Tuesday, June 1, 2010
"the iconography of the romantic Ophelia had begun to infiltrate reality, to define a style for mad young women seeking to express and communicate their distress. And where the women themselves did not willingly throw themselves into Ophelia-like postures, asylum superintendents, armed with the new technology of photography, imposed the costume, gesture, props, and expression of Ophelia upon them. In England, the camera was introduced to asylum work in the 1850s by Dr. Hugh Welch Diamond, who photographed his female patients at the Surrey Asylum at Bethlem. Diamond was heavily influenced by literary and visual models in his posing of female subjects. His pictures of madwomen, posed in prayer, or decked with Ophelia-like garlands, were copied for Victorian consumption as touched-up lithographs in professional journals.
Reality, psychiatry, and representational convention were even more confused in the photographic records of hysteria produced in the 1870s by Jean-Martin Charcot. Charcot was the first clinician to install a fully equipped photographic atelier in his Paris hospital, Salpetriere, to record the performances of his hysterical stars. Charcot's clinic became, as he said, a 'living theater' of female pathology; his women patients were coached in their performances for the camera, and, under hypnosis, were sometimes instructed to play heroines from Shakespeare. Among them, a fifteen-year-old girl named Augustine was featured in the published volumes called Iconographies in every posture of la grande hysterie. With her white hospital gown and flowing locks, Augustine frequently resembles the reproductions of Ophelia as icon and actress which had been in wide circulation."
How's that for a bizarre interchange of literature, art, and life?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
At some point, Herman says, the defensive structures built in childhood by abused or neglected children can break down. When the defensive structures break down, the personality DIS-integrates, and the result, according to Herman, is misdiagnosis: "When and if a breakdown occurs, it can take symptomatic forms that mimic virtually every category of psychiatric disorder. "
This led me to thinking about the whole enterprise of diagnosis, a process that one psychiatrist I know considers "more of an art than a science." With mental illness, for which there are no blood tests or brain scans, diagnosis--the act of naming a set of symptoms--is an entirely verbal and sociocultural act. It's interesting that we use a non-physical, immaterial diagnostic process to name illnesses that are increasingly considered to be physical/genetic/biochemical in nature. I am surprised that more people don't feel skeptical about the obvious paradox in this situation.
This paradox certainly explains why career mental health patients, unlike patients with diabetes, often receive several different diagnoses over the course of their lifetimes. The same set of symptoms, depending on who's looking, could viably be called multiple personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, complex post-traumatic stress disorder, or even garden variety codependency (although the last two are not in the DSM-IV, so no one in a hospital would receive these diagnoses). It reminds me of the particle/wave paradox in physics: in certain experiments, light acts like a wave; in other experiments, light acts like particles. So is light a wave or a bunch of particles? We are uncertain. Maybe light. Maybe wave. Maybe both.
Considering the verbal/sociocultural basis of the diagnostic process with mental disturbances, it would seem advisable to approach diagnosis with the same humility and openness practiced by quantum physicists. Maybe it's this. Maybe it's that. Maybe it's both. Depends on who's looking and what tools they are using to observe. Maybe we just don't know exactly . . .
Friday, April 30, 2010
The heroic profits from mental illness must be appealing as well, at least to those who pocket them. From the NYT Business section, April 27, 2010: "The newer generation of anti-psychotics has surpassed cholesterol-lowering drugs to become the nation's top-selling category of medications, accounting for $14.6 billion of the nation's $300 billion in drug spending last year. . . . Seroquel, a pill usually taken once or twice a day that sells for more than $4 each, was the fifth-best-selling drug in the United States last year . . . " Now that's big business!
Monday, April 19, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Woolf says something similar about the effects of women enjoying lively sexuality: "Chastity had then, it has even now, a religious importance in a woman's life, and has so wrapped itself round with nerves and instincts that to cut it free and bring it to the light of day demands courage of the rarest. To have lived a free life in London in the sixteenth century would have meant for a woman who was poet and playwright a nervous stress and dilemma which might well have killed her."
We still in the twenty-first century have to consider the connection between giftedness and psychospiritual breakdown--for women and for men. And we have to consider the crazymaking capacity of every social imperative that causes us to live restricted lives. I am not in favor of complete personal anarchy: it didn't seem to help the writer Djuna Barnes or or the artist Elsa Von Freitag-Loringhoven avoid breakdown. But their breakdown was, at least, accompanied by significant creative power. It may be that a certain degree of antisocial behavior is the price of creative potency.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
I like this idea of "laboring under a violent excitement." Madness--at least the ecstatic or drunken kind--is a violent excitement of the mind. It reminds me of Avital Ronnel's assertion that intoxication is a form of mental labor. When I read that, it occurred to me that madness is also a form of mental labor, which explains why artists and other kinds of creators are so prone to madness. It takes a violent excitement of the mind to create--but there are occupational hazards. And these hazards are compounded by drunkenness. But the altered perception of intoxication also opens up realms of the extraordinary, and it is perception of the extraordinary that produces epiphany.
The Consul and his companions in the novel court epiphany by getting drunk on mescal, a strong hallucinogen made from cactus: "There were, in fact, rainbows. Though without them the mescal . . . would have already invested the place with magic. The magic was of Niagara Falls itself, not its elemental majesty, the honeymoon town; in a sweet, tawdry, even hoydenish sense of love that haunted this spray-blown spot. But now the mescal struck a discord, then a succession of plaintive discords to which the drifting mists all seemed to be dancing, through the elusive subtleties of ribboned light, among the detached shreds of rainbows floating. It was a phantom dance of souls, baffled by these deceptive blends, yet still seeking permanence in the midst of what was only perpetually evanescent, or eternally lost. Or it was the dance of the seeker and his goal, here pursuing the gay colors he did not know he had assumed, there striving to identify the finer scene of which he might never realize he was already a part . . ."
Drunken revery. Violent excitement. Mad, and beautiful. In vino veritas est, but along with the veritas, for Lowry's characters, as for Lowry himself, comes dissolution and a kind of spiritual suicide. My book manuscript Women, Creativity, and Madness attempts to discover how the violently excited among us can get the veritas of madness without the suicide.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Sunday, March 28, at 5, Channel 19
Monday, March 29, 12pm, Channel 19
Wednesday, March 31, 12pm, Channel 21
Friday, April 9, 12pm, Channel 21
As I've been working on the Women, Creativity, and Madness book, and helping CAN-TV with the broadcast these past two weeks, I have also been reading Sor Juana Inez de la Cruz, (1641-1695) a Mexican woman of letters who, to avoid marriage, entered a convent to pursue her passion for reading, writing, and thinking. Sor Juana's literary pursuits angered her superiors in the Church hierarchy, who were not pleased that a woman of such sharp intellect dared to be a public intellectual. At least twice in her letter to Sor Filotea de la Cruz, which is a defense of the right of women to read, write, think, and publish, Sor Juana describes her passion for learning as a madness that she cannot control. "I looked on nothing without reflexion," she writes, "I heard nothing without meditation . . . . Thus . . . I saw and admired all things; so that even the very persons with whom I spoke, and the things they said, were cause for a thousand meditations. . . . This manner of reflection has always been my habit, and is quite beyond my will to control; on the contrary, I am wont to become vexed that my intellect makes me weary; and I believed it was so with everyone, as well as making verses, until experience taught me otherwise; and it is so strong in me this nature, or custom, that I look at nothing without giving it further examination. Once in my presence two young girls were spinning a top and scarcely had I seen the motion and the figure described, when I began, out of this madness of mine, to meditate on the effortless motus of the spherical form, and how the impulse persisted even when free and independent of its cause . . . "
Sor Juana's descriptions of her own thought process, which closely resemble how my thoughts feel, present madness as perpetual thinking, and perpetual thinking as madness. Like Sor Juana, I also thought that all people thought all the time about everything. My brother Jeffrey has informed me on a number of occasions, however, that this tendency to perpetual thought is a disturbance peculiar to me. Because I am surrounded with scholars, poets, philosophers, and artists almost all the time, it is easy for me to feel "normal"--like thinking is what everyone does. But it happens now and again, that when I wander outside my circled, someone points out how odd it is to think all the time. Thinking about things like time and space and being and power and existential purpose--the subjects that seem ordinary for scholars and other writers and artists--are apparently, not what normal people think about.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
What is striking about these two recent NYT articles--both of which challenge the view that madness and melancholy are "illnesses" to be treated with drugs--is that they highlight the Faustian seductiveness of the scientific paradigm. Science and medicine, untempered by humanities-based thinking, imagine that knowledge is more discovered than created. The Truth is out there somewhere, and if we just use the right discovery procedures, we will find it. Sometimes, this is indeed true. The earth does revolve around the sun. But not all phenomena lend themselves to such certainty. Mental breakdown can never be fully understood by more extensive experimentation and further knowledge of biochemistry and brain function, because social, cultural, and spiritual factors affect mental breakdown, and physical science contributes rather little to our understanding of society, culture, and the spiritual.
To be continued . . .
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
One overlooked aspect of madness is its capacity to generate profit. If you are already famous, and are prepared to become a spokesperson for the American/European party-line position regarding madness--that it is a biochemical disease requiring medical treatment--then you can make money off your madness (or off your sister's madness). You can sell your story directly, or you can generate publicity for the public persona you use to make money in other spheres of endeavor. If you are altruistically minded, you can donate your sources to a non-profit organization, and help generate money for them. However you do it, you can use madness to make money.
Of course, this is no surprise. The pharmaceutical, hospital, and therapy industries make a tremendous amount of money using the medical model of madness. In order for a hospital or doctor to get paid for treating someone, a doctor has to diagnose the madperson with a disease that is listed in the DSM-V. Doctors don't get paid if they do not select a qualifying diagnosis. Hospitals do not get paid without appointing a doctor to make a diagnosis. Diagnosis is also what entitles a patient or their insurance company to buy drugs. You can't buy a drug without a diagnosis. It's sort of like paying to join one of those exclusive clubs that serve lunch to suburbanites. So pharmaceutical companies also have a vested interest in the process of diagnosis. This is a sensible system to regulate the money that is made off of madness. And it has the public relations advantage of making all this profit appear to be motivated by the public good, by the sincere desire to help people. No wonder 1 in 4 people are--in the estimate of the National Institute for Mental Health--diagnosed or diagnosable with a mental illness! What a gigantic market!
Monday, March 1, 2010
Popular movies are fairytales, and fairytales explore the psyche. The Wolfman, a Hollywood fairytale, gives dramatic shape to children's fear of abandonment, paternal violence, sibling drama, and the hero-child's struggle for power. Like Beauty and the Beast, The Wolfman expresses a male concern about his own brutishness, and a hope that some beautiful woman will love him in all his beastliness, and that her love will set him free from beasthood. Most importantly, The Wolfman is about male rage. Rage is the source of his beastliness.
The film is full of images that give expression to a rapacious male capacity for violence, and the fear that, were he to let the beast in him out, he would rip the people he loves to shreds. Benicio Del Toro's Wolfman starts out as a gentleman, but contact with a beastly father turns him into a raving, murderous creature who disembowels and kills the people toward whom he directs his rage.
The film focuses particular attention on how the destructive capacity of male rage affects intimacy with a woman. Emily Blunt plays the Wolfman’s love interest in the film and, in one of the film’s illuminating moments, the Wolf in the man perceives the woman’s beauty and vulnerability. The woman’s very tenderness makes the Wolf in the man want both to fuck her and rip her to shreds. This dark impulse—to expose a woman’s pulsing red insides—is also explored in John Banyan’s novel Ghosts, in which a banished criminal whose crime is never named, confesses that he was driven by a desire to turn his female victim inside out. This violent component in male sexuality makes the Wolf-Man fear what he will do to the woman who elicits his desire.
The movie is also about family savagery. As a child, the Wolf-Man sees his father unleash the full force of his rage upon the beautiful and beloved mother. The sight so traumatizes and twists his young psyche that he spends a year in a mental institution where all real memory of the event is banished. The Wolf-Man’s experience articulates the archetypal psychic pattern of childhood trauma. In the pressure-cooker of the family, the child witnesses cruelty, betrayal, and violence so terrible that the child-self is traumatized. The outside world, refusing to validate the reality of what the child has seen, labels it “delusion” and “dysfunction” instead. The child is thereby made “crazy” and, as an adult, suppresses knowledge of the abuse he witnessed. This act of suppression condemns the child to repeat the pattern of abuse and cruelty. In the Wolf-Man, loyalty to siblings, battle with the Father, and love from a woman releases the traumatized (and therefore violent) man from the cycle of violence and carnage.
It is interesting the role that the Woman plays in all this. Del Toro falls in love with his dead brother’s fiancée. The movie gives expression to the male yearning to be seen in all his brutishness and loved/accepted by the Beauty anyway. The Woman, who does indeed see the Man for who he is and loves him anyway, expresses what must be an archetypal female fantasy: to save the Man she loves. “You cannot save him,” an old gypsy wise woman tells her. Of course, she is destined to try despite the warning. “You must not condemn him,” says the gypsy Woman. And she doesn’t. “You can kill a Beast,” muses the Woman-Love, “but not a Man. But where does the Beast end and the man begin?” Given that Man and Beast are one, she cannot kill the Beast without killing the Man. With great courage, the Woman-in-Love confronts the Beast in the Man-she-loves and, though she acts to protect herself against his rage and violence, she beholds him in his all his bloody rage, seeks to have him recognize her, and accepts him, as he is. This practice in love of accepting the Man as he is releases him from the cycle of violence. The two lovers do not get to live out their dream of Love—his rage has destroyed too much—but the family drama closes.
When he feels his rage rise, the Beast-Man tries to avoid the Woman-he-loves because he fears he will hurt her. In the Wolf-Man, the woman must choose love over personal safety, but she also must defend herself against the Beast’s bloodlust. The Woman is prepared to sacrifice her safety to an extent, but she must refuse to consent to her own death. She can put herself in danger for love, but she must not cross the line where sacrifice becomes martyrdom. In its central female character, the Wolfman gives audiences a vision of selfless love, courage, loyalty, and sacrifice, but also of feminine self-defense.