Hi everyone,
As I've hinted at previously, this blog is moving. Please direct your keen interest toward http://imagitude.com. I've successfully imported all of the material from here, though I will still be tinkering with the new format over the next while. Switching from Blogger to WordPress is like switching from Mac to Linux - more user options, but less user coddling.
Thank you to everyone who has visited Imaginary Magnitude. I hope you continue to visit at the new site.
I am spending the summer immersing myself in reading all things psycho. I came across a statement which, if you can get past the academic tone, provides a key interpretation of how the relational approach (which is what I'm studying) is divergent from classical psychoanalysis' emphasis on a one-person psychology.
"The relational-perspectivist approach I am advocating views the patient-analyst relationship as continually being established and reestablished through ongoing mutual influence in which both patient and analyst systematically affect, and are affected by, each other. A communication process is established between patient and analyst in which influence flows in both directions. This implies a "two-person psychology" or a regulatory-systems conceptualization of the analytic process. The terms transference and countertransference too easily lend themselves to a model that implies a one-way influence in which the analyst reacts to the patient. That the influence between patient and analyst is not equal does not mean that it is not mutual; the analytic relationship may be mutual without being symmetrical."
- Lewis Aron, A Meeting of Minds: Mutuality in Psychoanalysis
The author proceeds to develop this distinction between relational and classical (two-person vs. one-person psychology) as it pertains to intersubjectivity (the mutual awareness of what the other is thinking/feeling in a therapeutic environment and how this field of awareness affects both the patient and analyst). The quote above is a brilliantly distilled proposition which may seem commonsensical on first reading, but with a broader understanding of the history of psychoanalysis I can see how revolutionary a statement this is.
It was with considerable surprise when, browsing the shelves of our favourite used bookstore, Balfour Books, I was handed a book by my wife. "Did you see this?" It was purporting to be about a massive psychoanalytic commune which had its roots in downtown Toronto during the 60s and 70s. I was surprised because I'd never heard of it before - the group was called Therafields. I was immediately struck by the communal angle, the era, the emphasis on psychological investigation - it was like being handed a screenplay by David Cronenberg. The fact that I am studying psychotherapy and its theoretical/historic development made it irresistible.
Subtitled The Rise And Fall of Lea Hindley-Smith's Psychoanalysis Commune, Grant Goodbrand's Therafields is just that. From the mid-60s till the early-80s, what was eventually coined Therafields, became one of the largest active communes in North America (significant considering both the era and that it happened with virtually no physical or cultural traces left in this city), owning as many as 35 houses within, and 400 acres of farmland just outside Toronto. At its apex it had over 900 members.
Starting out with a modest practice in the Annex, Welsh émigré Lea Hindley-Smith began by seeing people in her home. Her open embrace of students combined with an uncanny ability to get to the bottom of her clients' problems (not to mention her real estate acumen) conspired along with the socially progressive ideals of the 60s to develop a remarkable experiment in psychotherapy: a live/work environment which operated also as an ongoing group-process for its members, all under the auspices of Hindley-Smith who became their professor, CEO, and den mother. More houses were bought so that more living spaces could be added to accommodate new members, and new groups were developed. The story of Therafields is an account of how this creative hive eventually became an unmanageable empire. It is also an invaluable reflection of the changes happening at the time, guest-starring those stranded by the revoked promises of Vatican II, the back-to-the-farm movement, and the idea that psychotherapy could be about society rather than the individual.
I am a child of the 70s. Nothing could possibly be less meaningful than that statement. However, culturally speaking, I was surrounded by the 70s. The mid-70s to mid-80s were a formative time in Canadian television. In other words, we saw a lot of ourselves. And what we saw was produced and inflected by those who came of age in the 60s and early 70s (that's the way it always worked until recently, by the way - the older generation helped the younger generation identify with their own generation). In other words, I can imagine Therafields, while reading about it. Goodbrand has done a good job of contextualizing the era in which his book takes place. It also helps that Goodbrand was a key member of Therafields himself, and as such is gifted with a familiarity which an outside author would struggle to develop. The flip-side to that statement is that an outside author might have had a better chance of keeping the rhythm of the book's story consistent: there is a habit of temporal back-and-forth which does not make for smooth comprehension at times.
Considering Goodbrand's credentials, Therafields unfortunately suffers from a detached perspective. He is as qualified as anyone to write about Lea Hindley-Smith and those who were key to the group's skyward development - like esteemed poet bpNicol, for example - yet it seems only an accumulation of actions, the plotline of a biography, which gives us clues to the hearts beating behind the cast of characters. Goodbrand's book sometimes reads like an account rather than an experience.
And here we come to a marketing dilemma: I'm not sure who the intended audience is. I am thankfully, luckily, well-suited to read, understand, and enjoy Therafields. Yet... With its insistence on differentiating what Hindley-Smith practiced (Kleinian) from classical psychoanalysis, without necessarily providing a debriefer for the reader on what makes Kleinian psychoanalysis different from it, I cannot imagine the "average reader" walking away knowing what that all should mean. Perhaps that won't matter if they are keen on digging into a prime slice of Toronto history - complete with addresses, one could conceivably operate a motor-tour of where Therafields took place.
It is, nonetheless, an insightful read and an invaluable chronicle of a peculiar social/cultural phenomenon. Therafields, by Grant Goodbrand (ISBN: 978-1-55022-976-9), is available (evidently) from a used bookstore near you, and also online.
I don't know when exactly, but this tract of land is going to change soon. Move, to be precise. How (as in format and content) I am not sure. Where, I'm pretty sure but without knowing how I don't want to make any promises.
When I started Imaginary Magnitude, it was a means for me to explore and share ideas on a variety of things: things philosophical, things artistic, things writerly, sometimes things political and social. There were (and are still) essays, book reviews, shitloads of photography, thoughts on film, thoughts on me and my direction (or lack thereof). It is this last point which has become topical, if not online then off.
Back in 2006, when I posted my first "Hello World", I was an employee for a film/TV production company, in search of independence. Within the following year, I found that independence as a freelancer. It was a successful decision. On June 12th, I will sit on a specialized panel at the TIFF Lightbox in downtown Toronto to discuss stereographic 3D filmmaking. Last year, I presented my thoughts on digital post production workflows at Pinewood Studios. Over the course of my career, I've supervised at least two feature films which have opened at #1 in the North American box office. I have an honorary Emmy Award for my work in the edit room. I also got to sit in on a recording session with producer Hal Willner, and had the honour of witnessing Mary Margaret O'Hara lay down the vocals for her chilling rendition of Blues In The Night. These are all good things, and I put them out there not to boast or chest-thump, but because I often get so wrapped up in the day-to-day details of my profession that I overlook the significance of certain plot points.
Thing is, what I'm doing is not creative work. It's loosely collaborative and, if anything, I've most enjoyed the parts where I've been a voyeur. As regular readers will note, I'm a fiction writer. A novelist who, at 39, needed (note past-tense - I am 40 now) a career which did not consume every moment of the day (and/or weekend) with the flotsam and jetsam of other people's creative (and logistic) stress - or, put in a better way, something consumed by the right people and the right stress, for the right reasons.
After long consideration, I decided in 2010 to pursue an education in psychotherapy, with an eye to practice as a therapist. Psychology has been something I've always been pulled towards, and psychotherapy seems a fitting combination of my skills and interests. Last September was my first class and the first year has raced past me: a lot of writing, a lot of reading, a lot of listening, a lot of talking and feeling. So far, so good. I've got two more years ahead of me, but will begin seeing clients as early as November of this year as part of the training program.
I've had to reconsider many things lately, this blog being one of them. Since contributing to the post production diary on Guy Maddin's film (via Tumblr), the Blogger interface seems a little clunky and not as receptive to throwing paint on the wall. I also don't know what this is about anymore: this blog. So, I may abandon it and start something new...or I might simply import this sucker elsewhere. I've got a couple of domains held, and a cool webhost, so the rest is really up to me (and time, and Fate, and my patience with coding). Besides, five years is a long time to do anything.
This is not my last post, but by September I'm sure I will have put a new site together. A new address as well. I will let you know when that happens.
[June 3rd: edited for clarity and accuracy of my age, in case anyone thinks I'm trying to pass myself off as 39]
ARG! One of my favourite literary blogs is ending its run! I encourage you all to visit Ward Six. I really appreciated their approach: to book reviews, to the art of writing. To art itself.
The reasons they give are sensible, yet I will be selfish and whinge that I am now left with oh so very few relevant, intelligent, knowledgeable literary blogs to follow.
Nonetheless, I wish John and Rhian all the best.
It's the 32nd anniversary of my uncle's murder. Details here: http://www.amw.com/fugitives/brief.cfm?id=44215.
Sad, numb.
I was in a mood when I wrote this - hard not to be, I suppose. However, I don't want it to come across as maudlin, so I thought I'd add some context.
I chose this year to make a statement about it, on social media especially (Facebook, Twitter). Why? Because, outside of the initial blog posts I published around the time of the America's Most Wanted episode, it's been a source of untapped grief. In making it public, I was unabashedly putting it out there - to friends and acquaintances, and strangers alike - instead of it being this twisted little secret which swims around my head.
The fact is, my uncle's death has nothing to do with me. I never had the chance to meet him. I am involved in the sense you would be involved if you were researching a stranger from another age, another country, who just happened to be related. And yet his story is woven into mine, distant though our two lives were. I am older than he was when he was shot. I wasn't even 9 years old back then, and I didn't learn about it until I was 17. The tragedy was delayed for me: time-released.
In any case, this is my sorrow, shared briefly with you. It is, I should add (in all fairness), a necessary exploitation of a crime, in the faint hope someone will happen across an old Guild D40 guitar, or know what happened to a burglar with a Leica fetish. Faint hope, for sure, but it's part of the process of grief.
First off, things are going very well on the Keyhole blog. If you haven't checked it out, please do. Yes, this is me, shilling for myself (and the film).
It is a departure from Guy's previous works, which tended to rely on the aesthetic of film itself as a language; Guy has been very upfront about his love of tropes from the early days of cinema. The difference is that in Keyhole these elements are reordered in priority, toward the background as mise-en-scène and not a character in and of itself. Keyhole is subliminally deeper and more purely emotional than his earlier films; a drawback is that I'm not sure how much people will be able to absorb in one viewing. If there is one challenge that I am experiencing, it is balancing the educational, editorial, and entertainment-oriented components of the diary/blog.
Aside from this, teaching, student-ing, writing are going well. I am working on a submission letter to a literary agent for my novel. The weather is getting warmer. I can't complain
Well, I will complain: we have a federal election coming up May 2nd. I don't mind the election per se, but we have exceeded three weeks of campaigning already and not one word of either Afghanistan or Libya - two wars which require a position, regardless of whether you are the sitting government or one of the contenders. Oh, and health care. It's the weird-assed priorities which bug me - who are they trying to appeal to? Swing voters and pundits, it seems.
Good news #1: I'm supervising the post production on the new film by Guy Maddin, Keyhole.
Good news #2: I've been asked to do a blog/diary of its progress. Sweet!
Here's the link to my Keyhole post production blog. Don't be surprised if it takes my attention away from here for the next while. I will endeavour to keep Imaginary Magnitude updated.
I love looking at The Onion's "Weekender", their satirical take on the weekend magazine that comes with your major newspaper (a la The New York Times' Sunday magazine).
They're brilliant when, behind the jabs at fluff/news magazine inanity, there's a "meta" quality. Their satirization of the way fonts and type placement are abused, for example.
They've even gone so far as spoofing the NYT fashion magazine
My recent favourite:
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