computers in his sculptures. There were also his tiny figures, framed so much like we are these days, in no broader context than a screen, and sometimes a very small screen. Not the Silver Screen but the greasy, smudged thing on a phone. I’m glad I didn’t go on my own.
I have no right to be a parent. I have no right to be heard or loved. Life is contested, every moment. If I forget this I overlook its fragility and betray you.
It’s curious, but Theresa May appears to enjoy being disliked. I can’t see how she could do a better job than she is of making herself not so much unpopular, as unlikeable. Perhaps she feels more comfortable being ‘difficult’ and prefers to deal with that than the horror, to her at least, of being loved.
I’ve been thinking about narcissism lately and ended up watching Now, Voyager yesterday and selected excerpts form the Alien films this morning. None of this ran together in the way I have just written it until I began writing the words ‘narcissistic feed’, but there we go.
Narcissism isn’t necessarily a bad thing: thinking about what you like to eat, wear, say and do; if I didn’t I would, in an awful sense, disappear. There’d be nothing of me on show and no return from that in the world to give me a sense of having a life that’s mine. Of course narcissism can be overdone and, from time to time, most of us overdo it – unless we underdo it, which I might come to at another time: underdo as in written our of life or written over someone else, no doubt a particularly egregious narcissist. We forget that we don’t actually know better than other people, or that we know them half as well as we might imagine. All kinds of narcissism rely on a feed from the outside world, from the kind of ‘that’s a nice hat’ comment to the more disturbing ‘you’re mine’ behaviour which characterises those egregious types I mentioned.
If you want to see what happens when narcissism becomes a difficult thing watch what happens to Charlotte Vale, or the crew of the Nostromo in Alien. Narcissists take a dim view of those around them trying to assert themselves: it interrupts the feed. Charlotte or Kane could have stayed in their cabins, but instead they went looking for adventure.
Differentiation, the move from a ‘we’ to an ‘I’, recognising the other, will always in some way be worrying (not being comfortable as an ‘I’ leaves you feeling anxious). You know you’ve got a problem when someone insists on ‘we’, not necessarily if they get worried about the ‘I’ … we all do that.
The ‘I’ demands a leap into the unknown unless I believe, secretly, we really are always a we, inseparable and conjoined. Wilfred Bion wrote about Experiences in Groups, not ‘experiences of groups’. Groups are an experience rather than an entity – as The Three Musketeers would have done well to remember.
I got worried about something like this yesterday. When I was a boy hooked on watching Sunday afternoon matinee films Now, Voyager had only existed for thirty years … rather like the relationship between now and another film I love: Withnail and I. And so I was reminded that I am 50 again. The ‘we’ of Tom Tomaszewski, me in all of my incarnations, still hasn’t quite become used to this ‘I’, the 50-year old one.
Catastrophia: To be distracted by a cat and lose the thread of an utterly brilliant, perhaps visionary piece of thinking and / or accompanying poetic sensibility. Only a cat can do this. Closely related to Coleridge’s ‘Person from Porlock’.
I love reading but I find it very hard to read most psychotherapy journals, especially the ones circulated by accrediting bodies such as UKCP. What could be an opportunity for me to engage with other people wondering what it is that constrains them, or affects them and exploring how they proceed from there … often ends up with me feeling like I’ve arrived at Checkpoint Charlie with the wrong papers.
If I’m going to think about the limits of psychotherapy I have to begin by looking at the limiting effects of psychotherapists, whenever they get together. It doesn’t have to be that way, but generally that’s how I have found it. Psychotherapy seems to be a refuge for numbers of people who might have imagined themselves, in another life, as an artist, a doctor, a philosopher, a scientist or perhaps (if they’ve had enough therapy) a prison guard or a better parent.
But reading, for example, the latest edition of the UKCP gazette I remain unsure how aware its writers are of the negative effect of their … professionalism. There’s so much attempted mastery: attempts to inflict expertise on the reader that remind me of a scene from Nicholas Monsarrat’s The Cruel Sea in which gulls pick over the dead floating on the ocean surface after a horrible incident with depth charges.
Mastery is a force to be resisted. If I want philosophy I will turn to someone who can at least tell me deconstruction isn’t about taking things apart; or that the preface to Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit might be a good thing to read before putting pen to paper for the UKCP gazette. If I want to know about creativity I’d like to speak with someone who’s made something that a lot of people find exciting. If I want to understand neuroscience I’d like to meet with someone who has more than a fleeting acquaintance with Niels Bohr.
If I feel I am in the domain of psychotherapy I’d like to look outward and see these expert categories approaching to greet me. They might have arrived here, in psychotherapyland, but they came from somewhere else. And I might go and pay them a visit at home some time, too … even if I end up realising we live in the same place … but that’s getting a little more complicated than I intended here, when I just wanted to write something about what seems to be happening to a profession I love being part of, but forever seems in search of a soul.
Psychotherapists can be experts in the unknown, but we need to understand that some people have spent most of their time thinking about the things this particular category of expertise is likely to conjure up. And I’d like an introduction to those things: never to be a told a psychotherapist knows best.
What happens at the end of a fantasy? What does a fantasy do apart from try to keep things as you want them to be? Kellyanne Conway, all your secrets exposed … what will you do to prevent that?