Psychology Today Blogs - Genius and Madness

Sex and Art

William Todd Schultz — Wed, 14 May 2008 08:11:22 -0700

My question today concerns the relationship between sex (or maybe we could call it worshipful adoration) and creativity. And to forestall, from the get-go, potential misunderstandings, let me say this: I don’t believe sex and creativity are ALWAYS linked in creative people, nor do I believe asexual people (such as some maintain Leonardo was) are, by definition, uncreative. I do believe, however, that in some artists, some of the time, sex and art are tantalizingly combined in, shall we say, arousing fashion. One of my favorite poets, the wonderful and very dark Philip Larkin (“life is slow dying”) has spoken of this particular nexus. Here’s what he had to say: “The vision required of the artist has got something to do with sex. I don't know what, and I don't particularly want to know. It's not surprising because obviously two creative voices would be in alliance. But the vision has a sexual quality lacking in other emotions such as pity. . . Ovid, for instance, could never write unless he was in love. Many other poets have been and are the same. I should think poetry and sex are very closely connected." The poet Rilke ventures something similar: “Artistic experience lies so incredibly close to that of sex, to its pain and its ecstasy, that the two manifestations are indeed but different forms of one and the same yearning and delight” (Thanks to my student Stella Tran for bringing this line to my attention). Dante instantly comes to mind here. In some ways he’s the archetype of the hopelessly besotted swooning poet. When he was 9, he met Beatrice, and fell in love at first sight (as poets are wont to do). He never knew her well, only exchanged greetings in the street, yet in many of his poems she is depicted as semi-divine, watching over him constantly. Love for Beatrice was a reason for poetry and for living. The case is the same for another Italian, Petrarch, who after giving up his vocation as priest caught sight of a woman named Laura in a church. As with Dante and Beatrice, the two had very little personal contact; still, Laura awoke in him a lasting passion, celebrated in the Rime Sparse. Laura is unreachable—as all the best consuming lovers are--but her presence inspires unspeakable joy. Was she real or an idealized, pseudonymous character? Scholars have debated the question. So what can be made of all this psychologically? I’m not sure. One on hand, artists often conjure muses who inflame them and ignite their imaginations. The muse stirs the pot of desire, of thirst, and this turbulence gets transformed into creative products—the poem almost becomes a sort of secret courtship. Also, if Freud is correct, then art siphons a quota of its energy from sexuality, as does everything we do. As Larkin put it, “the vision has a sexual quality.” Freud would doubtless agree. It was Freud, too, who developed the concept of sublimation, through which “the libido evades the fate of repression by being channeled from the very beginning into curiosity.” As always, I’d be curious, myself, to hear what others think of this ungodly alliance of sex and art. I see it in a lot of the people I write about. Maybe you do too.

Political Psychobiography: Now's the Time

William Todd Schultz — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 08:25:01 -0700

The season is upon us, the kitchen’s getting mighty hot, and so now is obviously the time for some pretty serious political psychobiography. What do I mean by that? Looking at the lives and personalities of the presidential candidates for insights as to how they will lead this nation. It ain’t easy to do—politicians in this day and age are massively coached and tend to be skilled at “impression management” (even McCain’s so-called straight talk express is designed to produce a maverick, independent image). But it also ain’t impossible. For the best examples, check out the work of Alan Elms, David Winter, and Stanley Renshon. For my money, they are the best at what they do.

Recently several articles have addressed McCain’s anger. How will it impact his style of leadership? Is he truly a hothead? Has he addressed this tendency, as he claims? And if so, how exactly?

Then there is Hillary and her life with an intensely demanding and perfectionistic father. What effect does this kind of upbringing produce? Can its remnants be discerned in her psychology? Does it cripple her in certain respects? On a different note, does she really have a strong power motive, will she “say anything” to get elected?

Obama has come under intense scrutiny lately, for obvious reasons. A number of articles also have examined his early life—a father’s abandonment, a mother’s moral teachings, a childhood with grandparents. What can we learn from this? Is his pastor a sort of father-surrogate? Is that a reason for his inability to decisively reject what Wright says? I don’t know, but it’s a question worth exploring.

Most psychobiography is post-dictive; political psychobiography, however, is often predictive, and that is where its unique value lies. We can use it to uncover patterns, themes, tendencies, and motives that don’t just apply now, but also in the future. Character is an issue, chiefly because it is in part who we are. Character produces behavior, and behavior has consequences.

Gadgetry = Emotional Imbecility

William Todd Schultz — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 08:51:02 -0700

I see it all the time (and you do too, I'm sure). Students texting, checking cell phones, plugged into iPods, monitoring "myspace.com" or "facebook." It is exactly like compulsive hand washing or ritualistic checking behavior. They are--literally, I think--addicted to gadgetry or, better yet, to distraction. This is, in a word, madness, and what it produces is emotional imbecility. What do I mean by that? People are getting more and more incapable of simply sitting quietly with their own minds. They can't do anything without, say, musical accompaniment. What's wrong with silence, with peaceful introspection, with REALITY? There is a Zen saying: "When you eat, just eat; when you sleep, just sleep." In other words, nothing added. The problem is, people today can't "just eat" or just walk or just work out. They need their gadget sidekicks with them no matter what. They don't even talk--they "send messages" to pseudo "friends." When you are addicted to distraction you deprive yourself of the opportunity of practicing something that is essential to mental maturity: affect tolerance. People are less and less in touch with what they feel. They are cut off from emotion, good or bad. They fear their own minds. And more technology will lead to more emotional imbecility. I consider this very dangerous. What kids need today--some adults too--is less distraction and more meditation. More silence. Un-plug the e-self and get back to the Self. Wake up!

Elvis Was Too Lonesome to Sing "Lonesome"

William Todd Schultz — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 09:15:22 -0700

Alan Elms & Bruce Heller have written an interesting essay on Elvis Presley and his performances of the song "Are You Lonesome Tonight." You can read the essay by getting this book. You can watch a number of the performances by going here and typing in the song's title. I assume most of you know the song, with its sung beginning, its tediously long and corny spoken bridge ("you seemed to change, you acted strange..."), and its sung conclusion. Elvis's manager, the gambling-addicted ex-carny "Colonel," brought him the piece, mainly because it was one of his wife's favorites. Not one to question authority, Elvis dutifully recorded it.

But what's interesting is this: Elvis tended to butcher "Lonesome" during performances, either deliberately or not-so-deliberately. And in his final version ever of "Lonesome," he almost breaks down entirely, though he does manage to reach the song's end.

What Elms & Heller discovered is that, when the song's lyrics connote loss of control and vulnerabilty--things Elvis feared throughout his life--performance errors are many; but when the song's lyrics imply control and power, errors markedly diminish. In other words, the mistakes Elvis made were psychologically-motivated. They weren't random or the simple result of being "gorked" on sedatives. Because Elvis feared being alone, he had a hard time singing "Lonesome."

When Art Kills

William Todd Schultz — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 08:28:11 -0700

Here's something I've been thinking about a little as I work on my psychobiography of photographer Diane Arbus: Can great art sometimes be worth more to an artist than his or her own life? And would it ever make sense to argue that art kills? I know that's put rather too starkly, but here's what I'm getting at. Take Sylvia Plath (in some ways an obvious choice). In the weeks prior to her suicide she was an artist possessed, churning out poem after poem, many of them spectacular. She knew, as she wrote in a letter to her mother, that these poems rose to the level of genius. It was the best work she had ever produced. She had achieved, at long last, a kind of perfection, the complete realization of her immense talents. Then, very sadly, she suicided. To make the poems she made, she went down very deep, into the darkest regions of a very dark psyche, and she never was able to re-emerge. She blended with material that was virtually psychotic, and thus dangerous. And, as I was saying, it killed her.

Then there is Diane Arbus. In the weeks leading up to her suicide, she too was doing work that she considered especially fine--this being her photos of the mentally retarded, published in the book "Untitled." As she said at the time, "Finally what I've been searching for." These pictures were a departure, a culmination, a new beginning (or so it seemed). Then a few days later, Arbus was dead.

What's going on here? It's more than a little uncanny. As Wendell Berry once said: "To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark." Both Plath and Arbus knew the dark, but this knowing came at a massive price. The dark stayed dark. Forever. Some artists--not all--do not survive the hero's quest. Maybe, when the moment comes, they lack the requisite "ego strength" to re-compose after the decompensation that a certain category of art requires. Or else: once they achieve genius, the question becomes: Where do I go from here? Having reached the top of the mountain, there is nothing left but the descent, and the idea of descending is simply intolerable, ultimately depressing.

Such a model would not apply to all artists, of course. Ken Kesey, to take one example, knew that "Sometimes a Great Notion" was his masterpiece (not, by the way, the decidedly inferior "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest"). After completing it, he never wrote another novel. Still, he survived. The question is: Why didn't Plath and Arbus?

Diagnoses Often Get Us Nowhere

William Todd Schultz — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 10:04:06 -0700

Let me begin by saying this: No, I don’t believe every artistic genius is mad. Nor do I believe that every mad person is secretly (or not-so-secretly) artistic. Both are statistical outliers, the two do intersect occasionally in enormously interesting ways that I plan to talk about a lot, but they are not one and the same. There is no essential connection. A tendency that does seem to be increasing in frequency, however, and it’s a tendency I generally deplore, is the diagnosing of artists as a means of explaining their art. The process usually goes something like this: Sylvia Plath was consumed by the idea of killing herself, she was emotionally erratic, her moods were labile, she was occasionally full of rage, her interpersonal dynamics were complex, so she must have suffered from borderline personality disorder. “Shazam,” the interpreter declares, popping the champagne cork. “I have explained Sylvia Plath.” But a diagnosis is not an explanation. It is merely a description, a name for a set of thoughts, feelings, and behaviors, not a real answer. What we want to know is how someone became who she is, not what her DSM-derived “disease” might be. I talk a lot about this subject in chapter one of my Handbook of Psychobiography. You can check that out for more detail.   Here’s a little illustration I use in my psychobiography courses. Say a mother tells a psychiatrist, “My son hears voices. Why?” The psychiatrist answers, “Well, sorry to say this, but it’s because he’s a schizophrenic.” Mom replies: “Oh. Well, how do you know he’s a schizophrenic?” Psychiatrist says, “Because he hears voices.” See how, in fact, we get nowhere?