On Complexes, Art, and Detail.

On Complexes, Art, and Detail.

 

When one is possessed of a mother- or father-complex, for instance, or any of a number of conventional psychic ailments of the modern man, the effects will be pronounced, but the majority of the problem will go unnoticed by not only oneself but those around one. They may appear, for the artist, however, in minute situations.

 

I have all ready delineated the incredible importance of subtlety and attention to detail for the Artist. Since this is an aesthetic consideration, and because aesthetics may lie outside of their own box in life, as they do for a man like Nietzsche, one can never merely marginalise attention to detail as neurotic. It is, on the contrary, symptomatic of a mind that is incredibly astute and in accord with an integrated unconscious. Besides, the process of Art may alleviate suffering for one who can take the opportunity to detect slight tendencies to submit to a complex.

 

Imagine a blade of grass sticking out from a crack in the cement. You tread on it, and your friend reproaches you for it. You see no reason for why he should suddenly pay particular heed to your minute infraction. All of a sudden, to your horror, the crack opens up, the ground inflates to the proportion of a hill, the cement ruptures, and what had appeared to have been a mere blade of grass had turned out to be one of a multitude of hairs on the back of a tremendous subterranean beast.

 

This is the predicament of the psyche. All that walks the surface of consciousness is naive in respect to what lies underneath. An artist may find his self confronted with the issue of whether or not to punctuate a given verse at the end of a poem, for instance. This seems entirely arbitrary, but yet it seems at the same time imperative that one change the punctuation. One seeks to conform to a pattern that is one’s preconceived notion of what “good structure” is. Yet this egoic attitude, whilst appearing entirely sensible, is completely at odds with one’s own artistic inclination. In the construction of a poem, a period at the end may be the defining point that entirely determines the character of the poem, yet this subtlety may be so surpassingly beautiful that the emotionally stunted neurotic may either neglect its beauty or presume it to be merely symptomatic of some unperishable “divine” beauty that was not the product of careful, meticulous practice in the stylistic manipulation of punctuation. What works against the heart of the artist is the mind of the scientist, who insists on stringent adherence to Order by nature; the scientific method is precisely this process of imposing order on conscious experience.

My father is a biochemist. My father-complex is at work, beneath the threshold of consciousness, when I choose to sacrifice the subtlety of this minute detail for the “clarity” of a kind of classicism. This would appear, again, arbitrary for an “objective” standpoint. Yet the temptation to impose a kind of “classical” order onto the poem is overwhelming, and this would suggest that, in fact, a beast does dwell beneath the surface, and this is no mere blade of grass I am treading on. I may try to convince myself that the period is inconsequential and symptomatic of some neurotic attention to detail, but then I should make such an absurd statement as: “It doesn’t matter at all, but it ABSOLUTELY MUST be this way and not that way.” The complex rears its head. If the ego wishes to perpetuate itself and get the Artistic to yield, it will inflate this to obsessive proportions. All sorts of allegations of injustice will follow, beginning with the relatively adolescent assertions of pretension, moving to accusations of one-sidedness, justifying the latter by first tempting me towards “trying something new” and then equating this temptation with the nobility of the scientific method, and with empiricism. By this process, the simple matter becomes not a question of what aesthetic form FEELS BEST, but it has been inflated to political proportions. Only after I have sufficiently resisted long enough to be able to negate all of the neurotic ego’s arguments can I return to the original, relatively sane consideration of what is at work: The question is simply a matter of whether or not I can break out of an existing pattern and try something new aesthetically. The ego tries to imitate this attitude by promising me something new as well, but this proves to be merely a subtle process by which the OLD is perpetuated. If I have sufficiently recognized the father-complex, however, I can immediately see it at work in the construction of the poem, and, if I have sufficiently assuaged it, I do not have to yield to it. My work becomes symptomatic of a healthy psyche and, in itself, as far as I can presume, in its prime.

 

Dm.A.A.