Foundations of Expressive Arts Therapy: Theoretical and Clinical Perspective [1 ed.] 1853024635, 9781853024634, 9781417553884

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Foundations of Expressive Arts Therapy

of related interest

Art-Based Research Shaun McNiff ISBN 1 85302 621 2 pb ISBN 1 85302 620 4 hb

Therapeutic Presence Bridging Expression and Form Edited by Arthur Robbins ISBN 1 85302 559 3 pb

Tapestry of Cultural Issues in Art Therapy Edited by Anna R. Hiscox and Abby C. Calisch ISBN 1 85302 576 3 pb

Poiesis The Language of Psychology and the Speech of the Soul Stephen K. Levine ISBN 1 85302 488 0 pb

Using Voice and Movement in Therapy The Practical Application of Voice Movement Therapy Paul Newham ISBN 1 85302 592 5 pb

Therapeutic Voicework Principles and Practice for the Use of Singing as a Therapy Paul Newham ISBN 1 85302 361 2 pb

Foundations of Expressive Arts Therapy Theoretical and Clinical Perspectives

Stephen K. Levine and Ellen G. Levine

Jessica Kingsley Publishers London and Philadelphia

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of a licence issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency Ltd, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, England W1T 4LP. Applications for the copyright owner’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addressed to the publisher. Warning: The doing of an unauthorised act in relation to a copyright work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution. The right of the contributors to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in the United Kingdom in 1999 by Jessica Kingsley Publishers 116 Pentonville Road London N1 9JB, UK and 400 Market Street, Suite 400 Philadelphia PA 19106, USA www.jkp.com Second impression 1998 Third impression 1999 Fourth impression 2004 © Copyright 1999 Jessica Kingsley Publishers

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Foundations of expressive arts therapy : theoretical and clinical perspectives 1. Arts - Therapeutic use I. Levine, Stephen K. II. Levine, Ellen G. 615.8’5156 ISBN-13: 978 1 85302 463 4 pb ISBN-10: 1 85302 463 5 pb Printed and Bound in Great Britain by Athenaeum Press, Gateshead, Tyne and Wear

Dedication For all the students of expressive arts therapy who have been our teachers, and for Jennifer Sjenta Dancer Haberman (1970–98), whose brief life was a swirl of color.

Contents

Introduction 9

Stephen K. Levine and Ellen G. Levine

Part I Philosophical and theoretical perspectives 1 Poiesis and post-modernism: the search for a foundation in expressive arts therapy 19

Stephen K. Levine 2 Soul nourishment, or the intermodal language of imagination 37

Paolo J. Knill 3 The necessity of form: expressive arts therapy in the light of the work of K.E. Løgstrup 53

Majken Jacoby 4 Artistic inquiry: research in expressive arts therapy 67

Shaun McNiff

Part II Clinical perspectives 5 Voicework as therapy: the artistic use of singing and vocal sound to heal mind and body 89

Paul Newham 6 The creative connection: a holistic expressive arts process 113

Natalie Rogers 7 Living artfully: movement as an integrative process 133

Daria Halprin 8 Layer upon layer: a healing experience in the art studio 151

Annette Brederode

9 Music as mother: the mothering function of music through expressive and receptive avenues 171

Margareta Wärja 10 Between imagination and belief: poetry as therapeutic intervention 195

Margo Fuchs 11 Poetry in the oral tradition: serious play with words 211

Elizabeth Gordon McKim 12 The Theater of the Holocaust 223

Yaacov Naor 13 In exile from the body: creating a ‘play room’ in the ‘waiting room’ 241

Melinda Ashley Meyer 14 On the play ground: child psychotherapy and expressive arts therapy 275

Ellen G. Levine The Contributers 274 Subject Index 276 Author Index 280

Introduction Stephen K. Levine and Ellen G. Levine

This book gathers together a multiplicity of perspectives which represent the field of expressive arts therapy at this point in time.We hope thereby to offer a survey of the field which shows both the diverse theoretical perspectives that underlie it as well as the different approaches to practice which these perspectives inform. To us, the multiplicity of perspectives involved is a sign of the health of our profession: expressive arts therapy is a work-in-progress. All our contributors, as well as many others not included in this volume, can be seen as artists shaping our field together by their own individual efforts. Expressive arts therapy as a separate field of professional practice is, in fact, a comparatively recent development. Its origins can be traced back to the early 1970s when Shaun McNiff, Paolo Knill, Norma Canner and others founded the Expressive Therapy Program at Lesley College Graduate School in Cambridge, MA. The philosophy of this program embraced an intermodal or interdisciplinary approach to the arts therapies, in contradistinction to the specialized arts therapy training programs then in existence. Connections were made with indigenous healing systems, such as shamanism (McNiff 1981), and with contemporary philosophical developments, such as phenomenology, hermeneutics and, more recently, deconstructionism. The Lesley College program fostered the development of a creative therapeutic community of students and faculty; Paolo Knill, in particular, following the work of Anna Halprin and others, developed the principles and practice of community art-making. Since its beginnings, the Lesley program has trained over a thousand students in the field of expressive arts therapy. Many of them have gone on to work as therapists in clinical settings and to teach in institutes and other training programs. In the late 1980s, Paolo Knill began to develop training programs in Europe and North America which were affiliated with Lesley College. Under the title of the International School of Interdisciplinary

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Studies (ISIS), programs were established in Switzerland, Canada, Denmark and Germany. These programs featured training in intermodal expressive arts therapy within the framework of a creative learning community. The ISIS programs, together with similarly oriented training programs in Europe, were subsequently organized into the European Network of Expressive Therapy Training Centers. This consortium of training programs began to sponsor an annual intensive training week and celebration of the arts, called the Easter Symposium, held every year in a different European country over the Easter holiday. The success of the Easter Symposium and the extension of the Network to North America resulted in the inauguration of an annual Harvest Symposium in 1995. At this point, the European Network became broadened into the International Network of Expressive Arts Therapy Training Centers. At the time of writing, new ISIS programs are being developed in Israel, the southwestern United States and California. At the same time as training institutes began to proliferate, new academic programs were also emerging. The European Graduate School, based in Switzerland, began to offer Masters degrees in Expressive Arts Therapy and an advanced leadership training, the Certificate of Advanced Graduate Studies, leading to a PhD, in 1996. In California, the California Institute of Integral Studies began its Masters-level graduate training in 1996. Therapists and trainers in the field also came together to form a professional organization, the International Expressive Arts Therapy Association (IEATA). Founded in 1994, the IEATA saw itself as an alternative to the specialized arts therapy organizations, not only in terms of its intermodal character but also because it encouraged educators and artists as well as therapists to become members. The IEATA has since inaugurated a professional registration process for expressive arts therapists, and has sponsored three major conferences in the United States and Canada. The growth of expressive arts therapy over the past 20 years has resulted in its formation as a separate and independent field. Hopefully, the times are gone when arts therapy specialists would challenge the very possibility of an intermodal approach. At the same time, the establishment of this field requires its practitioners to understand its specific nature and its interrelationship with other modes of practice, as well as the theoretical frameworks which underlie it. In the first place, the definition of the field needs to be clarified. To some extent, we feel, expressive arts therapy will never have a clearly defined mode of operation. Like all interdisciplinary practices, it cannot be limited to a

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particular framework. Its interdisciplinary nature requires an ability to bring together disparate perspectives and practices without privileging any one of them. Expressive arts therapy is grounded not in particular techniques or media but in the capacity of the arts to respond to human suffering. The fundamental concept of aesthetic responsibility (Knill, Barba and Fuchs 1995) implies an ability to use appropriate media for therapeutic purposes. The expressive arts therapist must therefore be prepared to work with sound, image, movement, enactment and text as they are required in the encounter with the lived situation of the client. This multidimensional approach has sometimes been accused of eclecticism in the sense of an incoherent collection of approaches. What saves the field from this charge, in our opinion, is its rootedness, on the one hand, in the possibilities of sensory expression originating in lived bodily experience and, on the other, in the unity of the imagination as a creative source of meaning. It is the same body which moves, listens, sees and speaks. These sensory modalities underlie the formation of artistic disciplines. All the various modes of bodily expression are gathered up in the unity of the perceiving and moving body (Merleau-Ponty 1966). In the same way, the imagination expresses itself in a multiplicity of forms. Whether through fantasy, dream or art work, the imagination has the capacity to utilize every sensory modality in the creation of new meaning. Imagination is intermodal in its very essence. This fundamental human capacity, which the Greeks called, ‘poiesis’, guarantees that the varieties of artistic expression have a common origin (Levine 1997). In fact, through the course of human history, whether in healing ritual or dramatic enactment, the arts have been first and foremost employed in interdisciplinary ways. It is only in very recent times that the specialization of the arts has been codified as the appropriate form for creative expression. Most recently, of course, the taken-for-granted division of the arts has broken down, with the emergence of performance art and the electronic media of movies and television, all of which are thoroughly intermodal. Of course, expressive arts therapists cannot claim to be specialists in every artistic discipline, though some of them, in fact, have multiple competencies. What they can claim, however, is to be specialists in intermodality; that is, to be capable of grasping the junctures at which one mode of artistic expression needs to give way to, or be supplemented by, another. This sensitivity to the

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specific creative needs of the moment is a particular goal of training in this field, sometimes expressed by the phrase ‘low skill, high sensitivity’. The difficulty in establishing a univocal definition of expressive arts therapy practice is reflected in the multiple theoretical frameworks which have been adopted by practitioners. A basic question for expressive arts therapists is the possibility and desirability of a single theoretical framework. Should there be one theory of expressive arts therapy or are the theoretical foundations of the field as multiple as its modes of practice? One of the major issues implied by this question is the relevance of psychological theory. Should expressive arts therapy look for viewpoints established by psychology and the psychotherapies or should it seek to develop its own perspective? A perusal of the contents of this volume will show that there is a variety of positions on this question, ranging from reliance on a particular psychological framework, such as object-relations theory or a person-centered approach, to the attempt to define a specifically arts-based foundation. Partly, this question needs to be responded to by future work. It is one of the tasks of graduate and post-graduate education in this field to encourage students and teachers to develop a point of view that will do justice to both the artistic and therapeutic dimensions of our work. At this point we would like to remain open to a multiplicity of theoretical as well as practical perspectives. In the first chapter of this book, ‘Poiesis and Post-modernism: The Search for a Foundation in Expressive Arts Therapy’, one of the co-editors, Stephen K. Levine, questions the very notion of a theoretical foundation for the field. Drawing upon his philosophical training, Levine applies the deconstructive approach of contemporary thinking to the quest for a fundamental principle which would ground the field. By focusing on the concept of poiesis in relation to some key figures in the development of the philosophy of art, Levine attempts to establish a non-foundational ground for the therapeutic imagination that would liberate it from pre-established perspectives. In ‘Soul Nourishment, or the Intermodal Language of Imagination’, Paolo J. Knill, drawing upon the principles of Minstrels of Soul: Intermodal Expressive Therapy (1995), which he co-authored, presents the expressive arts within a general framework of the existential significance of imagination and play. It is because the arts are rooted in the existential capacity of the imagination to transcend literal reality that they can serve to present alternative possibilities of being to us. The historical and anthropological continuity of imagination, play and art shows their essential significance in

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human existence. The arts can thus serve as a kind of preventive diet as well as a medicine to ensure human well-being. Majken Jacoby, in ‘The Necessity of Form: Ethics and Aesthetics in Expressive Arts Therapy’, points to the roots of aesthetics and art-making in our sensory inherence in the world. ‘Human nature,’ as she says, ‘has a sensory basis’; in our artistic work, we try to articulate the tuned character of the human response to the world. The articulated attunement of the arts enables them to be carriers of the ‘sovereign life utterances’, those fundamental expressions of compassion and trust that open us to the world and to others. There is thus a ‘necessity of form’, an ethical demand to ‘take care of the life we hold in our hands’ by shaping it in poetic openness. The arts are thus seen not only in relationship to beauty but also to truth. The practice of art, Shaun McNiff tells us in his chapter, ‘Artistic Inquiry: Research in Expressive Arts Therapy’, affords us insights into life that are not available through strictly cognitive means. Art can thus be pursued as a mode of research, a way of knowing that is particularly appropriate for practitioners of the field of expressive arts therapy. McNiff ’s perspective has important implications for graduate research in the field. Will we see a new generation of researchers who are bold enough to base their inquiries in the practice of the arts rather than scientific cognition? Such a development would, above all, restore life and imagination to the practice of knowing itself. In the second part of our book, we turn to the clinical implications of an expressive arts approach to therapy. Here we see a variety of modalities employed as well as a variety of theoretical approaches, some based on psychological frameworks, some more rooted in the practice of the arts. No matter what the framework, we sense a common concern with human suffering and the possibilities of an artistic response. Paul Newham, using a broad theoretical perspective which incorporates, inter alia, depth psychology, phenomenological philosophy and avant-garde theater, focuses upon the therapeutic use of the voice within the expressive arts in, ‘Voicework as Therapy: The Artistic Use of Singing and Vocal Sound to Heal Mind and Body’. Newham’s development of a new form of expressive arts therapy, therapeutic voicework, is an important contribution, of especial interest in that it has been created independently of the shared history and institutional affiliations which tie together the other contributors to this volume. Natalie Rogers, one of the pioneers of the field, presents her clinical approach within the framework of the person-centered philosophy

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developed by her father, Carl Rogers. ‘The Creative Connection: A Holistic Expressive Arts Process’, understands the intermodal approach to arts therapy within a holistic perspective. Wholeness and self-actualization are seen as the goals of therapeutic work: the arts are necessary precisely because of their capacity for expressing the totality of the self. In Daria Halprin’s ‘Living Artfully: Movement as an Integrative Process’, the body’s capacity to express itself through movement is understood as the basis for the integration of alienated parts of the self. ‘The vision of a creative and embodied life’ provides the possibility for locating expressive arts therapy within the larger task of ‘the healing of our broken world’. For Annette Brederode, as we can see in ‘Layer upon Layer: A Healing Experience in the Art Studio’, the medium of visual art can serve as the foundation for an intensive process of image-work that results in an integration of other artistic media in the service of a restored imaginative capacity. Studio work is taken seriously by both these authors as the basis of expressive arts therapy. In ‘Music as Mother: The Mothering Function of Music through Expressive and Receptive Avenues’, Margareta Wärja situates her work within a psychological understanding of the mother–child relationship in order to grasp the capacity of a music-oriented expressive arts therapy to reach the deepest layers of the psyche. For Wärja, music’s ability to reach the pre-symbolic levels of human experience, our basic bodily and emotional existence, renders us able to heal our deepest wounds. Music, ‘the queen of time’, restores us to life. Music and voice were originally employed together as song. Poetry remains for us an art of vocal imagination which touches the soul. In ‘Between Imagination and Belief: Poetry as Therapeutic Intervention’, Margo Fuchs finds the words to play between the basic belief that we need to exist in the world and our imaginative potential to create new and other realities. The possibility of poetry as therapeutic intervention rests upon the space between imagination and belief in which words play. For Elizabeth Gordon McKim, this is ‘serious play’. Her chapter, ‘Poetry in the Oral Tradition: Serious Play with Words’, reminds us that poetic language is part of our inheritance. Beyond formal patterns of rhythm and rhyme, poetry takes us back to our primal saying and seeing, our ability to make a world with words. In ‘The Theater of the Holocaust’, however, Yaacov Naor reminds us that sometimes the worlds we make can be shattered beyond repair. His psychodramatic work with the children of Jewish survivors of the Holocaust

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and the children of German parents of the World War II generation shows that theater is an arena in which conflict and agony can be contained. The expressive arts can thus be seen as a means of confronting the legacy of evil which haunts us all. Similarly, Melinda Ashley Meyer’s ‘In Exile from the Body: Creating a “Play Room” in the “Waiting Room”’ shows the power of expressive arts therapy to address the consequences of violence, torture and suffering which our own time can claim. By creating a play room out of the waiting room of Bosnian exiles living in Norway, she demonstrates the continual need for the work of the expressive arts in restoring life to dead souls. Finally, our other co-editor, Ellen G. Levine, takes us back to the world of child’s play as she attempts to integrate her training as a child psychoanalyst with her work as an expressive arts therapist, as she did in her book, Tending the Fire: Studies in Art, Therapy and Creativity (1995). Perhaps all of our work takes place on the ‘playground of the imagination’; perhaps the ultimate foundation for our work is play. In looking back over the contributors to this volume, we are struck not only by the diversity of media and theoretical approaches, but also by the diverse national origins of our authors. Canada, Denmark, England, Holland, Israel, Norway, Sweden, Switzerland and the United States are all represented. The international character of this volume is well suited to a field which aims for the inclusiveness which multiplicity brings. Expressive arts therapy may never have an identity which can be defined in a simple way. Identity, Heidegger tells us, ‘… always moves towards the absence of difference’. Yet without embracing identity, we may be sure that we work in the ‘same’ field in all our differences, for ‘the same … is a belonging together of what differs, through a gathering of difference … The same gathers what is distinct into an original being-at-one’ (Heidegger 1975, pp.218–219). We hope that this volume will gather our differences while respecting their variety. The being-at-one, or unity, of expressive arts therapy can only arise out of this play of difference.

References Heidegger, M. (1975) Poetry, Language, Thought. Trans. A. Hofstadter. New York: Harper and Row. Knill, P.J., Barba, H.N. and Fuchs, M.N. (1995) Minstrels of Soul: Intermodal Expressive Therapy. Toronto: Palmerston Press.

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Levine, E.G. (1995) Tending the Fire: Studies in Art, Therapy and Creativity. Toronto: Palmerston Press. Levine, S.K. (1997) Poiesis: The Language of Psychology and the Speech of the Soul. London: Jessica Kingsley. McNiff, S. (1981) The Arts and Psychotherapy. Chicago: Charles C. Thomas. Merleau-Ponty, M. (1966) Phenomenology of Perception. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.

PART ONE

Philosophical and Theoretical Perspectives

CHAPTER 1

Poiesis and Post-Modernism: The Search for a Foundation in Expressive Arts Therapy Stephen K. Levine In a story by the American author William Saroyan, the protagonist repeatedly states, ‘No foundation anywhere down the line!’ It is like a magic charm that he says over and over again, as if naming the chaos were a means of warding it off. What does it mean to search for foundations in a chaotic time, a period of history in which, as Yeats put it, ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world’? One of the main tendencies in contemporary philosophical thought is a critique of ‘foundationalism’, the notion that there is a fundamental ordering principle which can ground history and provide meaning for human existence. Foundationalism is associated with regimes of power, ideologies that express domination in theoretical garb. The principle of order becomes a justification for the suppression of the Other, that class, race or gender which must serve the ruling groups. With the ending of European imperial rule, the primacy of this ordering principle also comes into question. Why does philosophy in its traditional form of metaphysics look for a foundation for thinking, and what are the implications of such a way of seeing? These questions are particularly relevant for an understanding of expressive arts therapy. Traditional aesthetics operates within a foundational framework based upon the notion of form; art is thereby seen as a mode of giving order to the chaotic flux of experience. Beauty, in this framework, is the correlate of a process of integration; for Kant, the exemplary modern philosopher of art, whatever brings about a harmony of the faculties of the mind is experienced as beautiful. In expressive arts therapy, however, the experience of beauty is often associated with discordance and chaos rather than formal perfection.

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Beauty is what takes one’s breath away; it is literally breath-taking, as Paolo Knill reminds us (Knill, Barba and Fuchs 1995). The therapeutically effective work of clients often is jarring rather than soothing; it is an expression of suffering which strikes the witness to the core; it does not allow for the ‘aesthetic distance’ which one can take in the face of formally perfected work. Of course, clients’ work can also be joyful, even ecstatic, but this ecstasy, again, is a mode of being ‘struck by beauty’ rather than disinterested contemplation from a distance. If traditional aesthetics cannot serve as a foundation for expressive arts therapy, then how are we to proceed? What concept of art and human existence will enable us to account for the power of a kind of art-making which is so radically different from traditional models? How will our thinking differ from the foundationalism of Western metaphysics, with its attendant emphasis on order and form? What kind of thinking, one might ask, can embrace chaos without falling into despair? In order to attempt to answer these questions, we need to be able first to interrogate the metaphysical tradition in which we stand. Thinking is always situated; we can no more jump out of our historical situation than we can make the proverbial leap over Rhodes. Rather, what we must try to do is to find within the tradition that has been handed down to us the possibilities for renewal. Only such a seeking will enable us to go beyond this tradition in an authentic way. The basic tendencies of philosophical metaphysics can be seen most clearly in the classical formulation of Western philosophical thought, the dialogues of Plato. Here we can see the emergence of what Plato himself called ‘the ancient quarrel between poetry and philosophy’, a quarrel which ends in the banishment of the poets from the just city described in the Republic. We must remember that in classical Athens the poets were seen as the educators of the people. The epic poems of Homer, in particular, were familiar to every educated citizen. Moreover, the tragic dramas were considered to be an essential part of political life, so much so that at one time every member of the polis (the city) was required to attend the festivals at which they were presented. Thus Plato was proposing something itself untraditional when he attacked the poets for the harmful political effects of their work. This attack can only be understood within the fundamental principles of Plato’s thought. For the philosopher, the world of everyday life was viewed as a realm of coming into being and passing away; change and instability were

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seen as characteristic of human experience. Not only does this mean that politics runs the risk of chaotic disorder, but also the very concept of truth comes into question. If the world in which we live is constantly changing, then how can we grasp a truth which is permanent and unalterable? For Plato, it was a given that truth cannot change, else it would become untruth; therefore if there is any truth at all, it cannot be in the visible, changing world in which we live. For this reason, Plato was led to the notion of an invisible world of truth, a world beyond the visible in which the unchanging principles of Being would inhere. Such an unchanging principle he called an eidos or idea, usually translated in English as ‘Form’ or ‘Idea’. Eidos originally meant the ‘visible form’ of things, that which appears to us; in Plato’s thinking, it takes on the sense of that which, itself invisible, makes things visible to us. The Forms or Ideas, themselves unchanging and perfect, are that which give this visible world the degree of intelligibility which it has. However, what we perceive through the senses can never have anything more than a passing resemblance to true Being; the latter can only be known by pure thought. The clearest example of Plato’s theory of forms is in the ‘allegory of the cave’, which can be found in Book VII of the Republic. There the world of everyday life is depicted as a realm of shadows; human beings are likened to prisoners kept in a cave who are shown images of what is real, images which they take to be true reality. If a prisoner were to be liberated from the cave, Plato says, and taken to the surface of the Earth, he would see the real things of which he formerly saw only images; ultimately he would see the Sun itself, which is the source not only of the visibility of things but of their very existence. For Plato, life in the cave is like our life on Earth; what we take to be real are only shadows and images of true Being. The prisoner’s liberation is analogous to the education of the philosopher; the latter will come to understand not only the forms of things but the very source of their existence and intelligibility, what Plato calls the Form of the Good. This notion of an ordered realm of forms, culminating in the single, unchanging Form of the Good, is clearly antithetical to the disorderly world depicted in the works of the poets. For Homer and the tragedians, the gods themselves are multiple and changing. Moreover, they are subject to human passions, flying into rages or driven by lust. Such an image of the divine, Plato thinks, cannot serve as the basis for a philosophical education, in which a knowledge of the eternal and unchanging is designed to bring about right order in the soul and in the city.

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Furthermore, not only do the poets produce psychological and political disorder, they also lay claim to a knowledge which is patently untrue. Here Plato’s metaphysical critique of art is most evident: the artist not only does not know the world of true Being, what he produces is merely an imitation of this visible world, itself an imitation of the real. Plato understands art as mimesis, imitation. The poet is an imitator, twice removed from the truth. The illusions of his art stand in stark opposition to the truth which philosophical dialogue can attain. For this reason, except for hymns to the gods and praises of great heroes, poetry must be banned from the just city; the poets will only be re-admitted when they can prove through reasoned discourse that their work is beneficial to men. Plato’s thought is too rich and complex to be reduced to this schematic outline. In particular, there is an interesting residue of the mimetic in the Platonic dialogues which creates an instability in the very ground of his thinking. In the first place, the dialogue form is itself an instance of mimesis; ideas are presented in dramatic interaction, not as abstract propositions. In addition, Plato resorts to mimesis at every turn in the presentation of his thinking. In the Republic, the construction of a just city in speech is itself a poetic act; such a city exists only in the imaginal realm. Moreover, metaphors abound in the dialogue; the very allegory of the cave, designed to be an attack on mimesis, uses concrete imagery to achieve its goal. Finally, the dialogue itself, like many of Plato’s dialogues, ends not in logic but in myth, in this case a mythical account of the life after death for those who lead just and unjust lives, respectively. This hidden mimetic element in Platonic discourse hints at the impossibility of foundational thinking; any metaphysics of Being is rendered suspect by the necessity of its presentation. The foundational principle must become present in the world which it claims to transcend. This necessity renders the distinction between being and appearance problematical. The world of the senses may be taken as an appearance, but even an appearance has the being of a phenomenon. Once this is admitted, the entire realm of experience is given back to us as something to be thought in its own right. The arts, which are grounded in what is presented to the senses, need to be restored to their legitimate place in thought. The Platonic critique of mimesis resounds throughout Western philosophy. This critique is based upon a metaphysics of form, in which the eternal and unchanging are given pre-eminence. Aesthetic thinking takes place within this framework; thus art can only have a subordinate role in

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relation to philosophy; the concept, then, must necessarily be held to be superior to the image. Even in Hegel, who tried to integrate history into the development of the Absolute, the Idea is given a superordinate role, parallel to the dominance of the modern political state. The truth of the image, though not denied, is viewed as an inadequate manifestation of the Absolute, itself fully revealed only through concepts.The principle of understanding is thus moved from the eternal realm into history but only as its necessary and inevitable goal. The end of history, once achieved in the perfection of the modern state, also means the end of art. Not until Nietzsche does a fundamentally new conception of Being come into view, and, with it, a new valuation of art. Nietzsche overturns the Platonic pre-eminence of the ideal over the sensual, Being over becoming. For him this world in which we live is the real world; any concept of Being that prefers eternity to time is merely an attempt to escape from the necessary coming into being and passing away that marks earthly existence. Already in The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche’s first great work, there is a critique of the Platonic logos as a turning away from the suffering that comes with temporality. For Nietzsche here, following Schopenhauer, Being is conceived not as Idea but as Will: the world is the manifestation of a fundamental striving or desire at the heart of things, a willing which discharges itself into images which have the power to contain the pain of desire. Thus Nietzsche understands Greek tragedy not as it previously had been conceived: as centered upon elegant language which reflects the serenity of the Greek mind. Rather, the articulate perfection of the dialogue in the tragic drama is made possible only on the basis of the energetic song and dance of the chorus. Tragedy, as acted on the stage rather than read as literature, is a unity of language and music in which the latter is predominant. In fact, for Nietzsche, music is the only adequate expression of Will; as the art of the temporal, music reflects the pulsation that is at the core of striving. Nietzsche not only gives poetry, in the mode of tragic drama, first place over philosophy; he also thinks their difference in poetic images. The philosophical logos is pictured in terms of the god Apollo, associated with light, law, measure and individuality. The tragic mythos, on the other hand, is seen as expressing the power of Dionysus, the god of the vine, of orgiastic frenzy, of collective celebration and ritual. The tragic dramas, in fact, were performed at festivals honoring the god Dionysus. For Nietzsche, tragedy originates from Dionysian rituals in which choral celebration is devoted to

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the god. Only later is there a marriage of the Dionysian choral throng, which expresses itself through music and song, with the Apollonian speech of the individual actors. The myth of Dionysus, associated with the sowing of seed in the springtime, tells of a god who is dismembered and whose scattered parts are spread over the Earth. The rituals of Dionysus celebrate the unification of the torn-apart deity; Dionysus is re-membered in the harvest festivals in which new life arises from the ground. In the drinking of the wine, the celebrants feel a common existence which expresses itself through communal song and dance. The torn-apart, dismembered, scattered, fragmented god is, for Nietzsche, an image of the fundamental character of existence: Being as Will. Desire, striving, casts itself forward in an unending longing for what is not; there is a fundamental pain at the heart of Being, a pain which can only be accepted through art. Here is where Nietzsche distinguishes himself from his mentor, Schopenhauer. Unlike the latter, for whom art was a means of pacifying and calming the Will, Nietzsche sees the great art of tragic drama as a willingness to accept the suffering of desire completely and still affirm the value of life. Nietzsche does not wish to turn away from the Will towards an ascetic or meditative state of non-Being, as Schopenhauer does; rather, Nietzsche wants to find the means to accept time, Will, destruction and death without falling into despair; for him, the art of tragedy expresses a culture which says ‘Yes!’ to life in the face of chaos and suffering. In his view, serenity is not at the heart of Greek culture; rather, it is the recognition of horror that enables the ancient Greeks to stare serenely into the abyss; art is their way of accepting their pain: as Nietzsche says, ‘… it is only as an aesthetic phenomenon that existence and the world are eternally justified’ (Nietzsche 1967, p.52). One can see clearly now why Nietzsche was so critical of Socrates, as presented in the Platonic dialogues. Socrates is seen by Nietzsche as the prototype of the new man, who strives not to accept the temporal world but to escape from it. His philosophical dialectic is an Apollonian art which, unlike tragedy, has lost touch with its Dionysian ground. Socratic logic assumes it can master time and Will by creating a world of unchanging ideas. As this logic reaches its complete form in our epoch, however, it results in a bureaucratic and administrative culture which is devoid of life. By mastering Will, it has left itself without value; Apollonian culture ends in a nihilism in which nothing has meaning .Thus Nietzsche calls for a rebirth of tragedy, a revival of the spirit of communal celebration which would overcome the

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lifeless individualism of our modern scientific culture. In The Birth of Tragedy, he portrays signs of this revival in the new operatic works of Richard Wagner which, in their willingness to combine text, music, scene and dramatic action into a total work of art (Gesamtkunstwerk), and in their ambition to form the basis of a national culture based on myth, recall to him the role of tragedy in Greek life. Ultimately, Nietzsche came to reject the standpoint of The Birth of Tragedy as an expression of an other-worldly metaphysics in which Will is given the transcendental role that Being previously held. However, Nietzsche never gave up his valuation of art as a means of affirming life in the face of suffering. In fact, he radicalized his early thought by locating the Will within life itself: the essence of life is Will. This insight led Nietzsche to call for the choice of art not as the vocation of the genius but as a universal way of living. For Nietzsche, if the triumph of Apollonian culture means the death of myth, that is, the end of any belief in the gods, then the only alternative to despair is to become a god oneself, to take on the heroic task of giving meaning to the universal nothingness. The creator myth of the artist must become the guiding belief of every individual who aspires to live fully. Only in this way can nihilistic extinction be overcome. For Nietzsche, such a task calls for a new kind of human being, one who overcomes the weakness of will of those who seek to escape this world; such a being he calls the ‘overman’ (Übermensch, sometimes translated as ‘Superman’, with all its unfortunate Nazi and comic-book connotations) (Nietzsche 1962). The overman wills beyond (über) man in that he is willing to affirm existence in all its limitations, not to escape it into the eternal. Nietzsche’s metaphor for this task is what he calls ‘the myth of the eternal return’. If we can imagine that every moment of history were to re-occur eternally, with all the pain and suffering that that implies, he asks, would we have the courage to say ‘Yes!’ to this moment, knowing that such an affirmation would bring with it all of existence in its train? Nietzsche here takes up the challenge which Goethe assigned to Faust, to say of the moment, ‘Stay, thou art fair!’; but in this case the task is magnified infinitely, for such an affirmation in Nietzsche’s perspective would be to will Being in all its plenitude. The artistic Will of the tragic Greeks is now seen as the model for a new mode of transhuman existence. Nietzsche’s poetic vision accepts time and finitude as the core of what is. In so doing, it necessitates a new concept of truth. If there is no eternal realm of Being which can give meaning and value to our world of becoming, then

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truth itself is constantly changing; in fact ‘truth’ is only what we will to be true. Truth at any moment, for Nietzsche, is a mask for the will to power; we value as true that which enables us to will more strongly. In fact, even the negation of Will in Platonism (and later in Christianity, which Nietzsche sees as a spiritualized form of Platonism, relying on the same other-worldly ethos) is an attempt to master one’s own existence: those who are unable to will strongly can still will for the abolition of Will. Philosophy and religion, in Nietzsche’s view, are forms of revenge taken against existence by those who bear the resentment of being powerless; they represent what Nietzsche calls ‘slave-morality’. Nietzsche’s critique of these ‘higher’ modes of culture is based not on their being false, but rather on the fact that they are covert forms of willing which, in spite of the new powers of mind and spirit which they bring with them, lead ultimately to an exhaustion of the Will. Truth, for Nietzsche, then, is not the logic of Being; rather, truth is a mask which expresses the will to power. There is no truth behind appearance; what appears is true, as long as I will it to be so. There is thus in Nietzsche’s thinking a new valuation of the phenomenon. Earthly existence is thought of as the only world; appearance is given value in itself. Not only is Nietzsche’s thinking artistic in that he gives pre-eminence to the creative power to form images and myths which affirm life, but there is also an aesthetic valuing of the sensuous appearances of things. The rejection of metaphysics brings with it an acceptance of aesthetics as a mode of truth. Indeed, for Nietzsche, one could say, as Keats did, ‘Beauty is truth, truth, beauty, – that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know’. It is only necessary to add that ‘beauty’ here does not mean formal perfection (as in the timeless figures of the Grecian urn, of which Keats speaks), but the temporality of the passing moment, which is valued just for its finitude, not in spite of it. Even the myth of the eternal return, the ‘foundation’ of Nietzsche’s later thought, is understood by him not as absolute truth, but as a myth which can, at this point in history, give human beings the renewed power to choose life. Its ‘truth’ resides in its power; only insofar as it strengthens the Will does this or any other viewpoint count as ‘true’. Nietzsche thus hopes to overcome metaphysics by seeing his own philosophy as perspectival; Nietzsche the thinker is an artist who creates truth in the service of life. Here, of course, is the point on which any evaluation of Nietzsche’s thinking must concentrate. If truth is what I will, then what stops me from willing whatever I choose? We recall that Leni Riefenstahl’s film of Hitler’s

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Nuremberg rally was called ‘The Triumph of the Will’. Is Nietzsche’s thinking here a way of overcoming nihilism or the ultimate expression of the nihilistic impulse? For Martin Heidegger, Nietzsche’s philosophy is not the end of metaphysics, but the very culmination of it. Heidegger sees Nietzsche’s ‘transvaluation of values’, his overturning of the traditional valuations of philosophy and religion which prize eternity over time, contemplation over Will, as caught in the same metaphysical duality as that from which it tries to escape. In Heidegger’s view, Nietzsche does not do away with metaphysics; rather, he substitutes a new metaphysical principle, the Will to Power, for the traditional conception of the Absolute as Idea (Heidegger 1979). In so doing, Nietzsche reveals the essence of this tradition itself. For Heidegger, philosophy has always been based upon a project of the Will. Its concept of truth implied a mastery of Being through thought and a subsequent capacity to re-order the world into an intelligible framework. The triumph of technology in our time, in Heidegger’s view, is the fateful fulfillment of the Western philosophical project to understand Being and, thereby, to overcome it. This project is itself based upon the concept of truth as correspondence, the logical attempt to articulate Being correctly. The goal of Western thought is the complete presence of the truth, the revelation of Being in the statement. Heidegger’s critique of metaphysics is not based on an opposition to it, an opposition which, like Nietzsche’s, would carry its opponent within it in a concealed way. Rather, Heidegger thinks that metaphysics can only be overcome by a destructuring of the tradition, an unbuilding which reveals the foundation of this mode of thought. Nietzsche’s heroic attempt to overcome metaphysics results not in its abolition but in its revelation as the will to master Being, to compel it to be present. Letting go of the Western project of dominating Being requires a new thinking of truth and human existence. For Heidegger, the essence of truth can be seen not as correctness, the adequate correspondence to a pre-existing reality, but rather as unconcealment, the opening or clearing of a space in which what is can come to stand. Truth as unconcealment, in Heidegger’s thinking, is contained already in the etymology of the Greek word for truth, ‘alethia’. Lethe, the river of death and forgetfulness, designates the darkness and mystery in which Being dwells. To allow something to emerge from concealment, a-lethia, means to become aware of the background from which things emerge. Heidegger’s concept of truth implies that we will never have

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the complete presence of what is; rather, what is grants itself to us only in terms of its manifestation at a given moment in time. Truth happens; it is not a timeless realm to which we must aspire; rather, it occurs within history and is given to us as our destiny. Therefore, for Heidegger, we do not create truth. Letting go of the project of the domination of Being means that Nietzsche’s heroic image of the creator willing his existence can no longer serve us as a guiding image. The artist–creator, for Heidegger, is only a manifestation of the Will to Power, itself the essence of the metaphysical concept of Being. If there is a role for art in the coming-to-be of truth, it cannot be as a project of the Will. In fact, in Heidegger’s thinking, the overcoming (or better, relinquishing) of metaphysics does not imply a devaluation of art, but rather a different way of thinking its place in the history of Being. In ‘The Origin of the Work of Art’, Heidegger tries to think art as an essential place where truth happens (Heidegger 1975). In order to do this, however, he must re-conceive the Being of art itself. In this essay, Heidegger interprets the origin of art not in terms of its creator or its perceiver, but in terms of the work itself. The work of art is not, in its essence, something produced by a creator; to think of it this way would be to make art into a project of the Will in a metaphysical sense. But in a similar way, art cannot be thought to owe its existence to the audience or viewer; this would still hold to a conception that the work is produced by a subject in command of its object; the only difference would be that the locus of subjectivity would have shifted. Rather, as Heidegger puts it, ‘The origin of the art work is art’ (Heidegger 1975, p.39). What this means can only be understood by interpreting the Being of the work of art. In so doing, Heidegger shows that the work is not a mere thing, an object which can be measured and disposed of (though to be sure, the work can also be treated as a thing, when weighing it for shipping costs, for example); neither is the work a piece of equipment, something useful whose being consists in its fitting into the purposive context of our activities in the world. Rather, a phenomenological inquiry, that is, one that treats the work on its own terms, shows that the meaning of equipment as well as things first comes to appearance through the work itself. It is the work of art that reveals the meaning of Being; therefore the work must be regarded as itself an origin in the lives of human beings. Art, in Heidegger’s thinking, is the place in which beings come to show themselves as what they are. In Heidegger’s terms, art is the ‘setting-

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into-work of truth’ (Heidegger 1975, p.77). Rather than see art and truth in a contradictory relationship, as both Plato and Nietszche did (albeit in an opposing manner), Heidegger names art as a primordial way in which truth becomes manifest. He can do this because truth for him is not a transcendent principle which can only be imitated in the world; rather, truth itself is an event, a manifestation in time. Moreover, the event of truth is one which sets humans on the paths which mark their world. As an essential manifestation of truth, art has the capacity to give meaning and direction to human existence. This capacity is called by Heidegger ‘poiesis’, using the old Greek word for poetry and art-making. Poiesis belongs to human existence as an essential possibility; it is a fundamental way of being-in-the-world. However, because Being is not at our disposal as a project of the Will, poiesis depends upon our willingness to stand aside and attend to the images which are given to us. We cannot force or compel the work; rather, art-making is a hearkening to the granting of Being which may or may not come to the waiting and expectant artist. Similarly, the viewer does not have the power to make the work appear whenever he may choose; rather, he too must serve the image and pre-serve it in its arrival. Moreover, because truth is a happening and not an entity, the work can never provide a mastery of its subject matter. The nature of truth as unconcealment means that the work guards its own mystery; it can never be given a final interpretation. There is in the work not only the manifest meaning which it grants to us, but also the concealed background which shows itself through what appears. Heidegger goes so far as to see this relation between concealment and unconcealment as essential to the work-being of the work. He calls ‘World’ that which in the work strives for manifestation and revelation; ‘Earth’ is the term he uses for that which in the work gives rise to meaning but which holds itself back as a shelteringbearing ground. The work, for Heidegger, eventuates as the struggle between World and Earth, a struggle which can never be resolved and which holds open the possibility of the work’s opening us to the fundamental mystery of Being itself. Here we approach the question of the foundation in Heidegger’s thinking. It would be tempting for us to see his notion of ‘Earth’ as a foundational notion, especially given the connotation of the word in its ordinary usage as that on which we stand. But we must remember that, for Heidegger, ‘Earth’ is precisely that on which we cannot stand; it is that which

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in its preserving–concealing resists appropriation. Rather than a ground (Grund), it is an abyss (Ab-grund). Poiesis is thus what enables us to look into the abyss. In order to understand Heidegger’s thinking here, we must go back to his fundamental insight in Being and Time that human existence is not a matter of a conscious subject who is capable of understanding and thereby mastering reality; rather, the human being is already ‘there’, cast into a world which he did not create and which he cannot control (Heidegger 1962). Therefore, Heidegger refers to human existence as ‘Da-sein’ being-there. The ‘there’ of a human being is the world of purposive activities which orients his actions. As a being in the world, he has a concern for the things which surround him. However, his ultimate concern is not for the world into which he has been placed but for his own fate as a being who one day will cease to be. Da-sein is a being-towards-death; by encountering his own mortality as his singular fate, he can become capable of finding in what has been given to him the authentic possibilities which lie before him. In this way, his ‘concern’ for the world is revealed to be a manifestation of his fundamental ‘care’ for Being. In Being and Time, then, Heidegger thinks Being within the ultimate horizon of non-Being. Human existence is manifest as what it is only in the light of its ceasing-to-be. By accepting the possibility of my impossibility (death), I can stand in the world authentically without needing to hold on to a firm ground outside of it. This theme of the non-foundational nature of human existence is thought by Heidegger, together with his recovery of the nature of truth, as unconcealment. Acceptance of my finitude enables me to let go into the mysterious non-Being which allows things to be. This non-Being, thought by Heidegger in Being and Time and subsequent essays as the ‘Nothing’, (Das Nichts) is then re-conceived in ‘The Origin of the Work of Art’ as ‘Earth’, the sheltering–bearing ground which withdraws in its presencing. To think poiesis as the mode of being in which the struggle between World and Earth comes to presence is to recognize art as central to human existence. At the same time, poiesis is not thought as the masterful control of Being by a subject–creator; rather, it is releasement into what is granted. Being gives itself as art to creators and preservers; it is their task to receive the gift. Heidegger’s thinking is as dark and deep, perhaps, as Being itself; this presentation should not be taken as an attempt to master it, but rather to interpret it from a particular point of view, the point of view of expressive arts therapy in its contemporary search for foundations. From this perspective,

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several things become apparent. In the first place, Heidegger’s destruction of metaphysics has restored the role of art to a central place in human existence. Poiesis is what enables us to be who we are. Therefore, it is not possible to view art as a dispensable addition to the fundamental concerns of the person. Expressive arts therapy is possible because poiesis is the ground of human existence. At the same time, it becomes apparent that this ground cannot be a foundation which secures certainty for a subject in control of his or her life. Poiesis grounds itself in the finitude of human existence; it is precisely because we cannot master death that we have the possibility to open ourselves to that which lies beyond us. This means also that poiesis opens us to the possibility of healing. The suffering which lies in the human condition and which strikes each one of us in the form of our fate can only be met by a surrender to Being which makes it possible to receive a blessing adequate to our pain. The therapeutic power of art rests not in its elimination of suffering but rather in its capacity to hold us in the midst of that suffering so that we can bear the chaos without denial or flight. Expressive arts therapy is, therefore, not a new fundamentalism which would offer salvation leading to redemption; rather, in following the path of poiesis, we open ourselves to the chaos and nullity of Being, as well as to its order and plenitude. There is a joy in this path; but it is, as Nietzsche saw, a tragic joy which affirms existence in the face of suffering. The only foundation is our capacity to admit that there is no foundation, to play among the ruins and find the gift which lies in wait for us there. To follow Heidegger in his thinking of poiesis is to envision the possibility of expressive arts therapy as a fundamental option for human existence. It is, at the same time, to recognize the precarious nature of our field, its necessary fragility and vulnerability; necessary because rooted in the precarious nature of human existence itself. In Elizabeth McKim’s words, ‘We are scared and sac/red in the hoop of the world’ (McKim 1988, p.81). No theoretical foundation can secure for us the certainty and control which technical mastery offers. Rather, we stand unprotected on the ground of Being, knowing we will fall, allowing that fall to find its resting place, the place where image and word come together to find a new direction in the world. There is, indeed, a faith that lies at the foundation of expressive arts therapy; but it is not faith in a transcendent being or principle. Rather, it is the faith that poiesis is always possible, that no encounter with non-Being is too great to be put into a work.

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Heidegger’s thinking of poiesis is itself not a foundational ground that we can rely on. In fact, there are several lacunae in his thinking that subsequent philosophers have tried to address and which are particularly important for the field of expressive arts therapy. In the first place, there is the question of the role of language in human expression. Ultimately, poiesis is understood by Heidegger, as it was by Plato, to find its essential manifestation in poetry; all other arts are subordinated to the art of language. This is particularly troubling for expressive art therapists, for whom the body is the ground of all expression (Levine 1996). Of course, it is absurd to think of expressive arts therapy as a non-verbal practice; not only do both therapist and client use language to understand their work, but the very intermodal nature of the field means that poetic dialogue, story-telling and dramatic enactment are always possible. It may even be that language is the medium in which experience can come to its most articulate and crystallized form (Knill et al. 1995). Nevertheless, it is true that bodily expression is the primary medium in which we work therapeutically; as Nietzsche realized, for theater to be therapeutic, it must be enacted, not merely read; and even poetry is best understood as performance art, not as text. Maurice Merleau-Ponty has tried to work in the space which Heideggerean thinking has opened up, while still allowing room for the bodily expression of being (Merleau-Ponty 1966). For Merleau-Ponty, beingin-the-world means first of all bodily being; it is through our lived bodily experience that we take hold of the world, perceiving it through the senses as a possible realm of action. The art work, for Merleau-Ponty, reveals this bodily inherence of Being insofar as it opens the visible of perception to its invisible depths (Merleau-Ponty 1966). Merleau-Ponty is thus ultimately led to the notion of ‘flesh’ as the chiasmic intertwining of sensing and being sensed that makes our inherence in the world possible (Merleau-Ponty 1968). In some ways, it is surprising that there is such a comparative neglect of the body in favor of language in Heidegger’s thinking; after all, the deconstruction of consciousness and subjectivity, and the emphasis on Earth as non-foundational ground, would lead one to assume that the body would become a major focus of his thinking. Moreover, the finitude of human existence, around which Heidegger’s thinking revolves, is first of all a bodily finitude; we not only live in the world as bodily beings, but it is our body which dies. In Heidegger’s preference of existence over life, there is an over-looking of the physical texture of the being who exists. Even poetic

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language is seen by him in terms of its meaning; the ‘body’ of the poem, its sonorous and rhythmic substance, does not come into view in his interpretation of poetic works. Not only the body but also the experience of the Other is not clearly visible in Heidegger’s thinking. Again, this is somewhat surprising, since going beyond subjectivity implies relinquishing the isolated individual into essential relation with others. However, already in Being and Time, the status of the Other is a subordinate one. Da-sein appropriates himself by accepting his being-unto-death; in so doing, he steps outside of the generalized ‘they’-self (Das Man) in which he had taken refuge so as not to face the terror of existence. Death is the one thing which no one else can do for me; assuming my being-unto-death means becoming an existing individual. Only on that basis can I form authentic relations with others. For this reason, Heidegger differentiates authentic care for the Other, which he calls ‘solicitude’, from the kind of concern which leaps in and tries to take away the Other’s sorrow. In solicitude I face the Other as a potentially existing being; only on the basis of my own authentic existence can I hope to facilitate the existence of the Other. Certainly there is a great truth here: I cannot relieve another human being of the burden of existence. Moreover, unless I have taken on the task of existence myself, I will be unable to show the way to anyone else. Yet there is something missing in Heidegger as well; the emphasis on the individualizing character of existence in the face of death puts into shadow the essential relationship that is possible with another through love. In Being and Time, the Other stands apart from me as an individual who is capable of existing without me and without whom I too can exist. What happens, however, when the Other needs my help in order to be, or when the Other’s suffering calls to me in the depths of my being in such a way that my capacity to respond to that suffering implies the sacrifice of my own individuality, perhaps even of my existence itself ? In the thinking of Emmanuel Levinas, we can see a concept of human existence in which the call of the Other has precedence over my own being (Levinas 1989). Levinas speaks here not out of the Greek metaphysical tradition but out of a Jewish ethical framework in which care for the Other is my primary responsibility. Levinas attempts to think in a manner ‘otherwise than Being’, that is to say, to begin with the appeal of the Other to me rather than with my own search for existence. Levinas’s critique of Heidegger here may perhaps illuminate what seems to be the latter’s lack of concern for the

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victims of the Holocaust. In the light of the destiny of Being, the fate of the suffering victim shrinks into oblivion. If expressive arts therapy is to be a response to human suffering, however, then it must rethink the meaning of Being so that care for the Other is as central as care for one’s own existence. Love as well as death must be thought as basic ways for humans to be. Only thus can the relationship of therapist to the one in need of help be understood in neither an instrumental nor an educational way. This relational co-being also makes comprehensible the emphasis in our field on aesthetic responsibility, the capacity of the therapist to find an imaginal response to the client’s artistic work. In the relationship between therapist and client, a common concern for the work develops that binds them together in an essential manner. This binding together is more than ‘professionalism’; it is an existential communion grounded in poiesis as human possibility. Finally, beyond the somatic and ethical oblivion in Heidegger’s thinking, there is also the question of the missing political dimension as well. Heidegger’s thinking about the political community gravitates back to the notion of an historical people which is to become capable of fulfilling its destiny; poiesis is thought within that framework as the act which reveals the community’s fate and enables it to come to presence in the work. This is a powerful notion of the political which answers the felt need of many of us for an integral community absent in a technological world. However, this conception of the political, like Heidegger’s conception of the ethical, fails to account for the possibility of a politics based upon difference. In fact, an integral community can only include that which is different as its excluded Other; thus the unity of the Germans in Nazi times was based on the exclusion of the Jews and other outsider groups. There is a dangerous tendency in Heidegger’s thought to privilege a ‘people’ brought into the fulfillment of its destiny by common allegiance to a work. This aestheticization of politics explains his flirtation with Nazism; at the same time, his rejection of foundationalism implies an inability ever to fully embrace the Nazi slogan of ‘blood and soil’. Jacques Derrida is the thinker who has taken furthest the notion of ‘difference’ contained in Heidegger’s thinking (Derrida 1973). By ‘thinking differently’, Derrida has escaped the nostalgia that haunts Heideggerean thought. For Derrida, ‘différance’ (with an ‘a’) signifies the act of thought in which meaning proliferates without gravitating around a center. If there is any community possible, it is only on the basis of this dissemination or

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dispersal. Jean-Luc Nancy, following Derrida here, speaks of ‘the inoperative community’ (la communauté desoeuvrée); that is to say, community cannot be produced; it is not a work but a gift, a gift which recognizes the fragile openness to otherness upon which it depends (Nancy 1991). Expressive arts therapy, with its emphasis on communal celebration, sometimes seems from the outside to have a cultish look, to resemble an exclusive group. What we need to understand is that genuine community is based not on such an exclusionary identity but on the valorization of difference. Shaun McNiff used to love to quote Lawrence Durrell, in saying, ‘Variety is the only thing worth fighting for’. Indeed, variety is itself an aesthetic phenomenon. Thus the true meaning of multiculturalism is not an identity politics in which each group asserts its rights; rather, it is the savoring of differences and the ability to find a common ground on which they can confront one another. It is indeed through poiesis that community comes into being, but not as worship of the same idol, rather as the proliferation of the imagination in all its forms, the ‘pantheon’ of expressive arts therapy. To name the body, the Other and the community as neglected sites of Heideggerean thinking is not to take away its capacity to contribute to the field of expressive arts therapy. In fact, given Heidegger’s concept of truth as unconcealment, it makes perfect sense that his own thinking should cast into shadow essential elements of human existence that appertain to our work. We do not have to choose between seeing Heidegger as a master whom we must obey or rejecting him as a perpetrator whose ideas abuse us. Rather, what I am suggesting in these philosophical reflections is that we stand in the space of post-modern thinking which Heidegger has opened up and look for the possibilities which it offers to us. This stance implies that we go back to the core of our work and try to think it anew on a non-foundational basis. The lack of a ground is abyssal, but it is also liberating. In this empty space poiesis can arise.We can only stand or fall on this possibility. Our task is to think art-making in its therapeutic essence in terms of art itself. If expressive arts therapy is to have any integrity, it must be thought in its own terms, not by relying on any other ground. This requires a faith in the power of the imagination to confront suffering which can only be lived in therapeutic practice. Nothing can guarantee the success of our work; in fact, it is only by being willing to face this Nothing that we can succeed. Out of chaos and emptiness poiesis is born. Expressive arts therapy is the child of this birth.

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References Derrida, J. (1973) ‘Différance.’ In Speech and Phenomena and Other Essays on Husserl’s Theory of Signs. Evanston, Ill: Northwestern University Press. Heidegger, M. (1962) Being and Time. New York: Harper & Brothers. Heidegger, M. (1975) ‘The origin of the work of art.’ In Poetry, Language, Thought. New York: Harper & Row. Heidegger, M. (1979) Nietzsche: Volume I: The Will to Power as Art. New York: Harper & Row. Knill, P., Barba, H.N. and Fuchs, M.N. (1995) Minstrels of Soul: Intermodal Expressive Therapy. Toronto: Palmerston Press. Levinas, E. (1989) The Levinas Reader. Ed. S. Hand. Oxford: Blackwell. Levine, S.K. (1996) ‘The expressive body: a fragmented totality.’ The Arts In Psychotherapy 23, 2, 131–136. McKim, E. (1988) Boat of the Dream. West Roxbury, MA: Troubadour Press. Merleau-Ponty, M. (1966) Phenomenology of Perception. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Merleau-Ponty, M. (1968) The Visible and the Invisible. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. Nancy, J-L. (1991) The Inoperative Community. Minneapolis and Oxford: University of Minnesota Press. Nancy, J-L. (1996) The Muses. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Nietzsche, F. (1962) ‘Thus spake Zarathustra.’ In W. Kaufman (ed) The Portable Nietzsche. New York: The Viking Press. Nietzsche, F. (1967) The Birth of Tragedy. New York: Vintage Books. Plato (1987) The Republic. Trans. D. Lee. London: Penguin Books.

Further reading Levine, S. K. (1997) Poiesis: The Language of Psychology and the Speech of the Soul. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Merleau-Ponty, M. (1964) ‘Eye and mind.’ In The Primacy of Perception. Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern University Press.

CHAPTER 2

Soul Nourishment, or the Intermodal Language of Imagination Paolo J. Knill In this world only play, play as artists and children engage in it, exhibits coming-to-be and passing away, structuring and destroying, without any moral additive, in forever equal innocence; and, as children and artists play, so plays the ever-living fire. (Friedrich Nietzsche, Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greek)

The arts: a fundamental way of living the ‘coming to be’ and ‘passing away’ One of the misconceptions of the expressive arts therapies is to consider it primarily as a method that introduces the arts into therapy to make it a superior, new or better psychotherapy. Instead, we need to look at human suffering fundamentally differently when we include the arts in therapy. We need to consider the complex weaving between the threads of being in the world, history and selfhood. These threads come into the light and disappear continuously; they are experienced over and over again with pain and pleasure, expressed with acts of fear and folly, words of wrath and wisdom, songs of soul and sadness, dances of good and evil in bold and base images. In doing so, we cannot help seeing all the psychotherapies, including expressive arts therapy, as interrelated with religion in a field fertile only with the mud and manure of human concern. It is in the philosophical foundation of human concern or ‘care’ (Sorge) that we can see major differences. These differences, however, are often more evident through the model and attitude that individual therapists apply in their therapeutic relationship, their belief system and their personal style, than through their method of psychotherapy. Perhaps this is also a reason why effectivity research suggests that the

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personality of the therapist has more influence than the name of the method they declared as their base (Kent 1978). In introducing expressive arts therapy here, we shall therefore not try to present the arts as a methodological commodity in psychotherapy that has to prove its superior effectivity as measured by a behavioral science framework. The objective of this chapter, rather, is to understand expressive arts therapy as a school of thought in the field of human concern and care that transcends the differences declared in methodological theories. In doing so, it reconstructs the basic conversation about ‘being in this world’ in a healing relationship that understands art as a fundamental way of living the ‘coming-to-be’ and ‘passing away’ of suffering. The expressive arts therapy stance, in this inquiry, looks first at realities: the role of play and imagination as major manifestations of ‘being in this world’ as they become apparent through the arts. In the second part, I shall explore an exposition of the work-oriented approach to expressive arts therapy that lays equal importance on the process of art-making and the accomplishment of an oeuvre. Finally, in the last part, a discussion of the consequences of this approach will concentrate on something that could be called ‘soul nourishment’. The object-formation theory around these topics must, according to the tradition of philosophy of science, choose a method and language that is indigenous to the arts and adequate to imagination and play. Therefore, the search for an adequate conversation becomes a ‘re-search’ of philosophical traditions closer to phenomenological epistemology, aesthetics and hermeneutics or musicology, art history, ethnology of the arts, religious studies and anthropological psychology, than to behavioral science and clinical psychology. Since a basic discourse of the arts, imagination and play may contribute to the understanding of the human experience, suffering, challenge and purpose in general, it is also of benefit for the understanding of therapeutic relationships. Therapists who are skeptical enough to look beyond the separations created by associations, schools and institutional regulations may find an interest in this generalist view of the arts in psychotherapy, one that does not depict a vision of a savior but a view of an ever-living fire.

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Imagination, play and the arts Arts as a human existential In expressive arts therapy, the term ‘arts’ is used in the plural to point towards the multiplicity that is characteristic of any art-making. In addition, the arts are considered a fundamental phenomenon of human existence, manifest in a multitude of traditions that are defined more in a cultural socio-economic context than in uni-formal aesthetics along lines of separated classical disciplines. An understanding of the arts as a human existential cannot be separated from play and imagination. According to Fink, play has an extraordinary position within the fundamental existential phenomena, such as mortality, love, work and strife. Play has priority because in all other existential phenomena humans make a distinction between reality and unreality, while in play, even though there is a distinction between roles and play-things of imaginary character, the connection between reality and unreality has a purpose and makes a sense that breaks into the total reality of things. Following this existential notion that play and, related to it, art are fundamental phenomena, it is reasonable to postulate that only humans, in contrast to animals and angels, will leave traces through artifacts that are distinct from simple tools such as commodities and utilities (Fink 1960, pp.162–229). A phenomenological understanding of the arts, as presented here, must also include our market-oriented, highly specialized art disciplines of Western culture with their virtuosity and masterpieces, but it must not restrict itself solely to this Western manifestation of living with the arts. Moreover, a focal point in our phenomenological understanding of the arts is the ethnological and anthropological consideration of an integrated art and an inquiry into the polyaesthetic, interdisciplinary and folk art tendencies throughout the contemporary art and media scene; tendencies well demonstrated today in the video, movie and music market. Scholars of media literacy point out that the beneficial use of media and the quality of the products can only improve by means of engaging people through interdisciplinary artistic activities. This active engagement enables them to participate in a critical and fulfilling way. This should be carefully thought about in a media literacy campaign similar in its argument and practice to the one for reading and writing which was held in the US. Johnson points out that a media literacy campaign is most beneficial when practised through expressive arts therapy. Her research shows that expressive arts therapy

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methods have the advantage of using the complexity of the intermodal discipline inherent in the media, as well as giving an opportunity to gain self-insight (Johnson 1997).

Imagination Imagination is the substance that dreams are made of. This substance is spatial and temporal, even though its structure is not the same as daily reality. It gives a space for inward perception and, one could say, a sense for an actuality in the depth of the psyche. Imaginative perception can have an experiential effect. It is important to understand the sensory aspects of imagination. We may imagine sounds and rhythms, movements, acts, spoken messages and pictures. Imagination should not be reduced, therefore, to pictures (images) alone. In remembering dreams: ‘We may sense the movement of swimming or hear a voice sing or speak words, experience the act of killing and see the beautiful visual image of a city or listen to the sound and rhythm of music. Imagination is intermodal’ (Knill, Barba and Fuchs 1995, p.25). One could say that imagination ‘speaks to us’ in modalities of imagination (movements, words, acts, images and sound/rhythm) that emerge within distinct realms. We call these realms usually dream, day-dreaming or ‘free association’, and art. In all these realms, imagination appears to have intermodal aspects as defined above. The main difference, however, is in the way the self engages with the un-reality of imagination. Generally, in the dream we receive imagination passively; in day-dreaming we have an active cognitive engagement that can exert some control or guidance. In comparison with dreaming and day-dreaming, the artistic process, the third realm within the phenomena of imagination, displays the strongest possibilities of willful interaction with imagination. This interaction is a concrete engagement with a ‘thingly’ matter through the creative act. Such thinglyness is also an attribute in the performing arts such as music; the formed sound is concretely present through the senses and can therefore be shaped and witnessed. A crescendo, the growing volume of a piano for instance, can be experienced by both the performer and the audience simultaneously. Artists are familiar with the paradox in the interplay between the will for a shape and giving in to guidance through the emerging form. The arts provide a discipline for this thingly play between matter, artist, control and letting go. In the discipline of the arts, we engage therefore in a thingly play with imagination. Furthermore, this thinglyness creates thingly substances as works of art (oeuvres) that can be shared in other ways than

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dreams and day-dreams. Fink elaborates on this distinction with respect to theatrical play: We may very well stay in manifold relationships in the dream world, while we dream; the dream world-‘I’ is together with other ‘dream world people’. The dreaming ‘I’ however is alone. In a play on the other hand, there is not only the community of players, according to their (imaginary) roles defined in the play world, but there is in addition always a real-existing (literal) community of real players, who are opening to each other in the common engagement of the play. (Fink 1 1960, p.137)

Realities Realities and their distinctions are a matter of the historical linguistic discourse we are in. Any distinction, however, does not necessarily make the experiential effect of one reality more ‘real’ than the other. The exciting feeling that I experience when I look at a ‘real’ fireworks display may not be so different from the excitement when I see one in a painting. It is in the degree of opening to each other in communal engagement versus aloneness that makes the difference, as the world coming forth will always be also hidden and concealed. We call that experiential effect the ‘effective reality’.2 It is created by the daily world or the dream world as, for example, dreams, day-dreams, fantasies or art works, anything that we are in a meeting with, that is acting upon us or on that we are acting upon. What appears from the so-called ‘daily world’, usually referred to as ‘reality’, we designate as ‘literal reality’. The reality that appears in dreams, daydreams, fantasy and art becomes, then, the ‘imaginal reality’. Any understanding of the world will have to build on interpretation through the distinctions of realities that are defined similarly as we have done here. Imaginal reality may well be referred to in conversations as ‘unreal’, but as Spariosu, in commenting on Fink, explains: The word ‘unreal’ points to the fact that the play world transcends the causal chain of phenomena or ordinary reality, overspilling into the 1 2

All translations from this volume are my own. This term follows closely Gadamer’s definition of ‘effective history’ in his hermeneutics: ‘A proper hermeneutics would have to demonstrate the effectivity of history within understanding itself. I shall refer to this as “effective history”. Understanding is, essentially an effective historical relation’ (Gadamer 1975, p 267).

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realm of appearance. In turn, appearance must not be understood in the Platonic sense of a lesser power of being, of something superficial that is the result of a false perception. On the contrary, ‘appearance’ describes the way in which world-totality may manifest itself within the world, in the play of Dasein (Human Existence). (Spariosu 1989, p.131)

Art as disciplined play In comparison with simple play as we observe it with children, there is little difference with artistic activity concerning the role of imagination. In both simple play and the arts, things are played ‘as if ’ and appear differently than outside the play. We observe one of the differences between the two in the spatial and temporal routines. Children rarely use the concept of a clearly defined stage, nor do they apply concrete time frames. Their play is often initiated by verbal ‘let’s pretend spells’ such as ‘Now you could be a baby’ or ‘Now I could be dead’. In contrast, the arts disciplines display a tradition of ritualistic facilitations that seems to help the distinction of realities. Some of these facilitations are temporal and spatial demarcations (frames) that protect the play from being confused with literal reality and give permission to explore the rich and profound well of images. Fink explains: ‘As the frame demarcates a picture, the stage demarcates the unreal (imaginary) space and time of the play-world. The play-world space and the play-world time do not have a location nor a duration in the real (literal) time’ (Fink 1960, p.110). In therapeutic settings with adult populations, these traditions can help patients to play freely. Within this play, difficult things may be expressed, and a therapist who has an understanding of the tradition that things created in this frame are not to be taken literally will be more effective in reflecting different realities and symbols. The traditional disciplines not only facilitate the distinction of realities, but also help to make sense of them by deepening modalities of imagination into their respective languages within specific arts: •

One can talk, dream or write about images, but most certainly images crystallize in a picture or sculpture.

There is no visual art without image. •

One can be moved through music, a story, or a scene; or one can describe through motion pictures, but most certainly movement is experienced strongly through its crystallization in dance.

There is no dance, mime, etc., without movement.

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One may tell, write, sing or paint about actions, but the most impressive format is the demonstration in its crystallized form on stage in a scene as theater.

There is no theater or film without action. •

One may walk or talk rhythmically or communicate through sounds, whistles, or moans, but we most intensely experience sound and rhythm that are crystallized in music.

There is no music without sound and rhythm. •

One may use poetic images, scenes, or dramatic movements, but most accentuated is the poetic component in communication through telling a story or writing poetry.

There is no poetry, fiction, etc., without words. (Knill et al. 1995, p.33)

It may be helpful to consider this observation in terms of facilitating the cognitive process of finding meaning. Meaning is deepened only when the languages of the art disciplines are kept in the polyaesthetic tradition close to the specific senses with an understanding of their poetic nature. The conversation we must be in, to achieve such deepening, is rather ‘from or to the image’ than ‘about the image’. Therefore, the story that the tree tells in an image, or the song created to those trees, intensifies the psychological potential of the painting more than a reductionist explanation of the image-tree. Certainly those stories, poems or songs from or to the image need answers in a therapeutic relationship that deepen the understanding. Interpretations that find understanding in the speech of images and, in the answers to them, keep symbols alive.

The work-oriented approach to expressive arts therapy Imagination, play and art as a continuity To understand the essence in a field of philosophical or scientific inquiry, we must look at the continuities displayed in the research questions asked and the phenomena that are associated with the formation of an object. It would be difficult to imagine physics without the concepts and manifestations of force, movement, energy and matter; or education without considering the concept of skills and the question of objectives. The continuity principle states that the continuity within the object-formation preserves the logic of a discipline.

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When we look for the continuities displayed in a historical-comparative study of all the healing practices, we must notice that imagination and disciplined rituals play a major role. Contemplating contemporary psychotherapies, for instance, we recognize the role of imagination in dream interpretation as one that is shared with ancient traditions. Free association, another phenomenon of imagination, is also common in many schools of psychotherapy. Similarly, we can find forms of disciplined rituals. The strict temporal and spatial structures, for instance, as manifest in scheduling, contracts, room arrangements, use of substances, language, dress and behavior codes, in practice and training can phenomenologically be considered ritualistic. According to the ‘continuity principle’ in the philosophy of science, we need to pay attention to systems that connect such continuities when we attempt to build the theoretical base of a domain (Knill 1990, pp.77–79). It is evident that the arts are the bridging existential phenomena that unite ritual characteristics, imagination and dream-world in a way that no other activity can do. They engage the conscious and the cognitive similarly to free association, but give it a disciplined ritualistic thingly, temporal and spatial substance. It is here where the phenomenological research of expressive arts therapy has something major to offer to the other psychotherapies, something that must be kept in mind when we consider imagination from the perspective of the continuity principle. In this context we need to study other phenomena that display themselves continuously throughout history in the field of the healing practices. If we look at the themes which surface continuously, we find themes connected to fundamental existential phenomena, such as death, work, love and strife. In addition, there is a search for meaning, truth and purpose that often connects to realities that usually are either considered sacred or are not accepted by the community one belongs to. The terminology used for imaginative precepts, resulting from this existential search, has either positive or negative connotations. They fluctuate between vision, revelation and faith, on the one hand, and illusion, hallucination and delusion, on the other. Healing practices usually have provisions to allow some kind of sharing of these effective realities within frames, such as, for example, confession, disclosure and ‘chimney sweeping’. Again, we can notice that it is the arts that traditionally address these issues and offer clear demarcations or frames that facilitate safe communal sharing and effective distinctions. The practise of the arts, as disciplined

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rituals of play in painting, sculpturing, acting, dancing, making music, writing and story-telling, is and always was a safe container, a secure vessel to meet existential themes, pathos and mystery. It is a discipline within which we exercise the attitude of being open for surprises while we wait patiently and humbly, tending the imagination. At the same time we are fully engaged with an insisting perseverance, working within challenging limitations. The arts also provide the multiplicity and opportunity to explore the unthinkable, a space beyond morality, a traditional playground of light and shadow. It is in this very practice and theoretical background that expressive arts therapy offers the field a methodology founded on philosophical, anthropological and present-day clinical studies, based on an historic continuity that includes the arts.

Understanding of process and oeuvre in expressive arts therapy A theoretical understanding of the therapeutic process in the context of expressive arts therapy must build on distinctions resulting from the inquiry into imagination, play, the artistic process and the role of the oeuvre. A summary of some of these theories (Knill et al. 1995) has consequences for setting, intervention, diagnosis, treatment planning and interpretation of process and oeuvre: •

•

The interpersonal theory is formulated for group settings. It explains the group dynamic aspects of play in the various art disciplines and characteristics of intervention. Examples might be the obvious socializing aspect of a group improvisation in music therapy compared with the individualizing and centering effect in the process of sculpturing, writing or painting. Only in the visual arts is the distancing of and decentering in time and space from a thingly oeuvre literally possible. It is more difficult in a dance or a theater improvisation where imaginary reality stays simultaneous with the thingly work (also with video documentation). In such a case, special distancing methods originated in psychodrama will be required. The intrapersonal theory reflects the cultural and biographical conditions that influence the response towards the various art disciplines. In contrast to educational settings, the resistance to an artistic activity or an oeuvre may be an opportunity for a productive intervention and also a possibility to apply one of the ‘low-skill high-sensitivity’ methods. These methods are derived

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from contemporary or ethnological forms of art that emphasize the competence of perceptual sensitivity and sensory acuteness rather than manual skills. ‘Installation art’ may serve as an example in the visual arts, and ‘minimal music’ improvisation could be mentioned for the performing arts. •

•

The transpersonal theory results from an inquiry into the traditional embeddedness of the different art disciplines in rituals and daily use. Clues are gained as to how works of art that were created in the therapeutic process can be meaningful in daily life. Pictures mounted may have the characteristic of a totem or an altar. Poems read again in special moments will have the effect of prayers or mantras. Simple dance forms gained in a session with appropriate music may have more of a chance to be done daily for grounding than less meaningful gymnastic exercises. Works of art that are begun in sessions can also be given for completion as homework. Noticing the relationship to existing oeuvres, including mythological ones, will have an anchoring effect in the community and the world and give an opportunity to bring personal suffering into another perspective. The polyaesthetic theory gives the understanding of the sensory connections between perception and expression with respect to the arts disciplines. The modalities of imagination do not necessarily correspond to the art disciplines. We can distinguish ‘images’ and ‘rhythms’ in poetry, for example, and in a painting there are ‘acts’ and ‘movements’, even though we associate rhythms with music, acts with theater and movement with dance. Similar cross-connections exist between the sensory engagement in art perception and expression. Dance, for instance, is not thinkable without the kinesthetic sense together with visual and, traditionally, also auditory senses, because dance is interrelated with music. It is necessary, therefore, to gain an elaborate understanding of the complex connections between the senses, expression, perception, and the art disciplines and modalities of imagination in making choices for an appropriate arts discipline or intervention. It is feasible as an example to crystallize an imagined act very concretely to a thingly play in a theatrical structure, since there is no theater without an act, even though there are acts shown in

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paintings. However, the imagined act may want to be actualized less concretely (thingly) as a musical action. Only the particular therapeutic situation with its participants, which is always unique, may give a clue to the appropriate choice. Evidently, developmental considerations will play a role in these choices, not solely with respect to trauma or age but also with respect to cognition. The regaining of verbal language as a foundation to any insight therefore has an important role in the choice of the appropriate art discipline. Of special interest are the transfers from any mode of imagination or art discipline to poetic and dramatic disciplines and therefore to the word. Such methods are based on elements of the crystallization theory. •

The crystallization theory is concerned about the elucidation in the artistic process from its inception to the ongoing interventions and final interpretative activities. One of the major objectives in this process is the finding of the most appropriate material, structure, form and frame in an adequate discipline to elucidate the content coming forth. Sometimes the material has to be modified during the process (e.g. a change of instruments in music); the discipline has to be changed (e.g. transferring from painting to writing); the temporal or spatial frame has to be altered (e.g. enlarging the stage, reducing movement to the essential); or another dimension has to be added (e.g. adding the voice to a dance). Theoretical concepts such as ‘intermodal transfer’, ‘intermodal amplification’, ‘intermodal substitution’, and so on, concern the rationale of these modifications of the process. The crystallization theory also looks at the degree of the therapist’s participation in the process. Options of participation might be, for instance, when the therapist is playing a part in a music improvisation, or when the therapist is asked to read as a narrator in a performance. The process is successfully elucidated when the emerging modality of imagination (image, movement, act, etc.) has found a form through artistic disciplines that can be transferred into a poetic language. This is often a monologue, dialogue or story-telling that builds the bridge to distinctions that are based on the artistic oeuvre. These distinctions are in essence analytic in an art-indigenous sense. At some point, there should always be a space for conversation in daily language. It should be of concern, however, that the

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elucidation does not slip back into reductionistic or generalized statements that dilute the necessary particularity and specificity of insight that has been gained. •

An aesthetic theory of the therapeutic process embraces the theoretical challenge introduced by any therapy that expands the realm of imagination, as a consequence of the continuity principle, beyond dream and free association to the third level, manifest through the arts. The fact that the emerging work of art plays a role in this therapeutic process means that we must include aesthetics as part of our discourse. An aesthetic theory of the therapeutic process has to point to the possibilities of artistic intervention and interpretation. This aesthetic notion pays attention to the responsibility of the therapist towards the emerging work in the process. An appropriate preparation of the therapist that includes his or her own experiences that combine artistic as well as therapeutic competencies is a prerequisite for a responsibility of that kind. In the same way as the therapist abstains from manipulations that have personal motivations towards patients, respecting their integrity, the therapist should respect the integrity of the emerging works. Effective supervision will therefore also consider counter-transference issues with respect to the attitude towards the works of art. The therapist’s interventions resulting from such attentiveness may include suggestions about the use of paint material, change of roles in a theater, the use of breath in a song, giving attention to the feet in a dance, and so on. These and similar suggestions should always serve the emergence of the work and may bring the process to the point where patient and therapist are touched, surprised and moved by the ‘quite rightness’ of the unexpected. This intervention is called ‘aesthetic probing’ and has to be based on an attitude we call ‘aesthetic responsibility’. Not unlike the facilitation of free association, this intervention must serve the emerging imagination and not the fantasy of the therapist about what ought to arrive. The difference here is that the emerging imaginative reality has a ‘thingly substance’ and is therefore available for both therapist and patient as a third or ‘transitional’ object that is manifest as a work of art. This ‘thingly substance’ is also part of the performing arts. A dance, a theatrical play or a musical piece

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can be witnessed as a real sensory experience, a quality that cannot be attributed to the dream or free association. Works that result out of art-making must be epistemologically considered as what they are in their thingly appearance. They do not stand for something else. Their language follows the grammar of aesthetics also when they have the freedom of using the vocabulary of the psyche as much as that of everyday life. Any response will be, in terms of hermeneutics, an interpretation. An aesthetic theory of the therapeutic process considers interpretation as necessary for understanding but stresses the thought that interpretation is a response, listening carefully to the language of the work, and not an explanation in a theory foreign to the object. This kind of interpretation serves foremost the emergence of an ‘aesthetic response’. The immediacy and surprising ‘Aha’ effect that results ought not to be confused with neatness or formal beauty. It can come also from a work showing pain, suffering or rage. The phenomenon of ‘aesthetic response’ has similarities to the ‘felt sense’ in the focusing theory by Gendlin, who describes it as a response to a ‘quite right’ image as a condition for insight (Gendlin 1981).

Soul nourishment, or the metabolism of psyche A broad concept of diet and medicine The concepts presented in this section need further development, but they offer a perspective that could have consequences reaching beyond the dividing lines in the field of human services. The concept of ‘diet and medicine’ reaches far beyond the physical metabolism of the body. The word ‘diet’ (in Greek, diaita) meant originally a manner of living. Later it was used for a regulated manner of living to maintain health, and finally it made exclusive reference to eating habits. In a psychosomatic understanding, we could extend it to the regulated nourishment of psyche, or soul. In such a framework, the term ‘diet’ would concern a balanced regulation or corrective regulation of the ongoing daily somatic and psychic nourishment and metabolism. ‘Medicamentum’ (Latin) or ‘medicine’ was first applied for anything used to cure. In our culture it became the word for a prescription or drug, a substance that has to be physically metabolized. In its original sense it could also be

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extended again to specific corrective substances of a psychic nature necessary during a certain period of coping with a disease. Extending this idea, we need to define a metabolism of the soul and find the substances that would correspond to its daily nourishment. Furthermore, we would need to find the substances that would correspond to medicines. The study of the continuities in the field of healing practices might give us a lead in this search. We recognized the role of imagination and ritual that is shared between contemporary psychotherapies and all ancient traditions. It was also evident that the arts are the bridging existential phenomena that unite ritual, imagination and dream-world in a way that no other activity can do. It would be reasonable to stipulate that dreams, imaginative thinking and play may belong to the psychic substances that when not available or not metabolized correctly may cause disturbances. Contemporary sleep research seems to point in that direction when disturbances are associated with lack of rapid eye movement sleep, the phase that produces dreams. This would indicate that there is not a regular supply of that ‘nourishment’. Ethnological studies and depth psychological schools demonstrate that paying attention to dreams, through telling them, journaling, interpretation or enactment may constitute a habit necessary to maintain psychological health. When the dream is considered the ‘nourishment’, then these suggested ways of paying attention to them would constitute their ‘metabolism’. Hence using expressive arts therapy’s methods of dream work daily, such as journaling, story-telling and enactment, could be considered a dietary help. The same is true of the other ‘nourishment’ considered above (play and imaginative thinking). The regular practise of creative writing, singing, whistling or playing an instrument, sketching or painting, simple dance or Tai Chi movements, decorating, playing with objects, and so on, just to mention a few, may all be part of a healthy diet.

Expressive arts therapy as a dietary and medical practice in the psychic metabolism A substance must have two characteristics in order to qualify as a medicine. First, it must be composed such that it can be metabolized by the system; second, it must interact in a constructive way with the self-regulating forces in the system. A medicine, therefore, is bound to a diagnostic and prognostic situation. Under all circumstances, it is also therefore interwoven with the therapeutic relationship, even if this is often overlooked in medical practice.

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Coming back to the notion of ‘soul medicine’ and associating it with the arts process and oeuvre, we need to look, then, at these two qualifying characteristics. In the expressive arts therapy method, art is always generated in the therapeutic relationship. As emphasized in an aesthetic theory of the therapeutic process, special attention is given to the responsibility towards the emerging work. This work of art, as a phenomenon of the inter-structural relationship between the literal, imaginative and effective reality, on the one hand, and the thingly substance that connects the engaged community on the other, is a remarkable entity of the therapeutic relationship. It makes it well suitable for a metabolism in the psychic system in question. In fact, one could see the art work as that which arrived exclusively for that very system, even though it should not be confused, from a phenomenological perspective, with a mirror image or an appearance of the system’s identity. There are many traditional ways of relating to the art work that satisfy the criteria of the second quality of a medicine – its interaction with the self-regulating forces of the system. The transpersonal theory gives clues to how pictures mounted may have the characteristics of a totem or an altar; how poems read will have effects like prayers or mantras; how a song or music may console; and how a mask may help to conjure fear when played. This list can certainly be extended, especially when we add all the practices of community art that help communities to cope with conflict and crisis, as, for example, in death and dying ceremonies and rites of passage. Art work composed under these circumstances interacts in a constructive way with the self-regulating forces of the psyche and can be considered as psychic medicine. The question arising now is how and when the process in the session shall and can be guided towards an oeuvre that has a potential for use as medicine between sessions. With respect to the visual arts and writing, the emphasis is more about how to honor the process adequately, because usually therapists focus there on the finished work anyway. In music, dance and theater, we shall have to find ways to score and compose with patients without tapping unduly into the traumatic experiences of schooling. There are, however, suitable methods derived from improvisational choreographing, playwriting and scoring that offer promising therapeutic opportunities in their temporal and spatial frame of reference and remembrance. With the performing arts, usually the process gets thorough attention while the oeuvre is less emphasized. Some of the methods that help to reverse that trend are

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the dance performance scoring developed at Tamalpa Institute, the performance scoring practised by McNiff in the art studio, and the ensemble scoring for music and lyrics introduced by Fuchs and Knill.3 Looking at the arts as an existential phenomenon that is a gift to humans implies the obligation to care for its continuity. This continuity is closely related to our well-being. Therefore, the continuous weaving between world, history and selfhood that constitutes the self-regulating forces in human health cannot be conceptualized without the arts. A concern for art must recognize it as an intermodal language of imagination in a disciplined play that includes the weaving between the world of art, the history of art and the creator-self in response to self-regulating forces. A broad conception of a diet and medicine will then be attentive to the soul’s nourishment in its emergence, elucidating images, acts, movement, words, sounds and rhythms. This attentiveness will also listen, look, sense and touch the oeuvres as they are given to us now, before and in the future as gifts that oblige us to care for them in their ‘coming-to-be’ and ‘passing away’ of being with human suffering.

References Fink, E. (1960) Spiel als Weltsymbol. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Gadamer, H.G. (1975) Truth and Method: The Principle of Effective History. New York: The Seabury Press. Gendlin, G. (1981) Focusing. New York: Bantam Books. Johnson, L. (1997) Media literacy education: personal and professional change. Cambridge, MA: Dissertation at Lesley College Graduate School, Cambridge, MA. Kent, J.K. (1978) Exploring the Psycho-social Therapies through the Personalities of Effective Therapists. Rockville, MD: National Institute of Mental Health. Knill, P., Barba, H. and Fuchs, M. (1995) Minstrels of Soul. Toronto: Palmerston Press. Knill, P.J. (1990) Das Kristallisationsprinzip in der musikorientierten Psychotherapie. In I. Frohne-Hagemann (ed) Musik und Gestalt. Paderborn: Junfermann-Verlag. McNiff, S. (1988) Fundamentals of Art Therapy. Springfield, IL: Charles Thomas. Nietzsche, F. (1962) Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greek. Trans. by M. Cowen. Chicago: Spariosu, M. (1989) Dionysus Reborn. Ithaka, NY: Cornell University Press.

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Information available: Tamalpa Institute, Daria Halprin-Kalighi, Director, PO Box 794 Kentfield, DA 94914; McNiff (1988); European Graduate School in Leuk CH 3953, Switzerland. Margo Fuchs and Paolo Knill, faculty members.

CHAPTER 3

The Necessity of Form Expressive Arts Therapy in the Light of the Work of K.E. Løgstrup Majken Jacoby Beauty tends to come unexpectedly. It sneaks up on us and takes us by surprise. Certainly, we take pleasure in anticipation of the beauty of the Echo Aria from Bach’s Christmas Oratorio heard many times before, and in that case we know exactly what to expect. Not always, though, do we succeed in really listening to it; but, if we do, it is as if we hear it for the first time. We are surprised anew. At times very little takes us by surprise, more often than not when we long the most for it. Nothing much affects us. Things and events around us reach us only like an indifferent echo from a distance. No aria any more, beauty has gone. Life is lonely without surprises. The lines of communication to others and the world seem weakened, maybe even cut off, or ‘ligated’, as Løgstrup calls it with an expression from medicine. No blood flows. The blood stream has been blocked. How, then – and from where – does beauty come into our lives? What is the connection between aesthetics – that which has to do with the beautiful – and the feeling of being cut off ? A heretical question: are we, due to our therapeutic training and in spite of our artistic experience, sometimes stuck in the notion that what counts is what is ‘inside’ – where depth resides – and that the ‘outside’, the surface, is of less value? As my parents told me when I discontentedly stared into the mirror: beauty comes from within. Of course, we know that form cannot be separated from content – but don’t we do it now and again in our work, thereby running the risk that the artistic work imperceptibly becomes an article for use only, a tool for a therapeutic effect, accidentally acquired by means of paper and crayons, drums and dancing – beauty or no beauty?

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Nothing is wrong with useful articles and tools, and are not therapeutic effects and insights exactly what we go for? Does ‘the beautiful’ – whatever it might be – belong mainly in art schools and not necessarily in therapy? Beauty or no beauty – it just does not change the fact that art stops being art if it does not relate to aesthetics one way or the other. That is also true when we deal with art created with limited skills.

' The Danish philosopher and theologian K.E. Løgstrup had no relation to therapy whatsoever, and he was rather skeptical of psychology – what he knew of it – and its explanations of human nature. He was, however, intensely concerned with the arts and what he called ‘the two world interpretations’: the poetic (aesthetic) and the ethical. ‘In what way do the arts affect us?’ he asked. What is the relation between the ethical and the aesthetic – is there a possible mutual reciprocity? If so, how does it manifest itself in our lives? Human nature has a sensory basis – this is the background of his thinking. It is in its root aesthetic (‘aesthetic’ = having to do with the senses). Through our senses we are irremediably intertwined with the world around us. This fact, Løgstrup says, is what our basic condition springs from. All interpretations of the world must be seen on this background: ‘… as our body lives on its daily bread, so our soul lives daily in its receptiveness and energy on the surrounding world … It is a kind of nourishment of the soul that we know nothing about, because we consume it every single moment of the day’ (Løgstrup 1983, p.14).1 Løgstrup was a professor of ethics for many years – he died in 1981 – and he repeatedly discussed the connection between ethics and the arts in his writings, among others in The Ethical Demand (1991), his best-known work, to which I shall return. In order to follow his thinking, an introduction to a few of his key concepts might be helpful. Løgstrup was a phenomenologist, and he proceeds accordingly: what is it, he asks, that reveals and characterizes our lives? What are the attitudes and patterns, expressions and actions that are uniquely human? He is looking for something essential, unchangeable. In his search he comes upon the phenomena he calls the sovereign life utterances, phenomena that essentially stay the same at all times. Trust is an example: until otherwise proved we trust 1

All quotations are translated from the Danish by Majken Jacoby.

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the next person. Not only do we trust him, but we also trust his word until we are lied to, which is what Løgstrup calls the openness of speech: To start with we believe each other’s words, to start with we trust each other. This might be strange, but it comes with being human. It would be contrary to life itself to behave differently. We simply would not be able to live. Our lives would become distorted if we in advance met each other with an attitude of mistrust, expecting the other person to steal and lie, to simulate and deceive. (Løgstrup 1991, p.17)

Compassion, hope, indignation, love and sorrow are other examples. He calls them sovereign – and sometimes spontaneous – in order to show that although they manifest themselves in the individual person, they go beyond him, beyond time and place, history and society. They occur everywhere. They originate directly from human nature in its interwovenness with the world. The sovereign life utterances appear without ulterior motives, just because we are alive. They are unconditional. As soon as considerations of the purpose of an act or a feeling surface, as soon as thoughts about reason, wisdom or profit make us hesitate, the compassion or trust has gone, is not spontaneous and unconditional any more: reasons are stated and conditions stipulated. As a contrast to the sovereign life utterances, Løgstrup sets up different kinds of ‘utterances’: the revolving feelings, feelings such as hate, jealousy and envy. Instead of reaching out, they revolve around themselves and the person who is possessed by them. The revolving feelings confine while the sovereign life utterances open. The latter make us vulnerable. They themselves can get distorted – trust becomes mistrust, for example – but they are inextinguishable. They always manifest again: if not in me then in somebody else. Let me go back to the fact that human nature has a sensory basis: our senses, Løgstrup maintains, seeing, hearing, touch, and so on, are an actual entry to the world, not only a mirroring of ourselves. There is something out there, and our senses create a bridge to it and intertwine us with all that is around us. How Løgstrup writes about it is a long way away from positivistic or behavioristic definitions of sensing. A positivist might argue that sovereign life utterances, such as compassion or indignation, cannot be shown empirically and, furthermore, to call these utterances sovereign has nothing to do with the sensory experience itself. It is our reaction to it; we give it a value that does not belong to the sensory experience, but to us ourselves.

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No, Løgstrup answers, this is not so; we cannot distinguish between a sensory experience that tells us how the world is and a feeling reaction to it that belongs only to ourselves. There is no naked sensing. The reddish color of sand, the glittering of water, the accumulating clouds and you, my neighbor, always evoke something more; the sensory experience is tuned, connected to a feeling, an atmosphere and, furthermore, the tuned sensory experience – the impression – carries a recognition/realization (Erkenntnis). Not because we add to it – we certainly do that too – but because the sensing being (we) and the sensed (the world) basically are of the same stuff. This goes unnoticed, like our daily bread: ‘It is unconscious to us, also for the reason that it is due solely to the fact that the things exist without (us having) any thoughts of their usefulness’ (Løgstrup 1983, p.14). In order for us to become aware of this inherent recognition, it needs to be articulated. The artistic work, Løgstrup says, is always an attempt to articulate the experience of this sensed tuned-ness, to give it form and shape. This articulation in turn affects us. We come closer to ourselves and the world. The art work is the result of a more and more precise articulation of what is. We are informed and we understand through everyday language; everyday language, however, as well as scientific language, does not catch the tuned quality of the sensing, its feeling-value. As a description of reality they are ‘insufficient’. They are without enigma. A ‘sufficient’ description can only be given by the work of art, the whole intention of which is to articulate what is contained in the tuned-ness. This happens by means of the artistic media which through their sense quality themselves are tuned. Ole Jensen, a Løgstrup scholar, formulates it like this: ‘In their articulation of the tuned world-access, the arts differ from philosophy in that the artistic articulation of the tuned-ness itself is tuned. The arts have the tuned-ness as form and as content at the same time’ (Jensen 1994, p.68). The materials – the clay, the sound of the flute, the color blue – become our teachers. They offer an invitation to be shaped according to their kind and essence. If the art work ‘works’, it is because we have listened to the inherent possibilities of the media. We shape the clay; and the art work points to us who made it and, at the same time, points beyond us. As the clay is our medium, we are the ‘medium’ of the sovereign life utterances, so to speak. We don’t create them, Løgstrup says; rather, they create us. Like the art work, they arrive through us, and they need to be uttered by us – and like the art work they do not tell us how. They shape us

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and our relations to each other. They constitute our urge to articulate the tuned sensing in the work of art. The sovereign life utterances are given to us as a gift; and this ‘lies close to a religious interpretation’, Løgstrup states, thereby pointing to a third ‘world interpretation’: the religious. The sovereign life utterances are bigger than humanity. Through them we come alive, as we one day will die. Creation and annihilation are our foundation. We are created as we one day will be annihilated. What is given to us as a gift lies at the root of our being alive, our creativity. And it points to a creator. Our creativity springs from being created.

' In The Ethical Demand, Løgstrup begins by pointing to the fact that we are exposed through the sovereign life utterances – hope, trust, indignation – not by choice but by necessity: ‘Trust is not up to us. It is given. Above our heads our lives are created in such a way that we can live only if each person exposes himself in trust, shown or wished-for, thus giving more – or less – of himself into the hands of the other’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.28). This image of holding something of the life of another person in one’s hands runs like a root metaphor through the book, and Løgstrup returns to it many times (as pointed out by Hans Hauge, 1992). From this exposed-ness springs an ‘… unspoken, almost anonymous, demand of us to take care of the life placed in our hands by trust’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.28). Trust, however, does not always come easily, just as it can be difficult to follow the demand. We would really like to, but we are not able to. We get in our own way as we get in others’, and somehow we become doubly exposed. This is where social rules and norms have their place, because what is most alive – exposed – cannot, according to Løgstrup, survive formlessness; it needs a ‘bound expression’. On the other hand, conventional rules such as ‘love thy neighbor’ have little to do with the ethical demand, even though they sometimes seem to. But since the demand asks of us something that we cannot always give, and since we are not creative at all given times – within the arts or within our relations – we need to adopt conventional or ritualized form. By a kind of neutrality, resorting to no man’s land, we avoid the tough alternative: either to take care of or to neglect, and maybe destroy, that of the life of another that we hold in our hands.

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Løgstrup arrives at the following qualities of the ethical demand: it is silent, hidden, unspoken and one-sided: it can only be given, not ordered; it is radical: I alone decide unselfishly what serves the other best. We will, Løgstrup says, always fall short of it. We cannot fulfill it, it is un-fulfillable. What are we to do with this un-fulfillable ethical demand? What does it have to do with the arts? With expressive arts therapy? Might we not just as well leave it alone in our too frail human-ness? A decision to follow the ethical demand does not help us in the confrontations and conflicts to which we have no solutions. On what authority do I lean when I act towards you the way I do? The question of whether my acting is unselfish or is based upon motives which have little to do with what is best for you, may rightly be asked – but who can answer? All authority lies in the actual experiencing of what I do – or do not do – towards you. To use the demand as a justification or a measuring rod leads almost unerringly to abuse of power, such as: I know what is best for you. Philosophies and ideologies, then, with just one more moral code of ‘ways’ and built-in solutions to ‘a good life’, take over. The ethical demand ‘almost anonymously’ tells us just this: to take care of life. It does not tell us what or how to do it. It offers no advice, gives no practical hints, lays down no rules or guidelines as to what in a specific case is asked of us; the actual shaping of ‘taking care of life’ is entirely our concern. To follow the demand, then, means that each and every act must spring out of the requests of an ever-changing and challenging here-and-now; I must be there for it. This calls for an unselfish presence at all times, and that surpasses our ability. It is a demand for love. Yes, Løgstrup says, those are our conditions: And where love never was, the (ethical) demand cannot bring it forth. What is asked of us is nothing less than love being created by the mere fact that the life of another human being is in my hands, without this person in any way belonging to my existence … The one-sided demand is lost on us. (Løgstrup 1991, p.164)

We are, nevertheless, left with the decision placed on us by the ethical demand. It does not disappear because we cannot follow it. On the contrary, it outlines a field of tension arising from the fact that our life is given to us, while we behave as if we were its master.

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The ethical demand throws a special and indispensable light on our lives. We do everything to relativize the hold it has on us, and as a rule we succeed. But we pay a price: If the individual takes himself into consideration at the expense of the next person, he lives … as if he had called himself into life and was the sovereign of his own life. If he on the other hand cares for the life of the other person, he lives his life in the receiving of it. Avoiding the decision and avoiding the act can only be done by turning himself into the evil god of the other person. (Løgstrup 1991, p.180)

As much as we want the freedom to take over our own existence and shape our lives independently – and who does not want that? – our freedom of action and creative power go only as far as we do not forget who we are: not half-gods, not self-reliant beings, but beings who are inescapably dependent on the surrounding world and ‘given life as a gift’.

' How, then, do the ethical and the poetical realms, the two interpretations of the world, relate? What do the ethical demand and the arts have to say to each other? Reading Løgstrup, one is struck by his parallel use of language and metaphor when he talks about and describes the ethical and poetic realities: both demand a ‘bound expression’, both ‘throw a special and indispensable light upon our lives’. We ‘bind’ the expression of our actions – spontaneously in the sovereign life utterances or through the conventions of rules and norms – in order to take care of what is alive and thus exposed. Un-bound, un-shaped, what is alive between us and in us will perish; we shall become deformed. The same holds true of the poetical: it ‘binds’ expression in imagery and metaphor, in sound and rhythm – thereby becoming a work of art – in order to take care of and capture what cannot be said differently without losing precision; un-bound, what wanted to be said is lost, it remains hidden in the impression. And, as Løgstrup says: ‘The greater the sensitivity and intensity, the more precise the articulation needs to be’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.219). Usually we keep a certain distance from the world, but not when we are in the grip of the poetical. Then we fall into poetic openness, making the world unforeseen and present, beautiful. Does beauty have something to do with the longing to be spoken to by the fullness of reality – and for a while feel at home in this world? Does it

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have to do with the longing to speak of it all, also that which cannot be said, and therefore turn to the arts, which offer ‘a sufficient description’? Certain experiences can only be captured through poetic expression. Everyday language and scientific language are, of course, indispensable, but in their different ways they are reductive in so far as they do not catch the tuned-ness. Beauty, however, is never the aim of the poetical. If it were, we would get stuck in aestheticizing – beauty for beauty’s sake. Nobody and nothing would then be addressed, and again we would lose our connection to the world, we would cut our roots. Beauty arrives, almost as a side effect, but a totally indispensable one, because ‘… beauty comes forth and discloses the truth that is obscured by triviality in its lack of precision and presence’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.220). Beauty and truth come together. The ethical as well as the poetic realities ‘throw light upon our lives’ and both ‘point to the contradiction we live in’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.228). The poetic experience opens the world, brings it close to us, in a way which everyday, trivial living is unable to. Trivial living, according to Løgstrup, is life lived from a distance; truth is not disclosed but ‘veiled’. This is the contradiction which the poetic experience, as well as the ethical, throws light upon. In everyday life we are informed, but ‘… the poetical – as opposed to “understanding” – does not inform, but calls forth a world’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.220). Triviality discloses our ignorance. We are disconnected, senselessly revolving around ourselves, because ‘triviality is the number one enemy of the sensuous’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.228). To talk of triviality is also to talk of an ethical category, Løgstrup says. What we experience poetically is denied by our own existence: we live trivially confined while we open ourselves to an un-trivial presence through the arts. This tension between the trivial confinement of everyday life and the un-trivial presence in poetic openness is not only unavoidable but also necessary; it belongs to life, and – this is Løgstrup’s point – it constitutes our personality. We are shaped through this conflict. Thus the arts shape us, but they are not in our – or any – service. If this was not the case, they would eventually deform us according to what, or who, they served, no matter how benign the purpose might, at first, seem.

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In poetic openness we come closer to life than we do in everyday living; and ‘almost anonymously’ life itself bids us – through the sovereign life utterances – to take care of the life we hold in our hands. From this experience stems the ethical demand; the ethical gains perspective by the poetically experienced. The ethical interpretation of the world ‘… stems from the poetically experienced itself ’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.221). Through poetic experience we become aware of what we hold in our hands, aware of its beauty. Beauty lies at the root of our existence. We can only stay alive by staying exposed and vulnerable. No final statements can be given; we are obliged to live and act in uncertainty. Forgetting that means calling for a fundamentalistic attitude that is contrary to life itself – contrary to beauty. Beauty has no practical use: it never tells us what to do. It carries no directives of action, but forces us to go beyond the useful, encounter the unexpected and become aware of the unsolvable riddle of our existence. We lose mastery in the presence of beauty because there is no mastery to hold on to. The mastery is one of being there and acting. But how? Old notions of ‘depth’ and ‘surface’ crumble. We are thrown into helplessness – and that is a relief. It touches us, and ‘… the person who is touched is not alone’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.222). The blood flows again. Beauty binds us to the world. It tells us that we really are here, finally, even if ‘being here’ means living with pain, sorrow, insecurity, confusion and helplessness as well. However, in Løgstrup’s words, ‘it is not something foreign that breaks into (man’s) customary and familiar world from the outside. But the world, nature, and the things surrounding him and with which he is entangled by the bearings of his senses and mind … become present in a new and different way’ (Løgstrup 1991, p.231). Our approach to beauty, at times groping, may have to do with the fact that it leaves us, in Løgstrup’s sense, exposed – although we know well that the new that we long for, which sometimes seems so far away, may find its way into our lives precisely by beauty, a beauty that is restricted neither to a certain content nor a certain form, a beauty which emerges when experience is interpreted in the art work with presence and precision, touching us. The special field of tension that belongs to our profession – humanity and art in a therapy context – challenges us to care for both.

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We cannot master life. We can only live it. Sometimes we are surprised. And sometimes it happens that what was stuck gets un-stuck. Did it happen through a touch of beauty?

' Why concern oneself with the writings of Løgstrup in a book about the foundations of expressive arts therapy? Løgstrup, a professor of ethics and a theologian, may seem far away from the attempt to encircle the field of our profession, theoretically and philosophically, not to mention the many questions of a concrete and practical nature that pertain to a normal working day. Because of his distance from the usual discourse of the field, however, his thinking may act for us as a thought-provoking sounding board. During the last 20 years, expressive arts therapy has expanded dramatically, and this calls for ongoing research into its philosophical foundations and a continued discourse concerning its essential nature. I believe Løgstrup is of interest here. His engagement with the poetic and ethical ‘world interpretations’ without any direct relation to therapy may, as a foreign voice, help expressive arts therapy to hear its own in the choir of the therapeutically schooled voices of our day. Let me sum up Løgstrup’s basic position. The human being has a sensory, aesthetic, basis. What comes to us through our senses, what impresses us, is value-laden. It has a bodily-anchored emotionality. It ties us together with everything around us. Out of this fact springs the ethical demand to take care of what we, through this interdependence, hold in our hands of the life of the person next to us. What we experience through this sensory, aesthetic opening to the world wants to be ‘articulated’, given form, in the work of art. It is not we who want. It, the impression, wants to be ‘articulated’. The inclination to shape artistically comes with being human. It presses itself upon us, so to speak, with a realization that escapes us until shaped in artistic form. This realization can never be expressed fully by everyday language, as art cannot be in the service of a specific purpose without weakening or distorting its message. The artistic expression cannot be replaced by something else. Not only are our senses a door to the world, they constitute our being alive and our ability to understand: in our nature, sensing, feeling and understanding go hand in hand.

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The artistic work is always sensory. It has ‘body’, no matter which arts discipline we are dealing with. For example, music, so ephemeral, has structure and shape, as has any art work, and through the performing of it unfolds and gains ‘substance’. For us to hear it we need to mobilize our sensing–feeling–understanding, ‘structure-sensitive’ bodies. Thus being thrown into presence is one of the preconditions of therapy. Whether we are in the role of the artist or the audience, the client or the therapist, we are challenged to become present ‘in a new and different way’, different from inconsequentiality and triviality. The sensory experience of now, the bodily anchored emotions and thoughts, echo into the sensory experience of then – as it does into a not yet experienced, but only dreamed of, later. The art work is specific and ‘singular’, as Løgstrup states, one of a kind; at the same time it taps into universal experience and embodies a multiplicity of possible meanings. By engaging ourselves in the singularity of the artistic work, some of these meanings may become clear to us. It does not make sense to talk about ‘tree’ or ‘sky’; you must look at the sky in my picture. Look at its shape, what is next to it, its color – not blue but red–yellow–purple: is it the sky of a winter morning or does it tell of catastrophes and terror? Bombs and burning fires or birds and quiet, early awakening? Is it the red night sky of the metropolis hectically teeming with activity, or the sun setting over the barren desert? Where are we? What is going on? Who is talking? Through its sensory qualities the art work forces us to consider our basis, and doubly so: it demands our sensing–feeling–understanding presence to find its form – we must be there ‘in person’ – at the same time as it gives body and anchoring to the messages embedded in it and which, who knows how, are grasped by us. However abstract its form and language may be, it pulls us away from abstractions and generalizations and down into the flesh and blood of experience. The danger of the bodiless abstraction is exactly this, that it belongs to nobody in particular. Often it becomes rule-like and norm-setting. The rule or norm may even be one that has my sympathy, but in so far as it is not an individual, personal realization it lacks the necessary anchoring in actual, concrete experience; it stands on ‘nothing in particular’, provides thus ‘nothing in particular’ to understand from. In the specific, singular work of art, the phenomena of our experience, our peculiarity, stay grounded. Ideas and world views do not live a life of

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their own, separated from us as ‘opinions’ or airy superstructures – but they reside in, and spring from, an actuality in which I participate. What Løgstrup demonstrates to us, phenomenologically, is the close, unbreakable tie between sensing, feeling and understanding – embedded in, Løgstrup might say, that which goes beyond our understanding. The tuned sensing carries a realization which unfolds in the articulation of the art work. What already is given in the sensing – but which escapes us until given a form – may now speak to us in a way which we can understand. The circle is complete.

' Artist and art work are partners in an exchange. They are ‘equals’, as partners are. Both need our care; to stay in the exchange instead of forcing the work our way is the challenge of this partnership, and this is also where the ‘new and different’ may become visible. New aspects of the world may appear on the scene just by the changing of form, aspects which previously were not clear to us. Through an artistic ‘staging’ of the senses, as Gregersen and Køppe say, the arts bring into play universal feelings and ideas (Gregersen and Køppe 1994, pp.242–243). The artist Per Kirkeby, painter and poet, tells about looking at paintings: ‘One stands there, has a conversation with something in the picture. With paintings one can converse about the real things – death and love and all the really big things’ (Kirkeby 1994, p.7). To be our partners in an exchange, our conversation partners, the arts need to be separate from us, out there on stage, approached and addressed as bodies in their own right. They need space and so do we, a space large enough for us to be able to look away; we can only see what is in front of us if it is possible to look at something else. We need distance, spatially and emotionally, in order to come close and grasp it. This was, I think, what the Swiss writer, Friedrich Dürrenmatt had in mind when he, in an essay called ‘Kunst’ (Art), wrote that, ‘Any art work needs a distance to its content’ (Dürrenmatt 1989, p.157). In History of Ideas, by Gregersen and Køppe, we find the same thought. Art constitutes ‘… a place where the creation of a fictive world, that is an imaginative world, greatly contributes to throwing new light upon the “real world” … it secures and establishes a place outside the world, from where the world can be observed and commented on’ (Gregersen and Køppe 1994, p.251) (emphasis added).

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The raw materials of the arts – color, sound, space, matter, time, and so on – are not created by us; as artists we subject ourselves to them. They bring tidings from a world with which we are intertwined; we learn from that which is not us and from that which we freely can look away from. The ‘not us’ quality of the arts and the art media helps us to become aware of who we are, or are not, and that we are: the art work ‘… gives us a possibility to experience that we exist’ (Løgstrup 1983, p.49). This tension between what is us and what is not us – but with which we are ‘entangled by the bearings of our senses’ – creates thus a basis for staying alive and well; if this is overlooked or disregarded we become misshapen and deformed. Our being formed, our formation, depends on keeping intact the separateness of the person and the art work – they ‘are’ not each other but, as we have seen, ‘of the same stuff ’: intertwined yet separate. The aesthetic urge, born when we were born, the potential to shape experience in such a way that it starts to talk and tell us what cannot be told differently, is built into our being as a gift. Like other gifts we do not always know what to do with it. All the same, the poetic world interpretation, ‘held’ and made possible by the picture, dance, music, theater, poetry, film, architecture, sculpture, performance and all the rest, is a way of bridging the gap of isolation and hopelessness that we sometimes fall into. It is a way of coming to our senses, feeling our being in the world and searching for its possible meaning. Artistic reality is filled with contrasts and opposites, and we have only touched on some of them. Acknowledging this complexity, however, provides us with a frame of reference that equals a psychological and physical reality just as complex. The many-layered artistic awareness is part of what ‘shapes the character and constitutes the personality’ of expressive arts therapy – to adapt a formulation of Løgstrup’s.

' All the way through, the writings of Løgstrup are carried by the contrast of life and death. The tension between creation and annihilation is always present, and everything we do has this as its ground. Life is given to us for an unknown period of time, and together with it comes a demand to take care of what we, often unwillingly, hold in our hands of the life of the person next to us. This demand, as we have seen, always surpasses our abilities. To put it aside and ignore it, however, is to play into the hands of deformation and

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annihilation: taking care of, then, means to give form and body to whatever is present in our lives. Formlessness equals neglect; the forming may be difficult, perhaps even impossible, but to refuse its demand on us is ‘contrary to life’. The care-taking may occur through the artistic media in the art work or in the therapeutic encounter with the other person; in essence the demand is the same – ethical as well as aesthetic. This is the necessity of form. However uncertain we may be – and uncertainty belongs to our basic condition – when the search for form is governed by the urge of searching for the ever-changing ‘right’ form – between you and me, between artist and art work – ethics and aesthetics merge. They come together into the act of articulation. The act of articulation becomes an act of care for the life placed in our hands, for the unforeseeable beauty that at times shines on us, a care that is at the core of expressive arts therapy.

References: Dürrenmatt, F. (1989) Denkanstässe (Impulses to Thought). Zürich: Diogenes. Gregersen, F. and Køppe, S. (eds) (1994) Idehistorie. Ideer og strømninger i det 2o. århundrede (History of Ideas: Ideas and Trends in the 20th Century). Copenhagen: Amanda. Hauge, H. (1992) K.E. Løgstrup. En Moderne Profet (K.E. Løgstrup. A Modern Prophet). Århus: Spektrum. Jensen, O. (1994) Sårbar Usårlighed. Løgstrup og Religionens Genkomst i Filosofien (Vulnerable Invulnerability. Løgstrup and the Return of Religion in Philosophy). Copenhagen: Gyldendal. Kirkeby, P. (1994) Interview in Agenda No. 37. Århus: Bladgruppen Ajour. Løgstrup, K.E. (1956, 1991) Den etiske fordring (The Ethical Demand). Copenhagen: Gyldendal. Løgstrup, K.E. (1983) Kunst og erkendelse. Metafysik II (Art and Realisation. Metaphysics II). Copenhagen: Gyldendal.

Further reading Løgstrup, K.E. (1978) Skabelse og Tilintetgørelse. Religionsfilosofiske Betragtninger. Metafysik IV (Creation and Annihilation. Reflections on religious philosophy. Metaphysics IV). Copenhagen: Gyldendal.

CHAPTER 4

Artistic Inquiry Research in Expressive Arts Therapy Shaun McNiff The emergence of a new vision of research As the different expressive arts therapy disciplines began to focus on the need for research two or three decades ago, there was a universal assumption that behavioral science research methods, both quantitative and qualitative, were the exclusive tools of inquiry. Expressive arts therapy perceived itself as an extension of psychiatry and wanted to advance its image by demonstrating efficacy according to ‘acceptable’ research standards. The word ‘research’ means to study thoroughly. To ‘re-search’ is to ‘search again’ through a process of disciplined inquiry. However, in expressive arts therapy, we have generally accepted the idea that research and scientific investigation are synonymous. By identifying the word ‘research’ with only one of its aspects, we are limiting possibilities for advancement through new and imaginative inquiries. Expressive arts therapy is, by definition, a new integration of previously separate disciplines, yet we have been remiss in giving serious attention to the research traditions of ‘all’ the disciplines which constitute the new entity. By calling for a more comprehensive vision of research, I do not want to negate the value of scientific methods. I actually believe that scientifically oriented inquiries will be revitalized if we can create a more diverse research environment. Over the course of my career, I have progressively come to the realization that it is the arts, the primary contributors to the emergence of expressive arts therapy, which have been most conspicuously absent from the profession’s discourse about research. When I did my doctoral research during the mid 1970s, I focused on the psychology of art and interviewed artists and children about their motives for creation. The artistic process was examined through the behavioral science research method of the interview. I won an

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award for my art motivation research and published the findings in different forums, but I cannot say the study has had a lasting impact on me or anyone else. In my work supervising masters thesis students, and an occasional doctoral student intent on creative work, a new direction began to emerge in the early 1980s. My graduate students were not interested in conducting the kind of psychological research that I did when I reviewed the literature of the psychology of motivation and then presented interview data and my conclusions in a conventional written format. At first I thought that maybe the students were lacking intellectual curiosity. They wanted to focus more attention on the process of making art and their relationships with their creations. When given the freedom to follow their interests, my students chose to focus on how they could integrate their personal creative expression with the production of a masters thesis or doctoral dissertation. I felt that if I insisted on regular research methods, I would be making them conform to standards that were removed from the essential practise of expressive arts therapy. As I relaxed my control over the process of inquiry, my students began to research their personal creative expressions in ways that I had not experienced myself. My scholarship up until that point had been largely focused on the usual process of writing about my observations of other people’s work and recording what they said about their expressions in interviews. What I was doing felt second hand and more distant from the creative process than the studies initiated by my students. These studies were consistent with what I was teaching them within our training studios, where the students were constantly involved in making art and responding to it in imaginative ways. Time has shown me that these students were committed to the full realization of their visions about the healing powers of the arts. They saw no reason to make the dichotomy between practice and research that I had accepted. They were committed to the practice of the work in the most complete way possible, whereas I was constantly shifting my perspective from the studio to psychologically oriented journals. This ‘split’ identity between practice and research is still common within the expressive arts therapies. Practitioners feel that what they are doing every day is separate from ‘research’, which is associated with projects conducted by ‘full time’ professional researchers. Graduate students have been my teachers in demonstrating how research and practice are inseparable and mutually dependent. The separation of research from practice can be

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attributed to the tradition of scientific objectivity which assumes that a participant in a process cannot truly see what is occurring. There are many aspects of life that call for observations made by outside observers within controlled conditions, but the practise of art and therapy, and the combination of the two into expressive arts therapy, demands new ways of approaching research. One of the first art-based masters thesis projects that I supervised involved a woman who did a series of paintings of female bodies. Rather than write about what women told her about their body images or what she saw in their drawings and paintings, my student chose to spend the school year investigating the female body through paintings of large human figures. The finished work included the presentation of the paintings in the thesis, an exhibition of the works, and a written text reflecting on the process of making the series of paintings and its effects upon the artist (Jenkins 1988). I was intrigued by what my student had done, but at the time I was still encouraging thesis writers to follow research procedures that corresponded to my own experiences in conducting interviews, making observations, writing case studies, designing questionnaires, sorting and counting data, recording patterns and trends, and suggesting future outcomes. As a painter, something in me was activated by this student’s art-based inquiry, but I did not yet understand how her pioneering thesis project had broad implications for expressive arts therapy research. I enjoyed working with her on the project and I noticed how passionately committed she was to the work through every phase of the thesis experience. As other students spoke of their frustrations in getting started with their thesis work, she would emerge from hours in the studio covered with paint. I began to think about how what I did in my art studio was isolated from my psychological research about the artistic process. I did not realize how my slight discomfort with the early forms of art-based research was an expression of the separation between my artistic and psychological identities. I asked myself whether personal artistic inquiries were self-indulgent or narcissistic. Where was the service to others and to the profession, and where were the connections to psychology? I was working with words to produce scholarly publications that I hoped would advance the field of expressive arts therapy, and my thesis student was in the studio making paintings and engaging images with words, body movement, vocal improvisations, drums and performance art. She was much closer to the phenomena of creation with her methods. I noticed how the most talented and committed students in the

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graduate program began to work together with her in the studio. She influenced and inspired their thesis projects, and I began to question the way I approached research in expressive arts therapy. As I continued to ponder the work my thesis student was doing, I realized that it was her involvement in my art therapy studios that influenced and actually taught her how to work in this way. I was her teacher and a primary influence, but she made completely new applications of what I taught her. At that point, I had not considered that making art and personal reflections on one’s own creations could be a basis of research. The conventional psychological thesis method required reflection on what other people did with artistic media. The process of writing a thesis or dissertation was supposed to be an academic exercise, designed to meet the prevailing standards of psychological research as reflected by professional journals. There were no institutional incentives to discover new methods of investigation. Artistic inquiry as a basis for research involved a complete paradigm reversal, since art was considered to be raw material for psychological research methods which analyzed the process and objects of creation. The thesis focused on paintings of the female body. It had a major impact on me and the college community in no small part because the pictures were so big and bold and were exhibited prominently as part of the thesis process. The images were unforgettable, and their expressive power made a significant contribution to my paradigm shift concerning the purpose and methods of research. The graduate student described her research methodology as ‘empirical’ in that there was a direct involvement between the maker of the art and the paintings produced. The goals of the thesis included a deeper understanding of the relationship ‘between artist and art; between artist and space; between images and space; between artists; between images; and between art and artist–therapist’ (Jenkins 1988 p.2). The thesis cited Paracelsus, who in 1526 declared that the purpose of research is ‘the deepest knowledge of things themselves’. By declaring the art studio to be a research laboratory dealing with empirical things, this study was a key turning point in my approach to the process of investigation. I was delighted that my students were taking something that I gave to them and returning it to me in a more advanced form. The methodological foundations for art-based research had been suggested to me a year earlier when another graduate student presented the thesis idea of making one large painting over the course of a year which

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would focus on her relationship with her mother. I was intrigued and felt that the process of making the painting would guarantee that the thesis research would be more than a self-immersed journal about the mother-daughter relationship. However, the very personal nature of the proposal evoked potential challenges to the goals of the thesis program, which focused on service to the profession and personal mastery of the practise of expressive arts therapy. The thesis plan was simple and straightforward. Over the course of two semesters the student would work continuously on a single oil painting of her mother which would go through a process of continuous transformation. The stages of the painting would be photographed, and this would provide a record of the different phases that would be painted over with subsequent interpretations of the same subject matter. The painting would be perceived as an ongoing process in which the covered and lost phases were as important as the final form of the painting (Rice 1987). One of the most intriguing issues raised by the thesis method was the determination as to when the painting would be completed. The painting could be viewed as unending and life-long, with the finishing point being the date for the completion of the thesis; or that particular painting could be viewed as embodying a phase of the artist’s life-long relationship with her mother. In addition to the time frame of the thesis project, there might also be aesthetic considerations, such as when the painting called for completion within the aesthetic context of its structure and composition. From a therapeutic vantage point, this project was the ultimate embodiment of the dictum to ‘stick to the image’. Rather than jumping about from one exercise to another, there was a sustained meditation on a complex theme and the way it was played out within the medium of a painting. The artist–researcher’s relationship with her mother was enacted within the material process of making a painting. Feelings and memories inspired expressions in paint, and the process of shaping the image in turn changed the nature of the artist’s attachment to her mother. There was an ongoing correspondence and mutual influence between what happened with paint and the artist’s inner relationship to one of the most significant figures in her life. As the picture unfolded, there were many ‘finished’ compositions which were covered over by yet another painting. These completed pictures were likened to episodes that come and go over the course of a long relationship. They were covered over but still present underneath the later forms of the painting.

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What impressed me most about this thesis is the way the inquiry was totally based in the material process of making art. It demonstrated how the research of an artist in the studio can be likened to what a chemist does in a lab. Can one imagine research chemists writing case studies about what other chemists do in the lab and why they do it? The key to keeping the arts as primary modes of psychological inquiry lies in making sure that the research is focused on experiments with media, just as the chemist works with physical substances. I keep returning to this project as a model of art-based research. The painting was a palpable focal point, bridging artistic expression and psychological contemplation. A sense of experimental data was conveyed by the photographs, which served a vital role in the overall design of the project, since the outcomes had as much to do with the visual evidence as the verbal deliberations. The artistic process offered a clear structure and a reliable method. A third experience with a student’s thesis project further challenged my thinking about what research in expressive arts therapy can be. When I began my work with this student, I had become more aware of the importance of personal and first-hand artistic inquiry as a way of doing research in the expressive art therapies. The thesis project was pursued as a pictorial account of a young girl’s mythological journey through the vicissitudes of everyday life and realms of imagination. The drawings were beautifully rendered, and the picture book spoke for itself without words. We approached it as an archetypal story book. Since the project was to be presented as fulfilling the requirements of a masters degree, I insisted that the student write a section reflecting upon the process of making the visual thesis. My rationale went something like this: ‘You need to offer psychological reflections in order to distinguish the thesis from something you would present for a masters degree in fine arts. Since you are a candidate for a degree in expressive arts therapy, you must show mastery in that discipline.’ I was willing to see artistic inquiry as the major element of the thesis, but there had to be a psychological deliberation. The student had worked very closely with me, and we had great respect for one another. She politely listened to me but showed little enthusiasm for my recommendations. I sensed that she felt that a psychologically descriptive account would be an imposition that did not resonate with the gist of the study. She had committed a period of her life to this research and was not about to compromise its integrity and essential message. Yet I had to uphold the standards of the thesis program. I was keenly sympathetic to her position and

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ultimately felt that I would leave it to her to find a solution that would fulfill the two demands. She came back to me a week later describing how she couldn’t explain the story or reflect upon it in a traditional psychological genre. She felt that an external voice commenting on the work would not get close enough to what was happening within the thesis research. I had no answer and suggested that she spend some time sitting with the problem and that a resolution would ultimately emerge. In our next meeting it occurred to the student that she could give a voice to the young girl who was the protagonist in her story. The girl would describe, ‘from her point of view’, what the thesis was all about. The first-person voice allowed the thesis student to reflect upon the experience in a more intimate and imaginative way that was consistent with the emotional expressions of the drawings. Speaking as the young girl enabled the thesis writer to get inside the thesis process and access insights that would not have resulted from a more external analysis. She responded to the visual art work with another artistic statement through the creative use of language. Art was used to interpret art. As the reader of the thesis, I observed how this way of speaking about the story gave a more engaging and readable account of the project outcomes. The student invented a new way of integrating artistic expression and psychological reflection within the context of a research project. Throughout every phase of the project, she functioned as an artist researching psychological aspects of experience (Shapiro 1989). The primary lesson that I learned from this thesis project is that the images and processes of artistic creation are always at least one step ahead of the reflecting mind. If we continue to follow the standard behavioral science methods of establishing what we plan to do before we do it, we undermine the power of our discipline to offer something distinctly new and useful to research. As I worked with my thesis student, I was focused on the integrity of her research and how we could devise methods that would fully realize the potential of the project. After the thesis was completed, I began to see how her work was pointing to new ways of practising expressive arts therapy. The thesis project confirmed how we have responded to expressions of the creative imagination with analytic and explanatory reflections that do not continue or advance the expressive qualities presented by the works being contemplated. I began to reconsider how I react to art works in my therapeutic practice. Could I find more imaginative, artistic and intimate

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ways of engaging the images I produce? If I respond more imaginatively and poetically to my paintings, will I access qualities within them that were inaccessible to the explaining mind? I recalled C.G. Jung describing how the bird flies away when we explain an image. The generative powers of a creative expression need to be fed with a corresponding consciousness which appreciates and keeps their mysteries. In my efforts to encourage innovation in expressive arts therapy research, I have found the greatest obstacle to be stock definitions of ‘research’. In Depth Psychology of Art (1989) and Art as Medicine (1992), I worked with my own artistic expressions as a means of understanding therapeutic and artistic processes. When I published those books, largely inspired by the works of my graduate students, I feared ridicule from the profession, which had previously displayed distinctly conservative attitudes toward research. Until that time everything about expressive arts therapy had been focused on researchers analyzing the works of others. Therapeutic ‘distance’ and ‘impersonal evaluation’ were among the most basic doctrines of the research code. To my surprise, there has yet to be any published criticism of artist–researchers studying their personal expression. To the contrary, others are using the method and taking it further. The publication of Rosalie Politsky’s paper, ‘Penetrating our personal symbols: discovering our guiding myths’ (1995), marked the arrival of personal artistic inquiry in creative arts therapy’s international journal. Pat Allen’s Art Is a Way of Knowing (1995) has taken artistic self-inquiry to a new level of depth. The enthusiastic response to her book illustrates the hunger within the expressive arts therapy profession for this type of inquiry. Bruce Moon has emerged as one of the strongest and most persuasive voices calling for art-based research, training and practice in expressive arts therapy. He includes personal artistic expressions in his books as a way of describing: how work with patients influences him; how he personally practises the principles he advocates; and how everyone involved in the discipline of expressive arts therapy might consider asking, ‘Why do I make art?’ (Moon 1994). An indication of the validity of expressive arts therapy is the extent to which we use these modalities to treat ourselves as well as our clients. In the early years of expressive arts therapy practice, it seemed that most practitioners sought out personal therapy with verbal therapists. There is a dramatic change in this pattern today, as expressive arts therapy is increasingly perceived as a primary, rather than an adjunctive, therapy.

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Robert Landy’s concept of the ‘double life’ combines personal growth with the theory and practice of expressive arts therapy (Landy 1996). The experienced expressive arts therapy educator realizes how the most important outcome of a graduate education is the integration of these three factors. In my experience, the personal character of the therapist and the ability to examine one’s own experience, together with that of the patient, are primary indicators for future success. Therefore, it follows that there are many advantages to art-based research within a graduate training program. In addition to offering a first-hand understanding of the healing properties of the creative experience, art-based research makes the future therapist familiar with the blocks, struggles and pains that often accompany artistic expression. The graduate student also establishes a basis for life-long personal experimentation with the creative process. Art-based research does not stop with graduate education. I see its greatest potential being realized as a way of deepening and renewing practise throughout a person’s career. Research, personal artistic expression and the practise of therapy can be joined through the exploration of new approaches to research which support the wide spectrum of needs being manifested within the expressive arts therapy field. Expressive arts therapy can promote more useful and innovative research through a rigorous critique of the prevailing doctrines of research governing the mental health field. We seem to have missed the intellectual expansions offered by the post-modern era. Our discipline continues to support not only the most conservative tenets of research, but also the use of methods that do not use the arts as primary modes of inquiry. The reliance on behavioral science research methods continues the adjunctive mentality that has permeated expressive arts therapy from its inception. As we begin to envision ourselves as the practitioners of a primary therapy, we may become more open to the use of the arts as primary modes of inquiry in research projects. I know that many therapists and graduate students want to involve themselves in art-based research. People entering the profession choose this way of working with people because of their personal experiences with the process. Two graduate students from New Mexico recently interviewed me for an art therapy project; I asked them why they are involved in expressive arts therapy. They said, ‘We come from that place where art has healed our lives and we know it can do it for others.’ One of the women went on to say, ‘I know that art has saved my life. There is no question for me.’

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There is no doubt that we can all benefit from a scientific study verifying whether or not most graduate students select the expressive arts therapy field because of personal experiences they have had in their lives with the arts. It would be an interesting research project, and I might even do it myself one day. But as I talked to these graduate students, they affirmed impressions that I have had over the past three decades in the field. They want to become more involved in using their experience with the creative process as a way of understanding and researching expressive arts therapy. They are committed to learning the methods and subtleties of practice. Why not simply let them choose among different ways of conducting research? Right now most graduate programs require behavioral science projects and dismiss art-based inquiry as outside the scope of valid research. If graduate programs let students freely choose research methods and goals, a research project might be conducted to document and interpret the outcomes. Since everything we do is a potentially rich source of data for research of some kind, we should consider including our experience with art, which is certainly a primary element of our profession.

From justification to creative inquiry In expressive arts therapy, we have not begun to ask ourselves critically why we do research. The conventional approach has been fueled by the assertions that we have to use ‘accepted’ measures to prove our efficacy and that our training programs must guarantee literacy in these methods. I have always maintained that we do not have to legitimize ourselves according to another group’s values and criteria. The need to use these external measures actually reveals a lack of confidence in artistic inquiry, as well as an acceptance of a secondary or adjunctive role within the research community which reinforces a comparable position within the mental health field. If we are to further practice and the imagination of the profession, we must begin to use the languages, the ways of thinking and the modes of creative transformation that constitute our collective being. One of the most enduring themes in science and philosophy is the tension between what can and cannot be known and expressed. I believe that this gap is the most basic energy of the creative spirit, and I see no reason to resolve or bring closure to the tension. Expressive arts therapy is engaged with both aspects of experience, and this clearly distinguishes our practice from disciplines which base themselves on totally predictable outcomes. As an expressive arts therapist, I recognize the value of science and its research

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methods; but they can never encapsulate the totality of what I do. Many aspects of existence can be unraveled by science, whereas others stubbornly resist definition. The tendency to identify research exclusively with science has created a limiting imbalance. The application of one-sided scientism to the creative process is an attempt to fly with only one wing, and the same applies to a disregard for scientific understanding. Justification is an essential element to research activities which strive to introduce change and a new way of doing things. This approach to research will always frame the experimental activity or the gathering of evidence with the goal of influencing a particular mind-set which has the power or the ability to accept a new or changed way of doing things. Examples include the use of a new drug versus existing remedies or making a construction material in a new way because research indicates that the product will be stronger and longer lasting than what is currently being used. The value of justification research was recently made apparent to me during a conservation committee hearing in the city where I live. A group of neighbors attended a meeting in City Hall to oppose a proposal to build a house in a wetland area in our village, one of the first settlements in colonial New England. The neighbors argued from the perspectives of history, aesthetics and the ecological importance of protecting an area that naturally filters water run-off before it passes to a cove nearby. Historical photographs were submitted to document how over the course of the past 200 years houses were not constructed in the area in question, even though the village was densely settled. Neighbors implored the conservation committee to consider the fate of the creatures and plants living in the wetland and the shellfish in the cove that could be harmed by the increased run-off of unfiltered water. They described how the developer was trying to profit from increased property values. The committee had previously made a site visit, and it was apparent that the area in question was the wettest place in the village. The developer of the site was represented by an engineer who produced plans and scientific data. As the session progressed, and after observing previous hearings before us on the docket, it became clear that the committee activity was conducted exclusively within the context of scientific and engineering data. A friend sitting behind me, waiting for his turn before the conservation committee on another matter, leaned forward and said to me: ‘You’ve got to get a professional engineer’s study and lab tests of water samples in order to influence those guys. They’re all engineers.’

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It was conclusive that if our group was going to persuade this particular committee of engineers, we had to research the issue and justify our position on the basis of information and data which fit into their way of viewing the problem. If we wanted to prevail, we had to deliberate on a different playing field. I believe that almost all of the thinking about research within the expressive arts therapies to date has been oriented towards justification. As with the example I have just given, expressive arts therapists have accepted the fact that in order to advance the profession and influence public attitudes, they must justify the work to ‘external’ decision-makers who view reality exclusively according to the outcomes of scientific evidence. In no way do I oppose these research activities. I simply wish more people could understand that this type of inquiry does not include the entire universe of research possibilities. There are many other goals for research which I shall describe at a later point. If expressive arts therapy research is conducted exclusively with the objective of influencing people outside the profession, something important will be lost. We must also rigorously explore the essential qualities of the work within a context which understands and enhances its unique properties. We must stick to the images and processes of creative expression and trust that a heightened appreciation and understanding of the phenomena being studied will carry the profession to a more advanced and deeply respected status in the world. As we move away from justification as an exclusive motive for research, we shall find that scientific methods of inquiry will emerge naturally as preferred ways of gaining a deeper understanding of certain phenomena and problems. Without the pressure resulting from the imposition of one way of looking at the world on to every research opportunity, science and art will be free to interact naturally and collaboratively as they have done throughout history. Allen (1992) has correctly assessed how the art therapy discipline manifests a ‘clinification syndrome’, which she attributes to a sense of inferiority in relation to the more institutionally dominant scientific mental health professions. This prevailing need to justify oneself according to the standards of something external to one’s being results in the closeting of the essential artistic nature of the discipline. Allen suggests that the field might consider the artist-in-residence model for expressive arts therapy practice as an alternative to the scientific–clinician archetype. The artist-in-residence is not necessarily someone who comes and goes for brief visits, as we experience in schools and colleges. The therapeutic artist-in-residence is

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someone who stays and creates a reliable and constant artistic environment which acts upon people with its unique medicines and spirits. Allen questions the psychotherapeutic and clinical model as a way of approaching art’s timeless healing properties. If we shift our attention away from the clinical model to the studio approach to artistic medicine, we have a completely different world of research assumptions and practices. Knill (with Barba and Fuchs 1995) reminds us that every research activity will always be conducted according to a particular image of reality. Do we research our work within an artistic vision of the world or do we continue to see ourselves according to an external vision? Do we shape reality through our own artistic questioning of nature and our beliefs, or do we investigate our work through someone else’s questions, doubts and needs for proof ? I recently read an article which criticized the studio-oriented approach to healing through the arts because these methods were not backed up by ‘research’. In essence the author of the paper was saying that something occurring outside the paradigm within which she worked and viewed reality could only be justified according to that paradigm and its standards of research. This is an old rhetorical trick through which you demand that the perspective of the adversary be proven within the framework of reality that you construct and which denies the essential premises of the other’s point of view. If the ‘outsider’ complains that this imposition of an external measure of reality distorts the position being presented, the weight of the contemporary bias towards scientific truth is then used in yet another rhetorical move, reductio ad absurdum, which likens the complaint to a condition of absurdity, because who, after all, can question the absolute veracity of ‘scientific evidence’? I read with interest how recent scientific studies suggest that early exposure to music education can augment a child’s mental capacity. The public response to this study illustrates how our civilization, like my local conservation committee, views truth almost exclusively through a scientific lens. We quietly sat by as public schools across the country dropped the arts from the curriculum in favor of other subjects considered more essential. It is wonderful that scientific studies come along and prove the obvious. The reliance on the supposedly objective measure of science reflects a deeper malaise and an inability to take positions on what we innately know about the value of human experience. Those who demand scientific evidence typically display an absence of deeply felt convictions about what individual people and civilizations need. Reliance on scientific proof for social and

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educational policy will produce the most conservative and risk-free modes of education and therapy. German Baroque music and the traditions of African percussion were conceived according to deeply ingrained creative instincts that not only furthered the intelligence of the individual musicians who made the music, but also their respective regional civilizations and then, ultimately, the world’s musical intelligence. Do we need a scientific study to verify these conclusions? Imagine if the twentieth century pioneers of the arts therapies felt that they could only proceed on the basis of existing scientific validation for what they sensed the world needed. I remember the constant question that I received in starting an expressive arts therapy graduate program in the early 1970s. ‘How can you train people,’ I was asked, ‘if there are no jobs?’ I was frustrated by this limiting question, which tried to make sure that everything we did in the present was framed by what already existed. ‘The graduates will go out and create jobs,’ I said. At this point, nearly a quarter of a century later, many thousands have done as I envisioned, and hundreds more continue to do so every year. Research in the area of human experience has become a mode of social justification and control. What we do or do not do collectively must be ‘backed up’ by research data. Although this conservative and careful approach to social and professional policy has its merits, especially in terms of responsibility to subjects and the management of scarce resources, the one-sided preference for these methods undermines and represses creative experimentation and discovery. If we are able to expand our vision of research beyond the scope of justification according to scientific standards, what goals might this enlarged realm espouse? There is an assumption that research is always directed towards some form of knowing and explaining. My experience in expressive arts therapy suggests that research can be concerned with other complementary objectives, such as the need to experience, to inspire and collectively to build a profession. In Tending the Fire (1995), Ellen Levine offers a poetic basis for research activity. She describes how she hopes that her personal artistic inquiry ‘stimulates’ others to create. As a researcher, Levine’s goal is to make her voice ‘one flame that joins with others in our field to keep the fire alive’ (p.15). Levine also gives an idea from the Jewish tradition, tikkun ha’olam (the repair of the world), as an underlying purpose of her work. She practises

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expressive arts therapy and researches its purpose with an over-riding spiritual goal of repairing personal and global environments that have been damaged by pain and misfortune. The repair is achieved through the poetic fires of creative transformation. These alchemies are forever characterized by uncertainty and a faith that the process of creation will carry us through difficult situations. Levine’s work suggests that research activity can be pursued in order to inspire and stimulate others to perform with increased conviction and creativity. She illustrates her personal process of creative expression with the goal of inciting her readers to do the same for themselves and then to make this experience available to other people. This objective resonates closely with my experience of the creative process. My personal creativity and my commitment to the artistic process are fueled by the expressions of others. I am challenged by artistic images and the creative journeys of other people. Levine’s goal of ‘repair of the world’ also stimulates my spiritual sensibility; it arouses my compassion for others and my commitment to the transformation of suffering. I know from my experience and history that art contributes to these spiritual goals. Do these positions require scientific proof ? Or is it better to approach research as documentation of their effects in the present and as a way of tracing the constancy of these themes throughout history and the different cultures of the world? The examples of art-based research that I have given from my work with graduate students illustrate how the process of inquiry can further the effectiveness of professional practice. In my personal experience, I have always approached research as a way of experimenting with therapeutic methods and materials. I try out new ways of doing things, explore connections among media, and use my personal experience in the studio or my practice with others as an ongoing process of research. There have been no divisions between research and practice throughout my career. I am always striving to learn more about what I am doing, to discover more creative and fulfilling ways of approaching the making of art, and to link what I do with the thematic continuities of history. My respect for abiding themes requires research that integrates the library and the studio, history as well as immediate practice. This commitment to the broader scope of ideas and practices has always made it necessary for me to oppose an exclusive adoption of behavioral science research methods by the expressive arts therapy profession. The phenomena which I study cannot be boxed within controlled experiments which restrict creative and critical thinking.

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The desire ‘to know’ will always be a driving force in any research tradition, including one which utilizes the arts as principal modes of inquiry. Pat Allen’s book, Art Is a Way of Knowing (1995), enlarges the epistemological discourse to include distinctly artistic ways of understanding. Artistic knowing is different from intellectual knowing; this distinction is the basis of its creative value, therapeutic power and future significance for research. In a foreword to Allen’s book, M.C. Richards describes artistic knowing as intuitive, mysterious and renewable, as ‘an underground river that gives us life and mobility’ (p.vii). Allen’s presentation of personal experience is in keeping with the traditions of artistic expression and inquiry. An artist, she offers her expression as testimony of how knowledge is gained through the process of sustained artistic inquiry. As Allen records her personal experience, she simultaneously identifies universal themes and principles manifested through her experience. The personal is used as an opening to the experiences of all people, and the guiding tenet of artistic knowing is a faith that the process will carry us to deeper levels of insight and knowledge. In the expressive arts therapies, we all want ‘to know’ how the process of creation affects us. We need a deeper knowledge of what works in different therapeutic situations. I have recently been reading a doctoral dissertation which utilizes art-based inquiry guided by the belief that the phenomena must be allowed to speak for themselves (Paquet 1997). The dissertation focuses on the use of mask rituals in expressive arts therapy. The researcher presents a simple and direct goal as the basis of her inquiry, ‘determining how the mask ritual works’, rather than measuring its efficacy (p.132). The doctoral student uses her experience with masks and an experimental group as the basis for comparison with psychological and anthropological literature on the ritual use of masks. I realized when reading this dissertation how research and training are inseparable. Both are concerned with establishing personal familiarity with the intricacies of practice. Even at the most advanced levels of practice we are constantly educating ourselves through our practitioner research. Stephen Levine (1997) suggests that the expressive arts therapy experience involves the disintegration of old patterns in order to make way for new creations. He states that ‘It is the therapists’ own fear of breaking down that prevents them from letting clients go through the experience of disintegration’ (p.22). Based on this observation, we might focus expressive arts therapy research on making therapists personally familiar with the transformative effects of

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disintegration in order to let patients go through their personal encounters with the creative process without unnecessary intervention. We constantly undergo personal experience with the creative process in order to know its properties and to be ready and open to help others. Art-based research grows from a trust in the intelligence of the creative process and a desire for relationships with the images that emerge from it. These two focal points are the basis for a new tradition of inquiry. As the field of expressive arts therapy expands and matures, we will involve ourselves in deeper and more open-ended studies into how the process ‘works’. Liberated from having constantly to justify our practice to others and to ourselves, we will be able to understand it more intimately and thoroughly. I urge the expressive arts therapy profession to return to the studio, realizing that it is the natural place for artistic inquiry and expansion. All my research and experimentation with the expressive arts therapy experience affirms that we must be able to ‘trust the process’ and allow it to do its work of transformation. The more we know, the more we will trust and open ourselves to the medicines of creative expression. A more established and secure profession will also be able to focus more completely on the images and expressions it generates. In keeping with the practice of expressive arts therapy, the image we research will hold all of the ways we approach it. The abiding presence of the image sets the parameters of research rather than a particular discipline’s rules of engagement. Experience in supervising student research has shown me how the use of established approaches to inquiry, such as traditional behavioral science methodologies, does help to generate a more consistent and concrete end product, a less uncertain research experience for the student and supervisor, and a relatively consistent standard for the evaluation of quality. The methodology is laid out in advance, with the major area of choice being the selection of the problem to be investigated. These research activities often appear more concerned with teaching a particular scientific method than with the creation of new knowledge. The less imaginative researcher can produce an acceptable project by following procedures that do not demand a depth of creative resources. As a teacher and supervisor of research, I am well aware of the benefits of approaching the process of inquiry in this standardized manner. But when I read the completed studies, they tend to look the same; they bear little resemblance to the experience being investigated.

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Art-based research generally does involve more ambiguity, risk and uneven results in terms of the end product. But the outcomes tend to be more creative, less mediocre and more conducive to advancing the sophistication of practice. The final studies are distinctly individuated expressions more likely to be different from one another than similar. Most importantly, art-based research corresponds completely to the benefits and difficulties of the process and the phenomena being studied; for this reason it must be given more attention within the expressive arts therapy profession.

References Allen, P. (1992) ‘Artist-in residence: an alternative to ‘clinification’ for art therapists.’ Art Therapy 9, 1, 22–29. Allen, P. (1995) Art Is a Way of Knowing. Boston: Shambhala Publications. Jenkins, K. (1988) ‘Women of the cave: nine images and an artist-therapist face each other.’ Unpublished master’s thesis, Cambridge, MA, Lesley College Library. Knill, P., Barba, H. N. and Fuchs, M. (1995) Minstrels of Soul: Intermodal Expressive Therapy. Toronto: Palmerston Press. Landy, R. (1996) Essays in Drama Therapy: The Double Life. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Levine, E. (1995) Tending the Fire: Studies in Art, Therapy and Creativity. Toronto: Palmerston Press. Levine, S. (1997) Poiesis: The Language of Psychology and the Speech of the Soul. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. McNiff, S. (1989) Depth Psychology of Art. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas. McNiff, S. (1992) Art as Medicine: Creating a Therapy of the Imagination. Boston: Shambhala Publications. Moon, B. (1994) Introduction to Art Therapy: Faith in the Product. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas. Paquet, N. (1997) ‘The mask ritual: an ancient path of transformation for modern times.’ Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Institute of Transpersonal Psychology, Palo Alto, California. Politsky, R. (1995) Penetrating our personal symbols: discovering our guiding myths. Arts in Psychotherapy 22, 1, 9–20. Rice, J.S. (1987) ‘Mother may I? The story of the painting “Last Day at State Beach”: a portrait of a mother by her daughter, its beginning, its life as a creative process, and how this process may never end.’ Unpublished master’s thesis, Cambridge, MA, Lesley College Library. Richards, M.C. (1995) Foreword. In P. Allen, Art is a Way of Knowing. Boston: Shambhala Publications. Shapiro, J. (1989) ‘Descent into image: an archetypal picture-story.’ Unpublished master’s thesis, Cambridge, MA, Lesley College Library.

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Further reading Derrida, J. (1994) Roundtable discussion with Jacques Derrida. Villanova University, 3 October 1994, http://www.cas.usf.edu/journal/fobo/vill1.html. Grenadier, S. (1995) ‘The place wherein truth lies.’ Arts in Psychotherapy, 22, 5, 393–402. McNiff, S. (1977) ‘Motivation in art.’ Art Psychotherapy 4, 3/4, 125–136. Moon, B. (1990) Existential Art Therapy: The Canvas Mirror. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas. Moon, B. (1992) Essentials of Art Therapy Training and Practice. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas.

PART TWO

Clinical Perspectives

CHAPTER 5

Voicework as Therapy The Artistic Use of Singing and Vocal Sound to Heal Mind and Body Paul Newham Introduction: the expressive art of voice It is now widely accepted that there can be a therapy which engages directly with the psyche, just as there are therapies which engage directly with the body. This ‘psyche therapy’ or ‘psychotherapy’, deals with emotions, thoughts and memories and with neuroses, phobias, traumas and other psychological problems. Psychotherapy as we know it today originates in the work of Sigmund Freud, who initially called his therapeutic approach the ‘talking cure’ and whose study of the psyche is indistinguishable from his study of verbal language (Forrester 1980). Indeed, most branches of psychotherapy continue to focus on the spoken word as the major medium of expression. Although the expressive arts therapist, like the psychotherapist, is offering a therapy for the psyche, those who use the arts therapeutically provide an opportunity for the psyche to express itself not only through speech but also through artistic expression. One of Freud’s most gifted pupils was C.G. Jung, who then became his dedicated colleague and close friend before their relationship ended with a rivalry and combat which has shaped psychotherapy as much as their individual theories (Frey-Rohn 1990). Jung pointed out that the constituting material of the psyche is made up of images (Jung 1953a). In fact, Jung claimed that the psyche can only come to know itself by encountering images (Jung 1953b). In Jung’s view of psychotherapy, the aim of the therapist is to stimulate ‘creative work’ by which the imagination may be encouraged to fantasize, actively imagining and amplifying the constituting images of the psyche (Jung 1953c). Indeed, in many ways psychotherapy consists of two

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people playing together, and the materials of this play are images (Winnicott 1991). Jung used the term ‘active imagination’ to describe a process by which deeply buried and often unconscious images are brought to consciousness. Moreover, for Jung, the psyche’s images could be made manifest not only through talking but through dancing, singing, writing, painting and any other artistic medium (Samuels 1985). The therapeutic use of expressive arts, such as dance, drama and music, is predicated on the belief that the nature of the human psyche can express itself authentically through images rather than words: images in motion, images in sound, images in dramatic action (Naumberg 1958). This does not mean that all expressive arts therapists draw upon Jung’s model of psychological interpretation; however, they do all share a common belief that there are mediums of expression which are often more expedient at revealing the psyche than talking. One of the channels or mediums through which active imagination can take place consists of the non-verbal sounds of the human voice, what we may call ‘singing’ in its broadest possible sense (Newham 1993a). Working with the sounds of the human voice, in a manner comparable to a singing teacher but with therapeutic rather than aesthetic goals, therefore compares to the work of a drama therapist, dance therapist or music therapist; but here the images of the psyche take the form of vocal sound (Newham 1997a).

Voice and psyche The voice is the primary means of communication in human beings. Our voice is an expression of who we are and how we feel. In the tones of a person’s voice you can hear the subtle music of feeling and thought: you can hear the effervescent innocence of youth and the wisdom of experience and age; you can hear the hollow yearning of need and want, and the sharp edge of anger and retaliation. The tonal contours of the human voice weave an acoustic tapestry which reveal the peaks of excitement, agitation and worry, and the vales of contemplation, sorrow and heartache. The ever-shifting collage of emotions which we all host infiltrates the voice with tones of happiness, elation, sorrow and grief. In the voice you can hear resignation, indignation, hope and despair. In the voice you can hear the images of the psyche in sound. The musical and emotional quality of a voice independent of the words it utters reveals a great deal about a person’s nature, moods, preoccupations and

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character. A change in the tone of voice can completely alter the meaning of the same words, imbuing them with passivity or ferocity, triumph or defeat. When we listen to a voice, we are affected by it through the elusive power of images which seem to stimulate many senses. For example, we frequently hear the voice as though we are perceiving it through the sense of touch. We feel pinched, slapped, compressed, pierced, hammered, stroked, tickled or shaken by someone’s voice. We also often feel that we can taste a voice, hearing the despondent bitterness, the citrus tang of jealousy or sugary sweet sycophanticism. We also often feel that we see or hear the colour of a voice, the deep blue of melancholia, the green of envy and the red of retaliation. Temperature, too, is used to describe the quality of a voice, which can be experienced as warm, cool, burning hot or ice cold. A person’s voice may also give the listener the impression of a particular character, and we often judge a person’s personality from the sound of their voice. But it is not only that a particular quality of voice in another person influences the way we perceive them. It is also true that the particular quality of our own voice influences the way we perceive our self. The qualities that give a voice its unique colour serve an important function in maintaining our sense of identity, for the sound of our voice reminds us of who we are, it affirms and reinforces our self-image. In fact, the voice may be described as an acoustic mirror (Silverman 1988). The quality of our voice reflects back to us an image of who we are in sound, what has been called a ‘sound image of the self ’ (Anzieu 1979). If we sound child-like, then it is like staring in the mirror and seeing the face of a child. We will then naturally experience our self as being child-like. If we sound bitter and envious, then this sound is reflected and resounded in our ears, reinforcing the sense of our self as bitter and envious. Our voice and our psychological state therefore influence each other. Because of the intimate links between our voice and our psyche, by transforming and enhancing the way we sound, we can transform and enhance the way we perceive our self; and this, of course, influences the way others perceive us (Newham 1997a). As time passes, many people often become over-identified with a single image of themselves, and this singular and unchanging self-image is revealed in the quality of the voice (Redfearn 1985). For some people, their voice and psyche may become saturated with a particular emotional tone, such as bitterness, defeat, anxiety, fear or rage, and these emotional tones find their expression in the acoustic tones of the voice. For other people, their voice

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may get stuck in reflecting a single character or attitude. In such circumstances, it is as though the voice can become a rigid mask which cannot be removed. The word ‘personality’ originally referred to the sound passing through the mouth hole in the mask worn by actors in ancient Greek theatre, and this ancient origin of the word reminds us how deeply voice and character are linked. The mask disguises the actual face; and a vocal mask disguises the actual voice and therefore the true self of an individual. A person with such a vocal mask may feel enraged but sound intimidated; they may feel saddened but sound unmoved; they seek help but their voice signals self-certainty, they seek warmth and affection but their voice signals guarded detachment, they seek respect but their voice attracts belittlement. Therapeutic voicework can help to overcome this problem, enabling the voice to shake off the factors which keep it restrained. Then, rather than being a limited and constricted instrument, communicating only a tiny percentage of the personality, it can instead become a celebrated medium through which we can express the multicoloured fabric of the inner self (Newham 1997a). Deep within the psyche, we all play host to a reservoir of images: moods, characters, notions, impulses, feelings and ideas which appear most vividly in dreams, emerging as eccentric figures, animals, monsters, magical journeys and ominous situations. All these forms represent and symbolize important parts of the self. While the art therapist may help someone translate them into colour, the drama therapist into dramatic action and the dance therapist into movement, it is also possible for a professional practitioner who is trained to work with the voice to help translate the images of the psyche into vocal sound. For each of the inner parts of the self has a voice, and so by extending the breadth, depth, strength, flexibility and fluidity of the vocal range, it is possible to draw out the full imaginative spectrum of the psyche in sound. By giving voice to the multitudinous aspects of the self, it is possible to enable someone to grow into themselves and come to accept the entire self in all its propensities. One of the most vibrant and uplifting ways of accessing and expressing the full self in sound is through the act of singing. Throughout the world, the fundamental right to vocal expression has existed for centuries in the form of singing. To redeem and return the singing voice to those who have lost it is also to return to them a fundamental and essential part of their self. For we all begin life and spend our first months expressing our emerging self through

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sound and song; and, developmentally speaking, it is this ability which is lost to the overbearing dogma of spoken language.

The early songs of infancy For the first three months, the baby cries only as an expression of hunger and distress, the melody of which rises and falls like a siren; and within weeks a mother will be able to distinguish her child’s cry from that of many others without face-to-face contact. The mother has an innate ability to detect the idiosyncratic cadences, the unique quality of rhythm and melody which her baby alone possesses. At around three months, a new quality of crying emerges which also has a rising and falling melody but which usually has a slightly higher pitch range than the melody of distress. This is identified as the emergence of the first pleasure cry from which the mother is able to differentiate between cries of hunger and cries of tiredness, between cries of physical discomfort and those of emotional irritability, between cries of distress and those of pleasure (Ostwald 1973). The emerging pleasure sounds contain acoustic properties which act as the precursor for the vowels that will later be used in words; and the differentiation between the melody of distress and that of pleasure is the baby’s first step towards the acquisition of speech (Lewis 1936). However, whereas the verbal infant will later organize such sounds according to the rules of language, the baby, not yet familiar with such a scheme, arranges them according to an intuitive, creative and innate sense of pitch, melody and rhythm in a fashion akin to the composition of music. This instinctive musical arrangement of spontaneous vocal sounds is known as ‘cooing’. Between the ages of about three and six months, a new kind of sound called ‘babbling’ occurs, which is identified as the emergence of sounds which form the raw material for consonants. The ultimate achievement of the babbling stage is the ability to combine these new staccato percussive sounds, which are akin to consonants, with the earlier sustained tonal sounds, which are like vowels. Now, the child talks in its own language in which the attentive listener can hear, or so she thinks, words from her own language, words from foreign languages, and words which are pure ingenious invention. Up to about 12 months, the acoustic utterances of the baby – the crying, cooing and babbling – emerge purely instinctively and not as a result of any instruction from the mother or care-giver. Deaf babies cry, coo and babble

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just as hearing babies do (Greene and Mathieson 1989). The vocalization is genetically inherited in the same way as the instinct to suckle at the breast; it is one of the biological patterns of behaviour which the human species universally possesses; and, despite the unique quality to each baby’s voice, there is a ubiquitous similarity to the crying, cooing and babbling of all babies that is recognizable world-wide (Greene and Conway 1963). In developmental psychology, these first acoustic expressions of the infant have been termed ‘spontaneous song’ because the preverbal ability to cry, coo and babble emanates from the inherent neurological encoded capacity to compose and sing melody (Gardner 1982). This instinctive, spontaneous song-making also plays a pre-eminent role in the unfolding of musical awareness (Hargreaves 1992). Adult musical improvised singing is processed by the right hemisphere of the brain, the same hemisphere which stimulates the baby’s crying, cooing and babbling. Verbal language, meanwhile, is organized by the left hemisphere. This is why patients who have suffered a stroke and lost the ability to formulate and articulate speech can still often sing songs with their melody and lyrics intact. Just as the infantile capacity for the creation of spontaneous song is an innate genetic instinct, so, too, the mother has the potential to comprehend the emotion or need communicated through her baby’s crying as an integral aspect of her genetic predisposition. It is her positive response to the sounds that affirms the communicative efficacy of the infant’s vocalization; and the babbling eventually leads to mock conversations with the mother or care-giver which further serve to comfort and arouse the child. The vocal nourishment that the mother provides for her child through her voice is just as important to the infant’s development as her milk (Tomatis 1991). Indeed, we may go so far as to say that the mother’s voice is a kind of substitute milk which flows out of her mouth and into the baby’s ears, as the milk flows out of her breast or from the bottle in her hand and into the baby’s mouth. The renowned psychologist and paediatrician, D.W. Winnicott, proposed that the infant uses singing and vocalizing as a transitional object. In other words, when the mother leaves the room, the baby continues to vocalize, emulating the mother’s vocal patterns as a way of holding on to her calming presence (Winnicott 1991). The maternal voice also acts as a container, an acoustic equivalent to a safe, delineated and boundaried spatial area in which to experiment with the actions which facilitate growth (Bion 1962). In some ways, the mother’s

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voice replaces the fluid of the womb, enveloping the baby three hundred and sixty degrees; and it has been termed a ‘sonorous envelope’ (Anzieu 1976) which ‘surrounds, sustains and cherishes the child’ (Rosolato 1974). Moreover, the combined voice of mother and infant forms an ‘audio-phonic skin’, which contains the emerging self of the infant in the same way as the epidermal skin (Anzieu 1976). The most important aspect of the sounds made during preverbal infancy is that they are expressive rather than descriptive (Langer 1953). During the preverbal stage, the infant creates a tonal language according only to the music of emotion and instinct (Harris 1990). During this early period of preverbal life, all sounds are ‘just various ways of singing to the world’ (Merleau-Ponty 1970). However, the child’s success at communication depends upon the ability to combine sounds to formulate the words of a particular verbal language (Hymes 1971). The transition from a universal musical tonality to the acquisition of the language specific to the child’s culture is achieved by a process of education. The care-giver repeats and ‘rewards’ those sounds which have a place in the words of her language but discourages and ‘punishes’ those which her particular language does not utilize, so that the unusable ones become ‘extinct’ (Skinner 1957). In German, for example, many words end with ‘unf ’, a sound which is not accepted in English. Though children are dependent on the ‘punishment’ and ‘reward’ responses of a care-giver to enter into a specific language, they also appear to make appropriate grammatical choices which have not been taught (Pinker 1994). However, the infant’s original acoustic tapestry of spontaneous music, the jumble-talk and gobbledegook which utilizes the entire range of semi-articulate sounds available to a human voice, is, through the process of training, reduced until the only remaining sounds are those which are of linguistic use in the particular cultural context. This process, which on the one hand represents a development, also necessitates a cessation, a loss. In the preverbal phase, vocal sounds act as a direct expression of experience. With the advent of language, however, the words serve to describe this experience. The word ‘sad’ replaces the sound of sadness. The word ‘joy’ replaces the sound of joy. As a result, the experience of sadness or joy is no longer necessary to the communication of their meaning; and the nature of such emotions therefore to some extent evaporates. Ultimately, the infant is required to give up the direct spontaneous expression of emotion in favour of an abstract code of signification (Doane

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and Hodges 1992). Once the child enters the symbolic world of verbal language, the original emotional world of experience which was expressed through sound becomes organized and articulated, and consequently appears to be ‘made prisoner of language’ (Smith 1996). Moreover, this creates the sensation of a loss, an absence or a lack (Kristeva 1980). Psychotherapeutically-oriented feminists have pointed out that verbal language therefore separates infants from their feelings (Tong 1989). This is why working with the sung non-verbal sounds of the voice has been identified as so important by contemporary feminist psychotherapeutic theory; for it provides a ‘new key for understanding the psychological, social, and cultural order’ and ‘a means to establishing psychological health’ (Gilligan 1993). Many adults continue to feel that verbal language does not properly or fully represent their self and that many of their inner experiences are literally beyond words, which can give rise to a sense of complete isolation (Killingmo 1990). But it has been asserted that one of the roles which a psychotherapist can assume for his or her clients is ‘a singing partner’ who can sing with them, ‘sharing their load’, harmonizing, reverberating and echoing their sufferings (Ayre 1988). Therapeutic voicework can uncover the musical language of voice which lies hidden beneath the cognitive language of words (Newham 1995/96). Working therapeutically with the non-verbal sounds of the voice can help to re-animate and re-access such experiences by allowing a return to a preverbal mode of expression through spontaneous singing; such a process of exploration may be termed ‘voicework’.

Defining voicework Voicework may perhaps best be described as a generic term which includes any work with or on the voice. Within this definition, a singing teacher could be said to practise voicework in developing the vocal skills of her pupils; a bereavement counsellor could be said to practise voicework in helping a client to feel safe and comfortable in giving voice to grief; a speech and language therapist conducts voicework in helping a patient be relieved of pathological conditions which threaten the health of the voice; a choir leader may be said to practise voicework in enabling a mass of disparate voices to synthesize into a harmonious whole; a psychotherapist may draw upon voicework in assisting a client to give vent to rage through shouts and yells; a répétiteur conducts voicework when she helps an anxious opera singer with

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the task of sustaining the demands of the music while articulating the poetic text; a music therapist uses voicework when she helps a young child to create a song from a simple rhyme; a priest employs voicework when using the tonal contours of his voice to communicate to the congregation; and a politician uses voicework when he deliberately employs specific vocal timbres to convince and persuade. All of these people are using the voice as a channel through which to express or ‘push out’ something from the inside; and the voice is indeed a major bridge between the inner world of mood, emotion, instinct and thought and the outer world of relationship, discourse and interaction. However, when a practitioner is trained especially to facilitate the expression of intimate psychological elements through the sounds of the voice and is further able to help the client develop a clear understanding of how the deep emotions and intense images which can emerge in the form of vocal sound reflect the nature of the whole person, then we may say that ‘therapeutic voicework’ is being practised. Moreover, without such a training and ability, like all therapeutic processes, the practise of therapeutic voicework can be health-threatening rather than health-enhancing (Newham 1997a). In 1993, I implemented the first accredited professional training in therapeutic voicework; the particular methodology which I teach is known as ‘voice movement therapy’ (Newham 1993b, 1997a). In assessing the development of voice movement therapy, it is apparent that the discipline to which it most directly compares is that of the expressive arts therapies and, like the other arts therapies, it draws on the rich history of the arts in healing (Newham 1994).

A brief history of therapeutic voicework Song-making and singing has, for thousands of years, formed part of healing ceremonies performed by cultures all over the world, where the use of vocal sounds to heal the sick is or was often the guarded practice of a select member of the community – a medicine woman, a magician, a sorcerer, a witch-doctor or a shaman (Eliade 1989; Halifax 1991). Here, the process of healing is aimed at ridding the body and soul of the spirits which are thought to be the cause of the illness; and central to the act of spiritual exorcism is the process of catharsis by which the patient discharges pestilent and violating spirits and emotions, which often emerge in the form of terrifying vocal noises and which the patient emits while in a state of semi-consciousness (Rasmussen 1958). Such vocal sounds often have no articulate words but are

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a string of syllables, cries, screeches and improvised sonic forms which sustain the trance experience (Frank 1961). The culture of the American Indians has a long history of using voice and song as an integral part of the healing rituals, where part of the cure for sickness involves finding a healer who knows the ‘medicine song’ appropriate to a particular illness. By remembering and guarding the life-long existence of the song, the healer protects the tribe from impending destruction; these songs are therefore preserved by being passed down orally through the generations (Densmore 1948). In Western Europe, the healing power of song can be traced to Pythagoras, the ancient Greek philosopher for whom the fundamental principles of music – such as rhythm, melody and proportion of high and low, soft and loud – had their equivalent in the human soul, or psyche. The right music could therefore bring the soul into order and integration, while the wrong sounds could throw the whole person into confusion, madness and disarray. During Roman times, Cicero, in the tradition of Pythagoras, proclaimed that every emotion had a corresponding vocal sound; and he compared the tones of the voice to the strings of the lyre, both of which he believed could be tuned to represent perfectly changes in human mood and temperament. Later still, during the Renaissance, the notion of a soul-map for the voice was further developed into principles for the composition of vocal music. Renaissance composers took the four elements of earth, water, air and fire, originally depicted by the Greek philosopher, Hippocrates, and equated them with different classical vocal ranges. Earth was bass, water was tenor, alto was air and soprano was fire. Each of the Hippocratic elements was thought to correspond respectively to four humours in the body: blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile, the balance between which was thought to be crucial for the healthy functioning of the body and soul. Vocal music was composed in such a way as to create a harmonious and proportionate combination of the four vocal timbres and thereby induce an analogous equilibrium in the corresponding humours of the body. It was the ancient Greek concept of catharsis that inspired Sigmund Freud, who found that when a patient was able to get in touch with long-lost memories of previous trauma and then put these forgotten tragedies into words, the symptoms caused by the event disappeared. However, Freud’s most apposite discovery was that the cure only worked if the patient’s speech expressed the intensity of emotion befitting the trauma; and so patients were

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encouraged to scream, sob, whimper, howl and groan as they told the tragic tales of their past (Freud 1953–74). Wilhelm Reich, one of Freud’s most gifted students, radically redirected the techniques of the talking cure, combining massage and respiratory exercises, and encouraged patients to exaggerate the sounds of their breathing, assisting them in a cathartic release of repressed emotion in order to liberate body and mind from neuroses (Reich 1948). These techniques were further developed by Reich’s student, Alexander Lowen, who listened not only to the gasps, cries and sighs which were emitted during the physical manipulation of his patients’ bodies, but also to the qualities inherent in the patients’ speaking voices: the patterns of inflection, tone and rhythm which he believed mirrored the nature of underlying emotional dynamics (Lowen 1976). Lowen believed that freeing the voice resulted in psychological liberation. Lowen had been inspired by Paul Moses, a laryngologist specializing in the psychology of speech and voice disorders. By correctly analysing the personality of psychiatric patients based only on hearing phonograph recordings of their voices, Moses verified that it is possible to detect in the voice alone underlying emotional or psychological disturbance (Moses 1942). Moses believed that the instinctive musical activities of crying, cooing and babbling are extremely pleasurable and releasing but that the acquisition of speech is, by comparison, a traumatic experience whereby the child is required to bring his feelings under the jurisdiction of words. According to Moses, the process of singing offers adults a second chance once again to give free rein to their feelings and instincts via the spontaneous emission of inarticulate vocal sounds (Moses 1954). While those such as Reich, Lowen and Moses worked within the theoretical paradigm established by Freud, a parallel line of inquiry was initiated by Jung. For his medical thesis, Jung studied the extraordinary case of a fifteen and a half year old girl who acted as a medium for the voices of the dead. Jung attended her regular seances, where he witnessed these dead people express themselves through the girl’s voice. Each time the girl expressed a different character, the quality or timbre of her voice would completely change. On occasions this involved major transformations of dialect and accent from German to French or Italian. Furthermore, though the girl displayed only a faint knowledge of High German in her normal life, in her trance she spoke the language faultlessly. Jung understood that these

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characters were different aspects of the girl’s own personality (Jung 1953d). Later, Jung noticed how those who in his day were diagnosed as schizophrenics often talked to themselves in voices with very different qualities; one was aggressive, spiteful and provocative; the other luring, sly and seductive; another Italian, confident and full of bravado; the other English, polite and reserved (Jung 1953e). In the schizophrenia of his day, Jung believed he observed merely an exaggerated form of a dialogue essential to the health of the psyche. Jung proposed that each person is composed of many ‘little people’ or ‘sub-personalities’, and he encouraged any process by which a conversation between the various selves which constitute the self could converse with each other (Jung 1953a). Jung was therefore keen to observe many processes which gave outward manifestation to the inner voices, including painting, poetry, drama, opera and, above all, dreaming. The first pioneer to focus specifically on using the singing voice as a medium for the expression of the many selves was the Jewish German, Alfred Wolfsohn, who was inspired by Jung and whom Moses considered to be the world expert on the psychology of the human voice. At the outbreak of World War I, Wolfsohn was called to serve as a medic in the front-line trenches, during which time he became both horrified and fascinated by the incredible sounds which the adverse conditions and suffering elicited from the voices of dying and wounded soldiers. Following the war, he became plagued by aural hallucinations of the extreme vocal sounds which he had heard in the trenches and which psychiatric treatment could not cure. Wolfsohn became convinced that if he could actually sing the sounds that haunted his mind, he would be able to bring about a cathartic release of the stored up emotions associated with the voices and by so doing silence them. As a result of this vocal catharsis, not only did he cure his illness, but he embarked upon the process of passing on to others the results of his own investigations by offering singing lessons with a psychotherapeutic orientation to a variety of students, first in Germany and later in London (Newham 1992a). Wolfsohn’s intention was to utilize the potential range of the human voice as a probe and a mirror, investigating and reflecting the many aspects of the human psyche. Therefore, those who took lessons with him committed themselves not only to a thorough psycho-archeology of their self, but to the process of acquiring the courage and ability to express the many aspects of themselves through the voice. This meant that the voice had to be permitted

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to yell, scream, sob and give voice to the animalistic, primal, preverbal utterances which are part of the rightful expression of the self, as well as the sublime and the beautiful. Wolfsohn found that by liberating the voice from restriction, he could also help his clients to loosen the psychological factors which inhibited the development of their true self (Newham 1997b). When Wolfsohn died, the direction of his work was taken over by an actor called Roy Hart, who had worked with Wolfsohn for over 15 years and who began to steer the work towards presentations of experimental vocal performances. In addition to the work of Roy Hart, many other avant-garde theatre practitioners have contributed to the therapeutic application of voicework (Martin 1991). The range of vocal styles used in the theatre groups of the 1960s, which used sounds rather than words, screams and cries rather than speech, owed much to the original impetus provided by the French visionary, Antonin Artaud, who sought to liberate Western theatre from what he described as the exclusive dictatorship of words. Reacting against the great wave of realistic plays that had swept Europe, Artaud believed that theatre should approach those subjects for which speech is inadequate or is unable to express by utilizing a language based on vocal sounds which would, he believed, return the minds of audience and actors to the origins of its inner struggles (Artaud 1981). It was Artaud’s focus on voice that influenced a chain of theatre practitioners who had studied and admired Artaud, including Peter Brook, who set up experimental theatre workshops at the Royal Shakespeare Company in which he required of his actors that they communicate to an audience without the use of words (Innes 1981). Brook became so intrigued by these experiments into the nature of vocal sound that he founded the International Theatre Research Centre in Paris, a company of actors of different nationalities who sought to discover vocal utterances which could communicate the power which sits beneath the surface of everyday discourse, exposing the fabric of the collective unconscious (Brook 1988). Another theatre director, Jerzy Grotowski, was meanwhile researching a similar area in Poland, where a group of actors came together to explore the way in which the images of the collective unconscious could be expressed through the body and the voice, without recourse to the spoken word. Grotowski’s group of devout actors became known for their revolutionary work on vocal expression, and their voices possessed a resonance and power which many said had not been heard from actors before. The use of

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non-verbal voice in these productions was part of Grotowski’s investigation into the use of the actor’s own psychological material as the substance of performance, and his work was intricately and overtly bound up with a belief in the ability of a human being to express aspects of the psyche physically and vocally, including those aspects which are buried in the collective unconscious, without using words. But, for Grotowski, there was a series of inhibitions, resistances and blocks which prevented the transformation of the psyche’s images into vocal sound, and it was these obstacles that his system of acting exercises set out to remove (Kumiega 1987). Neither Wolfsohn, Artaud, Brook or Grotowski were clinically trained or qualified as therapists, yet their work on the human voice was deeply rooted in a respect for the intimate connection between vocal sound and psyche. Their designated field of inquiry was not therapy but theatre; yet their work reminds us that as much therapeutic inquiry has been conducted in the artist’s studio as has been pursued in the clinician’s consulting room. There have been some important contributions to the theory and practice of voicework by other pioneers who were neither artists nor therapists, but educators. Among them was F.M. Alexander who, while working as an actor, found that on many occasions he would begin to lose his voice half way through a recital. In searching for a cause he erected mirrors in which he watched himself recite, noticing the physical movements which accompanied the use of his voice, and he observed particularly that he pulled his head backwards and downwards whenever he came to speak. Eventually, Alexander realized that these movements had a direct influence and effect on all the other muscles of his body; he developed a technique for resisting these and other negative habitual movements, which resulted in a liberation of the voice (Alexander 1987). Another significant pioneer who has contributed important insights to the relationship between movement and vocalization is the Swiss educator, Emile Dalcroze, for whom vocal music is rooted in the rhythm of bodily movement and whose aim was to transform the whole organism into what he called an ‘inner ear’ which would enable people to feel the emotions provoked by music throughout the entire musculature (Dalcroze 1965). Comparable to the work of Dalcroze is that of Rudolf Steiner, an Austrian visionary mystic who developed a field of investigation known as ‘Eurythmy’ which is speech made visible through movement. Eurythmy consists of a network of exercises which can allegedly help with a variety of dysfunctions, diseases and disorders (Steiner 1983).

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This review of the aforementioned practitioners provides just a small sample of the rich investigations into the healing potential of the human voice and serves to establish the fact that there is a great resource of diverse theory and technique from which to draw when seeking to utilize voicework as a therapy.

Art and science in voicework Like the other expressive arts therapies then, a modality which we may name ‘therapeutic voicework’ can draw upon a rich history of artistic and therapeutic practice. However, therapeutic use of the voice necessarily differs in some ways from its therapeutic use in some of the other expressive arts. The human voice is as equally affected by the state of the body as it is by the state of the mind. Physical illness or debilitation, negative postural habits, or movement patterns and muscular tension all restrain the voice. The voice box, or larynx, is suspended like a trapeze, held up by the tensile filaments of muscles which form a labyrinth, a terrain stretching across and throughout the entire body. Because psychological states influence neuromuscular activity, the muscles which operate the voice are predisposed to tension, fatigue, rigidity and constriction. Enabling the voice to reconnect with the self in order that the full range of the psyche’s images may be expressed therefore involves releasing the vocal muscles and the entire bodily musculature to which they connect from the conditioning which they have received. An expressive arts therapy with voice as its primary focus therefore, by necessity, must incorporate physical intervention. This can be achieved through a combination of creative movement, massage and manipulation. However, often the transformation of muscular patterns provokes the release of heightened emotions, expressed through intense sounds. On most occasions, this is not simply because a part of the body is physically tender or injured, but because in some way a particular emotional experience has been stored or localized there. The practitioner utilizing vocal expression as a therapy is therefore also required to deal proficiently, accurately and compassionately with the often highly charged emotional vocalizations which can occur during a process of therapeutic voicework. In addition to the predominance of muscle tissue throughout the voice apparatus, the larynx connects to the thyroid cartilage, a dominant station on the endocrine circuit which distributes hormones throughout the body. Because hormonal release is such an integral component to emotional

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experience, the voice is again highly susceptible to both psychological and physical influences. The healthy development of a boy’s larynx at puberty is dependent on the release of these hormones by the endocrine glands, which cause physical changes to the voice box, resulting in the deepening of the pitch. The hormonal secretions of the thyroid also affect a woman’s voice, not specifically at puberty but throughout life, particularly during menstruation, pregnancy and menopause, all of which can be accompanied by changes in the sound of the voice. Because the quality of the voice depends in part upon the chemical processes of the endocrine system, any hormonal change can potentially cause a change in the sound of the voice and therefore the sense of self. Also, because hormonal changes can occur as a result of emotional reactions to events and circumstances, anything which affects the psyche can influence hormonal release which in turn will affect the voice. A practitioner of any kind of therapeutic voicework must therefore be familiar with the way that the voice is influenced by hormonal and neurochemical activity. Because therapeutic voicework involves expression through a broad range of sounds, many of which are unfamiliar to most people in their everyday discourse, the vocal instrument must be protected from misuse. Unlike the client of an art therapist, for example, whose instrument is the canvas or paper and brush or pen, the client of therapeutic voicework is using a very delicate part of the body to express an extremity of images. Indeed, very often a client of any kind of deep therapeutic voicework will give vocal form to the shadow, the darkest and most primitive aspects of the self (Newham 1990); and this delicate part of the body, which is capable of expressing the shadow in sound is also highly susceptible to damage. Damaged voices fall into two categories: organic and functional. Organic voice disorders are those where the actual tissue and flesh of the vocal apparatus become deformed or diseased. Organic disorders include laryngitis, scars or growths on the vocal cords, and benign or malignant tumours in the larynx. Functional voice disorders are conditions which inhibit and restrict the healthy and optimal use of the voice without actually causing any physical damage. Functional problems usually occur as a result of misuse of the voice and are extremely common. Because these functional problems do not show up on a medical examination, people with a functional problem often live feeling dissatisfied with their voice. In fact, two of North America’s leading speech and language therapists estimate that 25 per cent of

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the North American population experience difficulties with their voice which affect their psychological well-being (Boone and McFarlane 1988). Statistics show that an enormous proportion of voice problems, organic and functional, originate in an emotional or psychological issue (Butcher, Elias and Raven 1993). Yet alleviating such difficulties demands that a practitioner call upon the science of voice production as much as the art of artistic expression through sound. In addition, because psychological factors influence the functioning of the voice, many clients may present to the therapeutic voicework practitioner an issue which has been translated into a somatic difficulty which therefore requires a ‘physiotherapy’ as much as a ‘psychotherapy’. In implementing the discipline known as ‘voice movement therapy’ and in designing a qualifying training for practitioners of therapeutic voicework, it has therefore been necessary to integrate the results of research in the expressive arts, the psychotherapies and the physical science of voice (Newham 1992b).

Voice movement therapy in practice Voice movement therapy takes the form of a singing lesson where clients begin by making their most effortless natural sound, while the practitioner provides coaching, suggests images, choreographs movements, provides massage and physical manipulation, and helps to interpret the psychological experiences which arise as a result of this process. This therapeutic vocal work can be beneficial for many different kinds of client. First, there are those who feel that their voice is confined to a particular quality which does not reflect their true self. Some people feel their voice is too childish, too frail, too domineering or too hard. Therapeutic voicework can help such people to find an elasticity to their voice, so that it can move through different sonorities, expressing a broader range of their personality. For example, I worked with one client who had been extremely cushioned by a mother who treated her like a child even in her adult years. Whenever this client attempted to assume her adult self, she would lose the mother’s affection and so had maintained a child-like identity in order to sustain a positive relationship with the mother. This was manifested in a voice which was very high in pitch with a very breathy quality that prevented her from asserting an adult authority. Through the therapeutic voicework, it was possible to enable the client to lower the pitch and decrease the breathiness, providing access to a deeper, fuller voice. However, this new voice brought feelings of rage and anger to the surface, many of them directed against the

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mother. Further therapeutic voicework therefore consisted of giving form to these feelings through a variety of sounds, providing a release and expression of hitherto dormant and unconscious feelings. Other clients are more troubled by physical restrictions which negatively influence the voice. For example, I worked with one client who was severely disabled and confined to a wheelchair. The demands of continually turning the wheels of the chair had led to a concave implosion of the torso, which in turn was compressing his larynx and restricting the expansion of the lungs. Consequently, his voice was very weak and soft and he could only vocalize short phrases of speech. By physically massaging his neck and torso while retraining him to operate the wheelchair, he was able to strengthen his voice, which became loud and clear as his breathing capacity increased, enabling him to speak for longer without getting out of breath. However, with the new respiratory capacity and vocal malleability came a flood of emotion in the form of tears and sobs. The further work therefore consisted of giving vocal shape to these emotions through sounds and songs which expressed deep loss and longing. One of the aspects of voice movement therapy which align it with the precepts of other expressive arts therapies is the use of a creative presentation – in this case songs – to give artistic form to a personal trauma. For example, I once worked with a man who was one of the few survivors of an aeroplane crash and whose voice had subsequently been reduced to a faint, weak tone. Though he had few optical memories of the traumatic event, he did recall many acoustic impressions. From his description of the accident he created a set of lyrics, each line beginning with the words ‘I heard’: I heard the engines rumble; I heard the women behind me praying; I heard the pilot speaking; I heard the sirens whistling. Using the voices of each member of the therapeutic group, the client’s lyrics were musicalized, allowing an opportunity to step away from a verbal analysis of the trauma into a creative expression through song which combined catharsis with creativity (Newham 1997a). This client, like many of those attracted to the expressive arts therapies, experienced disappointment in the ability of verbal therapy to offer a genuine transformation of a trauma. In my experience of therapeutic voicework, one particular area where clients seek a creative expression of their experience rather than a verbal analysis is in the field of sexual abuse. For example, I worked with a client who suffered pain and discomfort around her jaw and felt a ‘sticky’ sensation in her throat which made her

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voice feel ‘stuck’ whenever she came to sing or express herself through prolonged vocalization such as shouting. This client had been orally sexually abused as a child and had pursued a considerable amount of verbal counselling and psychotherapy. During the first stage of our work, we combined movement exercises with physical manipulation and massage of her physiognomical musculature to stimulate sensations of fluidity. The client then explored making sounds which expressed an expulsion of the sticky sensation in the throat, ranging from long, gentle ‘melting’ and ‘trickling’ sounds to rhythmic ‘spitting’ sounds. During the work, the client’s hands opened and closed making fists and her torso went into spasm. It was as though her body was remembering the experience of being held down or confined, unable to find the strength to fight off an overbearing oppressor. During our work, we turned these movements into a dance and evolved the sounds into a protest song. The singing of the song and the dancing of the movements was healing both somatically and psychologically, as it gave direct expression to a trauma rather than a translated description of it (Newham 1997a). The use of voice movement therapy to contribute healing to physical as well as psychological problems has been researched with specific focus on women with eating disorders by Kessler (Kessler 1997). Using vocal sound to ritualize primal activities such as eating again removes the condition from the realm of pathology and re-places it in the arena of art, offering a fresh artistic perspective on a hitherto clinical dysfunction.

Conclusion: the future of therapeutic voicework At the time of writing, therapeutic voicework is an absent, rare or minor component in the training of expressive arts therapists. Despite this, there are some individual practitioners utilizing vocal expression as part of their modality, drawing inspiration from some key figures in the history of this field. Arthur Robbins used singing as a means to psychotherapeutic exploration with adult clients (Robbins 1986). Nordoff and Robbins, meanwhile, used what they termed ‘therapeutically instigated singing’ with young developmentally delayed children. Through their use of music, Nordoff and Robbins actually highlighted cases of misdiagnosis and consequently provided for a more positive prognosis. For example, children labelled as autistic were subsequently revealed to be aphasic due to brain injury with additional emotional disturbance. Because music and sound-making provided an alternative to speech, by which the client could

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express previously dammed-up thoughts and feelings, the emotional disturbance often lessened and the symptoms which had attracted the diagnosis of autism receded (Nordoff and Robbins 1992). Music therapist Julie Sutton used non-verbal singing with a young boy with Lexical Syntactic Deficit Syndrome – which causes a patient to experience problems with the rules governing sentence-building and retention of vocabulary – and found that this resulted in increased confidence to communicate through words (Sutton 1993). Yet therapeutic voicework is rare within music therapy. Gianluigi di Franco, a representative of the European Music Therapy Committee, points out that there are many music therapists who have a great fluency when communicating through the playing of instruments but who have a great difficulty in expressing themselves through the use of their voices (di Franco 1993). A number of dance movement therapists have accommodated the intrinsic relationship between dance and song by nurturing collective singing (Meekums 1992; Steiner 1992). Others, meanwhile, have sought to find a coherent model for analysing the sound and movement patterns made by clients of the expressive arts therapy process (Brownell and Lewis 1990; Canner 1972). However, the use of the voice has remained peripheral to the therapeutic procedures employed by most practitioners. Within the field of drama therapy, again, only a small number of drama therapists have facilitated extended use of the voice as part of their approach (Mitchell 1992). In fact, the British Association of Drama Therapists has acknowledged the lack of a serious coherent model of voicework within its field (Passalacqua 1995/96). One of the most proliferate advocates for an integrated expressive arts therapy is Shaun McNiff, who, in his early work, used what he called ‘sound enactments and therapeutic opera’ with infant clients, acknowledging that the use of voice ‘allows for a primal and very direct expression of the emotions’ (McNiff 1981). McNiff continues to assert the essential role which therapeutic voicework has to play in the expressive arts therapy process, while simultaneously acknowledging the sparsity of activity in this field when compared with the other artistic mediums of expression (McNiff 1997). However, as more practitioners become interested in the voice as a distinct channel of human expression, and as more clients verify the benefit of using singing and vocal sound to heal, it is likely that various approaches

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to therapeutic voicework will be appropriated by professional expressive arts therapists and by training programmes in the expressive arts therapies.

References Alexander, F.M. (1987) The Use of the Self. London: Victor Gollancz. Anzieu, D. (1976)’ L’enveloppe sonore du soi.’ Nouvelle Revue de Psychanalyse 13, 170–173. Anzieu, D. (1979) ‘The sound image of the self.’ International Review of Psychoanalysis 6, 23–36. Artaud, A. (1981) The Theatre and Its Double. London: John Calder. Ayre, L. (1988) ‘Music the messenger.’ Unpublished master’s thesis for Antioch University, Zurich, Switzerland. Bion, W. (1962) ‘A theory of thinking.’ International Journal of Psychoanalysis 43, 306–310. Boone, D. and McFarlane, S. (1988) The Voice and Voice Therapy. New York: Simon & Schuster. Brook, P. (1988) The Shifting Point: Forty Years of Theatrical Exploration. London: Methuen. Brownell, A. and Lewis, P. (1990) ‘The Kestenberg Movement Profile in assessment of vocalization.’ In P. Lewis and S. Loman (eds) The Kestenberg Movement Profile: Its Past, Present Applications and Future Directions. Keene: Antioch New England Graduate School. Butcher, P., Elias, A. and Raven, R. (1993) Psychogenic Voice Disorders and Cognitive-Behaviour Therapy. London: Whurr. Canner, N. (1972) ‘Stimulating sounds and vocalization through body movement and rhythm with hospitalized children.’ In Writings on Body Movement and Communication. Columbia, MD: American Dance Therapy Association. Dalcroze, E.J. (1965) Le Rythme, la Musique et l’Education. Lausanne: Foetische. Densmore, F. (1948) ‘The use of music in the treatment of the sick by American Indians.’ In D. Schullian and M. Schoen (eds) Music and Medicine. New York: Henry Schuman. Doane, J. and Hodges, D. (1992) From Klein to Kristeva: Psychoanalytic Feminism and the Search for the ‘Good Enough’ Mother. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Eliade, M. (1989) Shamanism: Archaic Technique of Ecstasy. London: Penguin. Forrester, J. (1980) Language and the Origins of Psychoanalysis. London: Macmillan. di Franco, G. (1993) ‘Music therapy: a methodological approach in the mental health field.’ In M. Heal and T. Wigram (eds) Music Therapy in Health and Education. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Frank, J. (1961) Persuasion and Healing. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press. Freud, S. (1953–74) Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. Vol. 2. Edited by James Strachey in collaboration with Anna Freud, assisted by Alix Strachey and Alan Tyson. London: Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psychoanalysis. Frey-Rohn, L. (1990) From Freud to Jung: A Comparative Psychology of the Unconscious. Boston: Shambhala.

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Gardner, H. (1982) Art, Mind and Brain: A Cognitive Approach to Creativity. New York: Basic Books. Gilligan, C. (1993) In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women’s Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Greene, M. and Conway, J. (1963) Learning to Talk: A Study in Sound of Infant Speech Development. New York: Folkways Records, FX 6271. Greene, M. and Mathieson, L. (1989) The Voice and its Disorders. London: Whurr. Halifax, J. (1991) Shamanic Voices: A Survey of Visionary Narratives. London: Penguin. Hargreaves, D. (1992) The Developmental Psychology of Music. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harris, J. (1990) Early Language Development: Implications for Clinical and Educational Practice. London: Routledge. Hymes, D. (1971) ‘Competence and performance in linguistic theory.’ In R. Huxley and E. Ingram (eds) Language Acquisition: Models and Methods. London: Academic Press. Innes, C. (1981) Holy Theatre: Ritual and the Avant Garde. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jung, C. G. (1953a) The Collected Works of C.G. Jung. Vol. 8. Bollingen Series XX, edited by H. Read, M. Fordham, G. Adler and W. McGuire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press and London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Jung, C.G. (1953b) The Collected Works of C.G. Jung. Vol. 11. Bollingen Series XX, edited by H. Read, M.Fordham, G. Adler and W. McGuire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press and London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Jung, C. G. (1953c) The Collected Works of C.G. Jung. Vol. 6. Bollingen Series XX, edited by by H. Read, M. Fordham, G. Adler and W. McGuire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press and London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Jung, C.G. (1953d) The Collected Works of C.G. Jung. Vol. 1. Bollingen Series XX, edited by H. Read, M. Fordham, G. Adler and W. McGuire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press and London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Jung, C.G. (1953e) The Collected Works of C.G. Jung. Vol. 3. Bollingen Series XX, editd by H. Read, M. Fordham, G. Adler and W. McGuire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press and London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Kessler, I. (1997) ‘Sounding our way to wholeness: linking the metaphorical and physical voice in a pilot study with women using breath, voice and movement.’ Unpublished doctoral thesis, Union College of Graduate Studies, Florida. Killingmo, B. (1990) ‘Beyoantics: a clinical study of isolation.’ International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 113–126. Kristeva, J. (1980) Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art. New York: Columbia University Press. Kumiega, J. (1987) The Theatre of Grotowski. London: Methuen. Langer, S. (1953) Feeling and Form. London: Routledge. Lewis, M. (1936) Early Response to Speech and Babbling in Infant Speech. London: Kegan Paul. Lowen, A. (1976) Bioenergetics. London: Penguin. Martin, J. (1991) Voice in Modern Theatre. London: Routledge.

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McNiff, S. (1981) The Arts in Psychotherapy. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas. McNiff, S. (1997) Interview with P. Newham. Cited in P. Newham Therapeutic Voicework. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Meekums, B. (1992) ‘Dance movement therapy in a family service unit.’ In H. Payne (ed) Dance Movement Therapy: Theory and Practice. London: Tavistock/Routledge. Merleau-Ponty, M. (1970), cited in P. Lewis ‘Merleau-Ponty and the Phenomenology of Language’. In J. Ehrmann (ed) Structuralism. New York: Anchor Books. Mitchell, S. (1992) ‘Therapeutic theatre: a para-theatrical model of dramatherapy.’ In S. Jennings (ed) Dramatherapy: Theory and Practice 2. London: Routledge. Moses, P. (1942) ‘The study of voice records.’ Journal of Consulting Psychology 6, 257–261. Moses, P. (1954) The Voice of Neurosis. New York: Grune & Stratton. Naumberg, M. (1958) ‘Art therapy: its scope and function.’ In E.F. Hammer (ed) Clinical Applications of Projective Drawings. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas. Newham, P. (1990) ‘The voice and the shadow.’ Performance 60, 37–47. Newham, P. (1992a) ‘Jung and Alfred Wolfsohn: analytical psychology and the singing voice.’ Journal of Analytical Psychology 37, 323–336. Newham, P. (1992b) ‘Singing and psyche: towards voice movement therapy.’ Voice: The Journal of the British Voice Association 1, 75–102. Newham, P. (1993a) The Singing Cure: An Introduction to Voice Movement Therapy. Boston: Shambhala. Newham, P. (1993b) ‘The singing cure: how voice movement therapy has evolved.’ Human Communication 2, 2, 6–8. Newham, P. (1994) ‘Voice movement therapy: towards an arts therapy for voice.’ Dramatherapy 16, 23, 28–33. Newham, P. (1995/96) ‘Making a song and dance: the musical voice of language.’ Journal of the Imagination in Learning III, 66–74. Newham, P. (1997a) Therapeutic Voicework: Principles and Practice for the use of Singing as a Therapy. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Newham, P. (1997b) The Prophet of Song: The Life and Work of Alfred Wolfsohn. London: Tigers Eye. Nordoff, P. and Robbins, C. (1992) Therapy in Music for Handicapped Children. London: Victor Gollancz. Ostwald, P. (1973) ‘Musical behaviour in early childhood.’ Developmental Medicine and Child Neurology 15, 367–375. Passalacqua, L. (1995/96) ‘Voice work in dramatherapy.’ Dramatherapy 17, 3, 17–24. Pinker, S. (1994) The Language Instinct. London: Penguin. Rasmussen, K . (1958) ‘An Eskimo shaman purifies a sick person.’ In Lessa and Vogt (eds) Reader in Comparative Religion.Evanston, IL: Row, Peterson. Redfearn, J. (1985) ‘My self, my many selves.’ In Library of Analytical Psychology, Vol. 6. London: Academic Press. Reich, W. (1948) Character Analysis. London: Vision Press. Robbins, A. (1986) Expressive Therapy: A Creative Arts Approach to Depth-Oriented Treatment. New York: Human Sciences Press.

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Rosolato, G. (1974) ‘La voix: entre corps et langage.’ Revue Francaise de Psychanalyse 37, 1, 80–81. Samuels, A. (1985) Jung and the Post-Jungians. London: Routledge. Silverman, K. (1988) The Acoustic Mirror: The Female Voice in Psychoanalysis and Cinema. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Skinner, B. (1957) Verbal Behaviour. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts. Smith, W. (1996) ‘Voice, psychotherapy and feminism.’ Paper presented to the International Association for Voice Movement Therapy, London. Steiner, M. (1992) ‘Alternatives in psychiatry: dance movement therapy in the community.’ In H. Payne (ed) Dance Movement Therapy: Theory and Practice. London: Tavistock/Routledge. Steiner, R. (1983) Curative Eurythmy. London: Rudolf Steiner Press. Sutton, J. (1993) ‘The guitar doesn’t know this song: an investigation into parallel development in speech/language and music therapy.’ In M. Heal and T. Wigram (eds) Music Therapy in Health and Education. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Tomatis, A. (1991) The Conscious Ear: My Life of Transformation Through Listening. New York: Station Hill Press. Tong, R. (1989) Feminist Thought: A Comprehensive Introduction. London: Routledge. Winnicott, D.W. (1991) Playing and Reality. London: Routledge.

Further reading American Dance Therapy Association (ADTA) (1972) Writings on Body Movement and Communication. Columbia, MD: ADTA. Ehrmann, J. (ed) (1970) Structuralism. New York: Anchor Books. Heal, M. and Wigram, T. (eds) (1993) Music Therapy in Health and Education. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Huxley, R. and Ingram, E. (eds) (1971) Language Acquisition: Models and Methods. London: Academic Press. Lessa and Vogt (eds) (1958) Reader in Comparative Religion. Evanston, IL: Row, Peterson. Lewis, P. (1970) ‘Merleau-Ponty and the phenomenology of language.’ In J. Ehrmann (ed) Structuralism. New York: Anchor Books. Lewis, P. & Loman, S. (eds) (1990) The Kestenberg Movement Profile: Its Past, Present Applications and Future Directions. Keene: Antioch New England Graduate School. Payne, H. (ed) (1992) Dance Movement Therapy: Theory and Practice. London: Tavistock/ Routledge. Schullian, D. and Schoen, N. (1948) Music and Medicine. New York: Henry Schuman.

CHAPTER 6

The Creative Connection A Holistic Expressive Arts Process Natalie Rogers Introduction It is one of those astonishingly bright California days. In the large studio room, 30 group members are engaged in highly focused movement and art, reaching into their emotional histories through creative activities. A gray-haired, barefoot woman steps into a shallow pan of red paint then carefully places each foot on the image she has just drawn. She smiles. A young man sits reflecting on the large clay figure, a panther-like animal, he has just created. He picks up his writing journal, takes out his pen and writes furiously for ten minutes without stopping. A woman is huddled in a corner surrounding herself with huge pillows. She sobs for a while, then picks up some pastel chalk and swoops broad strokes of color across the art paper. Her face relaxes. These people are in their third day of intensive expressive art training at the Person-Centered Expressive Therapy Institute (PCETI). Tanya, from Estonia, has made her first trip outside of the then Soviet Union to join us as a participant. At lunch time she pulls me aside and asks, ‘Please tell me, do all Americans have so much tears and pain in their lives? I don’t understand.’ Tanya’s question strikes me, almost as a blow. Not because I am offended, but because I have taken for granted the notion that we, the group members, all come from the same understanding of humanistic psychological theory. So I take time to think more carefully about her background and her question. Here is a woman who has suffered under a totalitarian regime. She comes from a country where creativity and personal self-expression through art, movement, writing and drama have been outlawed or relegated to use for political purposes only. The suffering that is familiar to her is the fear that

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there will not be enough food to last through the winter for her children, or feeling the heavy-handed dominance of the then Russian occupation. As a psychologist she has been more concerned with helping people to cope with their emotional response to stern oppression than helping people become self-empowered and actualized. After my initial startled reaction to her question, I spend time with her, and eventually others, explaining the concepts of personal growth through person-centered expressive arts therapy. As we talk, it is evident that her question has many layers. Indeed, she is puzzled that so many professional people in America, where the supermarket has miles of food choices and where 43 television channels spew out every possible lifestyle, have so much emotional pain, grief and anger. Also, she does not understand why people would reveal so much of their private inner world in a group setting. ‘What is the purpose?’ she asks. As I discussed these questions with Tanya and the other group members, who had come from Japan, Canada, Germany, Argentina and Mexico as well as the United States, we listened to our differing opinions and experiences. It became clear that not all participants (psychotherapists as well as others) understood or necessarily believed in what I and other humanistic psychologists have found to be a healing, growthful process. In the following pages, the concepts and principles of this process will be brought forth through examples and summarized. Most of the participants could agree that one must know oneself profoundly in order to move beyond the ordinary sense of self into a higher state of awareness. Further dialogue made it evident that enlightenment, however each culture defines it, comes about not through denial of self, but through deep self-knowledge and self-acceptance. Much discussion revolved around whether it is necessary to peel away one’s defenses and to experience one’s grief or anger in order to release and transform it. In answer to these questions, some people shared their experiences of personal growth and transformation by having delved into these emotional depths through the creative arts process. They told how they had discovered a vitality, a sense of meaning in life and an inner strength to face the future. While there were questions about the necessity of delving into one’s feelings, we all agreed that a truly safe, accepting, non-judgmental environment is necessary to go on that inner journey. Letting down our

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defenses in an atmosphere of blame, shame and judgment can be damaging rather than healing. In the pages that follow I shall discuss the questions that have been raised above and expand on the theories and principles of my work. Of particular importance is the holistic approach of the creative connection process and the person-centered, humanistic philosophy and practice developed by my father, Dr Carl Rogers, upon which my expressive arts therapy work is based. I shall be addressing the question: How, as psychotherapists and mental health workers, do we create the safe environment and the expressive arts methods for individuals to delve into the dark corners and the elusive bright light of their psyches to become integrated, whole people?

The creative connection ® Expressive arts therapy uses various arts – movement, drawing, painting, sculpting, music, writing, sound and improvisation – in a supportive setting to experience and express feelings. Any art form that comes from an emotional depth provides a process of self-discovery. We express inner feelings by creating outer forms. In my perspective, when we use the arts for self-healing or therapeutic purposes, it is most beneficial if we are not concerned about the beauty of the visual art, the grammar and style of the writing, or the harmonic flow of the song. We use the arts to let go, to express and to release. Also, we can gain insight by studying the symbolic and metaphoric messages. Our art speaks back to us if we take the time to listen to those messages. Verbalizing or sharing these feelings furthers the process of self-insight and self-analysis. I have coined the words ‘creative connection’ to describe a process in which one art form stimulates and fosters creativity in another art form and links all of the arts to our essential nature. I discovered this for myself at age 45, when I enrolled in a dance/movement training program. At lunch time I used my art journal to create quick mood pictures or to write in a free-form, non-censored style. When I reviewed this journal at the end of the year, I noticed that the colors, shapes and forms held an unusual intensity and that the free-form writing was often poetic. In previous years my art had been controlled and my writing very stiff. Now my art and writing had qualities of spontaneity, passion, freedom and strength. I realized that my art and writing had changed in style and depth in ways that spoke to me. I could see that all of this was connected to my own inner experience; and I was surprised to discover that one modality, such as movement, enhanced another modality. I

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realized that through the interweaving of the arts in this way, a person can reclaim vital parts of herself and experience insight, personal strength and power. I experienced it as a ‘creative connection’ to my soul. Having experienced such a rich reawakening of my creativity, I first pondered the process and then practised and taught what I had learned. As I explored further, I found books and other expressive arts programs to support my theories and practice. To involve people deeply in this creative connection process, we designed a program where participants spend many hours each day in a sequence of art experiences that lead them into their inner realms. Each step of the way, the feelings are given artistic expression. We might start with some authentic movement, moving with eyes closed and letting the body speak: ‘this is what I am feeling at the moment’. We invite participants to put sound to those movements. After 20 minutes of turning inward yet expressing outwardly through movement, people silently express themselves in paint, pastels, clay or collage. By now the sacred space for creativity has been created through the collective, side-by-side inner experiencing. The visual art comes out of a felt, body experience. It might be abstract colors splashed on the page with abandon or carefully constructed collages; it doesn’t matter. Each person feels safe to be free in his/her style and expression. Next, participants write for ten minutes without stopping, censoring or being concerned about the logic of what emerges. The idea is to let anything come; free associations, stories, descriptions or just nonsense. The writing does not have to pertain specifically to the movement or visual art. This is a time to use a free-floating form of writing to let the subconscious emerge. Following this sequence, there is time to share verbally. Talking about the process helps one understand the experience. Having an empathic witness to one’s personal explorations is stimulating and supportive. This can be a time to explore the meaning of the image by giving it a voice, or to experience the colors or the flow of the lines by letting them suggest movement and sound. Perhaps the writing suggests a dramatization. The spiral of activities continually peels off the layers of inhibition, dropping us into the core of our being. Finding one’s center makes it possible to be open to the universal energy source, bringing vitality and a sense of oneness. Let us look at an example of the two major healing elements of the expressive arts process: first, the changes that happen in the creative act itself; and second, the growth and insight that occurs when we study the image or

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the process for its meaning. Here I present the written words of someone who has participated in the healing process directly. Marcia is a woman in mid-life, a professional person who left the corporate world to become a counselor and consultant. She reports part of her journey:1 I was in no way prepared for the transforming power of art. I am not ‘fluent’ in art. I can barely speak the language and yet I was able to express myself most satisfactorily. The act of non-verbal expression created a dynamic shift in my perceptions. It moved me into my body. And that was the shift which started the healing process. It took five years of wearing my resistance down, but I finally listened. I finally heard the voice of my own body … There was so much damage to overcome, so many scars that needed to fade. The safe environment created the space, the encouragement, the permission and above all, the safety to venture forth into the depth of my own experiences. It simply took time to experience each creative connection and then more time to assimilate it … I really don’t think that this healing would have occurred spontaneously. I believe that the conscious prodding of the unconscious was essential for me in this process. After experiencing guided imagery… something wonderful started happening with my art … As I held the clay with both hands and worked it, I experienced the figures emerging without plan or thought. First the man was revealed, holding the woman in an embrace with his larger body and long arms protectively wrapped around her. He looks at her with both passion and love … You see how he desires her as a woman. After the embrace was completed and the female was warmly and safely held, I discovered that she could look forward and down to where she too had opened her arms and heart. It was then the milk of human kindness could pour from her … Compassion flows, an endless river, from them both. I saw a little piece of my soul. It told me, ‘That’s what it looks like to hold love and be held by it’. What I understand from my art is that I need love and support and that receiving it makes it possible for me to give it … I had been missing an awareness that forms part of my foundation. No

1

The following material is presented with the permission of Marcia Martin.

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wonder I was so easily shaken and rattled. Now that I know what’s been missing, I have opened myself to loving and being loved again.

It is evident that for Marcia being aware of the messages of her body and letting her fingers find form for that inner feeling was healing in and of itself. The statement, ‘I experienced the figures emerging without plan or thought’ is typical of the expressive arts experience. People make such comments as, ‘I started to paint a tree, but somehow it became an angel.’ Or, ‘I was looking for some specific images in the magazine for a collage, but somehow these other pictures jumped out at me and asked to be used.’ These spontaneous events can also happen kinesthetically. One rather conservative businessman said, ‘I didn’t dance, it danced me!’ Guided imagery, movement and art led Marcia into her unconscious and gave her the ability to express previously unknown aspects of herself, thus bringing her some new information and insights. Her description also highlights that all people are able to be creative. People are often surprised at their capacity to paint, draw, dance or write when they are in a non-judgmental environment. Creating the environment which allows creativity to flourish will be discussed in more detail later. Here it is important to note that with a minimal amount of structure as a stimulus, a few minutes of guided imagery and a truly non-judgmental environment, the creative juices were flowing. In Marcia’s further writing we find an answer to the question posed by Tanya: ‘Is it necessary to delve into our feelings of loneliness, or anger, or grief, to become whole?’ I had an image of myself that was not consistent with reality … I still wore the mask that I had worn in the corporate world, and really had no intention of letting anyone behind it. It took more time and trust than I would ever have imagined to ‘get behind the mask’. This program creates the opportunity for ‘the experience of feelings’. Just remembering the power of the experience gives me pause. The healing came when I was able to experience the depth of feelings and associate them with my current relatively adult state. Over and over, creative connections provided the link between feelings, body, and mind, and sometimes even spirit. The journey is one of recovering lost parts and connecting them again to make a whole new being … I am beginning to feel fully alive again.

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For Marcia and many others, finding the self and one’s aliveness and spirit comes about by taking the plunge into the pool of hidden feelings. She also alludes to the fact that it took a long time and a great deal of trust to take that plunge. It is important that each person be allowed to drop his/her mask only when ready. The person-centered expressive arts experience helps us take the plunge as well as giving us methods for swimming, floating and diving in again. Marcia’s use of the words ‘alive’ and ‘spirit’ are also typical of comments often made by those who have ventured into the dark night of the soul through the expressive arts. In recovering our creative juices we come to life again. Our spirit, our soul, is nourished.

Figure 6.1 ‘Holding Love’ by Marcia Martin

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The person-centered expressive arts philosophy How do we create the safe environment for individual or group psychotherapeutic work and a sense of freedom to explore the inner terrain? The person-centered approach, as developed by Carl Rogers, is both a philosophy and methodology for such safety. One basic principle is that the human being, if given the proper environment, has potential for positive growth. Carl Rogers put it this way: ‘A person-centered approach is based on the premise that the human being is basically a trustworthy organism, capable of evaluating the outer and inner situation, understanding herself in its context, making constructive choices as to the next steps in life, and acting on those choices’ (Rogers 1977, pp.14–15). My experience as a therapist corroborates this premise. Many clients or group participants have told me, ‘You seem to have more faith in me than I have in myself !’ It is that faith, my belief in each client’s or group member’s inherent capacity for self-direction, which affords them the opportunity to empower themselves. In creating the climate for self-direction, I may offer educational information that might aid individuals in making decisions, but that merely prepares the ground for their self-empowerment. Sometimes it is difficult to let go of the notion that we, as therapists, must fix things for the client or give advice that solves their problems. But if those individuals are to have lasting behavior changes, those changes must come from an inner conviction, not an outer authority. In a world where old political forms are crumbling, those of us who believe in democratic principles now face the challenge of continuing to develop and maintain a therapeutic process based on those principles. In Carl Rogers On Personal Power, it is stated this way: The politics of the client-centered approach is a conscious renunciation and avoidance by the therapist of all control over, or decision-making for, the client. It is the facilitation of self-ownership by the client and the strategies by which this can be achieved; placing of the locus of decision-making and the responsibility for the effects of these decisions on the client. (Rogers 1977, pp.14–15)

The facilitative relationship The basic conditions for a therapeutic relationship were tested and researched by Carl Rogers and colleagues for more than 30 years. Three conditions, when present, create the safety and space for the individual or group member to drop the facade or mask and go on an inward search. These

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are congruence, unconditional positive regard and empathy. These concepts are often misunderstood or oversimplified in the literature. In my teaching, I have found that people need to experience unconditional positive regard, congruence and empathy before truly understanding them. After an experiential understanding of the person-centered approach, its theory and concepts are more readily learned through books, discussion and lectures. The goal of the therapist/facilitator is to be a companion on the path of the client’s journey inward. To do that, we need to be able to view the world as she views it, without taking on her problems, her suffering or struggle. We can show her that we understand her confusion, pain and anger through empathic verbal response, through our companionship in her expressive movement, or by being a witness to her art. This sensitive understanding is a crucial part of the healing process. As companions helping to light the way, we may suggest dancing down the path; we may use guided imagery to move us along, or use visual art or sound. Whatever the method, we are on her path and she can use or refuse any of the modes we offer. CONGRUENCE

Being congruent in a relationship is being genuine, or real. The more the facilitator is him- or herself, dropping any mask or facade, the greater the likelihood that the client or group member will change and grow in a constructive manner. In this case, it is necessary for the facilitator/therapist to be aware of his/her feelings and thoughts of the moment and share any themes that are persistent. I may notice, for example, that I feel sleepy each time the client begins to talk about her brother. If this feeling persists, I need to share it with her to see what light it sheds on the situation. I need to know enough about my own internal life to recognize whether this has to do with my relationship to my own brother or whether it is pertinent to the client. In any case, I need to be willing to explore which issues are mine and which are the client’s. As a facilitator, being congruent about a person’s art, movement or writing has value but must be shared with discretion. Looking at another person’s art affects us. What we see is our view of that person’s inner world. It is not necessarily, and usually is not, her view. The important questions for the facilitator are: ‘How does this person experience her art, her life? How can I be fully present for this individual while she examines her inner world?’ In viewing art, movement or writing, the goal is to understand better the world of that individual. I am not trying to ‘figure out’, analyze or diagnose the person.

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I am trying to get into her frame of reference to see what that art looks and feels like to her. Traditionally, psychotherapy is a verbal form of therapy, and the verbal process will always be important. However, color, form and symbols are languages that speak from the unconscious and have particular meanings for each individual. As I listen to a client’s explanation of her imagery, I poignantly see the world as she views it. As I witness her movement, I can understand her world by empathizing kinesthetically. When people create art, whether it is a doodle, a dance or writing, it always reveals an aspect of the self, often the unconscious self. If the facilitator intends to lead an individual in an exercise to stimulate art or movement expression and self-awareness, then he or she has the task of helping that individual talk about it. Knowing that the artist takes a risk in sharing that previously unknown aspect of the self, the facilitator needs to treat the product with great respect. Here, I have strict guidelines for myself and others. It is important to me that we truly hear and respect the artist’s personal experience. Therefore, I always ask the artist or mover to speak first, giving her feelings, meanings and interpretations of the piece. To offer feedback before hearing what it represents to the artist or dancer is to rob that person of their fresh, spontaneous reaction to their own work. If we wish to create an environment for the client’s self-direction and self-insight, it is necessary to honor her experience. After inviting the individual to share thoughts and feelings about her art or dance, I ask, ‘Do you honestly want my reactions?’ If so, I offer my congruent feelings in statements that make it clear that these are my projections on to her art. I do not interpret a person’s art. There is a fine line, an important nuance, between making congruent personal responses and interpreting another’s work. I am owning my reactions when I preface my feedback with, ‘When I look at your art, I feel …’ Or, ‘In witnessing your dance, I felt …’ Giving feedback in this manner is very different from saying, ‘This art shows how depressed you are, or how chaotic your life is.’ Such statements make it seem that I know better than she what her art means; but I am not capable of knowing, better than she, what her art means. Telling a person in a declarative way what her art means takes away the artist’s sense of self-knowledge. In teaching person-centered expressive arts therapy, I am strict about adhering to this difference. I feel very protective of the delicate bud of

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creativity that begins to bloom with the warm, accepting atmosphere we create. I do not want to see it crushed by a heavy-handed analysis or thoughtless way of giving feedback. There are verbal and non-verbal ways to be congruent to let the client or the group know what the facilitator is feeling. Body language, including facial expression, carries many messages. UNCONDITIONAL POSITIVE REGARD

Creating a relationship where the client can trust enough to reveal herself at the deepest level is not simple. As Carl Rogers said, ‘It involves the therapist’s willingness for the client to be whatever immediate feeling is going on – confusion, resentment, fear, anger, courage, love, or pride. It is a non-possessive caring. When the therapist prizes the client in a total rather than a conditional way, forward movement is likely’ (Rogers 1995a, p.116). I understand this as acceptance without judgment. I may disapprove of the behavior of that person but I accept who he or she is at a much deeper level. I often describe this caring attitude as ‘coming from the heart’. For the expressive arts therapist, this positive regard or prizing is also necessary as we view the client’s art, or witness her movement and sound, or hear her poetry or drama. It comes out of the respect we have for the worth of that client. For example, one of the biggest challenges any therapist might encounter is material from the client that could be a potential threat to society or to the therapist herself. Perhaps the client is tuning into her feelings through some aggressive movement and sound and then paints a scene of violence. The therapist, knowing that art can be a language from the unconscious, listens to the client with positive regard and honors the image as well. It is possible that the client may reveal an urge to perform a violent act. The person-centered expressive arts therapist, in this instance, does her best to maintain a positive and caring attitude towards the client, helping her to accept those rageful feelings, particularly inviting her to continue with many more pictures, sounds and movements. At the same time, the therapist states very clearly that aggressive or violent behavior is not acceptable in the office or outside. The therapist can prize or care about the person and her images while setting limits on behavior. The therapist needs to stay fully present with the client, assisting her in exploring the full meaning that the art work has for her. The image, no matter how grotesque, can be valued as the necessary outpouring of repressed emotions. As the volcano erupts on paper or in dance, it is much less likely to be acted out in life. However, if through her art

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the client is revealing some violence she has already perpetrated, it is still possible, although sometimes difficult, to have compassion or positive regard for her as a person. For the expressive arts group facilitator, this prizing or caring attitude towards each individual in the group is a real challenge, yet it can happen. Being able to care for people of diverse backgrounds, with highly controversial opinions or attitudes, takes skill and practice. Yet one of the most profound learnings for group participants is that of experiencing a facilitator responding to and honoring people with opposing views. As a group member hears the facilitator respond with empathy and caring to a person who may be furious with the world, another member of the group or even the facilitator herself, a lesson for all is learned: ‘I can care about you, even if you are exhibiting fury or anger at me, even if I disagree with you.’ EMPATHY

Carl Rogers’ research into the psychotherapeutic process2 revealed that when a client felt accepted and understood, healing occurred. It is a rare experience to feel accepted and understood when you are feeling fear, rage, grief or jealousy. Yet it is this very acceptance and understanding that heals. As friends and therapists, we frequently think that we must have an answer or give advice. However, this overlooks a very basic truth. By genuinely hearing the depth of the emotional pain and respecting the individual’s ability to find his/her own answer, we are giving him/her the greatest gift. I define empathy as ‘perceiving the world through the other person’s eyes, ears and heart’. This understanding needs to be conveyed through words and body language. An empathic verbal response lets the individual know she was truly heard and understood. It also gives the client or group member the opportunity to correct what she has said to convey more accurately what she means. Empathic body language, although usually unconsciously given and received, also offers a sense of safety and comfort. I find that the expressive arts give the therapist a magnificent opportunity to be highly empathic. The arts stir deep emotional responses in both the client and the therapist, thus allowing the therapist to see, hear, feel the client’s situation with great empathy. To witness a client’s dance/movement 2

For further information on the decades of research on the conditions and outcomes of the psychotherapeutic process, see the summary descriptions provided in Rogers (1995b), Chapters 11 (pp.225–242) and 12 (pp.243–270).

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of extreme frustration or to see an art image depicting her feelings of being trapped in a difficult situation allows the therapist a multi-sensory understanding of the client’s world. The color and forms which the client chooses to express strong feelings become a direct non-verbal communication to the therapist. The feelings thus displayed allow the therapist to be her most empathic self.

Transcending inner polarities It seems to be part of the human condition to be pulled in two directions at once or to have opposite feelings within the same day. Using the expressive arts creates the opportunity for us to discover, integrate and transcend those inner polarities. When I work with groups we often spend time brainstorming our ‘inner polarities’, and come up with long lists: love/hate, strength/weakness, close/distant, introvert/extrovert, happy/sad, violent/peaceful, and so on. Although the opposites listed may appear to be ‘good’ or ‘bad’ characteristics, it is not that simple. Some people have denied their grief and sadness in order to keep a happy face. Their task may be to acknowledge and accept their grief. Others may live a life which says they can only show their pain or pessimism. To feel joy or ecstasy or hope has not been acceptable for them. Their task may be to allow themselves to feel delight or to be able to view the world with some optimism. Accepting the shadow and embracing the light is the task for each of us if we wish to become whole persons and come into individual and world balance. We act on our feelings and beliefs, so if we hold the belief that evil is ‘out there’, we project our own dark parts on to ‘those others’. We tend to put those unwanted parts of self on someone else or some other group, making them the carriers of our own unfinished work. If we, as individuals, could face our dark side and learn to transform that energy into constructive action, we would be taking a monumental step towards changing the world. Instead of a ‘we/they’ attitude of blame, each of us would take responsibility for all that happens in the world. In Jungian terms, the ‘shadow’ is that aspect of the self that is unknown or that lives in the realm of the unconscious. It is that part of the self that we have rejected, denied or repressed. Repressed thoughts, feelings and behaviors have a lot of power as they rumble around in our unconscious with their potential for volcanic eruption. As with a pressure cooker, the repressed aspects build force by tight containment. Keeping those rumblings in check

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takes a lot of personal energy. Tension in our muscles, pain in our joints and constriction of the heart result from keeping such thoughts and feelings under cover. Most of us fear looking into the unconscious, but seldom realize how much physical and emotional energy we spend keeping the lid on. Denied or rejected aspects of self are frequently thought of as destructive or evil impulses: the urge to kill or plunder or to dish out revenge. But often, we also relegate to the realm of the unconscious our creativity, strength, rebelliousness, sensuality, sexuality and our willingness to love. So when we risk exploring the depths of the unconscious, we also find many lost treasures. It is easy to discuss the theory of our inner shadow and light. It is another thing to find ways to help ourselves and our clients to discover those hidden aspects. To know, accept, express and release the dark side in non-hurtful ways is essential to prevent these powerful forces from being acted out in violent forms. If we agree that embracing disowned aspects of ourselves enables us to become more whole, energized, compassionate people, we need methods to unveil our shadow. The expressive arts are natural media to bring forth images, movement, sound and writing that illuminate those unknown aspects. If we give ourselves permission, the expressive arts can plunge us into the mythical, metaphoric and kinesthetic aspects of the unknown. We may find many useful messages for our lives. Discovering our unknown parts allows them to become allies: long-lost sub-personalities that we need in order to be complete. Anger is certainly not the only emotion of the shadow, but it is a potent one and can be an important motivator for constructive action. As a feminist in the 1980s, I became outraged at the injustice in America and the world. Being in touch with that anger and allowing it to surface gave me energy to do something about it rather than staying at home feeling depressed. I learned that when I was aware of my rage, I could use it as rocket fuel to initiate projects. I channeled my outrage into constructive action, using art journals, psychodrama, authentic movement, encounter groups, training programs, writing articles and my book, Emerging Woman (Rogers 1980). These methods also stirred me to political activism. I don’t believe the notion that personal growth is self-indulgent. On the contrary, it leads to a broader consciousness to empower all members of society. The expressive arts are also powerful tools to help us uncover fear, shame, loneliness, apathy and the deep well of depression. I have been present while

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many clients or group participants have used movement and art to express their fears of death, of going insane or of staying forever in the deep, dark pit of depression. When given a voice, an image, a sound, a dance, these fears can become forces for change. When accepted for exactly what they are, they can help us on our road to recovery. As an example, we have the words of Gerd, German by birth and a Professor of German Studies in the United States:3 Living in a society that heavily values the cognitive, but teaches distrust towards the intuitive, the journey from a seemingly borderless childhood wisdom to a renewed relationship with my knowing belly has been a long and painful one. I still catch myself trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach that tell me about excitement and hopeful involvement, or cat-growling in the belly area that teaches me to stay away from something or somebody. When I sometimes feel scattered all over the place, my inner voice tells me to focus on my feelings, but instead, I focus in my head. Writing … and authentic movement have helped me over the years to create paths between my head and belly in order to profit from cognitive and intuitive learnings’ creative potential. The most important experience in my work with the PCETI program, the body-wisdom day, has brought those two ways of knowing together and created a powerful intermingling of emotion and mind connections. … I had successfully avoided [my anxieties] by constantly overworking myself … I had registered my anger, anxiety, and aggressivity, combined with physical reactions such as breathlessness, cold sweats, and a compulsion to run away. So, I had already intuitively discovered the burning questions long before the workshop began. I had even started to express what I physically experienced by writing, but by an efficient avoidance mechanism had turned the logbook of my inner journey into literary products, and within this process the need for change disappeared.

Gerd then describes movement, followed by a painting of his right and left side’s body experience:

3

The following material is presented with the permission of Gerd Bauer.

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By following the physical leads of my right and left sides, I felt thrown into roles I wanted to act out: the body-builder, the fighter, the successor, for the right side; the cripple, the sensitive, the loser, for the left side. I wrote the following texts about these two characters: The right-side man: He arrives in his office at seven o’clock in the morning. Some people are still not at their desks. He starts walking impatiently up and down the hall and checking the little working places … staring at the big golden clock … When a woman, who is late, tries to sneak into her room without being noticed, the man is right there … she starts explaining and apologizing. At that very moment, the man begins to smile. ‘Never mind,’ he says, sending the woman off to her desk. He returns to his office and starts working. The left-side man: He arrives at the top of a mountain … Then he lays down on the ground and enjoys the warmth of the sun. He is naked, and so he can feel the sun beams dancing up and down his body … The man smiles as though he is having a pleasant dream. After a while he opens his eyes. … and imagines himself as a cloud, sailing with the wind and with no specific destination.

Gerd writes that he left the workshop feeling blocked, frustrated, empty. He knew there was something these two characters (parts of himself ) needed to do. Later, he followed up with this imagery: The embrace: Two men, one athletic, the other skinny, met in the middle of a desert. They knew that this would happen one day, somewhere, somehow. They also knew that they had seen each other before, but neither of the two could remember anything about it. The skinny man was about to speak, when the athlete punched him in the face. He repeated this five times. Then the skinny man declared himself loser. His voice was clear and loud. The athlete, after he had briefly raised his fists to the sky as a sign of victory, collapsed to the ground. The skinny man stared at the big man lying in the sand quietly. Then he helped him up and supported him as they disappeared into the horizon.

Gerd said he felt the need to have these two characters ‘embrace, and walk away together within a light in which they seemed to merge into one person’. This is an example of opposites first at war with each other, then joined or integrated. Movement was the key that unlocked the door. Gerd had brushed aside clues until his felt body sense and imagination helped him see and experience these polarities. Gerd says:

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By simply accepting the existence of these feelings and emotions, I had found a door in the wall … This door … needed a final push, like all doors which haven’t been opened for a long time. All of a sudden, I felt a new balance between my body’s signals and my emotional response … it is not a force from outside but an energy inside of me which can be a powerful creative force … an interplay between both the intuitive and cognitive level. This knowledge strikes me as being of a more vital quality than that developed primarily by either intuition or cognition … because it connects us both emotionally and intellectually with our inner way of being.

The push–pull of these two characters must be familiar to most of us in today’s society. When acknowledged and accepted, something more than acceptance of two sides can occur; we gain a new perspective. I have witnessed people painting picture after picture of revenge, hate, anger or violence, finally coming to accept that these feelings are an instinctive part of each of us. It is not the existence of these emotions that is so threatening. It is the fear, and the possibility, that we will act them out that is threatening. In drawing or painting the rage or violence, the energy seems actually to drain from the body through one’s arms and fingers on to the paper. And then, somehow, the self-understanding and the energy shift. Or in dancing the fear, it often relinquishes its stalking quality to become an ally. It is necessary to learn how to express these feelings in ways that will not be hurtful to the self, others, the environment or society. Accepting our shadow may be less difficult than embracing the light. When we talk about embracing the light, we are talking about opening to our spirituality, our ability to experience love, compassion and all-encompassing states of consciousness. In my years as a therapist and group facilitator, I have found that people are uncomfortable acknowledging and feeling love. They readily accept negative thoughts about themselves and others but find themselves fending off compliments, caring and love. We tend to armor ourselves against receiving it. Being able to give and receive affection and love, whether from another person, animals or a universal energy source, may be the prerequisite for being able to offer unconditional love. People are often reluctant to claim their inner light, feeling that it is too ‘special’. The sensation is so dramatic that we tend to ascribe this capacity to only Christ-like or Buddha-like people. We may be embarrassed or ashamed to admit we have this ecstatic sensation of powerful beauty. If as individuals we begin to acknowledge and accept this inner light, we pave the way for

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others to come forth with their ecstatic experiences. In a world that rumbles with heavy storm clouds, we certainly need this light to shine through.

Person-centered expressive arts principles To bring my presentation back to our original questions and discussion with Tanya and others, I summarize the humanistic principles that have been covered in this chapter: •

•

•

• •

•

•

•

Personal growth, higher states of consciousness and a sense of wholeness are achieved through self-awareness, self-understanding and insight. Self-awareness, self-understanding and insight are attained by delving into our emotions. The feelings of grief, anger, pain, fear, joy and ecstasy are the tunnel through which we must pass to get to self-awareness, understanding and wholeness. Our feelings and emotions (the grief, anger, pain, fear, joy and ecstasy) are a source of energy which can be channeled into the expressive arts to be released and transformed. All people have an innate ability to be creative. The creative process is healing in itself. Although the product of creative expression supplies important messages to the individual for useful insights, the process of creation itself is profoundly transformative. The expressive arts – including movement, art, writing, sound, music and imagery – lead us into the unconscious and allow us to express previously unknown facets of ourselves, thus bringing to light new information and awareness. Art modes interrelate in what I call the ‘creative connection’. When we move, it affects how we write or paint. When we write or paint, it affects how we feel and think. During the creative connection process, one art form stimulates and nurtures the other, bringing us closer to our innermost core or essence, which is our life-force energy. This expressive arts process offers us the opportunity to be aware of, face and accept our shadow aspect – that part of the self which we have repressed or denied – which in turn can bring us to a

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deeper self-acceptance. Self-acceptance and self-esteem are basic to becoming whole persons capable of caring for others and receiving love. •

•

A connection exists between our life-force – our inner core, or soul – and the essence of all beings. Therefore, as we journey inward to discover our essence or wholeness, we discover our relatedness to the outer world. The inner and outer become one.

There are many discoveries to be made with this work. Finding spirit, soul, the ability to laugh at oneself, new wisdom or the knowledge that with each struggle in life there are major lessons to be learned: the expressive arts are particularly appropriate and useful for these discoveries. In our goal to become whole people, more fully actualized and empowered, awareness is always the first step. Without awareness we have no choices. Personal integration is part of the natural flow of events when we use symbolic and expressive media. Once we uncover unknown aspects of self, the process includes letting these parts find their rightful places in our psyches, and we are more able to experience the ecstatic universal oneness, a connectedness to all life forms.

References Rogers, C.R. (1977) Carl Rogers On Personal Power: Inner Strength and Its Revolutionary Impact. New York: Delacorte. Rogers, C.R.(1995a) A Way of Being. Revised edition. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Rogers, C.R. (1995b) On Becoming a Person. Revised edition. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Rogers, N. (1980) Emerging Woman: A Decade of Midlife Transitions. Santa Rosa, CA: Personal Press.

Further reading Rogers, C.R. (1951) Client-Centered Therapy: Its Current Practices, Implications, and Theory. New York: Houghton Mifflin. Rogers, N. (1993) The Creative Connection: Expressive Arts as Healing. Palo Alto, CA: Science and Behavior Books.

CHAPTER 7

Living Artfully Movement as an Integrative Process Daria Halprin Nietzsche once made an analogy to art as a saving sorceress, expert at healing. He pointed to the power of the arts to turn the suffering of our existence into material with which we can live. What kind of art can be a saving sorceress? We must search for a process to live by which affirms rather than destroys, and we must find this process by facing and working with the real tensions of our lives today. There is an upsurge of global concern for the quality of life and a quest for recovering meaning on both the personal and collective levels. To live in our bodies, in our families and communities on this planet with greater awareness and sensitivity to the sanctity of life is the goal of expressive arts therapy. In order to bring this vision to life, we must begin by developing a more creative relationship with ourselves and with the issues that separate us. We can use the language of the movement arts to bring our separated parts together into conscious and creative relationship. Movement is the very basis of life.This simple reality is reflected in the natural world, in the internal world of our physical bodies and in our everyday social world. At the deepest levels, our lives depend on movement, from the constant and complex ‘dance’ of cells, to the beating of our hearts, to each inhale and exhale of breath. We literally move throughout our lives, yet rarely do we pay attention to how we are moving and what we are expressing in how we move. Stored in our muscles, bones and organs, in each body part and body posture, are the imprints of our life experiences. The body is full of information about who we are, how we feel and what we think – a living body anthology. When we hold all these stories on an unconscious level, when we have no opportunity to creatively explore and express our stories, the body starts screaming out in one form or another, emerging as physical, emotional or

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mental distress. Usually, we act and live as if our bodies, feelings and minds are separate. We live in a house divided. Jimake Highwater writes: ‘The main reason we lose our aesthetic capacity is because we attempt to hide our feelings, so we lose our body language and that makes the creative response impossible’ (Highwater 1987, p.1). Movement is the body’s mother tongue, a powerful and universal language. Made conscious and creative, movement is a language for the body and soul to speak through, a bridge to the interior world of self and between self and the world; it is a way to build bridges and begin dialogues between the separated parts. In the following sections of this chapter, I shall describe and discuss some aspects of my work with movement-based expressive arts therapy. Included is an example of an exercise which I use in my work as a teacher and therapist so that the reader may have a more concrete understanding of this process. I am a believer in putting words and theory into practice, as that is the way we can find the form of an experience and thereby understand its meaning. The theories which inform the field of expressive arts therapy are based on embodied, or felt, experience and what is encountered and learned from that experience. Most importantly, we look to the process of art-making, the saving sorceress, to hold our separated parts as we engage in our search for meaningful, creative lives.

Roots We can trace the roots of movement-based expressive arts therapy through time to the European, Asian and African cultures when dance was a defining element in terms of tribal, national, religious and racial identity. Dance was a form of enjoyment and entertainment, but also became a means to hold communities of people together in the face of dire threat. European Jews, African-Americans and Native Americans, for instance, danced to assert the indestructible nature of their souls and their inalienable right to freedom in the face of brutality and slavery. Merloo stated: ‘The dance of the medicine man, priest or shaman belongs to the oldest form of medicine and psychotherapy in which the common expectation and release of tensions was able to change man’s physical and mental suffering into a new option on health’ (Merloo 1968, p.69). Indigenous peoples have preserved and passed on an invaluable cultural wisdom and world view of the unity of all beings and nature, exemplified in dance, painting, story-telling, costume and ritual. The roots of my work as a movement-artist, expressive arts teacher and therapist developed out of my own personal history. I was trained as a dancer

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by my mother, Anna Halprin, who was one of the modern-day pioneers in post-modern dance and in movement as a healing art. This was the time of the Beat Generation; the milieu was ripe with innovation and experimentation. Conventional boundaries separating dance, theater and psychology were being broken by many artists and humanistic psychologists. In the 1960s, this breaking down of old boundaries was reflected in the sociopolitical climate of the Hippie movement and in the political revolutions of young people in university campuses around the USA. In California, where I grew up, artists specializing in many different art forms were creating new multi-modal (or multimedia) theater. It was like another Renaissance, with artists literally and metaphorically stripping themselves and their art forms of old constrictions, taking art out of separate studios into collaboration with each other, off the stage and out of the museums to the people in the streets. I remember this as the modern birthplace of what much later was named expressive arts therapy. Although I had literally grown up in an expressive arts therapy atmosphere, at that time there was very little structure and theory to give stability to the innovative experiments we were making. The principles, theories and methods which help to ensure the transformative nature of art-making were not articulated until the open experimentation of the 1960s led us, during the 1970s, into a careful evaluation and understanding when the field of expressive arts therapy began to be defined. For me, theory emerged out of direct experience.Those who start from the background of the theoretician or academic may need to drop what they think they know and immerse themselves in the direct experience of the expressive arts in order to come to a new and deeper understanding.

A movement-based approach Working with movement to bring awareness and expression to the interplay between body, mind, feeling and spirit can reveal unknown parts of the self. The physical body is full of messages about who we are, how we feel and what we think. Mabel Todd, a movement teacher in the 1930s, said: ‘For every thought supported by feeling there is a muscle change. Primary muscle patterns being our biological heritage, our whole body records our emotional thinking’ (Todd 1937, p.19). Our bodies hold our entire life story and also carry an organic ability to heal themselves. The body is a powerhouse which contains destructive and creative life experiences and impulses. Through the use of body imagery and movement metaphors, we

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are able to unlock the doors and windows of this powerhouse to work consciously and creatively with our personal and collective potential. Movement as a metaphoric tool can bring us into a more embodied and integrated way of living. In order to work with movement as metaphor, we need to use a process which allows us to have an ‘embodied’ experience. ‘Embodied’ means to feel one’s self through bodily felt responses in the moment. The embodied experience, then, allows for the possibility of constant change in response to connections made between the physical, emotional and thinking processes. Ultimately, the embodied life would be one in which the physical body, feelings and mind are being expressed creatively in congruence with each other and with the changing nature of reality. The following key principles identify some of the essential ways in which movement serves this process:

Movement is an integrating process Movement is a complex language which contains all the sensations, feelings, emotional states, thoughts and memories we have experienced in our lives. By using this language consciously, we are able somatically (through the physical body), emotionally and symbolically to re-access a range of life-responses and reactivate feelings and images associated with certain life experiences. For instance, kicking and stomping movements initiated with the legs are likely to evoke aggressive feelings. Reaching out or up with the arms is likely to evoke feelings associated with longing. Movements such as rotating and rocking the pelvis may trigger sensual or sexual feelings. A gentle, consistent shaking of the whole body often gives the feeling of release, especially when the breath is let out with the movement. Pulling the shoulders and arms back and extending the rib cage forward may bring up the image and feeling of opening up to … If the reader were to take a moment to try some of these movements and to connect with the physical sensation of each movement, she would get a sense of her own emotional response, an image and perhaps even an association or memory to a particular event or situation in her life. Movement experienced and explored with awareness, where the creative process and self-discovery are the intention, allows the three levels through which we experience and form our lives (physical, emotional and mental) to become consciously reconnected with each other.

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Movement evokes feelings and images and can also be used consciously to express feelings and images All emotional and mental responses to external events and to stimulation from the external environment are stored in the nervous system, muscles and organs. Therefore, we can say that all our reactions to life are held in the physical body and then released through the way in which we express ourselves in movement, body posture or gesture. I have just described a circular cycle: take in stimuli, hold and express in a response through movement. Our responses are based on the physical sensations, feelings and images which external stimuli trigger according to our internal interpretation: is it threatening or non-threatening; does it feel pleasurable or uncomfortable; does it remind me of something I’ve experienced before; do I like it or dislike it?

Movement, feeling and image consciously and creatively expressed in relation to each other can lead to insight and change Movement can be used as a tool (or a medium) to repattern the imprints in the musculo-skeletal system. Through intentional movement, we bring awareness to habitual forms and responses, we release old charged or static structures, and we send new messages to the nervous system about how we can respond to stimulation from a wider range of possibilities. Once we have identified disabling life-patterns by moving them into our awareness and then ‘moving them out’, we can create and learn new patterns which foster increasing degrees of creative expression, learning and health. Movement is an agent of change in the physical body which also has the ability to change moods, to channel emotional responses and to shape our ways of thinking about ourselves, others and the world in which we live.

Movement can deepen and expand an individual’s sense of aliveness and creative connection to self, to others and to the world When the individual learns how to use the expressive arts as a transformative process, she begins to think of herself as a creative participant in life. The fulfillment of experiencing one’s own creativity through art-making lends courage and motivation to the task of confronting and releasing destructive life experiences. Tapping into our creative abilities restores a sense of appreciation for life. When brought into the larger community, this sort of art-making can serve to bridge differences between people and turn the material of conflict into the means for creating things of beauty together.

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The method For our imagery, movement and feeling to be embodied in an integrating atmosphere, we need to be supported by a process which generates awareness through the bodily felt sense, leads us to express ourselves creatively in ways which reconnect our physical, emotional and mental responses. This process is followed by conscious understanding whereby we discover the meaning of our experience so that we can bridge our art expression with our lived experiences. In a movement-based expressive arts therapy approach, I have developed a method for exploring what I call our ‘body stories’ through the use of movement metaphors. The method is articulated through a series of steps, each one connected with the intention to integrate the physical, emotional and mental levels of the individual, to channel life experiences through the language of multimedia art expression, and to create reflections between art expression and life issues in ways which are illuminating and transformative.

The steps 1.

Identification of a personal or collective life theme through the use of a movement metaphor.

2.

Focusing on a somatic experience which heightens awareness of sensation, feeling and imagery.

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Development of a predominant somatic sensation, feeling or image into expressive movement explorations (or a dance).

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Creating a drawn image which is a response to the body/ movement experience.

5.

Creating the ‘script’: writing a poem, story or dialogue which concretizes the meaning which the individual gives to her experience. This step helps the individual make connections between the expressive arts experience and how she perceives her life experiences.

I refer to these steps as an ‘expressive arts chorus’: identify/sense/move/ draw/dialogue. Although here I present the steps in a linear fashion, in practice they may form a circle which allows one to begin with any combination and order depending on needs, interests or on what actually happens in the moment.

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We can change the order of the steps and start with a drawing, which we then embody through sensory awareness and movement, create a dance in response to and finally write about. Alternatively, the drawing might be the starting point which is danced and vocalized. By including all of the above steps, we can set the stage for relationships between body, mind and feelings to arise in an integrating and creative atmosphere. Each level or aspect of the self gets to respond in its favorite art medium; the body loves to move; the mind loves to imagine, draw and dialogue; feelings come up and get more fully expressed in direct response to the interplay between movement and imagery. Our feelings get ‘seen’, ‘heard’ and ‘played out’, as well as more deeply experienced in the interplay of all the media: the dance, the poem and the painting. The following model exercise will give the reader an applied multi-modal example of what I mean by an ‘embodied and integrating’ process.

An exercise I usually begin an expressive arts process by awakening and developing awareness of the bodily felt experience through sensory focusing. Then I give a structured movement metaphor which will relate to a theme. When the physical experience is enlivened in this way, imagery and feelings are automatically evoked. This heightens awareness of the interplay between body/mind/feelings. The life experiences stored in the body are accessed through psycho-motor memory and expressively channeled into movement, drawing and dialogue. The following exercise incorporates the principle which I have discussed so far: the idea that we are made up of different parts which are often at odds with each other or which have different and valuable aspects of our life story to tell. Using movement as a metaphoric process allows us to become more aware and responsive on the physical, emotional and mental levels and to work creatively with the messages of our embodied selves. We recognize separateness as well as that which disturbs as valuable resources in the process of creating a real integration or healing.

Step 1: Identify and sense Make three drawings on three different sheets of paper from your pad. Spend 5 to 15 minutes on each drawing. This will allow you to create a spontaneous and intuitive response without too much thinking or ‘pressure’ to create an exact or highly articulated image. There are no right or wrong ways to

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respond in this exercise. Whatever unfolds in your three drawings is ‘right’ in that those are the images that most want to be ‘drawn’ to your attention. 1. The identified theme: parts of self 2. Drawing: Each image is your response to the following questions, a series of three self-portraits on three separate pieces of paper: •

•

•

Drawing no. 1: Who am I now on the physical level (my sense of my body or body image)? Drawing no. 2: Who am I now on the emotional level (the feeling or emotional state I am in)? Drawing no. 3: Who am I now on the mental level (my thinking experience,what’s on my mind, how do I experience my mental state)?

When you have completed all three drawings go back to each one and write a ‘title’ (a word or sentence) for each. These titles may serve as departure points for creating dialogues later.

Step 2: Move Focusing on one drawing at a time, take a few minutes to ‘become’ your drawn image in movement. This process is not pantomime or dancing about the drawing. That is why I have intentionally chosen the phrase ‘become the drawing’. Of course, you don’t literally become the drawing; rather the drawn image holds something for you that you don’t necessarily know or recognize until you experience it directly. The movement takes you into this direct experience. How do you ‘become’ the drawing through movement? Focus on the colors. How does your red want to move, how does your blue want to move, how does your black want to move? Focus on shapes: round, jagged lines, circles. Move the shapes in your drawing. Is there a particular body posture, body part or symbol in your drawing? How does that body posture, body part or symbol want to express itself in movement? Now, sound: what is the voice of your drawing? Use your own voice as an instrument to make sound with. Give your voice to the drawing, so to speak. Go through each of the three drawings in this way, moving and sounding. Give yourself permission for the unfamiliar and unexpected to arise, as well as for re-experiencing old, familiar images, associations and feelings. You may find movements that you want to repeat.

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Step 3: Dialogue The following are resource ideas for creative writing: •

Use the titles from your three drawings to create a poem.

•

Create dialogues between the drawings.

•

•

Let the drawings dialogue with someone in your life, or a life situation. Use journal writing as a means for reflecting on any life circumstances that the drawings and movement connect with.

Step 4: Draw Create one self-portrait, incorporating elements from the three separate drawings, your movement exploration and dialogue experience. Give this final self-portrait more time.You might consider spending an hour or several hours on it. This fourth self-portrait could lead you back into further or new movement and dialogue. This step allows for the emergence of an integrating or clarifying image which might include whatever insight or change was catalyzed. This exercise may form a kind of ‘Gestalt’, or whole experience involving all three levels of self (physical, emotional and mental) in an integrated way. Images and feelings arise from the body experience and are ‘drawn out’, then ‘taken back in’ again with more awareness and creative intention through movement, drawing and dialogue. In the exercise, we begin with drawings on the theme ‘parts of self ’, embody through movement and dialogue, and continue developing the cycle back into drawing, movement and dialogue/script. These enactments create higher degrees of awareness and creative encounter which may generate new images and feelings as well as insight. Separating the parts allows each part to become more felt and known. This allows new ways of understanding as well as different relationships between separate parts to form.

Photograph by Adrianna Marcione, Tamalpa Institute

Figure 7.1

Photograph by Adrianna Marcione, Tamalpa Institute

Figure 7.2

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An expressive arts model in therapy sessions The following case study is an example of how I use movement-based expressive arts in one-to-one work. I shall refer to the client as ‘C’ and to myself, the therapist, as ‘T’. I have chosen to use for this case study an individual with a relatively high degree of self-awareness and facility in the use of expressive arts for therapeutic purposes as a way to illustrate an optimal application of this work. With clients who are challenged by high degrees of body/mind fragmentation, as in schizophrenia, the work would proceed at a much slower pace. In severe cases, the use of active imagination and provocative movement situations should be monitored carefully. Highly disturbed or traumatized individuals need to be guided slowly and gently into and out of imaginative work and deep body experiences which may disrupt a delicate balance between imagination and illusion. Working with strong bodily felt experiences often reactivates trauma and so must be introduced slowly, over time, in specific relation to each individual circumstance. Both a student in training and in private therapy with me, ‘C’ arrived at our work with a great passion for dance, a broad range of movement abilities and an inclination towards drawing. Her previous experience in the arts had been primarily for recreational purposes. In addition to her interest in developing her personal passions and talent into a profession as an expressive arts therapist, she was also confronting a number of unresolved life experiences and issues which were causing her an ongoing sense of fragmentation in her present life circumstances. One of her outstanding concerns was the challenge of recurring alopecia, a condition which causes the sufferer to lose their hair. To date there is no known cause or cure for this disease. As we proceeded in our work together, we addressed her alopecia from the point of view of the separation between parts of herself, her conflicting and unexpressed feelings, especially in relation to her mother, but also in the context of her own self-image and self-expression. ‘C’s mother and father divorced when she was a small child. She had very little contact with her father. Growing up with a single mother who put herself through college, they lived in a poor neighborhood populated by prostitutes, drug dealers and gangs. In her early childhood ‘C’ and her mother lived with an abusive man who assaulted her mother and threatened to kill her mother and herself on several occasions. Although ‘C’ had quite a difficult childhood and adolescence, during which she faced very real threats to her safety and well-being, she had

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been consistently understanding and forgiving of her mother. She stated, ‘My mother already had so much trouble in her life, I didn’t want to add to it.’ During two years of intensive therapy and training, ‘C’ confronted the events of her life which had been deeply disturbing. We began to discover and work with the connections and separations between the part of her which wanted to hold things together and keep it all (and herself ) looking good, the part which was terrified to let it all fall apart and had kept the painful parts hidden; and the part which was furious and wanted to let it all out. I think of her work as a process of rebuilding a new self out of the fragmented parts of her life story. She did so with honesty, commitment and courage. She was supported by the beauty she found in her own creative art-making.

In a group setting During the first two weeks of training, ‘C’ wore an array of brightly colored scarves and hats which completely covered her head during all classes. No matter what kind of movement activity we were engaged in, she always wore a hat or scarf. Her movement expression was very carefully crafted. Even when strong emotions were evoked, anger or sadness, for instance, she expressed herself in carefully performed and complete movement phrases. Her drawings also had a well-organized, decorative and pretty quality. Strong emotions and images were drawn out in minute and literal detail. One week during the training the body part being explored was the head. We worked with the head anatomically, in movement, drawing and dialogue. An associated theme explored was ‘mask and unmask’. At the end of the session, ‘C’ asked if she could take some group time. As the group gathered around her, she laid out a series of drawings she had made of her head and began to tell us her story through the ‘voices’ of her drawings. As she spoke, she removed her scarf to reveal her own head which was covered in bald spots. The group remained quiet and attentive as she wept and told us the story of the pretty girl who kept losing her hair. She had tried everything, going from one doctor to another, eating the right foods, taking the right vitamins and minerals, working on herself diligently. She told us how terrified she felt, never knowing when her hair would fall out or how much of it she would lose. She talked about her frustration at not being able to fix this disease no matter how hard she worked on it. ‘C’ told us what a relief it was to show us this hidden part of her. The revelation needed the group in order to occur. The presence of the group provided ‘C’ with a powerful

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experience of being seen and supported. The group and group leader became a metaphor for the protective, nurturing environment in which ‘C’ was able to begin the process of letting go of control in a safe way, to face her fears, express her anger and recover herself. For the following year in training, ‘C’ danced out, drew out and spoke out the story of the terrified little girl who is losing her hair while she sits on a ‘volcano of rage’. During the second year of training, ‘C’ imagined a ritual in which she shaved her head surrounded by her training community. She said, ‘Part of me just wants to let go and not worry about how it looks.’ I suggested that she begin to explore letting go as she drew, letting the images get messy, becoming unformed shapes and colors. She felt very excited by this. In her drawings, she imagined and felt something very frightening and dark beginning to emerge. She called it ‘the monster’. She did not know who or what it was. In private therapy, we began to work directly with the terror, the monster and the angry volcano. ‘C’ repeatedly stated her desire to express her anger more directly. In sessions I led her in a practice of aggressive movements: kicking, stomping, punching and swinging the arms in large circles. We worked on developing vocal sounds and sentences to ‘match’ the movements and feelings coming up. She yelled and growled, screamed ‘NO!’, ‘I won’t stand for that!’, ‘Get out!’ After large explosive movement and sound, she often switched into small, collapsed postures and spoke in a whisper, a high voice that sounded like a small child. She reported that often at night she became paralyzed with fear.

Excerpts from a therapy session T: What do you imagine will happen to you when it’s dark? C: I don’t know crying. I think there is a horrible monster that’s going to get me. T: Be the monster in movement. C: I can’t. It’s too big and scary. (She curls up in a contracted position with her head drawn down between her knees.) T: Speak to the monster from that position. C: I can’t. I have a real gummy feeling in my head. I can’t think or see or speak. I always feel this way. T: Stay in contact with the gummy feeling. Move this gummy quality. (She begins to move her arms slowly, and her body begins to shift out of the highly

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contracted and withdrawn position. She uses her arms as if pulling things out of her mouth, eyes and head.) T: Stay with the gummy, pulling movements you’re doing. (Slowly the arm movements become more forceful. Her arms begin to swing and extend.) T: Give your movement words when you’re ready. C: I’m dark. I keep you from seeing, I keep you from saying anything. T: Stay with your movement. Develop it, where does it want to go in space? (Her arm and hand movements switch from pulling at her own head to swinging, pushing and punching, and pushing away from her head.) C: Get out! Get away! Get out! Get away! T: Who are you speaking to? C: The monster. T: What do you imagine the monster looks like? C: I don’t know, oh I hate this feeling of not knowing … T: ‘OK. Switch and be the monster with your movement. Play it out, play with the movement of the monster. C: OK. I want to see you! Come on! (Her movements become more aggressive and wild.) I’m going to kill you, I hate you. I am absolutely going to kill you! Oh my god, the monster is my anger. I’m so furious. I want to kill my mother’s boyfriend. I hate you! I’m so angry that you didn’t stand up for us, Mom, I’m tired of being so understanding. I’m tired of it. You are both assholes! T: (She exhausts the aggressive movements and sounds. It is as if the volcano erupted. After a few minutes of quiet …) How do you want to move your arms now? C: I want to make a safe home for myself. T: Make it in this room, now. (She repeats a series of circling movements with her arms around her entire body. She strokes her head. She walks around the room in large circles and then steps inside an imaginary space she has just circled with her movement. She sits down, her spine is straight and her arms are relaxed on top of her folded legs. She makes eye contact with me.) C: This feels good. Now I see it. No more pretty pictures.

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At the conclusion of this session, we decide that she will write a letter to her mother expressing her anger and a letter to her father describing the kind of support she would like him to give in her life now. She may send these letters and she may not. The writing is for her own experience of uncensored release, not about doing something to fix the outer situation. Although ‘C’s hair loss is also not ‘fixed’, she comes to understand that this condition is connected to the story of the pretty girl and angry woman. Rather than focusing on trying to figure it out or make it go away, our focus is on the building of a relationship between previously conflicting parts. Our work is towards an integration of her self-image and self-expression which is a creative and honest reflection of her real feelings, and which expresses the full range of her story from the well put together, light beauty to the wild, dark beauty, with scarves and hats, and without them.

The saving sorceress Let us consider that the self is not one fixed entity, any more than a family or community has one identity or one experience of reality. It seems essential that we create a new understanding of ourselves which includes a creative interplay between many different parts, voices, feelings, perceptions and life experiences. As a cultural, environmental and global model, this inclusive view is essential to our survival and growth. Such a view, then, would accept the fact of separation not as an evil to overcome or to get rid of, but rather as a creative resource which might lead us into a more honest and healthy coming together. Rollo May states that: ‘…the creative process is the expression of the passion for form. It is the struggle against disintegration, the struggle to bring into existence new kinds of being’ (May 1976, p.22). In order to accept this view, which acknowledges and values the separate parts, we must find ways to live artfully with the tensions of our life stories and the suffering of humankind. Consider the traditional Western approach in medicine and therapeutic practice based on the concept that suffering,or disease, manifests in symptoms which should be fixed. ‘Healed’ or ‘made whole’ in this context means to get rid of the disturbing symptoms or the painful parts of self. Once the pain is gotten rid of, the person is considered fixed until the next disturbance arises. In Eastern or shamanic practices, diseases of the body are understood as the suffering of the mind and spirit or soul in the act of expressing itself. In this view, disease is approached as a kind of messenger who carries an

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important code to be deciphered. There is a saying, ‘Don’t kill the messenger’. In our attempts to rid ourselves of disturbances, to fix our imperfect selves so that we can get on with life in a better, faster or more productive way, we often shoot the messenger who brings with her some valuable code from our interior which may serve to benefit the health of the whole self; body, mind and spirit. When we attempt to fix a part that isn’t working on an obvious level, we are in danger of distracting ourselves from the movements of the deeper undercurrents. Fixing implies doing away with the painful parts of self, whereas healing means accepting, embodying them and bringing them into new relationships with the more creative aspects of self. We need to give expression to the separated parts, to the fragments of our life stories, and to express the shadow through the metaphors of our art. Let us say that healing depends on our ability to listen and respond to the messages our souls send us, in the voices of our physical, emotional and mental selves. The soul loves to speak in the language of the arts. In times of crisis and in the face of human suffering, the expressive arts, like a saving sorceress, can serve us well. That art which arises from our inner landscape, which reflects the real issues and tensions in our lives, illuminates the darkness and heals the soul. Although new and experimental movements often start with small groups of pioneers, it is no longer enough that select groups of people find their way into therapy workshops or spiritual groups where creativity and transformation are fostered. Those of us who have the means to develop this vision – students, educators, artists, therapists, medical practitioners and community activists – all share a responsibility to carry what we have discovered and are learning into our cultural mainstream. I would challenge the reader who finds her interest kindled or her commitment strengthened to take this work into the larger community. The vision of expressive arts therapy, the vision of a creative and embodied life, has much to offer the healing of our broken world.

References Highwater, J. (1987) ‘The primal mind: vision and reality in Indian America.’ In Creation Magazine 3, 5. November–December. May, R. (1976) The Courage to Create. New York: Bantam Books. Merloo, J. (1968) Creativity and Externalization. New York: Humanities Press. Todd, M.E. (1937) The Thinking Body. New York: Dance Horizons.

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Further reading Assagioli, R. (1965) Psychosynthesis. California: Penguin Books. Bottom, D. and Peat, D. (1987) Science, Order and Creativity. New York: Bantam Books. Feinstein, D. and Kripners (1988) Personal Mythology. California: Tarcher/St. Martin’s Press. Feldendrais, M. (1985) The Potent Self. California: Harper and Row. Halprin, D. (1989) Coming Alive. California: Tamalpa Institute. Lowen, A. (1975) Bioenergetics. New York: Coward, McCann and Geognegan. Perls, F. (1971) Gestalt Therapy Verbatim. New York: Bantam Books. Pesso, A. (1969) Movement in Psychotherapy. New York: University Press. Rogers, C. (1961) On Becoming a Person. New York: Houghton Mifflin.

CHAPTER 8

Layer Upon Layer A Healing Experience in the Art Studio Annette Brederode Introduction Since my childhood I have loved the Fine Arts. As a result, studying at the Royal Academy for Fine Arts in The Hague was a natural choice for me. There, I discovered that I wanted to learn to apply my knowledge of visual art in a therapeutic context. After earning my diploma there, I began my professional life as an art therapist at a psychiatric hospital. I now realize how little I knew back then about art therapy. My work with psychiatric patients made me aware of how important it is to express and make visible with the help of images that which cannot, or not yet, be verbalized. By means of training and additional courses, I learned how to help patients initiate a healing process and to further develop these processes. For more than 20 years I worked in various psychiatric and psychotherapeutic settings. At the same time I began establishing my own practice. In 1985, I started practising independently and founded the Center for Expressive and Creative Arts Therapy in Amsterdam. This is a center dedicated to educating and training expressive arts therapists. Time and again I have realized how necessary it is for me to continue working expressively myself. The basis of my work as a therapist is continually shaped by my own expressive work; that is the source of my inspiration and motivation. I also came to notice that many of my colleagues seldom or never worked expressively any longer, and that they had therefore lost much of their sense of pleasure in their work. For various reasons, they had lost touch with their media and were alienated from their own art. There is obviously a great need for expressive arts therapists consistently to work expressively themselves. Initially, I developed and used the Art Studio to meet the

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dormant needs of many art therapists. Currently, I use the Art Studio for patients as well as students and professional therapists. In this piece I shall describe as carefully as possible what it is that I do in the Art Studio. I shall describe a particular way of working that I have developed over the course of years, which is still developing. I call it a working model, and what is attractive about it is that it is not rigid. Variations can be incorporated. The number of days involved, as well as the length of time devoted to the various parts, can be adjusted to meet the goals of the participants. This description is based on two days of work in the Art Studio. The Art Studio is composed of various layers. In describing these layers, I use a two-pronged approach in the various sections. In the first part of each section, I indicate what I say, what the instructions are and what I do. In the second part of each section, I describe what happens and what I have to say about it. In the second part, of course, I have to make a choice from the many things that take place. The expressive process is of central importance to the Art Studio. I use an art-centered approach to working. In this art-centered approach to working, expressive art is used as a therapeutic medium. My understanding of expressive art as a therapeutic medium entails acting and shaping in such a manner that an artistic and healing process can emerge. Art and therapy become connected by the process of becoming aware of, dealing with, and understanding psychic and physical suffering. The symbolization of experience and the restoring of the relationship to imagination form the basis of expressive arts therapy. Acting and shaping imaginatively consists of working with all kinds of materials and techniques, and is directed towards immediate emotional expression. Thereby, the images themselves, as well as the imaginative process, are of central importance. By images, I mean all kinds of shapes, colors, lines and movements that can be made and seen, and therefore not only so-called ‘figurative images’. The images manifest themselves not only in materials, but they also show themselves by means of inner, mental images. I accompany the participants in the Art Studio in such a way that the following goals can be realized: •

to resolve unfinished situations

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to support change

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to open new ways for creativity and expression.

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The Art Studio is used for: •

patients (those who seek therapy)

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students and professional therapists

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others who are interested in art and personal growth.

In the case of therapies that extend over longer periods of time, participation in one or more Art Studios may constitute part of the therapy.

Beginning What I do and what I say Making good use of the Art Studio requires that from beginning to end, care is taken with regard to the work space and the materials. Preparing the work space and becoming acquainted with the materials, as well as cleaning up and leaving the space in an orderly condition, are parts of the learning process. I always start with a short introduction, during which I explain how the Art Studio works and what the rules are. I also provide information about work times, breaks and the use of materials. From the beginning, the intention is to create a safe atmosphere, in which participants can allow themselves to show vulnerability and to express themselves: healing is done only in a sacred space. The instructions are as follows (work-time one hour): •

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Walk through the room and briefly become acquainted with the other group members in a way that feels comfortable to you. Now choose a place where you will be working, standing at a high table or in front of a sheet which is inclined in front of the wall, where you will be working at body height. Allow for sufficient space to move without getting in your neighbor’s way. Fasten a base made of strong paper, tape it well all around, and add at least one more layer of paper fastened in the same way. Spread newspapers on the floor to catch splatters. Set out the following at your work space: charcoal, crayon, pastels, ink, paint, fingerpaint, brushes, clay, old rags, a bucket with water, turpentine, a sponge, glue, tape, rope and colored paper.

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Set out also a diary and a pen.

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Wear old, loose-fitting clothes. I warn you, you will get dirty.

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Now begin by using the charcoal to cover the entire surface of the sheet, using both your hands. Do not just move your hands, make sure you move your arms, your shoulders, your neck and your head, your entire torso, your hips, your legs and feet, shake your whole body loose as much as possible. At the same time, make as many different types of lines as possible on the paper: hard, soft, slow, fast, round, angular, long, short, and so on. When the charcoal is used up, take the crayon and continue moving while pressing down firmly on the paper, but make it ugly, as ugly as possible. Use ugly colors and make ugly shapes and lines. Watch your breathing and make sounds when you breathe out. Let your voice be heard and let the sounds that you make play with the lines on the paper. Keep working vigorously and do not stop. Do not allow yourself the time to contemplate. Exaggerate your movements, dare to play and dance over the surface of the paper with the crayons. Do not think about what you are doing and do not try to be creative. Keep moving and find a rhythm that feels comfortable, close your eyes and relax your neck by letting your chin rest on your chest. Breathe deeply and let your hands lead you over the surface of the paper.

In this manner the foundation has been laid for layer-upon-layer work. The Art Studio has been initiated.

What happens and what I have to say about it In my experience, each participant in the Art Studio constitutes his or her own story. I am not out to influence the uniqueness and essence of an individual’s story. I do, however, want to create the conditions needed to create each story. Among other things, I do that by getting the participants to move. Through movement they become aware of their bodies, and they establish contact with the places where tension is felt with their breathing

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and with all sorts of emotions. I put the participants to work with the help of undirected physical exercises, which aim towards letting loose. I emphasize that these are not attempts to draw or express anything specific. Almost every participant starts out with a certain anxiety about this process. There are high expectations about what the process and the final product will yield. Actually, by means of the tasks that I give to participants, I challenge them to forget thinking that a final product is necessary and that this product has to mean something. I teach the participants to get their hands dirty, to change their work and to mess up continuously. The task that I give, which is often seen as permission to make a mess and to make something ugly, has a liberating effect, and often touches on a past in which none of this was allowed. Furthermore, making something ugly often calls up feelings of anger, and because these can be channeled in a directed manner (by using the voice and hard scratching on paper), a release of tension takes place. The entire group does this simultaneously; consequently, this often leads to an excited and giggly atmosphere. My intention is to make the participants stop concentrating on drawing a problem, a theme or a particular subject. I systematically frustrate attempts by participants to do this, by giving various instructions in rapid order and by having them use different materials. I concentrate on the activity of drawing in such a way that creativity and expression can be activated and developed. I have found that beginning in this way is surprising, and strikingly simple and novel for most participants, and that, almost without being noticed, an expressive process is stimulated. This is a warm-up for the following layer; a warm-up whereby the participants are brought to a state of creative confusion, to prevent them from being blind to the unseen and deaf to the unheard.

Layer upon layer What I do and what I say The warm-up, as it has been described in the preceding section, forms the foundation for working through, layer upon layer. A great deal of the time spent in the Art Studio is reserved for this phase. The instructions are as follows (work-time five hours): •

Take fingerpaint, feel its substance in your hands, then move both hands over the base that you made earlier. Apply layers of paint

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and let your body move along with your hands, take a breath and close your eyes now and then. •

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In the course of this process, use, as needed, several sheets of paper and combine different materials: pastels over crayon, ink over charcoal, clay over paint, layers of colored paper. When working with clay, think of kneading, pushing, pulling apart, jumbling, moistening and painting. Also think about stacking, rolling, binding, sticking together, folding, washing off, tearing and repairing materials. If you get tired, keep working, even if this means sitting or lying on the floor. There is no break for the group as a whole, but you can opt to take one or more pitstops.

A half hour before the end of this phase, I announce how much time is left and also give the following instructions: • •

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Take some space from your work, stroll around a bit. Then take the time to finish your work and consider what you wish to change, add or remove. Think about what your work still needs, maybe a frame or some other finishing touch. When you are finished, clean up your work space and get rid of what you do not need or what is in the way.

What happens and what I have to say about it The bodily movements, the expressive actions and the direct contact with the materials stimulate the sense organs of the participants: they feel the paint between their fingers, the weight of the clay in their hands, they smell the turpentine, they see the colors, they hear the scratching on paper, and they become fulfilled by, and adept at, this way of working. There is a certain eagerness; they are hungry for more. All sorts of memories are called up by the sense organs, such as memories of mostly forgotten events that have been covered up layer upon layer and are now becoming accessible and reachable. Applying the layers of material is agitating and risky. It takes courage to get rid of, or to paint over, something that has just been created. But it is essential that this happens, because the

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very act of covering up initiates a process of disclosure and exposure. Layers of experiences become tangible and visible, and begin to reveal the secrets of their meaning. This manner of working, in which one continues working without interruption for long periods of time, enables the expressive and artistic processes to unfold steadily. One image follows another, one calls up another, and this results in a stream that seems to stem from an internal reservoir of images. A source has been tapped and its abundance becomes visible and available. The images can become visible through the aid of the shapes that they seem to choose themselves, as soon as they are given attention. The emotions which are set free are diversified. They can manifest themselves as anger, grief or shame, but also as happiness, pleasure or pleasant excitement. These images are the carriers of memory. They transport experiences from the past to the here and now. Conflicts are made visible and transformed in such a way that a healing process can ensue. The imaginative process becomes a healing process: art as therapy. By taking plenty of time for this layer-upon-layer work, a process of change emerges, a cycle with a distinct beginning phase, a middle phase and an end phase. The beginning phase is characterized by working with the materials in a physical way, without set ideas and seemingly without a goal. It can be compared with fumbling in the dark, with searching for the unknown. The middle phase consists of working through and going deeper, descending and digging vertically, through all kinds of layers. Most of the time one works non-stop, but there are also moments of rest and of waiting to see what happens. The end phase is meant for emerging again, for returning from a long journey and for beginning to complete the expressive work. During this last phase, there is time to arrange the work and to find the right spot for the various parts. What is striking is that this process of putting things in order often leads to a certain integration within the person of previously unconnected events and emotions. Imperceptibly, loose pieces of the puzzle are put in their proper places. As a result of a careful process of finishing up, a feeling of liberation emerges: ‘Yes, this is good.’ In cases where this feeling of liberation has not, or has not yet, taken place, certain parts of the process have not been completed. The therapeutic process is incomplete in such cases, and additional attention and working through will be required at another time. In such situations I arrange special appointments.

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During the entire period of time that participants are working, I am involved with accompanying their individual processes and helping to keep them going. I give directions regarding materials and techniques, the approach to working and the content. I ask questions and give suggestions such as: ‘What does this picture need? What color is missing? What do your hands want to do? Make it smaller or larger’, and so on. Working expressively in this manner is an intensely introspective activity. The group as a whole determines the atmosphere in the work space and the course of events. There is hardly any speaking, but the presence of others is perceptible and has a stimulating and inspirational effect.

In dialogue with the images What I do and what I say After the intensive period of working layer upon layer, a transition is made to engaging in a dialogue with the images. This is a dialogue that begins with silence, and which gradually makes a transition to writing down and verbalizing words and sentences. The instructions are as follows (work-time 30 minutes): •

Take a few minutes’ time to walk around the room.

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Take out your diary and pen and sit down by your work.

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Look at your work and take a breath.

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Allow words to come to you, search for a title for your work or give it more than one name; write them down. Take a moment to speak to your images: what do you have to say to them or what do you want to know about them?

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Listen to what they answer, let the images speak.

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Continue with this dialogue and write it down.

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Create unconnected sentences and do not try to make sense of them; you do not need to understand what you say or write: no speculating and no psychology! Write a short text, a letter, a poem or whatever you choose, referring to your images. Censor as little as possible, and imagine that the pen is carrying you with it across the paper.

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Take a few minutes to complete your text. Now choose two other people from the group to form a small group, and take these two people over to your expressive work.

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Read aloud what you have written, without further explanation.

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The others will listen, without asking or saying anything.

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Repeat this procedure until everyone has had a turn.

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You may not comment on your fellow group members’ works unless you have first asked for permission. If you wish to know something or say something, then ask if you can borrow the picture for a moment, and then turn directly towards the picture. Over and over again, you will initiate a dialogue with the images, and you will notice that the images will do the same with you. Do not say anything off the top of your head, or analyze or interpret. After you have shared the texts, take some more time to exchange experiences about this phase with this same small group.

What happens and what I have to say about it By consciously distancing themselves physically, the participants gain an initial overview. It becomes a renewed acquaintance from a different perspective. What is striking is that the participants are neither able nor willing to speak immediately after having worked expressively. They do not yet have the language that is appropriate to the work and the experience. It seems as if the spoken language has been covered over by various layers. This is also true of the just-born images themselves; they are also incapable of speaking immediately. It takes time for the images to get used to the world outside. Getting used to what has just revealed itself occurs in silence. Afterwards, by slowly and carefully beginning a conversation with the images, a new connection can take place. The just-born images become inspired. The idea is to let the images speak for themselves without immediately wanting to know what it is all about. This is made possible by consistently speaking with and through the images rather than about the images. In this way the immediate emotional involvement can have a chance to manifest itself completely. The next step is the transition to the written language. Initially this involves a searching for the first words, which are often disconnected and

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incomprehensible, luckily. After all, it is not about a kind of writing that has to meet all sorts of linguistic requirements, but rather about the possibility of continuing the process in another art form, which will make it possible to communicate its content in a different manner. Through writing, an effortless transition to another form of expression is made. The value of this transition is that by means of immediate uncensored writing, one remains true to the nature and essence of the images. The image, the expressive language and the written language merge and form a whole. They are all part of the same artistic process. By sharing their various texts in small groups, the participants make the step from their private interior worlds into the world outside, where they meet the other group members. The first step outside makes them feel very vulnerable, and speaking their texts aloud makes it a profound experience. The intensity of the moment is increased by the fact that they are not allowed to explain anything or ask questions or make comments, even if it is well intentioned. The intention is to keep the work alive, and not to talk it to death.

Individual work What I do and what I say Individual work offers the participants the opportunity to work through certain issues with myself as the therapist and the group as a witness. Participants can indicate themselves that they want to do this and whether or not they are ready for this. I invite the participant to take a seat with his/her expressive work in the middle of the group, or he/she can take me and the others over to the spot where he/she has worked expressively. This individual work cannot be explained here in general terms because individual therapeutic processes can differ significantly. There are, however, a number of distinguishing features and possibilities that I would like to illustrate and explain before I begin. The length of the sessions varies from person to person. The total amount of time devoted to this phase is two hours. I usually start by going over to look at the expressive work together with the participant, in order to determine with him or her what he/she wants to do or what he/she needs. I accompany someone in a dialogue with the work and with the internal images, or by interacting with the work, whereby more emphasis is placed on involving the whole body, and the work space as a

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whole can be used. It is possible, for instance, to change the clay or move it, to work on the piece, or to use a roleplay by inviting other group members to take part. All of these activities constitute parts of a working model in which the participant, the expressive work and the therapist continually and actively determine the form. The instructions given to the group, in case someone is going to work with me individually, are as follows: •

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Take a modest amount of material, such as a piece of clay, something to write with, or draw with or paint with, and position yourself in such a way that you are able to follow the individual process well. At the same time, make sure that the person working in the middle is not disturbed by your activities. You are present to offer support and to witness; you are not just here to sit and observe. Let your hands work with the material, without any preconceived goal, or consciously make something that you can later give to the person working in the middle.

What happens and what I have to say about it Individual work is intended to further more intense contemplation and to delve more deeply into the emotional significance of the images and of the process as a whole. I do this by actively and continually keeping the imaginative process going. I move back and forth between the images that have emerged from the material and what they call up in terms of internal mental images. I attempt to make connections between earlier and present-day, here and now experiences. Earlier experiences can stem from the more recent past, as well as from the more distant past, from childhood experiences. What is essential here is the reliving of past experiences: first, as they actually or possibly occurred, and then as a longing for how things should have been. In this way old wounds are healed. The images are indispensable for this transformational process. It is not uncommon for the imaginative work, or parts of it, to be rejected in the beginning: the images look different than intended, they are not understood, not recognized or found to be lacking. Strangely enough, the internal images, as well as the images on the paper or in the clay, are usually so

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primary and swift that they are far ahead of their meaning. The images can always be trusted; it usually just takes time to realize and accept this. By exploring images, I help the participants to uncover situations that lead to conflicts or problems. This involves becoming aware of how these conflicts work and expressing the emotions that they evoke. Some of the means I use to do this exploring are the following interventions: ‘How do you feel?’, ‘What do you need?’, ‘What do you long for?’, ‘What are you missing?’, ‘What are you waiting for?’, ‘Who can help you with this?’, ‘How are you going to deal with this?’, and so on. Becoming aware is once again achieved via the sense organs, and it is always related to ‘how’ something takes place and ‘how’ that feels. The following is an example of individual work with me. One of the participants (P) painted layer upon layer, and the result was a painting with dark colors, mostly black and brown. The paper was full and thick with paint. Together with me (A) she wanted to explore the image and maybe find out its meaning. We sat together and looked at it: A: What do you experience when you look at your painting? P: I feel pain and I think that it has to do with my mother … A: Where do you feel the pain? P: Here, inside (puts her hand on her chest) … A: What does that place inside you look like? P: It is dark … A: Can you see a shape? P: Yes, it is a hard, dark shape that looks like a rock … A: Can you describe that rock? P: Let me see … the rock is hollow, like a cave … A: Keep looking. P: It looks like a hollow tooth … the upper part fills my chest, and the root goes down and reaches almost to my knees … A: How does this tooth feel inside you? P: Hard as a rock and painful … I want to take it out …

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A: How can you do that? P: Maybe I can lift it out with a tow truck … oh no, that is not a good idea, because then I would be totally empty inside … a big hole no, no … Well maybe I can leave the root inside, I need to have a root … A: Do you want to lift the upper part now? P: Yes, no, I am so sick and tired of the whole thing, I want to get rid of the pain … A: Can you imagine that you lift out the whole tooth? P: Yes, I want to try … wait, I am now lifting it with that tow truck … it hurts … ouch … wait, yes it comes out, it is huge … ouch … A: When it is out, look inside you. P: Yes, I see a huge hole, like a big empty space … The walls are made of flesh and blood … A: Does it hurt? P: Yes, but not really a lot … I have a wound in my chest and I need to close it, it needs to heal … Gee, I am tired … what hard work … how is this possible? I am tired, I want to rest now. A: Where did you leave the tooth? P: It is on the floor, in front of me … A: What are you going to do with it? P: Well, I guess I cannot leave it here … That tooth, I want to bury it … A: Where? P: Yes, by the tree in my grandmother’s garden … (P starts to cry). Yes, that is the right place … I am in the garden now and I am going to dig … It is deep enough now … I put the tooth in and close the grave … and sit by its side, on a little bench … I am looking at the house of my grandmother and feel peaceful … The sun is shining. Gee, what an operation … I am tired, but this is exactly what I needed … I just needed to get rid of that hard rock inside me … I have always felt it, since I was a little kid, and it has to do with my mother, that hardness inside, she also has that. But now, I succeeded to get rid of it … I feel so relieved and satisfied. I thought that I could not survive without it,

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that I would be too empty … But now I feel a lot of space inside me instead … I have a very special feeling. A: Do you need anything else now? P: No, thanks a lot. A: Now, look at your painting for a moment. P: Yes, the layers and the darkness, that was the tooth inside of me. I do not analyze these images, and try to avoid interpretations and value judgments as much as possible. Images do not want to be interpreted, but they do want to be seen and be respected. From personal experience, I know that I have never learned or experienced anything of substance on those occasions when someone else felt they had to interpret my images. It was information from the outside and not something that I had gone through myself. The essence and specialness of the image became lost to me. Every image is precisely what it should be, otherwise it would have become something else. This can be reassuring for the person who has created it as well as for the therapist. I try to take the images literally and I do not compare them with anything else, because then they lose their value: an image cannot be objectified. By objectifying images we pin them down and rob them of their vitality. Images are a living part of ourselves, and individual images do not have a predetermined meaning. Thankfully not, because there is nothing more exciting than continually rediscovering what this specific image has to tell me at any given moment. The value and meaning of images are best done justice by means of dialogue and interaction. In a dialogue, only language is used, and, in an interaction, the entire body is more involved. The relationship to personal images becomes dynamic in both approaches. This dynamic gives the images room to breathe and to move, and this gives them the inspiration that they need in order to have a healing effect. During the course of this individual therapeutic work with me, the other participants continue working expressively. Their images reflect an interaction with the process that is unfolding in the middle of the group. The emotional involvement that emerges from person to person develops a completely unique form and content. When the work is completed, these products are actually, or figuratively, given to, or used to support the process of, the person who has been working in the middle. The support that the group is able to create in this way creates a pleasant and secure feeling.

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Nobody is being scrutinized, and yet everyone can follow what is happening.

The presentation What I do and what I say Every participant gets exactly the same amount of time to present his/her expressive work. Each person chooses and determines his/her own form of presentation. I give a short explanation of the procedure and the rules. The instructions are as follows (every participant gets five minutes for the presentation, and subsequently there is a minute for feedback): •

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You will not get any time to prepare for the presentation. The expressive work has already been finished and set up. The presentation is meant for you to react very directly and improvisationally to your own piece of work. You can choose any type of interaction with your own work: a dialogue with the images, reading a text aloud, a combination of other forms of expression, such as using your body and your voice. One of you will receive a set of Tibetan copper bells, to be used to signal the start of the five minutes and also to indicate when the time is up. At the end of each presentation, the bells are passed to someone else. The person who is presenting chooses two other people from the group in advance. This means you are invited to respond to the presentation for no longer than one minute. The bells will again be used to keep time. The type of feedback you choose is up to you, feel free to improvise. Do not think about it in advance, just see what happens. Surprise yourself! During this entire process, no questions may be asked and no explanations are allowed. Following the response, the person who has presented announces the next person to present, until everyone has had his/her turn. Following the completion of the presentations, you have 15 minutes to talk among yourselves.

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The following is an example of a presentation of one of the participants, whose painting depicts an image of herself and her deceased relatives. She explains: ‘This painting deals with the ruins of my life and with those people who have died, but still live in my ruins. My son, my sister and all of the other relatives. While I painted this image I could clearly feel that most of my “ruin-family” was like a distant loving chorus and that my son kept being much more near to me, like a brother. I wrote a poem about this painting.’

The invisible There are days when I hear them singing, the chorus of my family, quietly, softly, not in tune but happily absent-minded. There are days when one of them carries out a monologue, arguing, demanding in a voice like water running through my body. Sometimes I answer them as a humming bee, as a wooden bowl. In all I do I keep listening for the sudden breathing of the one walking beside me.

What happens and what I have to say about it By viewing and coming into contact with each other’s work, by allowing others to witness the final product of an intensive process, each individual and the expressive work he/she has created is honored. The group supports and contains the individual presentations in such a way that the group, as a whole, becomes a participant in this process. A group ritual, a sort of dance with a unique rhythm, emerges, from the design of the successive presentations. The participants are urged to present quickly, spontaneously and intuitively and to react to each other. The form is tight and demands discipline. The passing on of the Tibetan bells keeping time, and the possibility of being chosen to give a response, ensure that everyone is actively

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involved and that they each have a part in shaping the process. The presentations are exciting, intense, dramatic, funny, simple, light-hearted and moving. It is a phase that at first glance seems to limit participants in their presentations, due to the tight time frame. It is, however, this very limitation that leads to exciting and surprising moments. In this manner the work carried out in the Art Studio is rounded off.

Cleaning up and saying goodbye What I do and what I say Rounding off the content of the process has taken place during the presentations. Now there is time for reflection. This reflection takes place by means of the following questions, suggestions and stimulations. The instructions are as follows (work-time ten minutes): •

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Think about how you have experienced the work you have done in the Art Studio, and think about how you can continue your process on your own. Who or what do you need in order to do this? Reach an agreement with yourself about this, and look at it as a promise that you make to yourself. This promise is not an obligation; it is a present you give yourself. Find a nice spot for your expressive work at home, frame it and follow up on it.

Then it is time to clean up and say goodbye. The instructions are as follows (work-time 30 minutes): • •

Pack up your work so you can take it home. Clean up your work space and make sure it is neat when you leave.

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Say goodbye to the other participants in your own way.

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Say goodbye to the Art Studio.

What happens and what I have to say about it Reflection facilitates making a transition in the participant’s thoughts from the time he/she has spent in the Art Studio to his/her own surroundings. It is time to face the reality of leaving and traveling back home. The process is

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interrupted, but it can be continued elsewhere. This transition is given form by the practical tasks of cleaning and straightening up, and then by saying goodbye to one another.

Conclusion During the period of time that I worked as a visual art therapist in various psychiatric settings, I soon came to realize the limitations that are connected with choosing one type of therapeutic medium. I began to feel the need to open myself up to other forms of art and expression that I had previously excluded, to learn to embrace these very forms and to learn to use them in order to broaden my options. However, this seemed to be an impermissible violation of boundaries within the multi-disciplinary work setting. Each discipline (visual art therapy, music therapy, dramatherapy, etc.) was meant to make its own contribution, and the team leader, usually a psychiatrist or psychotherapist, had the responsibility of coordinating these various contributions for the benefit of the treatment as a whole. There was really no mention of an integrated approach to therapy, but this was exactly what I wanted to achieve. The decision to employ just one type of art or expression in a therapeutic process often proves to be insufficient, just as only one picture would be insufficient in the process of expressive arts therapy. After all, creating an image and then subsequently limiting oneself to this image (regardless of what medium is used) means stagnation. Movement, however, is an essential component of therapy. Working expressively in the Art Studio entails creating and forming various images successively. This series, this succession of images, permits an expressive process to emerge. The artistic, expressive process is intensified and enriched by an almost natural implementation of other forms of expression. A painting is followed by shaping a piece in clay, and this in turn is followed by a movement, a sound, a story or some other type of poetic form. All these steps taken together facilitate the creation of a process: an artistic, aesthetic and healing process. In the Art Studio at least, the image remains central to this process. Personally, I do not believe that working with various artistic and expressive forms requires that I be equally capable of mastering all of these media. Nevertheless, it does mean that based on my great love for visual art, I involve myself with integrating other media into the therapeutic process. To be honest, it is actually difficult not to do just that. After all, it is impossible to

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paint without moving, to have a dialogue with the images without using words or sounds, or to write without using language. The voice, language, movement, sounds and images: they are all necessary, and they make an artistic process complete. Over the years it has become evident that the significance of working expressively, and the experiences that have been gone through in the Art Studio, continue to have a lasting effect on the participants. Taking part in the Art Studio once or several times is not only a goal in and of itself. It is also a beginning and a means for allowing the expressive process to become a part of one’s daily life. Patients as well as therapists evidently go on to work expressively more frequently in their own homes as a result of their experiences in the Art Studio. For me, describing the Art Studio has been a process of writing and rewriting, layer upon layer. I have tried to develop the same feeling of naturalness and to achieve the same feeling of familiarity with the written word that I have with the language of expression through art. Ultimately, my use of the written word is meant to conjure up an image: the image of the Art Studio. I hope that this image will become a starting point for the reader’s own expressive work.

CHAPTER 9

Music as Mother The Mothering Function of Music through Expressive and Receptive Avenues Margareta Wärja Music you are the queen of time You take me to the never-ending now (Margo N. Fuchs) Without physical touch the human infant dies. We need the touching closeness and warmth of another person to survive, grow and develop. Touch can be experienced in many ways: caring, sensitive, warm, sensuous, sexual, harsh, punishing, cold. In whatever way we are touched there is an imprint in the body. The way we feel towards our body, and how we experience it, is shaped during our childhood years. The mother is likely to be the first significant person that handles and touches the infant. First come the physical experiences of life in the womb, then the early care-taking of the small baby, followed by the formative years of the young child. The way the mother relates to the body of her child is of the utmost importance for the development of that child. During the last seven or eight years, I have been interested in how the presence, or absence, of adequate mothering influences the developing child. In the concept of ‘mothering’ I am including both the care-taking given by the biological mother and that given by other significant persons who function as mother. It is from our mothers that we learn about mothering, and our mothers are role models for femininity for better or for worse. To the daughter, the mother becomes an object of identification and, for the son, an experience of the opposite sex which will influence his relationships to all other women. Over the years, I have met many individuals, both in my therapy practice and as a teacher of students in the fields of expressive arts

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and music therapy, who suffer from lack of mothering. I have witnessed how the process of expressive arts therapy provides a path of healing for them. I view myself as a music-centered expressive arts therapist. My particular competence is in the area of music and sound-making. In this chapter the focus is on addressing the ability of music to hold, shape and structure inner experiences that can be referred to as qualities of the mother. I term this function ‘music as mother’ and I shall point to some characteristics of music which relate to ‘mothering’. I hope to be able to address what might be some of the unique qualities that music, as one of the modalities of expressive arts therapy, brings to the field. There are two main areas that overlap in the text: the developmental and psychodynamic theories that focus on the early mother–child dyad, and the theories and practice of expressive arts therapy and music therapy that constitute the founding principles of my work. I shall attempt to weave these areas together as I go along, presenting theoretical concepts with client vignettes.

Creating the musical space Each instant or moment is the moment of creation. To touch that instant, to bring consciousness into that moment, is to strike home to the very core of Being and to know simultaneously in a gesture that is Being itself. (Woodman 1982, pp.111–112)

In this chapter I shall present two avenues in working with music that I find work well together. One is an expressive approach, where instruments and the voice are used to express feelings and explore relationships. The other is a receptive approach, where pre-recorded or improvised music is used to evoke images in the listener that are worked with in various ways.

Expressive music therapy Expressive music therapy refers to the use of instruments and the human voice to express oneself, to give shape and form to conscious and unconscious material. This is an active approach that can be carried out in many different ways. One can, for example, sing a song or play a piece of music that has personal meaning, or play within a clear musical structure, such as blues, ABA form or rondo, or one can just start to play. A focused and direct way of working expressively is through music psychodrama (Moreno 1980), where the individual would use the instruments and/or voice ‘to become’ a significant person, improvise on a

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figure from a dream or deal with an event from daily life; for example, express a difficult encounter with a co-worker that might have happened the same day. Taking the role of another person or internal figure opens up to identification and interpersonal learning. A polarized relationship can become more empathic. This way of working gives opportunities to replay and relive important events, as well as understanding the dynamics from a different, and often new, perspective. Another way to make music is to improvise freely. I call this ‘spontaneous music-making’. The musical expression becomes a sounding image of conscious and/or unconscious processes. Practically speaking, spontaneous music-making involves using sounds, rhythms, the body or various instruments. One does not need a formalized idea or a focus as a starting point; one can just start to play and let the sounds create a dialogue. As the sounds are born and shaped, they will begin to give form to internal states. What is uttered is part of the therapeutic journey and needs to be stated, formed and heard. Spontaneous music may sound like a haphazard concoction of sound. What comes forth, nevertheless, expresses where the client is in the moment. The therapist might feel moved to support the music-making, for example by providing a steady beat or a clear harmonic structure, or might choose to bring in a totally different musical element, such as a new motif, theme or key which can provide the client with a new perspective on an old situation. At times, the experience is one of chaos and fear and of wanting to stop the flow of feelings in the music. As the individual slowly lets go and surrenders to the process, trusting the music and the therapist, and opens up to the musical space, the first steps towards healing are taken. When this happens, the character of the music shifts and the sounds rise from the depths of the person. I call this ‘authentic music’ (Wärja 1994). The experience is one of being moved. Music that touches the core of the person is an expression of the ‘true self ’, as Winnicott (1971) uses the term – that essence which is innate and unique in each person. As an illustration, the process of expressive music therapy is described in the following vignette: Maria, a 40-year-old woman in treatment for depression, came to the session with the following dream: I dreamt that I was a tree standing stuck in a barren landscape. The wind carried some birds that teased and laughed at me and said that I was doomed to stand there, and that I was not as free as they were.

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I suggested that Maria pick up some instruments to represent the tree and begin to dialogue with it. She chose a wood block and a soft bass drum. She played the wood block without resonance, which made the sound dead and hollow. A steady and solid beat from the bass drum was audible underneath the arid and empty sound of the wood block. It made me think of a heart pulsating with life. It was striking how steady and grounded the bass drum was; this pointed towards a strength that Maria had repressed. Next, she composed the ‘bird teasing tune’, an improvisational piece of cutting, searing and squeaking bells and a synthesizer that seemed to scold and ridicule her. The music was recorded and, as we listened to it over several sessions and talked about it, Maria began to hear the soul of her music. New images were formed which she drew and shaped in three-dimensional art work. We continued the music-making process by playing together and exploring the various images through sound. Slowly, Maria came to understand how both the tree and the birds were parts of herself that were fighting inside her. For quite a long time, she had seen the birds as her co-workers, who were complaining that she didn’t work hard enough, and her mother, who was never satisfied with Maria’s way of life. She realized that she herself had internalized these voices and allowed them to continue to pester her. This had kept her in a victim role and prevented her from becoming responsible for her own life. After continued work in therapy, Maria was able to accept and begin to use her strengths that the ‘tree drum’ had showed her.

Receptive music therapy Receptive music therapy is a term used to describe a process of listening to music, prerecorded or live, and allowing the music to bring up feelings, sensations, memories and various associations. Receptive music therapy can have many different forms, functions and aims, such as listening to a song or an instrumental piece of music that has deep personal meaning; or, in a therapy group, letting one member tell a story through a piece of music to which the group listens. Yet another way is a guided fantasy experience, where music is used to bring about a setting, a structure and a sonic background for the internal journey. A less structured way is allowing the music to bring about an experience without having a pre-constructed story. The therapist prepares the client through an easy induction, may present a focus (such as a dream image or a memory) and then puts on a short piece of music (three to five minutes) which will provide holding, direction and structure for the imagery experience.

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The Bonny Method of Guided Imagery and Music (GIM) (Bonny 1978a and b) is a related field to expressive arts therapy where pre-recorded classical music is used to elicit images. As a practitioner of this approach, I have found the philosophy of GIM congruent with expressive arts therapy. Both recognize the aesthetic field as a healer; that images, that is, dreams, day-dreaming and art-making belong to mankind; and that change and transformation occur with direct experience. Both approaches focus on the process of the work and view the images as phenomena in their own right. Vignettes using GIM and expressive arts therapy will be presented below.

Music and image formation Both expressive and receptive music therapy deal with images. When we listen to music or make music we engage in an imagery process. Music evokes images. Since the dawn of man, imagery has been used in healing. The use of imagination has been practised by shamans and medicine men for centuries. Images create a weave in which we live our lives. Our nightly dreams bring images, as do fantasies and day-dreaming. We think in images. ‘Imagery is the thought process that invokes and uses the senses: vision, audition, smell, taste, the sense of movement, position and touch’ (Achterberg 1985, p.3). Images always carry affect (Stewart 1987). The affect brought forth under the influence of music may be felt and experienced on a conscious level or it may stay unconscious. Goldberg presents a theory of music and image formation based on psychoneurophysiological research and clinical observations (Goldberg 1989, 1992). She states: ‘Music evokes emotion through direct stimulation of the autonomic nervous system and this emotion, in turn, evokes mental imagery’ (Goldberg 1989, p.24). The image is there to convey a message, and the issue will keep reappearing until the client has dealt with the material. My perspective is that images emerge from the symbolic level of processing information as well as memories, or fragments thereof, prior to symbol formation. In other words, the term ‘image’ refers to any possible inner experience. The imagery process is holistic and engages the individual on many levels simultaneously. Thus it is possible to experience diverse and ambiguous states concurrently.

Music as an aesthetic field The field of aesthetics deals with the experience of beauty. As a field of study, it has its own history and philosophy which address relationships between

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shape, object, rhythm, energy, intensity, and so on. The lack of literature and research of the aesthetic function in the field of music therapy is pointed out by Aigen (1995). He suggests that it has not been acceptable within the medical community to speak about beauty and aesthetics; and to gain recognition and credibility as health-care professionals, music therapists have avoided this subject. Aigen believes that it is critical to study the function of aesthetics in therapy. In the field of expressive arts therapies, the concept of aesthetics, of beauty, is of utmost importance; it is its vital energy. Beauty speaks of flow, of grace and of soul. When we honor beauty in our work, we also care for the soul. With aesthetics and beauty I refer to the total field of the human person, which involves pain, suffering and even that which might be called ‘ugly’ in conventional terms. ‘As one moves towards beauty, one moves towards wholeness, or the fullest potential of what one can be in the world’ (Kenny 1989, p.77). If we lose sight of beauty in our work, then we run the risk of disconnecting from the vital source of creation. Knill, Barba and Fuchs write: ‘Nurturing a strong commitment to beauty, the expressive therapist is a servant to the emerging imagination. Passion, Eros and transformative aggression will be needed and used in the humble service of the meaning that arrives’ (Knill, Barba and Fuchs 1995, p.86). The point I want to make here is that beauty is an essential nurturing and mothering quality of music. Beauty has the ability to move us, open our hearts and connect us to that in each of us which strives for wholeness. Beauty is a highly individual experience which connects us with a subjective experience of meaning. The ability to create meaning often stems from moments which hold a sense of wonder, wholeness and holiness. In essence, beauty shows us ways to live our lives from the source of compassion. Or, as the Native Americans say: to live fully is to ‘walk in beauty’. With the above concepts in mind, let us now discuss the possibility of music as mother by beginning to look at the early mother–child interaction.

The mother–child dyad The one experience that all humans share is that of having been inside our mother’s body. We have all moved around in the amniotic fluid, and we have all been born and separated from her body. This early existence is a sensuous one. The maternal matrix is filled with rhythms, light sensations and various sounds from within the mother’s body, as well as sounds coming from the outside world. There is the pulsating rhythm of the heart beat, the gushing

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sound of the aorta and the rumble of the intestines. Hearing is developed by the twentieth week in utero, and it has been found that fetuses of four to five months old react differently to music by Mozart and Beethoven and to rock music (Chamberlain 1988). The emotional state of the mother is probably also registered by the fetus (Graves 1980). From the time of conception the fetus develops in a sounding environment. As the baby is born the interaction with the sounding world increases. The infant hears the voice of the mother and moves in a synchronous way. In a healthy mother–infant relationship, the baby is met and responded to through rhythm and the melody of the voice. The whole period of infancy and early childhood is an interaction through rhythm, sound and movement. The first significant person in the life of the infant is the mother, and the first archaic experiences are inside her body. The newborn baby is totally dependent and needs a warm, nurturing and caring environment to survive and develop optimally. This involves much more than food and sleep. The baby needs care-takers who are present emotionally, are ready to listen and interpret signs of communication, and are able to stimulate interaction. The one who has the ability to listen to the child’s needs, be comforting and yet supportive of new adventures, has been called by Winnicott a ‘good enough mother’. He describes three functions of the good-enough mother: holding, handling and object-presenting. Holding refers to the capacity of the mother to identify herself with the child and care for and protect the child to the best of her ability. Handling is the way the mother stimulates the joys of bodily functions and supports the ‘beingness’ of the baby. Object-presenting involves the mother as the primary person who initially presents the surrounding world of objects and people in such a way that the child can internalize and thus deal with them (Winnicott 1965). The story of Susanna speaks of how music can contain feelings of terror and fear of annihilation from an early age that are so strong that they could easily fragment the person. It also shows how music can facilitate the development of basic trust with clients, like Susanna, who have not experienced adequate mothering while growing up. Susanna was a 47-year-old mother of five children when she sought therapy with a desire to heal her crippled body and work through her relationship with her mother. She was wounded in the core of her being, as she carried the stigma of not being a welcomed child. Later in life, she learned that her mother had tried to abort her by acting in such ways that she

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could have a miscarriage. Susanna suffered from abuse and major losses as a child; she presented multiple somatic problems and showed difficulties in the areas of attachment, separation and differentiation. Her attempt to heal herself was to have many children. In mothering her children she was also trying to mother herself. But as the children were growing up and beginning to separate, Susanna’s somatic symptoms worsened. She thought this was due to her poor relationship with her own mother, who had died one year before Susanna started therapy. During the two and a half years of weekly treatment, Susanna worked primarily through a receptive music approach, along with an occasional expressive music and movement session where she would put significant images into a musical form and then let the sounds move her body. At times she would use oil pastel drawings to give shape to her inner states. She would, for example, sit down at the beginning of a session and make a ‘check in’ drawing, which she would use as a starting point for continuing the work in music. She would also bring in poems and creative writings that captured her current mood and longings. One early music experience presented the image of an evil queen who wanted to destroy her. In subsequent sessions this theme, which related to her negative self-image and her biological mother, was explored further. Susanna had difficulties in tolerating strong affect, yet in her sessions her affect was able to be expressed and held safely, contained within the images themselves. One breakthrough occurred about a year into treatment when the music evoked the image of a depressed mother who was unable to care for her newborn infant. Susanna was stuck and experienced a sense of numbness. I suggested a musical improvisation. After some warm-up music, she moved into a realm which I call the ‘arena of authentic music’. This is a space of timelessness and profound creativity where the music coming forth is an expression of the true self (Wärja 1994). The sound has its own form; like a fetus traveling through the birth canal, it demands to be born. The self seeks expression; its sound demands to be shaped into an audible form. Susanna moved between small bells, drums and larger gongs. As she played, tears were streaming down her face; the music was created by caressing the instruments, hitting them, shouting at them, holding them close and thrusting them away. In the months that followed, Susanna could connect with her feelings more fully and began to differentiate among a larger range of feeling states. She faced images holding intense affect, such as hate, rage, terror, shame and longing. In her daily life she was able to do her job without somatizing (Wärja 1996).

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About one year later in our work, we entered the scene of one of the major traumas which had shaped Susanna’s life. For some weeks she had been drawing images using red, purple and blue with a small, shapeless figure embedded in the colors. Suddenly she realized that this was an image of herself as an unborn baby stuck inside a toxic womb. Her face was white, and she said that she felt like screaming but there was no sound inside her, only black emptiness. I suggested going to the instruments, as my sense was that the sound was no longer frozen but held just under the surface and that she needed sounding material to express and shape her feelings: Susanna begins with a small bell and plays aimlessly with her head bent over a snare drum in front of her. I am playing along on the big contrabass xylophone and a matching bell to support her sound. Slowly the music grows in intensity. Susanna lets go of the bell, grabs the drum stick and plays a steady forceful beat that lasts a few minutes. My sense is that she is gaining power. Now she moves over to play the big gong, using a soft mallet; and now and then she plays a jerky tune on a xylophone, and then she moves back to the gong. It is like something inside her has cracked open and her feelings are pouring out. I associate to the act of cleaning out an old, infected wound. The sound is strong, clear and demands attention. She begins to use her voice. The sound is whimpering and whining, and at times she cries out as if experiencing intense pain. Words begin to be shaped and, half crying, half screaming she sings, ‘Mother, mother, why, why … mother why didn’t you want me … what was wrong with me … why did you try to kill me … mother … mummy, mummy, mummy …’

This was a deeply moving experience. In the weeks that followed, Susanna would simply lie down on the bed and cry and just be held in music. Not much was said in words during this time. As Susanna was lying there, I often played slow baroque music; most frequently I chose Bach. My sense was that the supportive holding weave of these baroque pieces, together with the immense beauty of that music, could serve as a good and loving mother.

True and false selves An important contribution by Winnicott (1971) to the understanding of the mother–child dyad is the concept of the true and false self. The unique essence that exists within each infant he calls the ‘true self ’. The term refers to that which is sincere, unaffected, authentic and original within each person. The true self is expressed in the spontaneous gesture: the sincere, impulsive

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and genuine expression of a child’s feelings. This core part needs positive and good relationships to grow and develop. If the child does not get enough good responses to her true self, it will be pushed away and replaced, as a protection, by a false self. The emotional life of the child suffers, and she becomes poor and unapproachable. The false self is based on the child’s view of what significant others expect of her (Tudor-Sandahl 1992). A discussion of my work with a client, Thomas, provides an illustration of a man who developed a false self. Thomas had no prior psychotherapeutic experience and was referred to an expressive arts therapy group which I co-led with the expressive arts therapist at an out-patient psychiatric clinic. It was touching to follow him on his journey as he began to discover his true needs. Thomas, a 33-year-old single male, was a gifted musician suffering from severe performance anxiety, panic attacks and insomnia. He had recurring feelings of falling and of no one being there. My sense was that Thomas had used music in his life to ‘mother’ himself. For a long time, music had served this function well. However, as he had not dealt with the root of his problems, his psyche could no longer hold the tension, and the defenses that had functioned well previously had now failed. The freedom to make music without ‘performing’ seemed deeply liberating for Thomas, and he entered the creative field with awe and a child-like curiosity. The interpersonal learning that took place, and the experience of not being alone with his problems in this group of three male and three female clients, clearly had a strong effect on Thomas’s well-being. One sequence of events started with a drawing where he expressed his feelings in the moment. In the drawing, there were a few angular shapes in different primary colors. As the drawing was explored further in a drama, he had a strong insight into his family of origin and the controlling subliminal communication that existed under the surface between family members, especially in relationship to his mother. Some weeks later, Thomas was the protagonist in a musical psychodrama in which he understood more fully how restricted and controlled he felt as a child, how he was forbidden to make mistakes. He realized that he now lived with an inner meticulous and sadistic tyrant. This understanding tore apart his view of himself as a happy-go-lucky Bohemian musician. But, most importantly, he was able to connect and stay with the feelings of despair and fear of abandonment that the music had brought him. This was indeed a breakthrough experience in his therapeutic work which enabled Thomas to begin to face his lack of

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adequate mothering. This contact with his true self made it possible for him to begin to perform in public again (Wärja 1996). It seemed that Thomas had a ‘sibling’ relationship to his mother and that she had confided in him very early in his life. This had forced him to become more grown up to be able to help her out, keep her secrets and be loyal to her. In relationships with the other women in the group (as well as with us group leaders), a deep rage would surface unexpectedly. Thomas would relate with disdain and contempt. His friendly and almost seductive behavior in the group was, as I saw it, one way he covered up rage and hate towards his mother. In the beginning of treatment, he did not seem to have any conscious contact with these layers within his psyche. Thomas seemed to benefit immensely from the expressive freedom to be able to move between different modalities. Using other modalities than music provided new ways for him to nurture and inspire his musician side. My understanding is that freedom to explore in art, movement, drama and poetry connected him to his authentic music. At the conclusion of treatment, Thomas’s panic attacks had decreased, his sleeping had significantly improved, and he was beginning to enjoy himself as a performing artist.

The intermediary space In growing and developing, the child creates an important space for playing where she can have experiences of ‘me’ and ‘not me’. Winnicott (1971) has called this phenomenon the ‘transitional space’. ‘Me-ness’ refers to that which separates the person from others and makes him/her recognizable and special. The ‘not me’ also refers to inner states and experiences that the person has rejected and pushed aside. The true self relates to an individual’s experience of me-ness. As the child develops, she experiences a clearly defined membrane, that is, the surface of the skin that exists between ‘me’ and ‘not me’. She finds she has an inner and an outer side. According to Winnicott, it is through this development that secondary processes are founded through which the child gains access to a symbolic approach that organizes the personal content of the psyche and creates the base for dreams and fantasy (Lindell-Fjaestad 1989). The transitional space lies between the mother and the baby and is an internal experience. In healthy development, the child learns to internalize a good aspect of the mother which sustains her when the mother is not there. This space for serious playing is critical in the development of a healthy individual. Often the child finds an object, a transitional object, that can represent the mother. It is important to point out

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that this refers to a physical object that the child charges with a deep meaning. Throughout life, the intermediary space is an area of creative play for trying out new skills, for artistic expression, for personal growth and therapeutic work which can be manifested in the outer physical reality but is foremost an internal process. With the developmental theories of the mother–child dyad and the concept of the transitional space in mind, we shall move to the field of play, a phenomenological model of engaging in therapeutic music-making.

The field of play Kenny (1989) speaks of this aspect of music as direct experience in presenting a phenomenological approach to music therapy called the ‘field of play’. This approach provides a holistic model of engagement in music that consists of three primary elements. The concept of interrelating fields is fundamental to this model. The primary elements, or fields, are the aesthetic, the musical space and the field of play. The ‘aesthetic’ refers to the field of beauty that is the human person. As two people make music together, each brings an aesthetic environment that consists of who they are and all the potential they hold. The ‘musical space’ is the intimate and private world that is created as the client and therapist make music together. It is a joining of sounds, of relating to each other’s musical worlds. The ‘field of play’ is an expansion. It does not always emerge when two people make music together but, when it happens, one knows. It involves entering a new level, one of experimenting, of trying out new sounds and ways of being and relating. The experience can be one of awe and wonder at what is possible as the music pours forth, as if one moves beyond one’s limits and taps into a collective pool of music. The above-described field of play has much in common with Winnicott’s transitional space, which is created between mother and child. In this space, the child can explore, play, gain confidence, grow and become increasingly more capable and independent. The act of playing is central to the development of the child; and in the healthy mother–child, interaction, the child is mirrored, affirmed and thus develops basic trust and self-confidence. I believe that this ability of the arts to bring about direct experience is one of the founding principles of expressive arts therapy. These experiences occur within the field of play, the transitional space. When I sing, play instruments, move, dance, draw or write, I am involved on many levels. There are kinesthetic activities, emotional experiences, cognitive processes and

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interactional events. When I engage in a creative act, I enter a world in which only the moment exists. This world is a timeless dwelling place, a magical realm where there is room for needs, for dialoguing longings, urges, wishes, whimsical ideas and consciously experienced feelings, as well as unconscious images that can carry me to unknown territory. Involvement in the arts provides me with complex sensory experiences. Returning to the concept of music as mother, I would like to present a vignette from the work with Lars, which lasted for about five years of weekly sessions. This example describes working in the field of play with the aim of inviting and hopefully enabling Lars to develop a sense of ‘me’ and ‘not me’. My assessment was that Lars had not been adequately mothered and that the initial work needed to focus on holding and attachment through sound. According to Bowlby (1988), the prime concern of the infant is not for food and sleep but to relate and attach. Bowlby speaks of the importance of developing a secure base which involves the ability to attach emotionally to the primary care-taker, most often the biological mother. Contact with her is the base from which the child can explore the world. If this base is secure, then the child develops optimally. If unreliable, the child develops anxieties and varying degrees of relational problems. If the base is non-existent, the child grows up with problems in the area of trust, contact, security and intimacy. Lars was around 30 years of age when I first met him. He had lived in psychiatric institutions for more than half of his life, as he was hospitalized in his early teens for acting out and bizarre and self-destructive behavior. He was described as having recurrent psychotic episodes with violent outbursts. He was an only child of a single mother, and the contact between them was poor and very sporadic. Treatment seemed to fail for Lars, and he became more and more encapsulated and institutionalized. Lars’s isolation increased with institutional life and, after some years, he stopped talking altogether. Some time before Lars was referred to me, it was decided that the mental hospital where he was living was going to close down and the patients were to be placed out in the community and connected to an out-patient team. The hospital staff were very concerned with the fate of Lars, as he had not been outside the hospital for over a decade and could not care for his basic needs. As a ‘last resort’, the treating psychiatrist hoped that music therapy would be a way to help Lars. The psychiatrist knew that Lars had been a member of a boys’ choir before being hospitalized, and he had noticed that Lars became engaged when music was played on the radio or during sing-along activities

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on the ward. After meeting Lars for an assessment, it was decided that we would begin to work together. As I discuss my work with Lars, it is important to remember that this was a team effort. Generally speaking, the staff were supportive of my work with Lars, and he had engaged and caring case managers at his side. At the time of our first meeting, Lars had not communicated verbally for over ten years. Initially, the main avenues for our contact were music and movement. I would improvise on the piano and rhythm instruments as a way to hold and mirror Lars’s movements. The following session, which occurred eight months into the work, describes how an interaction between us was shaped. This session was the first time Lars made active contact with me. Lars arrives and stands in the doorway; he gives me a fleeting glance and walks away leaving the door open. I can hear him moving around in the corridor. I start playing a soft melody with a steady bass on a large wooden xylophone. I still hear Lars as he moves around. I pick up a humming melody as I continue to play on the xylophone. After a few minutes, Lars walks into the room. He doesn’t look at me. He simply walks into the sound and starts to move his arms as if flying. His body is amazingly graceful and far removed from the repetitive movements I have seen as he paces up and down the corridors in the hospital. I follow Lars as he dances, picking up the rhythm and the intensity along with him, and letting the holding bass just stay there within the sound. Lars’s movements pick up speed and become more intense. He moves with big steps around the room, and each foot is placed hard on the floor: boom-cha-boom-cha-boom-cha. His face is alive and engaged. The music is with him, containing and urging forward a tiny bit. Suddenly, he stops at the far end of the room. His arms drop, his shoulders slope, his face is motionless and flat, and he seems to want to leave the room or sink down to the floor. I continue to play, more softly now. Lars just stands there without moving. All the life and vitality that were there a moment ago are gone. Then quickly he takes a few big steps towards me, comes up very close and looks me right in the face without looking away. It seems that he is studying my face. His gaze is clear and seemingly curious. In that moment, he reminds me of a baby studying the face of the mother. I meet his gaze and continue to make music. Then a barely audible crooning sound comes forth from somewhere within him. For about 15 seconds we are singing together. As Lars is letting the sound out, his body sways slowly to the beat of the bass tones. It is a touching moment. Then, as quickly as he came, Lars moves away and resumes his flying-like

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motion around the room, and as he moves he now and then looks back at me.

During the first year of our work, I rarely used words; instead, I would hum and croon. Lars seemed to relate to the sound of my voice. My aim was to tune into his world, responding to his movements, gestures and rhythm by using sound. Stern writes about this in presenting one of his major concepts: affect attunement (Stern 1985). This refers to the sounding response from the mother as a way of connecting, communicating and holding the baby. The mother’s voice is a musical instrument which is synchronized in rhythm to the movements and needs of her baby. The voice can vary in intensity. The sounds can be sharp and staccato-like, or the contour of the melody can be smooth and pianissimo. It can begin with an intense forte and slowly die away in a diminuendo. The mother uses her voice to comfort and protect her child. Her voice conveys feelings and support, and is also an encouraging force that sends out a sounding message for the baby to reach out and take steps in its development. Where the affect attunement is out of rhythm, there is usually a disturbance in the mother–child dyad. My sense is that the work Lars and I did stemmed from a very early developmental phase in his life. Our interaction began at a psychological time before symbols were formed. Slowly during the following two years, Lars began to develop symbolic thinking; with this came his speech. Lars began to communicate through words. One word at first, then two-word sentences and, at the end of our five years together, he would express himself in more complete sentences. One clear example of his symbolic thinking was his need now and then to take something with him from the session. It could be a small instrument, but most often it was a record; the staff reported that he often played this record on the ward. After three years of music therapy, the team decided that it was time for Lars to move to a small treatment home in the city where he would live together with two other men and have daily contact with staff. This home was within walking distance of the out-patient clinic where I worked. The transition went smoothly, and Lars seemed content with his new home. During the last two years of music therapy, the focus was on separation/individuation; slowly Lars gained more independence. We had one period of nursery singing. I would sing for Lars, and he would rest on the floor or move around in the room as I sang. Then came a period of listening to music by The Beatles and The Who. I learned that Lars used to listen to this music when he was a teenager in the time period before he was hospitalized.

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As we terminated our work together, Lars seemed well adjusted to his new home; he would take daily walks in the surroundings or would go on excursions around the city by public transportation. He started going weekly to an activity center, where he worked in art, listened to music and socialized. It is obvious that Lars’s quality of life was greatly improved. Keeping the experience with Lars in mind, we now turn to look at how music can serve as a mother in the time before symbol formation. Here, music is seen as the primary agent for initiating change within the psyche of an individual. The music evokes, challenges, energizes and sometimes simply provokes and confronts. It is there to reflect internal states and to bring up material from both the personal unconscious and the collective.

The role of music in reaching pre-symbolic levels Prior to the formation of symbolic representation – that is, before the age of approximately one and a half years – the infant is probably only capable of abstracting its interactions. It cannot yet create an ‘object’, a symbol, of a process, but likely has a bodily and feeling-oriented memory in sensory-mother Gestalts. Thus there are inner representations from this time that can be recalled as memory images. In this early time in the infant’s life, the world consists of sounds, rhythm and darkness/light. Even though it is nearly impossible to describe this early time in words, we must try our best to understand and make sense of it as it holds many answers to ‘why we become the way we do’. With the development of video technology and the knowledge of how to ask questions of infants, many old developmental theories no longer hold. Stern has tried to put words to the experiences of an infant in his book Diary of a Baby (1990). I find it interesting to note that he uses musical language and metaphors from the world of the arts to describe what might be going on in the baby’s world. A phenomenon from this time prior to symbol formation, first described by Langer (1967), is the vitality affects, which Stern has researched further. The term refers to bodily events and sensations that are going on all the time within us and which stem from uneasiness, pleasure, tension and release. Here, again, musical language is used to describe these processes: crescendo, diminuendo, tempi, filling up, explosive, tuning in. These phenomena can be likened to a wave filling up inside and then dying out. The wave can be soft and slow or intense and explosive. These states are evoked through the relationship and behavior of others, as in the way the mother holds her baby or the manner in which the diaper is changed. It is believed that the baby

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perceives the vitality affects and stores them as bodily memories. And then, suddenly in response to the touch of another person in the present, the adult can be under their influence. In a recent paper, Stern (1996, p.5) stated: I will suggest that certain basic experiences of time and form that are common to our encounter with music, are also common to an infant’s ordinary, daily, socio-affective interactions … It is in large part through [these] transmodal transfers of information of form and timing from another into ourselves that we can emotionally understand what it is like to be them and to identify with them. In a sense, our nervous system can be ‘captured’ by expressions of vitality that emanate from others, or that come from music. It is in this way that music, also, is processed and ‘enters’ into the listener’s mind and body to capture his feelings.

In the light of the above theories, I suggest that music can take an individual back, at some level, to a time in early infancy before language was developed. Lacan (1973) argues that the unconscious is constituted as a language. Could it not then be possible that music is a language that speaks directly to the vitality affects; in other words, is not music the sounding experience of vitality affects?

Mothering qualities of music Music evokes feelings Music’s foremost quality is its ability to bring forth feelings. Music can enable the person to approach and experience emotional areas otherwise avoided. One can say that music is safe, and yet the paradox is that music is more direct than words, since it is an ambiguous language and can be interpreted in many ways. Music can be experienced as having all those diverse qualities that can be experienced in relationship to the real mother. The sound can, for example, be invasive, smothering, aggressive or positive, holding, caring, loving and safe. In other words, music can be both a warm and nurturing and a fearsome, destructive mother figure. How is it that music seems to possess the ability to bring forth images of such extreme polarity? There are no easy answers to this question. Each individual experiences music in highly subjective ways; it can become that which the client needs to encounter inside himself in order to grow. The field of play is rich in texture, movement, dynamic tension and

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harmonic structure; infinite responses are embedded within the musical language. Therefore, images of opposite poles can be shaped, experienced, held, integrated and transformed. In the course of treatment, various levels of transference processes occur. The music can become a space/field in which the client can project feelings that are too difficult to carry. It is up to the therapist to contain this material and help the client look at it when she is psychologically able. The musical space is a sacred container which is larger than life. It is a space of surprises, wonder, despair and suffering where anything can happen. The therapist and the client are in the musical space together. This is not a hierarchical relationship; the emphasis is on togetherness. In this space there is a co-transference to the music and to the images the music evokes. The earlier the developmental wounds, the more likely that the transference will come up in the music. In both receptive and expressive music therapy, it is possible for the client to have parallel transference processes. The music might have brought up negative mother images while at the same time directing a positive, trusting relationship towards the therapist. The reverse can happen as well: the music being good and holding while the therapist is experienced as negative and non-trustworthy. For clients with early developmental problems, such as borderline personality disorders, the music can function as projective identification where the client deposits toxic material. Then slowly, with the help of the music and careful interpretation by the therapist, the poison can be taken back in ‘digestible form’ and integrated in a way that does not threaten the psyche. Thus the split between the good and the bad mother can begin to heal (Wärja 1995). I shall now return to the story of Susanna told above, and look at one more piece of her journey. As mentioned, Susanna had not been adequately mothered; in fact, she had had a cold, rejecting and punitive mother. The theme of longing to be mothered was central throughout our work. About one and a half years into our work, Susanna had a significant experience in a receptive music journey. I suggested three different doors with the instruction to open the door and step inside a room where she would meet an aspect of herself. I left her in the room for exploration with about three minutes of classical music, and then I guided her out and to the next door. This experience brought to her mind three different parts that all related to the mother-theme. It also showed that Susanna had begun to internalize a good nurturing figure that was beyond her biological mother. First she met the abandoned child, two to three years of age. This was a sad image of a

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small child with not enough protection. In the second aspect, she experienced herself as a mother. And as she nurtured her baby, she also nurtured herself. In the last image she met a totally new acquaintance. She called her Sue. Sue was an embodiment of what was possible; a woman in her own right, who followed her own path towards fulfillment and who was strong, nurturing, capable, set limits and stood up for her own needs. The connection with these positive and empowering female images gave Susanna courage to face the hurt inflicted by her mother. In the months ahead, as Susanna faced the abandonment of her mother, she had the following GIM experience. The music that was used was Vaughan Williams’s Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. I am walking up a staircase. It’s like walking inside a skeleton. The skeleton has no head. It is cold and chilling. An older woman comes down the skeleton. She has a veil, like a witch. Her face is dark and prickly. Ice and coldness. The face is sharp and evil. Not angry, but evil … I saw my mother walk up the stairs. She was young and well dressed … dressed in mourning clothes. I must talk with her: ‘Why did you leave me?’ (Cries) … I want to reach out to her … Now she reaches out her hand. I hesitate … ‘I have longed so much for the real you.’ [Cries] … A diamond. She gives me a diamond. She gives it with kindness and without reservation. She is young and beautiful. Now she is gone. The diamond is small and round … Now she is flying, she smiles at me. She had to go. Yes, today is that day. I like to fly with her. I am sitting on an eagle. I fly beside her. It’s early morning.

Receiving a gift from her mother was deeply moving and seemed to give Susanna energy to care more for herself. This session occurred on the anniversary date of her mother’s death, three years earlier. In the last year of treatment, Susanna’s physical condition slowly improved and, at the conclusion of treatment, her somatic symptoms of severe rheumatism and allergy had decreased significantly.

Music as holding Winnicott speaks of one of the most important phases in the child’s development as the ‘holding phase’. This early handling and holding is a way the mother can show her love to the infant. Holding also includes the total environment around the child. A holding environment is loving and caring; it gives the child access to different kinds of object relationships. Its

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most important task is to protect the child from invasion of its boundaries (Winnicott 1965). Balint describes how infants need physical contact with an individual whom the baby perceives through its feelings. The utmost aim of the infant is to be loved and satisfied without having any obligation to give anything back in return (Balint 1965, 1968). And as Winnicott (1965) stated, the only way to express this love is in the physical care of the infant. Positive maternal touch creates a ‘home base’ of body experiences within the baby. The child can return to this base inside to sort out confusing messages about her body. If the child has not experienced enough positive maternal touch, there can be a tendency to sexualize touch or become afraid of any kind of touch from others. Using music can be of great help for individuals who have not been adequately touched, held and handled, due to its ability to bring about various kinds of bodily and kinesthetic experiences. These can be negative (such as being knocked around, pushed or slapped) or positive (such as being held, caressed, comforted and nurtured). In order not to overwhelm the client or ‘re-traumatize’ him/her, it is critical that the facilitator assess the developmental level and needs of the client and choose the music approach accordingly. The first task is to create a holding environment, a secure base, and later, when the client is ready, to provide a musical field that invites exploration. In receptive music therapy, the music should have an appropriate level of challenge, that is, music that is good enough. And in expressive music therapy, the structure of the musical field needs to provide enough holding to invite exploration. If the person is dealing with issues from infancy, the archaic mother might come forth in the music. If the person is lacking early holding and handling, the music needs to convey security and tenderness so that basic trust can begin to form. The client who has been emotionally suffocated in the tight embrace of an overprotective mother is better aided by music that helps build the power necessary to be able to struggle and separate. Matthis, a psychoanalyst, speaks of the positive mother in a way that supports my view of the mothering music that is good enough: In the mother–child relationship there is also an assurance, an innate security and a resting in the relationship that carries the child across abysses, that conveys and speaks to the child of a will to live. I like to name it ‘maternal flow’ because it is an uninterrupted stream, an existence, i.e., that space that lacks symbols and language. (Matthis 1992, p.81; author’s translation)

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I believe there is a maternal flow which music presents that can bring the individual to places before symbolic language was developed. Music that has this ability tends to be predictable in rhythmic, harmonic and dynamic structure. As the good mother, the music is experienced as holding, reliable and secure. This flow of uninterrupted sound merges with the presence of the therapist to create an environment which can become trustworthy enough to dare to face fearsome aspects of the mother and to express longings and needs, as well as providing energy for empowerment.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have looked specifically at the healing process with mothers in the context of music-oriented expressive arts therapy. Mothers bring up feelings as vast and turbulent as the seven seas. Like the seas, the feelings are deep, infinite and of other worlds. The knowing that we, for a period of time, lived inside this other person who was the enveloping world that supported and sustained our existence is unfathomable. The experiences carved memories into our cells long before language was developed. To be able to deal with archaic experiences, one needs an avenue that can both connect with this material and at the same time hold and handle it in ways that do not become overwhelming. I suggest that music has these qualities. Music accesses the pre-verbal, uncovers pain and at the same time builds the power needed to face the hurt. Music has enveloping, enwrapping qualities that are characterized by a good-enough matrix in early infancy. Music moves into the body and works on a kinesthetic level to open up blocked feelings. Music also holds and gives form to experiences for which there are no symbolic representations. It is as if the music ‘massages’ the cells of muscles and nerve endings and then presents the psyche with images. The image could be a representation of an inner state, an actual event that has taken place or representations prior to the development of symbols. A person who has been wounded in his/her core identity needs to be held and handled to heal. In instances where there have been hurtful experiences at a very early age, it is often difficult to retrieve appropriate material. The pain has been inflicted long before verbal language was developed. The person has often no conscious memory of the handling by the mother but a felt sense that something was wrong. Sometimes there are memory fragments or negative bodily sensations. Other indications could be feelings such as shame, fears of invasion, feelings of impingement, vague or non-functioning boundaries or various psychosomatic symptoms. Finding avenues to reach

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and deal with early trauma, that might not have a name or a form, is a challenge. The strength of music is that it travels to pre-verbal layers. It is in this way that music conveys emotions, carries affect, brings dynamic movement and builds power. Music, the queen of time, takes us to the never-ending now.

References Achterberg, J. (1985) Imagery in Healing: Shamanism and Modern Medicine. Boston: Shambhala. Aigen, K. (1995) ‘An aesthetic foundation of clinical theory: an underlying basis of creative music therapy.’ In C. Kenny Bereznak (ed) Listening, Playing, Creating: Essays on the Power of Sound. New York: State University of New York Press. Balint, M. (1965) Primary Love and Psycho-Analytic Technique. London: Tavistock Publications. Balint, M. (1968) The Basic Fault: Therapeutic Aspects of Regression. London: Tavistock Publications. Bonny, H. (1978a) Facilitating GIM Sessions. Baltimore, MD: ICM Books. Bonny, H. (1978b) The Role of Taped Music Programs in the GIM Process: Theory and Product. Baltimore, MD: ICM Books. Bowlby, J. (1988) A Secure Base. London: Routledge. Chamberlain, D.B. (1988) ‘The mind of the newborn: increasing evidence of competence.’ In P.G. Fedor-Freyberg and M.L.V. Vogel (eds) The Prenatal and Perinatal Psychology and Medicine. Carnforth, Lancs: The Parthenon Publishing Group. Goldberg, F. (1989) ‘Toward a theory of guided imagery and music and guided imagery and music as group and individual treatment for hospitalized psychiatric patients.’ Unpublished paper, Bonny Foundation. Goldberg, F. (1992) ‘Images of emotion: the role of emotion in guided imagery and music.’ Journal of the Association for Music & Imagery 1, 5–17. Graves, P.L. (1980) ‘The functioning fetus.’ In S.I. Greenspan and G.H. Pollock (eds) The Course of Life: Psychoanalytic Contributions Towards Understanding Personality Development. Vol 1: Infancy and Childhood. Maryland: NIMH. Kenny, C. (1989) The Field of Play: A Guide for the Theory and Practise of Music Therapy. Atascadero, CA: Ridgeview Publishing Company. Knill, P., Barba, H.N. and Fuchs, M. (1995) Minstrels of Soul. Intermodal Expressive Therapy. Toronto: Palmerston Press. Lacan, J. (1973). The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis. New York: Norton & Company. Langer, S. (1967) Mind: An Essay on Human Feeling Volume I. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University. Lindell-Fjaestad, M. (1989) Kroppen är den bok som själen skriver. Stockholm: Svenska föreningen för psykisk hälsovård. Matthis, I. (1992) Det Omedevtnas Arkeologi. Köping: Nature och Kultur.

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Moreno, J. (1980) ‘Musical psychodrama: a new direction in music therapy.’ Journal of Music Therapy 17, 1, 34–42. Stern, D. (1985) The Interpersonal World of the Infant: A View from Psychoanalysis and Developmental Psychology. New York: Basic Books. Stern, D. (1990) Diary of a Baby. New York: Basic Books. Stern, D. (1996) ‘Temporal aspects of an infant’s daily experience: some reflections concerning music.’ Keynote address at the World Congress of Music Therapy in Hamburg, 18 July 1996. To appear in Le Temps de La Form. Stewart, L. (1987) ‘A brief report: affect and archetype.’ Journal of Analytical Psychology 32, 1, 35–46. Tudor-Sandahl, P. (1992) Den Fängslande Verkligheten: Objektrelationsteori i Praktiken. Helsingborg: Walström & Widstrand. Wärja, M. (1994) ‘Sounds of music through the spiraling path of individuation: a Jungian approach to music psychotherapy.’ Music Therapy Perspectives, National Association for Music Therapy, Inc. 12, 2, 75–83. Wärja, M. (1995) ‘Music and mother – the use of guided imagery and music in working with the mother–daughter relationship.’ Unpublished paper, Bonny Foundation. Wärja, M. (1996) ‘The House of the Seven Muses – a research project.’ Music therapists in collaboration with other creative arts therapists. American Association For Music Therapy, Music Therapy International Report 10, 45–50. Winnicott, D.W. (1965) The Maturational Process and the Facilitating Environment. London: Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psychoanalysis. Winnicott, D.W. (1971) Playing and Reality. London: Tavistock Publications. Woodman, M. (1982) Addiction to Perfection. Toronto: Inner City Books.

Further reading Bonny, H. and Savery, L. (1973) Music and Your Mind. New York: Harper & Row. Grof, S. (1985) Beyond the Brain. New York: State University of New York Press. Kernberg, O. (1980) Internal World and External Reality: Object Relations Theory Applied. New York: Jason Aronson, Inc. Klein, M. (1957). Envy and Gratitude. New York: Basic Books. Langer, S. (1942) Philosophy in a New Key. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Langer, S. (1953) Feeling and Form. New York: Scribner. Langer, S. (1967) Mind: An Essay on Human Feelings,Vol I. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins. Mahler, M.S., Pine, F. and Bergman, A. (1975) The Psychological Birth of the Infant. London: Hutchinson. Ramberg, L. (1992) Tänkbart. Om individuation och tillhörighet. Stockholm: Mareld. Sandell, R. (1984) Det Psykosomatiska Sambandet Mellan Mor och Barn. Stockholm: St Lukasstiftelsen.

CHAPTER 10

Between Imagination and Belief Poetry as Therapeutic Intervention Margo Fuchs The basis of poetry is imagination, a going beyond what we ordinarily believe. Yet the poetic imagination makes belief possible, a belief that life is worth living; that love, beauty and truth, the ‘sovereign utterances’,1 exist. This chapter will reflect on the relationship of poetry to imagination and belief. In so doing, it will suggest the possibility of poetic intervention as an essential act in expressive arts therapy. When life’s sovereign utterances tune in with one’s imaging voice, spontaneous and unconditional, the spell of circling feelings is broken and as created beings, we become creative, pointing out through the artistic creation to a creator

Poetry and imagination Let us start by looking at the character of poetry, its existence in a wordy world. To inquire into the nature of poetry-making will be a next step. Third, as a re-play and re-imagining, we go on the quest called poetic experience. Usually products come first; they immediately get our attention. We tend to have an eye for the tangible, the thingly presence; we are enmeshed in 1

The expression ‘sovereign utterances’ derives fro the Danish philosoper, Løgstrup’s expression ‘the sovereign life utterances’; cf. Chapter 3 by Majken Jacoby in this volume.

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seeking the not-graspable as a sensory presence. We want to hear it, to see it, to touch it … and put it aside. We are fast in re-viewing, and letting go. We see in order to have seen it. Poetry, in claiming the heights and depths of human understanding, comes in just right there. In its life span of a second, it opens us to a whole world of sorrow and joy. Its shooting-star nature lets mountains turn to dust, lets lovers’ blossoming nights be cradled by feathered wings. And it mocks us when we try to get its timeless meaning, consuming it in a quick way as we are used to reading the headlines of the news in the newspaper. Poetry cannot be grasped or touched like the thingly world, it touches us by its not tangible imagination. Poetry is seemingly here for those who have access to it, are ‘higher spirited’ in nature. It speaks an uncommon, mysterious language, speaks in waves of eternal blood pulsating through the veins of human flesh, lets the ruins of memories blossom in longing. Why does it speak that way, why couldn’t it just say that human beings are born to die, are ephemeral? Poetry doesn’t seek the word, it wants to get rid of it. Words are a threshold into realms of imagination, of image-thought. Not the tower of words is foreground, much more the elusive imagination which lifts words into the freedom of uncensored realities, of manifold layered meaning. What kind of world is this, which makes us see things we actually don’t see? You can see the ocean while you are literally sitting on a chair in a fifth-floor apartment. You can see without a corresponding perception of the immediate environment. A horse, galloping through the desert of a country you have never visited, or a thunder storm on a remote island which wipes away all the ancient huge trees like cartoon figures. This seeing without a ‘real’ object sprouts from the source and force of imagination. Poetry is a literal act of making, and a making of non-literal reality. Actually, you don’t read poetry, you see it. The language of imagination is accessible to all of us, crossing biographical backgrounds, education, cultures and beliefs.

Poetry is make believe Imagination is the bridge between longing and reality. A double move, until reality merges with imagination and imagination slips into reality. Poetry is a desire for actuality. Yet it does not articulate the probable or the possible. Its imagery colors the impossible probability. The ‘as if ’ is the world of imagination. Something is like something else, and the ‘let’s pretend’ makes it real. Poetry is about this is like that, and also

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this is that. Metaphoric content dissolves. Poetry does not show similarities or differences. It exposes. Poetry is effected and effects by final calls. The irreducible. Question mark: what will happen, if the question meets the mark? Question marks: I do all the questioning and you death dressed up in life answer with the ticking of the clock.

Poetry represents belief so we can understand. Some view poetry as making direct statements about reality to its maker. Others say that poetry has nothing to do with subject matter. In fact, poetry is neither identical to reality nor isolated from it, but a ‘virtual realm’ (Nehamas 1996). This virtual realm exists by its essence or effect. Poetry ‘affects’ as a sign of reality and as a self-contained entity. That is, poetry can point to a belief world beyond but presents itself also as the primary object of interest. Poetry affects us with its poetic logic. In poetry, thought speaks in imagery. Knowledge doesn’t come as a moral sermon, information or facts. Its imaginative word play makes sense and we understand intuitively. The virtual realm is not a pre-state for getting to higher reasoning, nor is it above reasoning; it is beyond. Poetry is unreasonable and challenges our way of reasoning. Poetry doesn’t try to convince, it is convincing.

Poetry is made by belief It thinks and speaks in imagery. Its thought body can take you into uninhabited realms; the unthinkable becomes visible and makes you think about the invisible.

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The path you begin to believe what you see and you see in what you believe; each image a give-a-way to the seer’s imagination. Let us now inquire into the nature of poetry by asking, how can it come forth?

The making of poetry takes place far away from belief The making of poetry is a trivial profane act. It happens sitting at the computer, sitting in a train, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea or coffee and a cigarette. You go to a restaurant, order a glass of wine and write. You watch a sunset at a deserted beach, go back to your car and create Haiku, or you indulge yourself eating Swiss chocolate and write a love poem. The making of poetry is play. A play with words. Now play me, words me now, words play play now words me words play now me play words me NOW The word-play takes low skill but high concentration. Word play helps you to stay in the moment. It lives from being led by the power of the ‘thing’ and the spiraling constitution of repetition. Its nature is surrendering to the emerging, allowing the process to be fulfilling. To play with words, the writer has the following tools: the rhythm which is inherent to each language, the analogy, the will to create and let go of it, and the power of imagination. Forget poetry so it can come. Poetry is the unexpected, it comes as a surprise.

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‘Let’s play with words’ doesn’t just happen. You meet resistance, the indifferent and superficial, the judge, the block. Plays have winners and losers. In the word-play you are on both sides.

The writer Dare to go the path of stones slippery and wet Dare to long for the other shore, for you know the place of sounds hitting the bottom. As a play of language, poetry is based on alienation, deviation, overstructuring, leaving out and shortness: •

•

•

Alienation, deviation. Language is taken out of its automatic function. It startles the reader and makes him listen attentively. Great examples are Laing’s poems in his Knots (1972). He takes an ordinary thought, such as ‘There must be something the matter with him’, and goes into various thought word-plays with it. Finally, it becomes obvious through the wording itself that ‘there must be something the matter with them and us’, rather than him. Over-structuring. Poetry can have overlaps, such as reality shifts, time twists, binds, paradoxes, polarities, exaggerations and understatements. It brings the reader into an ‘unreal reality’, the reality of the artificial which mocks our sense of time and space, order, and right or wrong thinking. In Rilke’s Duino Elegies (1989a), for instance, there is a world space filled with spaces of flight, voices, spaces of the early departed, fortune’s favorites, pouring out beauty, evaporation, the swinging emptiness and nights of endless uproar. Nothing stands still. Prehistory melts into an ‘it is time’, everything at once is within a timeless now-time. Leaving out. The stated is emphasized by the unsaid. The reader’s attention goes unwillingly between the line. It is as if there is a transparent door through which one can peek into a room filled with many-layered revelation. In that way the reader becomes an innate component of the poem with his bonding imagining. Here might be an indication of what is distinctive between scientific and poetic researching. The sciences offer information, data, models,

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thought-packages, systematically wrapped up. Yes, also questioned, but from a data base, from an outspoken frame. The reader has to crawl into it completely and follow it closely to not fall out of its stream of thought. The ‘leaving out’ is considered to be a blind spot to be filled with new and more adequate findings. Poetry goes the other way around; it creates little blind spots to open up to a notion of the big, unexplainable wheel of life, where torture lives next to the intimacy of bodily delight. The bonding imagining dis-connects from the poem, separates with a sense of unity. •

Shortness. Poetry is essence, density. The reader has no time to think ‘about’ it, he is affected by a sense of being in it or out of it. The shortest poem is the Haiku, just three lines to evoke worlds. Yet shortness doesn’t necessarily mean a shortness in terms of length. It is a density which shows, the tip of an iceberg, the stew after hours of cooking.

Paz (1983), in describing the process of writing, speaks of two poetic principles: separation and return. Poetic creation begins with a destructive and destructuring act. You uproot words from our daily life-language, take them out of their common sense and use, and let them come back home to language for participation. Poetry is inhabited by two opposing forces: a double movement upwards, of elevation, and downwards, of gravitation. Poetry breaking out breaking through but not breaking apart going wide going wild sailing with the breeze of life So far the poetics of belief have been understood by entering a virtual reality, analyzing the nature of poetry and poetry-writing as a play done to words by imagination. To write poetry is one side of the poetic experience; on the

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other side it calls to be read or heard. Poetry needs witnesses to become alive. What exactly is this poetic experience? Poetry gives people a chance. It is available for all of us, regardless of background. Its understanding is based on tacit knowledge and doesn’t need academic training. Poetry only lives in contact with the reader or listener. Through participation it becomes alive. The experience of poetry can be profane or sacred. You can hear or read poetry and it may leave you untouched, you may get bored or just not get it. It might be that it isn’t your style, that it is not the right time to let it enter, or it might be that you put it aside too early, because it doesn’t sound familiar. Poems are unique and not repeatable creations. Each text is different from the others. Poetry is never common sense, never in fashion. Poetry is a norm breaker, a revolutionary with an innocent veil. It comes to you as a stranger, an unfamiliar guest. First it bewilders you with its newness, not because it is modern. Poetry likes the difficult. Before you can enter a poetic experience you meet the difficult. It awakens your resistance, the indifferent and superficial. You recognize the poetic experience when you are moved and astonishment enters you. You are in wonder that poetry speaks to you so clearly about the seemingly unspeakable. It has words for your stuttering and speechlessness. You glide into it and extend in this timeless moment yourself. The possible is in you. The poetic experience is a union. You find in it what has been living with you unnoticed. Senses, skin to skin with the stream of thought. Poetry wants to be spoken, heard and performed. Poetry is dead without a poetic experience. You need to re-experience it, to breathe into it, to warm it with your senses. Its fragile intimacy, its strong vulnerability need your hand. Stand up for it, read it, hear it, perform it. This is a similar undertaking to writing. Before you get a ride to be taken by rhythm and imaging play, you meet the difficult. And there are, of course, breaks in between: stop signs plead by your judgmental voices: shame, guilt or fear which block the path. In daily life routine, the numbed well of tears, the gate of renewal, is usually helpless to find its way out. Poetry, allowed to be read and heard, can bring tears. When the voice fills the air, it breaks up the silenced. This is expressive arts therapy, to give the daily life pace a pause to feel.

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One aspect of poetic experience is to be astonished, in awe, to be aware of life and one’s own existence, our relating to the world in its mysterious way. Aristotle said that astonishment is the beginning of all wisdom. It is the experience of being unconditionally moved by the quest for the meaning of life, by the changing and by the fulfillment of the task life sets for us. This is a sense of unity which was most clearly described by the mystics, an attitude of not feeling only in accordance with oneself, and not only with one’s dearest friends, but feeling oneness with all life and even with the universe. Poetry is alive when it evokes astonishment, being touched and feeling unity.

Poetry and belief So far I have laid a ground for the nature of poetry and poetry-making by talking about imagination as its fertilizer and the poetic experience as the wonder of a wandering in-sight. This brings us to the wanderings between poetic imagination and belief. Through the imaginative force, poetry can become midwife to belief, to believe into belief. What does belief mean, what does it mean to believe? Belief is an inner security which needs no proof. Primarily belief is trust, certainty, strong conviction. Belief also takes supernatural, transcendental actualities to be true. Belief has always been a subject of dispute. Either it is put up on a pedestal and looked up to as ‘higher’ or it is condemned to be minor, an ‘only’. Beginning with Plato, and repeatedly, especially in the age of Enlightenment, belief was looked at as a deficient and thus dangerous preconfiguration of knowledge to be overcome. On the other side, Aristotle was convinced that it was necessary to put emphasis on belief rather than deduction. Kant also gave less space to deductive thinking, in order to gain more space for belief, mainly the belief in freedom, God and immortality. Belief is always a sketch. An outline. A projection into the future. A design, tracing out future roads with no road signs. Belief is activated hope. And belief is a risk. Belief cannot replace scholarship. And scholarship cannot replace belief. Belief is beyond the acquired belief that life-matters can be proved. And this is a belief too. Anselm of Canterbury proclaimed: ‘I believe so I can understand.’ Belief exceeds provable knowledge. It is the base for any new knowledge.

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If we look at belief developmentally, it is obvious that belief or disbelief was prior to knowledge. The child’s acquiring of knowledge begins by believing the statements of parents and teachers. There was understanding, for the child, a tacit knowing. And this period of life was the time we learned fastest and best. Belief was the primary ground we had for orientation and distraction. Belief cradles recognition and dissolves it into limbo. Belief is disruptive and centering at the same time.

Poetry is a matter of dis-belief. Poetry is believed in and praised for its beauty, sacredness, being soulful, pleasure-giving, comforting and healing. Or it is condemned to be dangerous and a sign of madness. One fears that people are, or must literally become, what poetry represents. Plato, in his Republic, believes that poetry is a straightforward representation of the lowest aspects of life. The only poetry Plato allows in his city are hymns to the gods and praises of noble men. Leedy (1973) informs us that until 1860, many members of medical professions in the United States believed that the writing of poetry was an indisputable cause of mental illness. One believes in something to reach another belief. It is believed that the unbelievable gives us belief. I could say that I believe in the belief of my poetry.

The waiting room I wait for knowing what to believe and I do everything to know that I believe.

Poetry: make us believe May we hear the yearning of the things to be called by their names and may we become midwives to set their names free. In what does poetry believe? Or what is meant by believing in the belief of poetry? What are the main features of a poetics of belief ? I have come to believe that poetry can express the three sovereign utterances: love, beauty and truth. Poetry has the capacity to give utterance to ultimate experiences

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upon which belief is grounded. By no means can this chapter cover such a big subject, yet let us set a beginning for further investigation by looking at each of these sovereign utterences in turn. When rain and snow overtake and darkness is still longer than the day, curl up, cultivate the longing’s need to grow and Poiesis will call for a lover’s secret to forget time. Love is marked by a turning towards a person or a thing, by devotion. It is an active concentration towards people or things which praises each as unique. Love is a trinity. It shows as a sensual sensation, a sense of feeling and as an ethical attitude (Meyers Kleines Lexicon Philosophie 1987, p.251). Love is sensual, sexual, exotic and erotic. A physical push–pull between eternal longing, forgetting and universal seconds of sprouting blossoming. A rhythmical dance to surrender the momentary. Love as a sense of feeling can be contemplative or active, it is always a multiple felt-sense. It can be a contemplative love of nature, an active concern about the well-being of another person, or a religious or mystic praising of God. Love as a sense of feeling shows its in-visibility as a praising and lamenting validation of a loved person or thing. For Jesus, love as an ethical attitude was the most important command. To love God can already be found in the Old Testament as a command, and as a command to love one’s fellow men. In the New Testament, love is considered as redemption. In myths and early philosophical thought, love appears moreover as a cosmic force which creates reconciliation between opposing principles. Hesiod, Plato and Aristotle called this cosmic love which acts like a law of nature, ‘Eros’. In Christianity, God is love. Love yourself and you can love others. Love is personalized. Love is a virtue, to do good for the other. Love doesn’t erase weaknesses or failures. Love might turn weaknesses into strong weaknesses, and give strength for daily life. Love is a gift everybody deserves, yet hardly anybody can fully unwrap. Love needs awe, play and seriousness. Love in its fidelity goes into the unknown future. Love’s open-mindedness treasures the ‘in-the-making’. Forget about poetry if you don’t love it. Cook, dance, listen to music, go with your passion.

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Love can make you want to write. Don’t write about love, write from a place of love. Look at the act of poetry-writing as a devotion, an active concentration towards people or things, a praising and lamenting validation of eternal longings and forgetting, a surrendering of the momentary, a falling in love with one’s sense of feeling. Poetry can evoke the sensual, sexual, exotic and erotic. How can I perceive beauty when old scars are burning? Sister, say yes to me with your kissing lips. Brother, say yes to me with your firm embrace. Lover, touch my skin again and again to set the butterflies free. Beauty is a central term of aesthetics. Beauty is a valuation regarding how a natural or art object affects the perceiver. Beauty is effective. Not neatly angled, or well balanced and round. It is organic, orgiastic. You say, the stars, the flowers, pictures are beautiful. Yet beauty affects your stillness. It touches your helplessness. Beauty is wonder, awe, being touched. It wraps you in solitude. Poetry affects you. And this makes you and the poetry beautiful. Don’t write beautifully. Poetry gives the demons a space, sets the terrible free, unchains the fears. In this way Rilke described in his poetry the drunkard, the beggar, the idiot, the dwarf, the leper, the suicide and called it song (Rilke 1989b, pp.19–35). Truth, you appear in moments of the blow of fate. Truth is a central concern of philosophy. There are many different schools of thought about what truth could be. Independently of their different opinions, they agree that truth is a characteristic of statements or thoughts. Yet what truth is cannot only be answered by language and thought. It is also not guaranteed by the degree of subjective conviction. Truth is inseparable from our view of the world (Weltbild). Poetry is transcended personal experience and conviction. It doesn’t belong to a school of thought, its imaging body of thought is whole. It tricks thought to get lost and to be found transformed.

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Truth is trivial. The ultimate. You are born and will die. There is war and peace. You need food, air, a shelter, human beings. Sickness and health shape you. There are more questions than answers. Truth is easy to forget, since you are glued to it. Truth is not a matter to remember or think about, truth is sacred. Yet it is made of your daily life. Its force lies dormant to let us live. All of a sudden its lightning strikes you right through and, shaken to be taken, you go on with your daily life routine. Poetry doesn’t make truth into a central theme. Truth is its center. Poetry doesn’t really elevate it, just allows it a momentary shelter. So it can shine. What is beautiful is true, and truth makes beautiful. The search for truth is love’s over-coat.

Between imagination and belief: poetry as therapeutic intervention It’s a fact, I have to act It’s a fact, I am in the act ! Poetry is personal, the most intimate language we know, but its concern is not the literal individual subject. It wants to reach the individual by the general, by an original archetypal matter. Sometimes by playing with common sense. Poetry has a chance to ‘intervene’ when we allow it to be in its own right, not just an extension of ourselves. Extensions only transport what already exists, what we are familiar with. Poetry as an intervention in expressive arts therapy comes between by hopefully unchaining the isolated spinning around of one’s ‘inner voices’. Other voices break through, like the poetic voice. In relation to this voice, phenomena change. This is not an additive act, adding to the inner voice another one. Rather, one’s spinning gets off-centered, falls out of worn-out balance. It dizzies, de-centers and fuses into relation. Poetry can widen our view. It is not its intention to improve the world, but to make it visible. To also let unnoticed or distorted presence shine. Not as a juice-less replica, but as a strong-willed essence whose force enters our senses. This is intervention in its original sense: to come between. The poem

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as a coming between initiates an active break for a second: a shine-world is here, a world in the world. Not to cover ‘the real world’, or to change its outlook. It guides us to cross an invisible boundary with our sensing imagination. We are allowed to have a real reaction to an unreal world. Usually in daily life we first tend to have unreal reactions to the real world. Poetic intervention uses the principle of the ‘coming between’. The dual, the duel, is broken; the immediate sitting in it is banned; the boundless nakedness, the exposure, is under a spell. In the poetic experience we see more than we could experience in the real world. And this is the contribution of poetry to expressive arts therapy: to get glimpses of insight, to see the world inside-out, to experience moments of being in-sight. A sensed seeing is comforting and confronting. It takes both. Only comfort cradles innocence and only confrontation leaves one in the cold void. We have to drown to feel the uplifting force of our flesh and muscles; we need to get lost in despair to experience the rise of the Sun. Poetry as an intervention comes between one’s own spinning little world by praising and lamenting what usually gets lost or is hidden. It comforts and confronts us by its belief that life stays alive and that life is living on life. It separates individual concerns from their isolation and it weaves them into a bigger connection. We all are bound to the grip of decay, we decline as we grow. We march on the edge of life, a dead end, with no sign to return. Poetry as an intervention, a coming between, comforts by its beauty and confronts with its unconditional truth. By speaking the unspeakable it destructures the certainties of everyday life and puts us into an imaginal in-between space in which there is no guarantee, only the hope to find a shelter through the newness and freshness of the poetics of belief. And let us not forget that poetry is often simply entertaining, full of humor and nonsense. The poetic experience in a cathartic sense encompasses tears of laughter, joy, anger and sadness. This notion of coming between separates us from daily life concerns. This separation hole opens an empty in-between space, tying afresh to connection, the midwife of separation. The coming between of poetry sets a separation which is binding anew. It weaves the web of thought, hope, power and solitude. Poetry is an ‘inter-venture’ that cannot be planned or made. Belief is needed for poetry to come, and great endurance to see the little plants and creatures on the big desert of the unknown.

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Poetry is not about solving problems, it is intervention, its coming between is dissolving. Let me illustrate poetry as therapeutic intervention with one example from my therapeutic practice. I met Andy, 20 years old, at a day treatment center where I led an expressive arts therapy group. Before we started free writing, we did some back massage. Afterwards, each client could write in a free associative way. Andy, who was suffering from psychotic episodes, wrote the following poem, which he afterwards read to me. I read it back to him, which led to a sharing about his constricting relationship with his mother. The pond behind my house swells like a breast full of milk. A stream stretches into it as a flame stretches into the air. The water flows like air, like air and clears the cobwebs of my mind clears the air, clears the air like Spring. And the water whispers: empty yourself of yourself and you will be full of God. Mother, I have to empty myself of you and your anger which devours me as a praying mantis devours its mate. Mother, the river drags you away and drowns you. Mother, the river drags you and your anger away, you and your toaster oven, you and your microwave, the V.C.R. the dishwasher, the stereo and your desire for me to become a doctor. Mother, the river drags your dreams away leaving me empty to be free. The poetic imagination can enable clients to give voice to a basic existential theme, can provide a way for them to live creatively with suffering, to de-form and to trans-form it.

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In this case, poetry appeared as a vision which came between Andy’s life with his mother. Poetry became like a prayer, coming between the daily life concerns. Poetry can be the most intimate language we know. Personal, yet de-personalized. One gets to know more than the person with his problems, concerns, sufferings, more than the symptoms of their illnesses. The person appears in a new light as the creator of poetry, something shines through this person, comes between her struggle: the beauty of clean and twisted thought, the beauty of a quite right metaphor, the beauty of multiple views rooting in the same image. What touches are not so much ‘personal facts’ but suddenly being touched by what comes in between, a feeling which arises, a memory, a connecting point. The paper is a safe partner who listens patiently to anything and keeps it. The writing comes between feeling exposed or isolated, as one can reveal secrets with the veil of imaging protection. The poetic experience allows the client to re-member, to stay with the feelings and let the experience trans-form, rather than trans-late. Most likely there are tears of relief, of sadness, of joy to feel seen and understood by the poem. Here, poetry comes between as an in-sight messenger, the felt sensations make sense. Hope makes the surface, and doubt builds the underground; in between lives belief. The poetic imagination sets the ground for a belief in poetry and poetry images a belief which allows life’s sovereign utterances a form to speak from a place of love, beauty and truth. The possibility of poetic intervention opens a playground where the unexpected changing has an in-between space to become effective.

References Aristotle (1980) Poetik. Leipzig: Reclam. Laing, R.D. (1972) Knots. Vintage Books. Leedy, J.J. (ed) (1973) Poetry the Healer. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott. Meyers Kleines Lexicon Philosophie. (1987) Mannheim: Bibliographisches Institut. Nehamas, A. (1996) Boston Book Review. Paz, O. (1983) Der Bogen und die Leier. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Rilke, R.M. (1989a) Duino Elegies. Manchester: Carcanet.

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Rilke, R.M. (1989b) The Best of Rilke. University Press of New England.

Further reading Fink, H. (ed) (1994) Standpunkte der Ethik. Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh Paderborn. Kluge’s Etymologisches Wörterbuch der Deutschen Sprache. DeGruyter. Morrison, M.R. (1987) Poetry as Therapy. New York: Human Sciences, Inc. Pöggeler, O. (ed) (1972). Hermeneutische Philosophie. Munich: Nymphenburger Verlagshandlung.

CHAPTER 11

Poetry in the Oral Tradition Serious Play with Words Elizabeth Gordon McKim Poetry is rhythmic imagistic language which embodies our experience. Poems rise up like the life-fire from the whole person and bring us close to the sources of memory and imagination. Poetry is pleasurable, powerful and at the same time form-giving and freedom-seeking. Poetry is a wonder/full synthesis of thought and feeling, form and content, quest and question, and with a little bit of luck and a lot of labor, the words ring true. For all these reasons and more, poetry, its reading and writing, its performance and spoken expression, should be an available and accessible tool for the expressive arts therapist, which he and she can enjoy and practise with a client or within a group when the poem arrives kicking and cursing, laughing and prancing, praying, moseying, sashaying, boasting, hiding or seeking, keening or lamenting. There were days even then I did not know who I was My body was washed with the stain of the singing it bled in the darkness the darkness was humming Poetry is personal. It is our intimate connection to words. When we feel something closely and deeply, and respond fully, we search for the right words, the true cadence. We derive pleasure from the weaving together of sound, image and meaning, and we gain empowerment through speaking and writing our experience. Through language, we remember and try to reconstruct what we know. The poet moves into the heart of the matter to name, to reveal (not explain) in language these fleeting and insistent messages that come spontaneously into our lives. These ideas are not general and abstract, but specific, personal, and closely connected to our senses, our physical selves, our pulse and heartbeat, our humor, our outrage, our intimate

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and heard diction, our ethnicity and cultural connections, our praises, our childhood, and our dreaming evolving selves. In poems we honor the particular and unique way we speak: what we listen to in the neighborhood of our familiarity, on the street corner of memory, in the landscape of our childhood, in our states of feeling in the country of our emotions. We crawl on hands and knees to the center of heat to the center of our bodies: the ghettos, the hot enclaves, the hidden suburbs with uncut grasses, the barrios at midnight. Poetry is by nature associative – one word leads to another, one sound calls to another, one image relates to another, and in this way a poem can be the wave you ride, allowing your controlling mind to step aside and follow what your intuitive understanding knows you know, and urges you on to be attentive, brave, crafty, deliberate, humorous, humble, patient, angry or whatever it is you are feeling. Then it is up to you to move into the poem with your laser-beam attention and your poet’s tools. Dig dig dig in the dirt now. It won’t hurt now – I have worked as an artist-in-residence with children for over 25 years and almost that long with teachers in the public schools studying for their master’s degree in the field of creative arts in learning, as well as graduate students training to be expressive arts therapists in the mental health field. The poetry process with the children is much the same as poem-making with teachers and expressive arts therapists and their clients, though of course the perspective is different. We might not talk about poetry and its uses in the same way, but we begin together in the common process of finding the poet and the poems in us. In this work I am a guide. I help people to begin, people sometimes deeply resistant to poetry or who have minimal reading and writing skills, or people who somewhere along the poetry path have been hurt or shamed out of their natural ability to make poems. An agile guide’s good When you cross a fragile bridge From here to here … Here!

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As in all the other expressive arts, we want to start in the safe place where risktaking is serious play, and where the circle contains and holds the confidences of the people. I begin with a chant that we do with simple hand movements which reflects the rhythm of the breath. In/and out/In/in and out/That’s the way the poem begins. We move our hands with the sound of the words and the actions described. Reach reach/reach for the sky now/don’t ask me why now. The rhythm begins to take over. Push/pull/gather the wool. Dig/dig/dig in the dirt now/it won’t hurt now. The rhythm has its own life. It enters the body. We repeat it. Me and you/me/me/and you and us/us ride the bus. Rhythm is inside us, in our heartbeat and pulse, rhythm surrounds us in the passage of time and seasons, in our growth and development, our beginning and endings, our aging and dying, in the light and darkness, the waves and the wind, in every gesture and action, in our speech. We say our names, feeling the rhythm of the sounds and syllables. We chant our names connected to sound and movement, the holistic way of words: breath sound movement language. We write simple, non-threatening poems called acrostics with our names, something we all own. This is a helpful way of making introductions in an expressive therapy group: small messages emerge from the letters that are the backbone of the poem.

Egrets Linger at dusk at the rIver’s edge amaZing the darkness with their pAtient onelegged Bird beauty under/standing how Evening shadows OverTake The Heated tones of day One word pulls us towards another and we don’t need to plan ahead! We step aside and follow the poem. We read the poems out loud. Sometimes in these readings we use musical instruments such as a drum, kalimba or rainstick, or we move with the rhythm and beat of the words. Often people read their poems simply from the page, but the healing moment comes when the poet

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speaks the poem and the poem is heard. The listeners provide the container for the poem. I swing out into a clearing I do not smile but I am pleased as I repeat the words Prima Materia. For the poet it is words. Nouns and verbs. We know that nouns are the stuff of the uni/verse, and the verbs are the motion and commotion at work in the uni/verse. We can make our own word collection. Look around the room or go outside on a wordwalk and find nouns and verbs directly observable with your senses. Be hunters and gatherers. Serious play. After you have your words, specific and sensory and concrete, start to play and work with the words, arrange and rearrange the words and lines, and see how they are woven together, giving sense and form to the poem. Let the message emerge. And now you will swim through coves and bays and open seas You will wear water proudly And I, like a well-used anchor will bear witness to your shining tides Sometimes certain periods of your life, your infancy, childhood or adolescence, will be the source and catalyst for your poems, or perhaps a specific incident, situation or person will evoke words. Daily life, simple things such as waking up in the morning, leaving your home, moving into your day, turning and returning to a thousand familiar activities, freshly experienced, can provide endless inspiration for your writing.

Uprising You do not will what emerges what emerges will teach you

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You only must be ready to receive the messages and the messages are everywhere language up-lifting off the leaves of trees the effortless encounter with the universe After you have found the nouns and verbs, placed on two pieces of different colored construction paper, tear them out so they are separate entities and place them in front of you. Now ask an essential question: what do you want to keep and what do you want to let go? Spend and save. Lost and found. Serious play. Choices. Decisions. What do you add and what do you subtract? Say your poem out loud. Repeat it. Get your voice in and under it, behind it. Struggle with it. Wrestle it. The poem is in process. It is not carved in stone. Work the page. Cross out. Recycle your mistakes. Change your mind. This is one of the most interesting times in poem-making; the time when the poem is finding its shape.

Finding our shapes In any old manner/we sprawl and stammer/we don’t know what to do/about the commotion/or how we dare assume our shapes/we fold our pitiful wings/we don’t know how to pause/or come to full stop/we babble/we flail about in the uni/verse/we clear our throats forever/it seems we have no skin/everything hurts/we only remember the mud where we were born/we pretend indifference to the mist/we weep uncontrollably/we tell a joke/forget the punchline/we aren’t prepared for the forest/we never learned to fight/we want to speak eloquently at the feast/we have no words/it was the same at the funeral/we want to declare love/we don’t know the first thing about courtship/we blush/inside we feel slow/we always fall apart in a

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rush/what comes is impossible/we say our prayers and poems dumbly/same for the lullabies, full speed ahead we careen into blazing. Very often a need to write will arise in the expressive therapy group out of the welter of experience: from intermodal work: out of issues, events, anger, loss, confusion, dialogue, conflicts, out of the dance, the singing, the movement, out of meditation or chant, out of the psychodramatic moment, out of role-playing. We try to give body, voice and form to the experience through poetry and the other arts. We begin to write. In the beginning when the world was just new Everything was all wrapped up and covered over In the beginning let the words pour out like water from a pitcher. Take the space of the page. We use large pieces of newsprint and simple art materials such as crayons, magic markers, colored pencils. We get out of the way of the words. They have their own momentum. We listen. We write. We continue until we have completed this first step: writing what we need to say. We read over our poems: how the poems begin, how they continue and how they end. (At least for now.) The work of poetry is connected to all the other expressive arts like organs in the body, interdependent and independent. Your breath is in my song my song is in your heart your heart is in my blood my blood is in your hands your hands are on my body my body is on your mind your mind is in my spirit my spirit is in your fire your fire is in my life my life My life. My life is on fire! Then we share the poems with others, and this completion is essential for healing change to take place. If one other person hears and hears well, the words are not lost. We read the poems in pairs, in small groups in the big

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circle. We listen. Some of the poems are thoughtful, others are hilarious, some are difficult to hear, some are reflective, others are projective, some are simple and child-like, some are mysterious, and others are strident and hard-hitting. If expressed with authenticity, integrity and feeling, a poem is at work here. Some need to be expanded and developed, others need to be waited with, some need to be more condensed and concentrated, others more specific and personal. We do not judge these poems. We try to understand what we have heard. We see where the weak spots are, where we can go further, where we have not made ourselves clear, where people nod and say yes or are confused and baffled. We listen. We respond. The poem is held and contained within the group.This is where the healing begins. And what is unfinished is always unfinished And what is finished begins again and the green goes over and over When we write in groups we start simply with non-threatening writing suggestions, ones that will include and invite rather than discourage and exclude. Sometimes we begin with listening in on whatever it is we are writing about. We focus and give our complete attention, letting the image evoke the necessary words. I help students to listen in (or eavesdrop) on people, situations, nature, city streets, voices in conflict, a memory, a fantasy, characters and objects in dreams, the wound, the joy, the complaint, the ache. As we write we begin to hear the voice or voices, we let them speak to us, sometimes we place the voice of the poem inside a visual shape or frame. The animal speaks the maiden speaks The shamed one speaks the wife speaks the healer speaks the fool speaks the traveller speaks the judge speaks

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the thief speaks the drunk speaks the addict speaks the teacher speaks the child speaks Listen to the voice of the poem: its tone and inflection, its nuances and subtleties, its direction and intention, its richness or sparseness of detail, its roots. We work to feel how the poem begins, how it continues, how it pauses, how it takes its shape and how it stops. We notate the words like a musician does. We edit the poem by reading the poem to ourselves and reading the poem to others, trying to feel what we have said and what we have not said, taking responsibility for our words, making ourselves vulnerable in the safety of the circle, giving voice, breaking the silences. It didn’t sting or fly away I held it in my hand In fact it stayed through all that season till the weather swarmed and changed I didn’t know what it could mean or why I cried. All poems are small stories of who we are, where we’ve been and where we are going. The poem is a small drop with many interconnected circles which keep moving outwards. The poems that tell your own personal stories of who you are and where you began (somewhere back in your own real time) are essential to the width and depth of further words and worlds. These poems provide your ground/work and pave the way for ground/swell. They are necessarily brave poems, because they tell us something about you and how you grew. They can help us see you in the web and weave of your own personal context, and they give credence to further poems which might deal with freedom and confinement, conflicts and resistance, relationships, politics, love and longing, fury and fear, nature and doing what comes naturally, stars and starts, endings and mendings, tendings and touching, and all the human things that human poems are about.

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Baby sister You were the last extravagence of the old man’s seed. You were too blond for me And I was dark and deeply restless. I wanted you to stop. And when you didn’t I held the rage between my scabby knees for years. Still I wanted to hold you Ma said when you were born I’d let you drop. They sent me away. When I came home I couldn’t hold on anything. Numbers or colors or even cutting paper I learned to stutter. What did you expect A song? Forget it I’m almost forty I want to hold you

Begin from the small place, the rooted place that only you know in the particular way you know things. And you can’t tell the whole story. But you can give us a glimpse into your world. You can let us enter in, so we can feel you and your situation, your moment of poetry.

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Let your senses inform your words: what you listen to and for, what sounds surround you, the touch of the surface and the underside, the observations and the insight, the scratch and smell of things, the sweet sharp tastes, the callings and recallings, the push and pull of the ancestors, the turf on which you build your life. If you tell us these story poems with energy and honesty, we shall be able to feel you and your life with more respect and compassion (with passion). In poetry, we have to be archeologists, we have to uncover and recover in order to discover the poem that has always been there. Each poem has its own specific energy, breath, line, cadence, tone, color and shading; its own personal direction. These poems of her and his story help us to understand what it means to be you, what it means to be me, and so what. The poem is the so what. With practice and passion, the expressive arts therapist can weave poetry into one’s work and add vision, depth and intimacy to the texture of one’s daily life and endeavors. Who is me and who is thee and so what and so that’s it! Poetry

Oral tradition prayers utterances invectives jokes questions challenges rap/songs/toasts tall/tales fairy tales tremblings/ramblings praises love songs/cooings/sighings/sightings/ oaths/brags/boasts/preachments epics/histories/blues mumblings/mutterings/stutterings clammerings/stammerings prophecies/pronouncements auctioneerings/hard/sell/soft/sell

POETRY IN THE ORAL TRADITION

market cries/lullabies/cons catcalls/healings cross/cultural/questionings across the board questings in earshot of global villagers/visitations talismans/spells/protections poems to honor the four directions poems rooted in region and local color and seasons poems to sing and drum to passed down from generation to generation first sounds breaths/cries/whispers/hollers poems to bring us pleasure and poems to treasure poems to measure the pain poems so we don’t have to explain poems for the tribulation and poems for the celebration poems that reveal poems we lean into and poems we lean out from poems for the beginning and poems for the end poems for the mending and spinning/poems for the next inning poems for gathering and sifting and hunting and seeking stretching and running and fucking and muckraking poems for rocking and freedomseeking/poems for the wee ones and poems for the wizard poems for the crone and poems for all alone poems for the dark hour

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and poems for the high tower poems to break the chains poems to ease the loss poems for choice poems of discovery poems to rejoice poems for eros poems for recovery poems from you to me and poems from me to you poems to all/ways get us over and poems to get us through

CHAPTER 12

The Theater of the Holocaust Yaacov Naor Introduction For over ten years I have been traveling regularly to Germany (mainly to Berlin) in order to lead a special workshop: ‘Confronting the Holocaust Through Psychodrama’. Although designed specifically for Jewish sons and daughters of Holocaust survivors and Germans of the generation after World War II, the workshops are open to all people interested in the subject. This is not an easy task for me, being myself the child of two Holocaust survivors. The purpose of the workshops is to gain better understanding and to recognize the moral, social and personal implications that the Holocaust left us with. In the workshops, we explore spontaneous, expressive and creative ways of dealing with the interrelationship of the persecutor–victim roles within each of us and in our society. The workshops are generally led by myself and Ms Hanni Lewerenz, a German psychodrama and playback-theater director. In our work, we apply psychodramatic techniques and tools, together with other action and non-verbal media drawn from the field of intermodal expressive arts therapies (therapeutic uses of art, music, movement, drama and poetry). Therapeutic theater and psychodrama were chosen as the main tools for working with this population because they stress the use of the body as the major medium of expression, instead of relying only on the world of words, which holds many dangers. The method of psychodrama is based on J.L. Moreno’s philosophical theory and psychotherapeutic experience. In psychodrama, the ‘actor’ can enact his/her experiences, dreams and feelings on the stage and, by doing so, discover the deep meaning of his/her own history of experiences and their influence upon his/her decisions and acts in life. Through dramatization and role-playing, the participants can reach a more empathic attitude towards each other and develop appreciation of the

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differences among them. As a result, they learn to face their own history in a truer, more genuine manner. The active work through the body allows an immediate safe opening of the inner emotional world and an encounter with the truth that lies within. The discovery of emotional truth and sharing it with others is in itself a liberating and curative act. The group’s process leads to a gradual building of trust, cooperation, partnership and sensitivity among the participants. Much attention is given to the process of putting oneself in the center (the inner center and the group center). This prevents comparisons, judgments and criticism, and creates a strong sense of support. In particular, it invites a process by which each participant takes responsibility for his/her actions. The theatrical and psychodramatic stage allow the group members (each according to his/her level of self-development and his/her own rhythm and abilities) to present and share their real selves, the memories, experiences, feelings and images with the group. This process requires no previous dramatic talent; it develops out of a sense of support and acceptance by the other group members. Therapeutic theater and psychodrama give the participants an opportunity to win in the struggle against anonymity and tell and share their stories. This can become an experience of breaking silence. Children both of Holocaust survivors and Germans have grown up in a state of denial and repression. The silencing of emotions is a familiar experience to members of both communities. The common experience of the persecutor–victim relationship may bring forth an encounter with the ‘other side’ and allow better, deeper understanding. It may not lead to forgiveness or reconciliation, but it can heal some of the wounds. Above all, it can open a dialogue.

Characteristics of the generation of children of Holocaust survivors There are three main characteristics of the second generation: 1.

A strong experience of the Holocaust as the background that characterizes members of the second generation even more than their parents. The parents were at least born into a world without a Holocaust (they had a childhood; their children did not). They are able to relate the present to what existed before the Holocaust. For them, there is some tie to the sane world.

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2.

Unconscious identification with unknown figures. The children of Holocaust survivors are occupied, for instance, with the brothers of their parents who perished in the Holocaust. Some of their parents had children who died in the Holocaust. They ask themselves to whom their parents are more attached.

3.

The adjustment mechanisms of the parents often necessitated a degree of insensitivity to suffering, to death and to pain – a flattening of the emotional world which affects their functioning as parents. The first years of life of a child, whose parents may perceive themselves as defective, as emotional robots, inevitably affect their entire lives.

In fact, people who were born to Holocaust survivors have had different childhood experiences, some of which contradict each other; it is not possible to create a uniform image of this generation, which we can call the ‘second generation’. Nevertheless, in their reports about their lives and their childhoods, we have found some recurring themes, indicating common traits. Due to post-war society’s closed nature and its refusal to listen, the children of Holocaust survivors were flooded with their parents’ emotions, memories and experiences. The role of the children in the family was to rescue their families and to compensate for their suffering. Children who were named after relatives who were killed in the Holocaust, developed identity problems. In some cases, they were not even told whom they were named after. They wondered: who am I? Am I the lost child of an earlier marriage? And subsequently they suffered from feelings of guilt: is it my fault that I am alive and he/she was murdered? They carried this secret and did not know what was expected of them. Some children were given two names: one for life and one for death. This testifies to the difficulty of survivors to come to terms with their loss and their attempt to eternalize the past through the next generation. The emotional burden created by these messages, both explicit and hidden, created many splits in the individual, a sense of living death and an inner conflict between the desire to act and the inclination to give in to depression. Some children internalized their parents’ conflict between family and friends. These children now have difficulty in parting from their injured parents, from their nuclear family, because it is associated with guilt and

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death; the outcome is interference with the development of normal interpersonal relations. Some feel the need to be strong and powerful, as a matter of survival. Members of the second generation incorporate both the victim and the aggressor into their inner world. They demonstrate a tendency towards self-idealization, a feeling of omnipotence. Since their parents fled the inferno, they have a feeling of being unique and have a strong sense of belonging: ‘I am a child of a Holocaust survivor.’ On the other hand, some suffer from low self-esteem and symptoms of depression. They attempt not to stand out and even sabotage their own chances of success. The fear of success among the second generation may derive from the belief that standing out can be life-risking, as well as a conflict between the desire to succeed and guilt about having a good life. Some members of the second generation go as far as suffering from an inability to achieve enjoyment. Some children have uncontrolled anger, guilt and shame. They bear great anger about what happened to their parents; this anger is internalized and sometimes erupts out of proportion in other aspects of their lives. They fight against losing control; losing control means death. Certain children bear feelings of martyrdom and victimization. The insult, humiliation and persecution of their parents have been transmitted to them unconsciously. They feel very vulnerable. The prominent tendency to protect their parents is a heavy emotional burden. Such burdens easily make the individual more sensitive and are liable to make him/her more fragile in situations of departure. Some have occasional nightmares, like their parents. Many unconsciously relive parallel variations of their parents’ stories. Sometimes, they develop symptoms that resemble their parents’ behavior during the Holocaust, such as stealing. These behaviors stem from processes based on internalization and projection. The scar is long term and is transmitted from generation to generation. Removal of the scar usually involves pain. Work with children of survivors involves an encounter with a great deal of pain. They suffer a conflict between the desire to know the truth and a powerful desire to hide it. Children of the second generation are more liable to suffer anxiety and have difficulty in coping with aggression. There is a tremendous difference between the world void of violence in which the second generation was raised and the philosophy transmitted so clearly to them: ‘They’re out to get you.’ The double message creates confusion.

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The world is perceived as hostile, oppressive and threatening. The parents and their children are united against it. The family closes itself up in an inner world and communicates little. The degree of anxiety and depression of the children of survivors in such cases increases. In our workshops we often encounter the attempt of children of Holocaust survivors to live out not their own lives, but those of people who were murdered. Through experiencing imagined situations of how their relatives were killed, as well as through psychodramatic scenes of meeting these dead people, they can learn to separate themselves from these others. This separation breaks the illusion that the dead are still alive within themselves and separates the memory of the relatives who were killed from the hope that they may still be alive or come back to life.

Characteristics of Germans born after World War II: children and grandchildren of Nazis Although Germany is a leader in the historical research of the National Socialist era, German society and the majority of the people of Germany are not fully able to deal with their legacy as children of the perpetrators and its influence on their inner emotional life. Some very important research has been done on this subject, but it is difficult to find people who are prepared to talk about it. It seems that most people tend to hide their feelings of shame and guilt; statements of denial about the Holocaust are steadily increasing. Therefore, we regard each person who attends our workshop, which deals with this painful subject, as a pioneer, a courageous person. For the most part, the Germans who were born after World War II are silent about their family members’ involvement in Nazi activities. They have created what is called ‘the big collective silence’. This repression manifests itself in the inner lives of many Germans in self-devaluation, lack of clear identity, depression, self-abuse and feelings of powerlessness. In Germany, there is not much interest in research into the emotional implications of this period – after all, what benefit would they derive from knowing more? They want to forget. The Germans are in a beginning stage of feeling their way in this area. The first students of this subject have to cope with a thick barrier of taboos. Professor Dan Bar-On, an Israeli researcher from the University of the Negev in Be’er Sheva, who met and interviewed the offspring of Nazis in Germany, believes that the lag in research on the effects of the Holocaust in

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Germany is the result of deliberate neglect, of an inability and a lack of tools for coping. In Austria, for instance, to the best of our knowledge, not one study has been conducted on this subject, while at the same time in the West, the aftermath of the Holocaust has become a central subject of study. Professor Bar-On found that, for most Germans, breaking the barrier is not perceived as worthwhile. He claims that the few studies that have been conducted in Germany indicate that the stories that the Nazis told their children, in the rare cases that they told them anything, were characterized by lack of detail and description, as though there was nothing special to tell. Professor Bar-On believes that as long as German society does not take an unequivocal, definite stand regarding the murderers living among them and their children, the prevalent inclination to blur history will continue. Most of the offspring – children and grandchildren – simply do not know. Furthermore, they do not investigate where their parents or grandparents were and what they did in that period. Almost the only encounter that the children of Nazis can have with their past involves a sense of infinite, unrelenting pain. They cannot identify with the murderous parents. They often have difficulty marrying and having children. It is as though something evil has infected them and they don’t want to pass it on; those who do decide to marry do not tend to share their parents’ past with their partners. They are interested in burying the secret. A father who murdered other children but loved you is a confusing image. The inevitable question arises: ‘What is true love?’

The healing power of theater Theater as an art form can give voice to suffering. It expresses the pain and confusion of the disintegration of the self, and in doing so, enables the participants to face themselves without reservations. Theater is an act of ritual, where the story, the myth, is reacted to through action. The ritual itself has a therapeutic potential. It creates perspective, a space that exists simultaneously in the past, present and future. It is a bridge between the individual’s inner and outer world. It leads to catharsis, change and integration. The ritual has a balancing effect between the individual and the group. Theater provides a safe structure for risk-taking. We believe in the healing power of theater as an art form. Like all the other expressive arts, theater has the ability to create a focusing effect. The

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actor–protagonist brings to the stage a performance of his/her soul, a metaphoric translation of unseen, hidden emotional processes. Theater allows the participants to bring to life that which has been repressed and suppressed. It forces us to face reality by using the distancing effect, by creating the convention of a super-reality or, in psychodramatic terms, ‘surplus reality’. This therapeutic theater can help the participants to go through a process of letting go of old scripts and non-effective roles and separating from useless illusions. Therapeutic theater and psychodrama aim to increase the breadth of the client’s repertoire of roles, and by doing so enrich the ability to respond and to act. The group leader or therapist helps the client view the dialectic between the mask and the face, the persona and the person. The image of the therapeutic theater is one of constant shifts of perspective between the fictional and the real. Theatrical techniques are applied in therapy because they are a powerful means of looking at the complex ties of human existence, the balance between imagination, fiction, the subjective and everyday objective reality. I have found five different results in the use of expressive arts therapy and therapeutic theater in groups: 1.

Satisfaction of experience of using the body in action.

2.

Liberation of emotional stress, anger, fear, anxiety, pain, tension, erotic feelings, and so on.

3.

Improvement of the ability to experience through imagination, play and expression.

4.

Processing of themes, such as trust, openness, encounter, loneliness, support, leadership, assertiveness, loss, mourning, separation, rejection, surrender, control and dependency.

5.

Creation of relationships, a window to the inner world and hidden areas of the personality.

Therapeutic theater and psychodrama can improve the participants’ lives and help them to develop in terms of self-control and self-organization while expressing focused emotions in a safe place. They can learn to improve their social skills by communicating verbally and non-verbally. They can improve their self-esteem and self-and-body image, as well as develop their imagination, play and dreams. Participation in therapeutic

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theater workshops can help them learn to distinguish better between reality and fantasy. They can experience controlled physical contact and touch. Therapeutic theater and psychodrama provide catharsis of action and action-insight; development of spontaneity and creativity in clear and protected boundaries. Taking part in role-playing may build their ability to trust and get a stronger feeling of belonging to the group.

Examples of processes and events that have occurred in the workshops ‘It is a small place. Nobody knows about it’ In one of the workshops, the protagonist, a 36-year-old German woman, came to the stage and said: ‘I would like to do a psychodrama about what happened to me as a child, when my father was away. I can tell you that my father was an SS officer in a camp, some place on the Eastern front. I don’t want to deal with this fact, since I have worked on it already in my therapy. I just need to deal with him not being home. Not about why he was not at home, but about me as a child feeling that I miss my father. To this day I feel this loss.’ I was listening to her patiently, but my heart was beating rapidly. I had some questions. I said to myself: ‘What kind of a father can an SS officer be? How can she call him “father” at all? He is a murderer. What kind of crimes did he commit? Who suffered at his hands? … Don’t tell her your thoughts. You are here in the role of her psychodrama director, you are here to help her. Don’t put energy into hating this man. It is not your story. It is her story.’ Then, as if she was reading my mind, she said: ‘Let us make an agreement that we don’t deal here with where my father was.’ I agreed to that, but all the time it was nagging me inside: ‘Where was he, where was he? Who is he?’ I asked her to set the place where she wanted to meet her father and to choose someone from the group to play the role of her father. Then I suggested that she role-reverse with her father, so I could ask her in the role of her father some background questions to help the Auxiliary Ego (the person who plays a role in the protagonist’s psychodrama) to understand and feel the role he was about to portray. This role-reversal is usually also a chance to ask questions you would not ask the protagonist himself. When she was in the role of her father, I asked: ‘Can you please tell us a little about yourself ? What kind of a person are you?’ And then, while she was talking about the camp, I lost my self-restraint and

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asked: ‘Which camp is it? What is its name?’ I felt awful at that moment, because I knew I had broken the contract we made. But it was something that came from very deep inside me. She looked at me and said: ‘It is a small place. Nobody knows about it.’ She was trying to hint to me not to continue with this kind of questioning. But I couldn’t believe my ears. I started to feel goose bumps and my heart was racing. I had a feeling of déjà vu. I remembered one Saturday, when I was six or seven years old, my father came back from work and I asked him: ‘Why are you working all week, even on the Sabbath? Why are you never home to play with me?’ My father was unshaven and looked very pale. He sat down and told me about how it is very important to work, so that we will never again suffer from hunger, and then he told me about the Holocaust and the camp where he was. When I asked him for the name of the camp, he answered in the same way, even in the same tone of voice: ‘It is a small place. Nobody knows about it.’ In the psychodrama session I was shocked when she said the name; it was exactly the name my father used after I insisted that he tell me. I felt I had to do something, since I could not continue to play the role of the psychodrama director. I role-reversed her back to be herself again. I had her sit on the other side of the stage and I said: ‘I need a few moments for a break. I need to be a protagonist myself for a few moments.’ Then I invited someone from the group to play the role of my father. I sat with ‘him’ on the stage, and said to my father: ‘Please forgive me, please allow me to help this woman whose father was the SS officer you probably suffered from so much.’ At that point I was crying and tears were streaming down my face. I reversed roles and as my father I said: ‘I forgive you because you are here to heal and not to hurt anyone. I trust you. You can continue with this psychodrama because actually this is also your psychodrama. I am proud of you that you are now in Germany, this time not in the role of a victim but rather in the role of director. This is my victory, to see how you grew up to be who you are, and I love you.’ I reversed back to listen to these moving and touching words. After a few minutes’ break, we came back to this German woman’s psychodrama. This time I was freer, and judging from the feedback I got afterwards, it was meaningful and important for her, too. In the sharing time (sharing in the performance on the stage), many group members chose to address themselves to the role of the missing father.

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The longest silence One of the group members, Harold, a tall, thickly-built German of about 62, a professor of social science in a well-respected German university, hesitantly joined one of the workshops. His uncertainty about joining was especially understandable after he told his story on the stage and after the enactment of the story as a theatrical scene. The following is a concise version of the story, told in the first person: It is 1944. Rumors and information begin to arrive about defeats of the German Army. Nobody dares to talk about this openly. Outwardly, everyone still adores Hitler and his actions. But the true situation is one of hunger and lack of basic foods. I live in a small village. My father is far away at the Eastern front and I haven’t seen him for many months. I live with my mother in a sort of small animal farm. Every morning I go to school and from there I bring home all the fresh news. I am ten and the children my age are busy like most German children – in joining what is called ‘The Hitler Jugend’, a special youth movement devoted to Nazism, which serves as an incubator for anti-Semitic ideas and preparation for joining the adored German Army. Somehow I have not yet found my way to this youth group, but I do not succeed in avoiding my national role for long. One day, during recess, I am summoned to the head of the children’s group that belongs to this youth movement. He shoves a baby bird, one that has not yet learned to fly, in my face, and orders me to come back the next day with the bird dead, as proof of my bravery. He adds: ‘You have to kill them when they are small so that they don’t finish our army’s food. If you do this, you will be accepted into the movement.’ My heart flutters and the baby bird flutters in my hand. I feel frightened and helpless. I have never killed an animal. This is my first experience, and it is very difficult for me. I feel pity for this helpless bird. All night I deliberate and debate and find myself talking to the baby bird and begging it to die itself before I have to kill it. I know that if I bring it to school alive, the children will make fun of me and I will be ostracized for a long time. I am also afraid that I will be beaten and tortured cruelly by the leader and his friends. I try to use a knife but I use the blunt end of the blade. All I manage to do is to cause the bird to bleed, but the baby bird is still alive, breathing heavily and chirping in a terrible, disgusting way. When I get to school it takes the leader a few seconds to break the pitiful

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creature’s neck. He does the bird a favor because all my attempts to kill it only caused it suffering and torture. His story was painful for all of us. A long silence, unlike any I remember in all my experience as a group leader, prevailed in the room when he finished. There was a feeling that only this shared silence of us all would heal the wound that had been opened in front of us. The dramatic action after the story was an act of relief that enabled us to control the incredible reality we had experienced. The sharing afterwards was also moving and gave a release to feelings of pain, anger, fury and hopelessness that had developed among the group participants. The technique that we used to work with this story was ‘playback theater’. This is a method developed by Jonathan Fox, one of Moreno’s students. With this method, the group of ‘actors’ performs part of his story for the story-teller, using their own creative interpretation. We felt that we had to maintain distancing because, as noted, the feelings of pain in the room were sky-high. After the first performance of the chosen scene (the encounter between Harold and the baby bird during the night), Harold asked to take the stage again in order to create an encounter between himself and the bird. In the role of the bird he chose a Jewish girl who only a few hours earlier had presented a poignant psychodrama of herself and her parents, who were Holocaust survivors. Harold’s scene was moving, and it enabled him to express feelings that he had kept inside for over 50 years. As the bird in the scene, he was also given the right to express his anger and fury. Harold performed the role of the bird as a role-reversal. The roaring silence at the end of the story quickly started a chain of actions. We all sat there and cried about the fate of the bird, and each one, each person in the room, felt that he himself was this bird. The sharing in action afterwards was particularly productive, as it contained personal stories that the members of the group presented on the stage as a reaction to what happened in the course of the psychodrama itself. Some of the patterns of sharing that appeared on the stage actually became what are called in psychodramatic terms vignettes. This is a sort of mini-psychodrama, focused and potent. The scene that recurred most often was that of the ‘burial’ of the baby bird and parting from it. This special momentum led to additional group work during the workshop. We decided to return to the story of the bird, but this time from the movement-body point of view. The participants were only allowed to use

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sounds, no words. We divided the group into couples. Every person chose his/her role. One member of the pair took the role of the mother bird, the other the role of the baby bird that doesn’t know how to fly. The task of the mother was to teach her child to fly. The non-verbal process allowed each person to work with his or her body in movement and thus explore the content of the role. The process was limited in time, but it was not necessary that the mother succeed in teaching her child to fly. There were mothers who chose to make it difficult for the baby bird to learn to fly, so that he wouldn’t leave her alone. By the same token, each baby bird chose his/her difficulties in learning and the rate of success. Afterwards, we did a role-reversal, so that everyone could try both roles. The end of the session included reading poems or letters written by the participants. Each person chose whether to write in the role of the mother bird or the baby bird. Reading the letters and/or poems was also theatrical in nature, as the readers were asked to perform on the stage what they wrote. Some chose to accompany the reading of poems with music that other members of the group volunteered to play. Others chose not to write at all and found themselves reacting to the earlier process through drawing. These drawings were presented on stage by some of the group members who wished to share them.

Hands up At times in these groups we use exercises that involve controlled physical suffering. For instance, we suggest a structure to the group for work on the stage. Each participant, in turn, is asked to stand on the stage, with his/her arms raised. After a few minutes, when it becomes painful, and the participant asks to put his/her arms down, he/she is told to keep them up and in place. This is done in order to find a new way to cope with pain, using movement and voice, connecting with what is happening in the body and spontaneously expressing emotions. The reactions are always powerful. People scream, get angry, cry and tell things that were forgotten, that only the pain can reawaken. Eva, one of the German participants, reports her experience in the exercise: It seems to me that in this exercise we passed the boundaries of our recognized ability as people, in physical and emotional terms. The experience sunk deep into my soul, and I now know a bit more what it might have been like to be on the side of the victim. I felt that I was

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hanging by my hands on the gate of a Polish town. Around me stood SS people, with boots and dogs, yelling and hitting, and it was as though I was without a physical outside. Without a place to flee. Only an infinite scream … I would give anything not to have been born in Germany, not to feel the constant torture. I cannot forgive Auschwitz. I think that I could not overcome this my whole life, but this is the first time that I could admit it and share this hate. I feel anger but at the same time I can also begin to see other sides. I was not there.

‘You yourself are a true Nazi’ One of the most memorable psychodramas in my mind was that of Tony, a 45-year-old Jewish man, whose father is a Holocaust survivor. Most of his father’s suffering was in Auschwitz, where he experienced the worst of all. Tony’s psychodrama focused on events from his early childhood, mainly from ages 5 to 12. He unraveled before us a series of scenes of torture and cruelty administered to him by his father. The theatrical scene that was chosen to extract these experiences took place in the cellar of the house where Tony grew up. His father would arbitrarily, without any obvious provocation, lock Tony in the cellar and leave him there, usually for several hours and sometimes even for two or three days. His mother was helpless and did not react to the torture of her son. On the contrary, she cooperated quietly and usually justified her husband’s actions for fear that she too might become a victim to violence. Through psychodrama, Tony was finally given the opportunity to express his anger and rage towards his father, feelings that he never turned towards his father in life, out of fear of more violent reactions from his father and also out of pity for him. The group was invited to create the closed cellar. Everyone stood around Tony and created the feeling of suffocation that he felt during the many hours that he was forced to spend in the cellar alone, hungry and thirsty. Someone in the group was chosen to play the role of the father. He was outside the ‘cellar’, demanding angrily and adamantly that his son be punished. The tight circle symbolized the cellar and, on the other hand, it served as a defense against the feelings of anger that might have been likely, under uncontrolled conditions, to lead to direct aggression. At one point, I suggested to Tony that he use a pillow to hit an empty chair, in order to direct his feelings and focus them. Through the tears it was possible to hear the following sentences, which still echo in my ears, mercilessly: ‘You always warn me against the evil Nazis who will come and punish me. What was my crime? Why are you always cruel to me? I am the

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most important thing you have, that is what you always say. Those Nazis who you claim are outside our house and will soon come, they never come. Who are those Nazis? This is your invention. It is a lie. You yourself are a true Nazi. You are the one who hurts me. I am angry at you. I need you and instead of loving me you always correct me. You always want me to be someone else. You close me up now here in the cellar, but the day will come and I’ll get out of here and then I will fly far away and then it will be too late …’ In the role-reversal, we were all very surprised when Tony, playing the role of his father, said something his father could never have said to him: ‘I am angry at you because you are close to me. You are the dearest thing to me and I am angry at you. And I don’t know why. Maybe because of what they did to me [and here Tony bursts into tears, from a place deep inside] … You know that under it all lies my love for you … maybe I never told you but when I was in Auschwitz … [and then followed the moving story of the father’s suffering].’ When Tony returned to himself he refused to hug his father who held out his hand to him and stood there like a beaten and abandoned child: ‘I cannot forgive you yet. If I hug you now, everyone here will think that this story is over. For me this story has just begun …’ This time, in the process of sharing, we used the technique of letter-writing. In this technique, all the members of the group sit in a circle with their eyes closed and each one, who wants to, in turn creates a letter out loud, directed to the protagonist. One can also ‘write’ letters to other members of the group as a reaction to their letters. One has to ‘sign’ the letter and may also add a postscript. One letter from a son of a Holocaust survivor in the group particularly touched me. That very evening I wrote it down, trying to be as close to the original as possible: Tony, my dear brother, it is more and more clear to me that we are actually Holocaust survivors, that we grew up in our destroyed families, with these dead people who are called parents. That we actually succeeded in getting out of the cellar in the dark night, and despite all the losses, we continued forward out of the child’s life-force. Out of the strength of the child who waits for his moment to get up on the stage and say, to scream to everyone: Here I am – I have been saved. I am alive. What is so hard is to help people around us to understand and absorb with their hearts that this is a true holocaust. Since there are no

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photographs or historical studies, and especially because everyone deals with the other Holocaust and our holocaust looks small, comparatively; it almost disappears in the shadow of the other. After all, we remained alive. And what do we actually want? What do we actually lack? We were given everything. They gave us everything. And what do we have to complain about? Maybe we are just spoiled children who do not know limits and want more and more. We are only the ‘desert’ generation – the intermediate generation. A bridge. Memorial candles. Living reminders of those who have gone. Guardians of hope. The embers. The faith. We are not allowed to enjoy, to be happy, to go wild. We are supposed to be those who mourn, who cry with real tears, as our parents did not dare to do in front of us, so as not to hurt us, and so as not to encounter the pain themselves. We are their representatives, sent to express the sorrow, grief and fear for those who deny any connection to emotions and who told themselves and those around them, particularly those closest to them, that everything is all right, that nothing happened. That it is all our imagination. That everything is over and what was was, and that was actually a long time ago and now nothing remains of all that. And all that is left for us to do is to succeed, to gather material. We should obtain more money in order to buy another piece of furniture. Another something. Since it is important in life that you have more and more material to cover the terrible pain. Since what is important in life is to die – because death is a good end. It is like sweet sleep. The hunger stops rampaging the body. And you do not have to work all day. And you do not have to suffer any more. Death is the tranquilizer, the relief, and the release. To die is not to feel, not to know the truth. To die is to pretend. To put a mask on and tell everyone that everything is all right … and everything is all right in the cellar …

Conclusion Most of the participants have no previous experience with psychodrama and expressive arts therapy. They find these techniques helpful in overcoming their fear of the subject of the Holocaust. The arts provide a safe arena for expression and experiencing the inner truth. The group process is especially meaningful. The group provides trust, support, sensitivity and a sense of belonging. People in the group move from

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silence to sharing. Performing difficult scenes gives the participants a sense of control and a way out of self-victimization. The encounters between the group members create a conflict-oriented environment where projected feelings towards ‘the other side’ can be expressed and acted out. This creates an open (at times difficult and painful) dialogue where more realistic relationships can be explored. In this process mistrust and suspicion give place to hope. Many of the participants report that taking part in this process helped them heal their past wounds and become more alive. In many ways both sides are victims of World War II. What they share in common is the fact that the natural historical focus has always been on the survivors or the perpetrators (the first generation); there was not enough space for their stories as the second generation. Against this background, therapeutic theater and psychodrama were chosen as methods of expression, because by definition they involve the process of taking the stage to share and perform the individuals’ own life stories. For many of the participants this was the first time ever to open this subject up in front of others. It is not our intention to reach or bring about reconciliation, but rather to be involved in a process that will provide individuals with new insight into their personal and family lives. This could help them find new expressions and creative ways to deal emotionally with the psychological burdens they bear. The goal is not to find a solution, not to end these meetings with friendship or closeness. Instead, it is aimed at allowing each of the participants to learn about the other side, to learn about him/herself and accept the pain of difference. As Paolo Knill has often said, peace is not the absence of conflict; it is the ability to live with the differences. Our objective, then, is to find ways to help individuals to rejoin their lost communities, to reconnect with families and individuals. The aim is to learn to belong – not to forget or forgive, but rather to become witness to the richness and beauty of the person behind the history. Our work is based on the assumption and belief that the individual is able to grow mentally and spiritually and is able to change his/her former point of view. We believe in the possibility of development of people. Real dialogue always becomes possible for the group members after we create a safe place for all, without criticism or judgment.

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This is a bridge-building process. We try to change the familiar process of creating walls between enemies or within ourselves as human beings. One of the results of these workshops is the ability to identify and express existential questions: • •

•

Is there a way to build trust between former enemies? Is it possible to lead a dialogue with enough space for what has been suppressed, silenced and denied? Is it possible to touch this inner pain?

By asking these existential questions, we testify to our faith that working therapeutically with the arts will give us the strength to confront tragedy in its ultimate form: the theater of the Holocaust.

References Bar-On, D. (1989) Legacy of Silence: Encounters with Children of the Third Reich. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bar-On, D. (1995) Fear and Hope: Three Generations of the Holocaust. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bergmann, M.S. and Jacovy, M.E. (eds) (1990) Generations of the Holocaust. New York: Columbia University Press. Blatner, A. (1996) Acting-In: Practical Applications of Psychodramatic Methods. Third Edition. New York: Springer. Emunah, R. (1994) Acting for Real: Dramatherapy Process and Technique. New York: Brunner/Mazel. Epstein, H. (1988) Children of the Holocaust: Conversations with Sons and Daughters of the Survivors. New York: Penguin. Fox, J. (1994) Acts of Service: Spontaneity, Commitment, Tradition in the Nonscripted Theatre. New York: Tusitala. Jennings, S. (1994) Introduction to Dramatherapy. London: Jessica Kingsley. Kellerman, P.E. (1992) Focus on Psychodrama: The Therapeutic Aspects of Psychodrama. London: Jessica Kingsley. Krondorfer, B. (1995) Rememberance and Reconciliation: Encounters Between Young Jews and Germans. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Moreno, J.L. (1946) Psychodrama: Volume One. Beacon, NY: Beacon House. Moreno, J.L. (1973) The Theatre of Spontaneity. Beacon, NY: Beacon House. Rosenthal, G. (ed) (1998) The Holocaust in Three Generations: Families of Victims and Perpetrators of the Nazi Régime. London: Cassell. Salas, J. (1993) Improvising Real Life: Personal Story to Playback Theatre. Dubuque, IA: Kendall/Hunt. Sichrovsky, P. (1986) Strangers in their Own Land: Young Jews in Germany and Austria Today. London: I.B. Tauris. Wardi, D. (1992) Memorial Candles: Children of the Holocaust. London: Tavistock.

CHAPTER 13

In Exile from the Body Creating a ‘Play Room’ in the ‘Waiting Room’ Melinda Ashley Meyer In this chapter I shall present and discuss expressive arts therapy as used in group therapy with ‘traumatized refugees’. The term ‘traumatized refugees’ means here clients who have been exposed to organized psychological and physical violence from their official government or from political, religious or ethnic enemies. All asylum seekers who come to Norway live in refugee reception centres. People living in these reception centres do not know how long they will be able to stay in the country. It is vital that we give them immediate tools to cope with the stress that emerges through living in a ‘waiting room’. At the Psychological Centre for Refugees at the University of Oslo, I have been the leader of a multicultural expressive arts therapy group for the past six years. The case examples discussed in this chapter come from my work with this group. After a short introduction concerning the effects of trauma and war, I shall introduce ‘the house’ as a metaphor for the human body. One of the questions I ask is: how can expressive arts therapy help bring a sense of re-integration with the body while ‘living in exile’? Is a ‘successful’ repatriation process dependent on the sense of ‘being home in the body’? I shall try to give my understanding of this latter phenomenon. The final question is how can I, as a therapist, protect myself and stay at home in my body? People who live in exile have often lost everything. They have lost the ‘house of the family’, ‘the house of the community’. The only house they have left is ‘the house of the human body’. Because this house often contains so much pain and ‘bad memories’, the owner ‘moves out’ in order to save his or her soul.

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One of the consequences of war is that community networks are destroyed. The boundaries of the community are invaded, communication is cut, plumbing breaks down and electricity and energy are shut down. When I was in Bosnia in the autumn of 1996, I witnessed hundreds of houses looking like skeletons. Only the ruins were left. All the houses looked haunted; every house had its story to tell. If we stay with this image and focus on the ‘house of the body’, we can see that similar damage is done to the individual. Under torture and violence, the boundaries of the ‘house of the body’ are invaded. To protect itself, the individual will lock the doors, close the windows, turn off the lights and hide in the dark. One or several of the senses are temporarily shut down to soften the pain. In the worst cases, it is totally unbearable to stay within the house, and the only way of surviving is leaving. Under extreme trauma, such as torture, the individual will ‘flee from the house of the body’ in order to survive. As in ‘the house of the community’, all networks are shut down in ‘the house of the body’. The lack of energy makes the house cold and dark. Over time, this house breaks down – the body experiences pain through discomfort in muscles and joints. What the soul cannot express, the body will express. Being in exile from the body as a method to avoid the pain of trauma will, over time, give an individual the experience of belonging to the ‘living dead’, a state where one feels totally isolated from life.

The effects of trauma and war Nesna comes walking into the group room, her eyes seem as though they are looking beyond time into another dimension. She stands leaning into the wall with one leg twisted around the other. I ask her if she has ‘arrived’ in the room. She says that she cannot carry ‘this body’. It is as if it belonged to somebody else. ‘What do you feel?’ I ask. ‘Nothing,’ she replies. People who have survived organized violence, war, torture, concentration camps and prison tend to move out of their bodies as a defence to survive: When confronted with danger, animals have three basic options – fight, flight or immobility: the immobility or freezing is presumably animal hypnosis. Humans have in a more complex form, the same fundamental repertoire and, if they have the hypnotic capability, they may instinctively revert to spontaneous self-hypnosis as a primitive coping tactic. (Stuntman and Bliss 1985, p.741)

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The survivor removes him/herself from the situation as a protection against physical and mental pain. ‘Self-hypnosis, then, can generate a host of symptoms including depersonalization, derealization, hallucinations and amnesia. This process in turn, can instigate and perpetuate a disabling post-traumatic syndrome’ (Stuntman and Bliss 1985, p.741). Several research studies of the past few years have suggested that having dissociative experiences at the moment of trauma is the most significant long-term predictor of the ultimate development of symptoms of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (Herman 1992, p.85). These symptoms include sleeplessness, lack of concentration, irritability, muscular pain, headaches, a sense of no future and lack of affect. The trauma is so overwhelming that the individual turns away from him/herself. Pain in the body confirms the experience of being alive. Pain is a bodily language. In contemporary Western culture (‘culture’ meaning here the way people communicate with each other), there is a low tolerance for pain. Pain is a state which one wants to get rid of as fast as possible. Pills are taken for headaches, muscle pain, toothaches, and so on. The information the body is trying to communicate is neglected. When the whole body is in pain, as in torture, the individual wants to get rid of the body. One way of doing this is to turn away from the self to total isolation. Wilhelm Reich observed that there was a recurring pattern among his clients. By holding their breath and breathing as shallowly as possible, they were better able to control their feelings. Lack of energy results in lack of normal facial movement – eyes, mouth, brow, and so on are ‘frozen’. This low energy level can be directly related to a decrease in the client’s metabolism, which again reduces their feeling of anxiety (Reich 1972). Through shallow breathing and tightening of the muscles, the body becomes numb. From being ‘somebody’, one becomes ‘nobody’. The goal of torture is to take away a person’s power of being a subject and turn him or her into an object. The body becomes an ‘open house’, where the owner is not at home and anybody can enter. Under torture, the goal is to deobjectify the objects; the unmaking of the made causes the world to disintegrate. This is done through confusing and distorting sense-memory. The smell of flowers, which normally brought good memories prior to the trauma, is now connected with the experience of being raped. A bathtub for most people is related to something pleasurable; under torture, it becomes a weapon, for example, by holding the individual under water. Beautiful music is played under the most gruesome circumstances – so one can never rest when this

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music is played again. Through connecting beauty to awful experiences, one will never get out of the trauma experience. Rather than being present one is often drawn back in. One is ‘back there’ and not here. Overwhelming pain is language-destroying; words lose their original meaning. The search for adequate words to give justice to the experience is vital for recovery. The ‘trauma narrative’ is isolated from the ‘life narrative’; this means that it lies there and expresses itself through the body. The memory of the trauma then lives in the cells of the body. To be fully present and alive in the body means being in touch with the pain and facing it, thus integrating the story behind the pain with the rest of one’s life history.

Treatment The first step to help recovery after trauma is to assist the individual to move back home into his/her body, to regain ownership and to confront the stories, but from a safe place; to break the feeling of being isolated and to be able to participate in life again; to experience the here and now, and move out of the frozen and immobile position where time does not exist and the terror of the trauma never lets one move. Locked memory is one of the challenges in treating torture survivors. Memory is flexible and tries to adjust itself; with trauma survivors it becomes locked to the trauma. Through working with the imagination, the flexibility of memory and thought may be restored. Thus it may help the survivor to imagine different outcomes, new possibilities (Van der Kolk et al. 1996). D.W. Winnicott (1991) differentiates between imagination and fantasy in a way that is helpful to us here. Fantasy is an internal activity that does not relate to reality in the outer world; imagination, on the other hand, is the bridge from the internal to the external world. Every moment the individual is exposed to impressions and chooses consciously or unconsciously which impressions to take in and which expressions to ‘give out’. In a healthy person, this relationship between the inner and outer world, between fantasy and imagination, is a dialectical one, constantly moving. After trauma, the relationship is often ‘deadlocked’; it is as though the whole world has been cast a part in the trauma story: all men are rapists, everyone is out to get me, I am a victim, as though the reason for not leaving the ‘house of the body’ becomes the only memory and all good memories that also lived in the body prior to the trauma have been buried in darkness. In expressive arts therapy, connecting imagination with physical movement assists the good memories to emerge through the body.

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We can also relate this notion of expressive imagination to Jacob Levy Moreno’s theory of spontaneity and creativity (see Moreno 1973). Creativity is the substance to which spontaneity gives birth; spontaneity means to have an adequate response to a new situation or to make something new out of something old. Without spontaneity, there is no life, the opposite of spontaneity is anxiety: becoming stiff and immobile. There is no energy available to give birth to the creator. In our view, spontaneity is the key back to life after trauma. To be able to imagine a new outcome of an old trauma, the client has to be safe and regain his/her energy. The body is again ‘alive’; all the ‘networks’ are functioning and spontaneity is available. The first step in moving ‘back home’ is to begin to move the body and breathe, being able to eat a normal diet and to be in the here and now. The Bosnian women with whom I worked had many roles prior to the war; one was cutting the grass with a machete. In the group, the members took on the movement of cutting the grass. The movement was beautiful and graceful. Their faces came alive. It was through imagining this role and doing it that the good memories emerged.

How can expressive arts therapy help bring about a sense of re-integration with the body? ‘Expressive art therapy is distinguished from other modes of therapeutic practice by its emphasis on bodily expression. It is the body that dances, sings, makes music, paints, sculpts, enacts scenes and speaks poetically’ (Levine 1997, p.131). Through moving the body in dance, deepening the breath through singing and moving, and ‘giving life’ to the imagination with the help of painting, story-telling and poetic language, the survivor may find his or her way home. Paolo Freire states in The Pedagogy of the Oppressed: ‘Only by helping suppressed people find a way to express themselves will they feel free’ (Freire 1996). Expressing oneself in exile can break the feeling of being in ‘prison’. Can this experience of freedom help to promote the freedom to move back home to the mother country when possible? A method developed in Chile, called ‘Testimony’, where the individual is given the chance to tell his or her story in front of witnesses, has proved to have a great healing potential for trauma survivors. However, in my experience, people often find no words to express what they have been through. Movement, film, pictures and painting may offer the individual

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many possible vehicles for the ‘soul’ to find its way ‘home’ and for the ‘body’ to tell its story and integrate it with the life-narrative preceding the trauma-narrative, to help them to become one story. The story, the play, the poem, the film is shown to all, to bear witness to their fate; it is of great importance that the content is delivered in a way that engages the listener. The ‘teller’ must experience that his story is received if healing and integration are to take place. Many dare not tell their story or show it out of fear that they will not be believed. Living in exile, as stated earlier, breaks the continuity in life. One of my group members drew an image of herself lying in a void between two disconnected railway tracks. The process of finding a way for survivors to express their story and experience it being received can be part of reconnecting the ‘railway tracks’ so life can continue. Trauma survivors have normal reactions; they react normally to a ‘sick’ situation. The danger is that we make them feel abnormal and sick. Today, refugees all over the world risk ending up feeling passive and dependent upon the ‘host’. In many cases, they become medical clients. Living in exile is involuntary; it is a punishment. The goal of sending a person into exile is to remove him or her from the ‘scene’ and ensure that they will live like ‘objects in isolation’ without influence on the outer world as long as they are alive. Exile breaks the continuity of one’s life story. With this understanding, it is vital for therapists to help survivors from the beginning of their stay in exile to find their way home in the body and to facilitate the process of finding a way to express themselves and cope with the pain that emerges with the telling of their stories. The arts give the possibility of expressing the self through all the senses, which also gives the witness the chance to take in what is trying to be communicated. The art product will ‘communicate’, and we can share what it expresses. Communicating through all the senses helps one to stay present in the house of the body and not leave or be ‘invaded’ by the other. As Stephen Levine wrote: Healing after Auschwitz means survival. Expressive therapy teaches the art of survival, survival through the making of art. Why art? Because nothing else is strong enough to contain the destruction of the self. Not art as entertainment or art as high culture or art as kitsch, but art as the form of infinite suffering. (Levine 1997, p.120)

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He goes on to say that, ‘The therapeutic power of art lies in its capacity to render life valuable by showing both its horror and its pity. If we hold fast to this task we may be blessed with the presence of joy’ (Levine 1997, p.121). Because art can contain both the ‘ugly’ and the ‘beautiful’, the void between the tracks may begin to mend. The resources in the person’s past may be connected to the present and brought into the future. The survivor may discover the beauty that can emerge through the art which lies in ‘the ruins’, the beauty that rests in the ability to face and give an expression to the truth. I believe that in the ‘truth’, both ugliness and beauty live in the shadow of each other; the arts give the human being the chance to live with the truth and bring the body home.

Creating a ‘play room’ in the ‘waiting room’ In the following I shall present case stories from two different expressive arts therapy groups for people who are survivors of organized violence: a monocultural group of Bosnian war refugees in a refugee reception centre in Stokke, Norway, and a multicultural group of torture survivors at the Psychosocial Centre for Refugees, Oslo, Norway. In January 1993, there was a total of 49 Bosnian men living in a reception centre near Oslo. Forty-seven of the men had been prisoners of war in Serbian concentration camps in the former Yugoslavia. The average length of stay in the concentration camp was six months. Forty-one had experienced physical violence, 35 witnessed torture and/or execution, but only 3 had participated actively in the fighting. Thirty-three had lost close relatives (wives, children, brothers, sisters). In the concentration camps, the men had been forced to lie in the burning sun in one position for hours at a time, often without any liquid to drink. They had been beaten and had witnessed friends being killed. In the concentration camps, they had lived on the brink of starvation. When they arrived at the reception centre in Norway, they were malnourished. In Norway, refugees’ first stop is often a reception centre where they do not know how long they will be allowed to stay. The consequence of living in a reception centre is usually physical passivity over a long period of time. Time is often spent worrying about how relatives are coping in the homeland and what has happened to people they know. Their worrying is constant. There is an uncertainty about one’s own future and that of others; in this chronic situation of worrying, the body will be under constant strain. At the point when the refugees enter treatment, they have been in the ‘waiting

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room’ of the reception centre for a long period. This situation intensifies the feeling of being ‘out of the body’; they experience themselves as ‘dead bodies’. I started a group in which all the men, young and old, participated. The goal was to help the individual to get in touch with his body, to breathe, to move and feel that he was not alone with his story. Through evaluating the culture of the group, I found that movement was the least alienating of the art modalities. All the men had done gymnastics in school or in the military. They were very fond of folk song and dance. Through moving the body in the ‘waiting room’, we slowly created a ‘play room’. Playing engages in the here and now. The arts help us communicate in the poetic language of play. Each session started with the same group ritual. Creating a group ritual gave the participants continuity and predictability in an unpredictable situation. The ritual gave them the possibility of expressing themselves physically and verbally, in the sense that it gave them the freedom to express emotions, such as anger, in the form of shouting out, saying ‘No!’, saying ‘Yes!’, crying, laughing and screaming. All of these expressions had been frozen in the beginning. The ‘movement’ group gave the participants the freedom to do the opposite of what they had been allowed to do in the context of the concentration camp in which they had survived in Bosnia. One of the participants said about the group: ‘I was stiff when I came to Norway. I came alone. My family was left behind, the group helped me to meet others and make my body more mobile. If we hadn’t got that help, half of us would have been invalids.’ Another man exclaimed in amazement during a play session: ‘This is the first time I have laughed in months!’ Re-experiencing lost emotions gave the participants hope that change might be possible in the future. A young boy expressed such joy by watching his father play and move in the group. At home, the father just sat still and stared at the wall. Seeing his father in a state of being alive gave the young son hope and permission to have feelings of pleasure again in life. One participant summed up his experiences this way: ‘It is as if my soul has come home to a new body.’ At the Psychosocial Centre for Refugees at the University of Oslo, Norway, I have led a multicultural Expressive Arts Therapy group over the past six years. The group consists of six to eight members. All members have been granted asylum. Each member comes from a different country. This provided an opportunity to create a specific group culture. If too many

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participants come from the same country, these group members can ‘regress’ to their native culture; this can alienate and create an unsafe environment for the others and/or leaders. In addition, a monocultural group is not always an option at treatment centres because there might not be enough clients from the same country or because participants may refuse to take part with someone from their own country for reasons of political, religious or ethnic differences. The model of having only participants from different countries emerged from encountering the difficulties mentioned above. All the participants in this group complained about having pain in their bodies. Several had been to a number of medical doctors with ‘no abnormality detected’. Insomnia, nightmares and general tiredness were common complaints. Their bodies gave me the image of too tight guitar strings. One of my clients said in the group, ‘Sometimes I wish that I had only one leg, because then people would have believed my pain.’ But she never felt that the other group members doubted her pain. The participants had difficulty relating to each other and to being present in the room. They experienced themselves as isolated and scared of making contact with others. Through the repeated possibilities of artistic expression, they became grounded in the here and now. They were slowly confronted with their feelings towards one another and within themselves. The art work spoke to everybody. The participants experienced the art as cathartic. Expressing the movement of pain through dance gave the pain a form, a beauty. Passing the trauma story of one’s life through the ‘art work’ gave the story and the group a focus. I asked one of the group members from Eritrea, whom I shall here call ‘Oscar’, if he knew what the shadow above the head in his painting was. He said: ‘It’s the part of my history that I have never told that haunts me every night. The voices of children.’ When Oscar was 11 years old, he witnessed his parents being shot while they were begging for their lives. When he was 13 years old he became a soldier himself. One day he was to transfer six prisoners of war from one camp to another. Between the two camps, the prisoners, especially one of them, began to threaten to kill him because he was so young. He panicked and shot the man. The others began to beg for their lives, but he shot them all. The worst, he told us, was that they had families and were begging, just like his mother and father did, to be spared. He knew that today their children were orphans, just like himself. This art told its story. His art made it possible for the others to be witnesses.

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Six months later, Oscar went home for a visit after eight years in exile. On his way home for a second visit a year later, he ended up being killed in an accident. Today he is buried beside his mother and father in his home country. He was one of the youngest participants in the group and the other participants grieved for him profoundly, which led them further into an existential crisis of meaninglessness. Through art-making, the group was able to find different expressions for their feelings; and one of the participants suggested that they could make a calendar out of the pictures they had made, dedicating it to Oscar. Nela, who had participated in the group since it started, was deeply touched when Oscar told the part of his story that was the most difficult to express. Nela was a radical student who joined a revolutionary party at the age of 16. When she was 17, she was arrested and sentenced to four years in prison. These four years were gruesome; she was often tortured and humiliated. One of the torture methods was to take a fire hose and spray the victims with a water-force that could almost penetrate the body. She still feels the pain from this ‘treatment’, especially in her chest. But the worst was the pain she caused her family: she experienced her brother and her sister being tortured in front of her in order to get her to reveal other party members. She did not see her father while she was in prison, and he died before she was able to contact him. (Her mother died when she was nine years old.) In our group, Nela was asked if she would like to ‘meet’ her father and talk to him. A psychodrama student directed and the drama started: Nela:

When I was a revolutionary I stood on stage, but after I came out of jail I became isolated and now I am shy. It is difficult to go out into life.

Director: Where do you want to meet your father? Nela:

In prison. It is visiting hour. A long queue of people are standing in line to see me. My father is the last one. I see him, but I don’t want to see him.

Nela (in role as father): My name is Mustafa and I am 50 years old. I can see my daughter. I want to know how she is. I am both happy and sad that she is arrested. I am afraid that she will have no future. When I die, who will take care of her? I am here once a week. She never sees me, only her friends, they are more important than me. I am sad. I know that you, Nela, are fond of me, but you have changed. I am concerned. It is good that you are

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‘inside’. On the ‘outside’ you could get killed. I can see that you are strong, but you are still a child for me. I want to come closer but I am afraid of being rejected again. Nela (to her father): I want you to come closer, I love you. But if I experience my feelings I shall lose my strength. I have to throw away feelings of love for my sister, brother and father. It is dangerous to feel weakness. This is why I cannot see or meet you, father. (The director asks if there is a favourite place where she would like to meet her father.) Nela:

I grew up with my grandmother. My father worked close to a mountain. I would like to meet him on this mountain. The mountain is a symbol for father and it is so beautiful.

Nela (in role as the mountain): I am purple and mystical. My colour is telling you that you can never really know me. I have a lot of secrets. The top of me is white and at night the shepherds come with their animals. They come, find shelter and light their bonfires. I have stood here a long time. I was a volcano, but not any more. I give Nela strength and support. Nela shows how the mountain supports her and wants me to be the mountain. Nela and her father come riding side by side up the mountain. Nela (to her father) : I never came even though I knew you were dying. We have never learned to express emotions in our family, but now I want to say that I love you and that I shall never forgive myself. Nela (as father): I was sad that you rejected me and did not come, but now I forgive you. Nela:

I shall have to continue to punish myself for the pain I have inflicted on my family. But I am glad I was able to meet you now and express my feelings for you.

Nela (as father): I hope it is not too late to ask you to take care of yourself ? Nela:

I can still not forgive myself.

Nela was continuing to punish herself by staying isolated and inside herself. Inside the house of her body, it was black and cold. Everybody she had loved, she had thrown out. She felt like she was under ‘house arrest’ in her own body. Helping her to come out into life and express herself was one step

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towards healing. She subsequently went back home for her first visit with her brother and sister after nine years in exile.

The therapist as an artist among the ruins Therapists who work with victims of traumatic violence run the risk of being traumatized themselves. One of the most agreed upon important healing factors in therapy is the relationship between the therapist and client. The ability of the therapist to be present in the moment with him/herself and the other is the basis for the therapeutic relationship. If the therapist becomes traumatized, he or she will be in exile from themselves and thus unable to be present. The real goal of torture is to destroy the self of the individual so he or she will never be able to become the person he or she was or engage in society again. Trust, for the victim of torture, is shattered for a lifetime. Listening to the stories of the survivors from the death camps of Omarska and Manjaca in Bosnia, I heard of things I had never imagined before. My whole perception of the world changed. I felt in some ways dirty, my ‘innocence’ was gone; and now I was carrying the knowledge of evil. I have difficulty telling the stories I know of evil. My fear may be that I will contaminate my surroundings with evil. All the pain and fear in me gets stimulated. A way of keeping control is to stiffen up and hold my breath. I can remember situations where I wanted to cry out: ‘I can’t stand it any more. I don’t want to hear any more.’ Being in pain, taking in impressions with no room to express the pain that is evoked in me, has also at times led me into exile from my own body.

How can the therapist protect him/herself and stay at home in his/her own body? The arts give both the client and the therapist another means of expressing themselves when words no longer carry their original meaning. When I was working with the Bosnian refugees, I had to find a way to be present over a longer period of time while the war was still going on and everything was unpredictable. I knew that there was a limit to the amount of horror stories I could absorb, and my experience is that most people in the beginning would rather not talk about the trauma. So we ended up moving, breathing and singing together. We all received many impressions and had the play-space between us to express ourselves in dance, movement and sound. Through the

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constant movement between impression and expression, contact between the group members emerged. In artistic expression, there is room for the fantasies of the client. This often gives the therapist enough distance from his or her own pain that he or she is able to be present and grounded in the here and now – not in exile. In traditional verbal therapy, the fantasies of the trauma survivor are often transferred on to the therapist; this creates difficulties in creating a trusting and holding relationship, which is quite challenging for trauma survivors in the first place. The therapist in this kind of relationship has the more powerful position, and I often ask questions about the client’s life. For survivors, this can easily remind them of an interrogation. In expressive arts therapy, on the other hand, the context is different from an interrogation room: instead of a bare room with some lights, chairs and a table, the room is full of art equipment, colour and music. The context creates, in itself, a distance from the trauma. A culture is not static; it is dynamic. All cultures have their way of communicating pain, passed down through the generations. The challenge for the therapist working with people who come from different cultures is to be ‘eclectic’ enough to meet the client without forcing his/her own culture on the client or without losing his/her own culture. Expressive arts therapy gives the therapist the flexibility and creativity to be able to communicate with different cultures. The arts touch our humanity; their power is essential in therapeutic situations with trauma survivors, people for whom humanity itself has come into question. The following poem by Nela expresses her experience of five years of participating in the multicultural expressive arts therapy group: We came here sometimes with pain, without hope or happiness. Through sharing our feelings a light appeared. The light became hope in the distance like the stars in the sky, so near and at the same time so far away. I experienced faith, but it was out of touch. I came with my loneliness to the group and I escaped out of it for a while. The group became a door out of my loneliness – my own world. Loneliness cannot be shared.

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If loneliness could be shared, it wouldn’t be loneliness. My trauma can be shared through my expressions. My loneliness is shared with my trauma. I have to accept this truth so my complaints can rest and life continue. The danger of expressing is the fear of not being received. The ultimate question is then: ‘Do I have the right to exist?’ By creating a play room in the waiting room, the expressive arts therapist helps victims of trauma come home from exile and find again their right to exist.

References Freire, P. (1996) The Pedadogy of the Oppressed. Revised edition translated by Myra Bergman Ramos. London: Penguin. Herman, J. (1992) Trauma and Recovery. New York: Basic Books. Levine, S. (1997) Poesis: The Language of Psychology and Speech of the Soul. London: Jessica Kingsley. Moreno, J.L. (1973) The Theater of Spontaneity. New York: Beacon. Reich, W. (1972) Character Analysis. New York: Touchstone Books. Stuntman, K.R. and Bliss, E.L. (1985) ‘PTSD, hypnotizability, and imagery.’ American Journal of Psychiatry 142, 6. Van der Kolk B.A., Pelcovitz, D., Roth, S., Mandel, F.S., McFarlane, A., and Herman, J.L. (1996) ‘Dissociation, somatization, and affect dysregulation: the complexity of adaptation to trauma.’ American Journal of Psychiatry 153, 7, Festschrift Supplement. Winnicott, D.W. (1991) Playing and Reality. London: Routledge.

Further reading Janet, P. (1909) Nevroses et idees fixes, Vols 1, 2. Paris: Alcan. Knill, P., Barba, H. and Fuchs, M. (1995) Minstrels of Soul: Intermodal Expressive Therapy. Toronto: Palmerston Press. Laban, R. (1947) The Mastery of Movement. London: McDonald & Evans. Levine, S. (1994) ‘The second coming: chaos and order in psychotherapy and the arts.’ C.R.E.A.T.E. 3 Levine, S. (1996) ‘The expressive body: a fragmented totality.’ The Arts in Psychotherapy 23, 24. Lowen, A. (1988) Bioenergetics. London: Penguin Books. Marks, L. (1978) The Unity of the Senses: Interrelations among the Modalities. New York: Academic Press.

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McNiff, S. (1981) The Arts and Psychotherapy. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas. McNiff, S. (1985) Educating the Creative Arts Therapist: A Profile of the Profession. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas. McNiff, S. (1988) Fundamentals of Art Therapy. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas. McNiff, S. (1992) Art As Medicine. Boston: Shambhala. Meyer, M.A. (1992) ‘Creating a character in a locked facility.’ In M. Cox (ed) Shakespeare comes to Broadmoor. London and Philadelphia: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Meyer, M.A. (1994) ‘The symbolic expression of pain.’ In Pain and Survival. Human Rights Violations and Mental Health. Oslo: Scandinavian University Press. Meyer, M.A. (1995a) ‘Stress prevention in refugee reception centres.’ London: Energy and Character, The Journal of Biosynthesis. Meyer, M.A. (1995b) Stressforebyggende tiltak I flyktningemottak. Oslo: Sykepleier. Meyer, M.A. (1996a) ‘Nar selvet blir ødelagt og nedbrutt av tortur.’ In medicinsk Arbog. København: Munksgaard. Meyer, M.A. (1996b) Videofilm: ‘In exile from the body.’ (21 mins) Oslo: NIKUT. Scarry, E. (1985) The Body in Pain. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Van der Kolk B.A. (1989) ‘Compulsion to repeat the trauma.’ Psychiatric Clinics of North America 12, 2. Van der Kolk B.A. and van der Hart, O. (1991) ‘The intrusive past: the flexibility of memory and the engraving of trauma.’ American Imago 48, 425–454.

CHAPTER 14

On the Play Ground Child Psychotherapy and Expressive Arts Therapy Ellen G. Levine David, age nine, enters the play room after a long goodbye to his mother in the waiting room. He gives the therapist a pillow to hold in order to show him his ‘moves’. Head-butting, punching, posing, flexing muscles and a great exaggerated display follow. The therapist is admiring David, holding the pillow and absorbing the blows. Then David begins to order the therapist around the room: he’s the boss now, a master drill sergeant, barking his orders. The therapist obeys and plays the game to the hilt: huffing and puffing to carry out David’s commands. In order not to be exhausted physically, the therapist maintains an as-if relationship to David’s orders. He plays with them, exaggerating his responses, sometimes never leaving his chair. In this way, the play can continue, and 1 the therapist can remain present and engaged with the child. David is living in the moment, experiencing the to-and-fro of a relationship with someone who is willing to enter this specific play-space with him. Play usually involves feeling. The affect or feeling which accompanies David’s play is experienced as exciting and heated. David is totally immersed. The therapist who is working with this play material understands that the play is not a literal re-creation of David’s experience in the outside world. Rather, the play emerges from the imaginal world of the child, a world which he needs to show to the therapist and to have recognized by him. The therapist is not afraid of David or of what he has to 1

The vignettes in this chapter are drawn from my own experience and that of students whom I have supervised over a 22 year period working clinically with children, both in private practice and at the C.M. Hincks Centre for Children’s Mental Health in Toronto.

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offer in play. He accepts what David offers to him. In a back and forth movement, the therapist gives David an imaginative response which can then be responded to in turn. Matthew, age ten, first came into the play room convinced that the room was ‘bugged’ and that the therapist would talk to her ‘bosses’ about him. Matthew wanted to draw but threw his work into the garbage each time he produced anything. This day, after several months of tossing out his images, Matthew sits and watches while the therapist paints. The therapist is enjoying the color, and the feeling of the paint going on to the paper, sharing these feelings aloud. The therapist invites Matthew to join her. At first, Matthew copies the therapist’s picture, but then begins to make his own picture, sharing the same paints with the therapist. After several weeks of these painting sessions, he announces: ‘Look at me, I’m an artist!’ As Matthew experiences the pleasure of his own art-making alongside the therapist, the therapist, in turn, mirrors and encourages Matthew’s vision of himself as an artist. Matthew is experiencing the concreteness of putting paint on paper, and he is recognizing what can emerge. After a period of accepting Matthew’s frustration at his inability to make an artistic image, the therapist now encourages Matthew to create something. She takes a risk and the time is right. In the above vignettes, each therapist is working with different material – one with play and objects of play, and the other with art – and yet the framework is the same. Playing and art-making derive from the same impulse, are nurtured in the same atmosphere and take place on the same ground. In this chapter, the convergence of these two activities will be explored in terms of how they find their home in the therapeutic encounter. The foundation of their common thrust lies in the interconnection between transitional experiences developed in play therapy contexts and the necessary dwelling in the in-between in artistic practice. Their fundamental interconnection can be shown along several lines in terms of the following concepts: imagination, transitional space and transitional phenomena, the frame, experimentation, circularity and metaphor. There is, of course, a sense in which all of these concepts are linked but, for purposes of analysis, they will be dealt with separately here. My purpose is to show that play therapy

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and expressive arts therapy have common roots: play and art are fundamentally interconnected.

Imagination Imagination is the central concept which informs the understanding of the use of the arts and of play in therapy. Without imagination, human beings are lost in a world of appearances, of surfaces, condemned to reality. It is the imaginative capacity that takes us beyond and behind everyday life. This capacity is essential to our experience of the world. In our therapeutic work with play and the arts, we put our faith in the imagination and its powers. Both playing and making art require imagination. How do we understand imagination in this context? Imagination, as distinct from fantasy, refers to that capacity of mind which creates images, manifests them and shapes reality according to them. Images are the primary material of the imagination and its external manifestation as the building blocks of play and of art-making. In a productive or an active way, imagination serves to connect us to the world and to others. Imagination gives us access to that which is hidden from us. It shapes our relationship to the world, a world which we are constantly constructing and co-constructing with others. This productive view of the imagination contrasts sharply with the view that imagination has primarily a reproductive function. Psychoanalysis has traditionally seen the imagination from this point of view, regarding the play of the child as an internal symbolic universe which needs to be interpreted to be understood. The task of the therapist, then, would be to help the child master difficulties and traumatic experiences by providing him or her with interpretations of the play material which speak to the underlying anxiety, begin to address and diminish the defenses, and ultimately release the child from the rigidity that the trauma has produced in the psyche. Psychoanalysis has derived a concept of the imagination, then, from pathology. In the grip of pathology, the psyche will tend to repeat and re-enact the traumatic material in an obsessive and rigid manner; the more traumatized the individual, the more repetitive and compulsive the play will be. While this is, of course, the case, I am arguing here that this is not the only way in which we can look at the role of imagination in the psyche. If we turn to look at the imagination from the point of view of the artist, we see that it can have an entirely different function, one of free exploration rather than repetition. In fact, while it is true that pathological play is not free and

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exploratory, there is a sense in which any re-enactment is not simply a literal re-creation of the traumatic scene. Whenever the child plays, there is some degree of transformation. Children take much of their play material from the experiences of their lives. Just as the dream uses what is termed ‘day residues’, play incorporates language, scenarios, objects, and feelings from the everyday world of the child and the significant relationships in the context of that child. Yet if one observes the play of children, there is always a twist that occurs around the literal reality of their lives. The play is always shaped in a different direction. This can be a matter of degree: if the pathology is dominating, then the material is repetitive, more literal and less transformative. Yet I would argue that it is still very difficult to read off from play the actual life experiences of the child. The child does not show directly what has happened to them, and this is because they are always attempting to shape it differently, to master experiences and to gain control over them. Thus we cannot explain the function of imagination wholly in reproductive terms even in the case of pathology. In expressive arts therapy, we see the imagination as derived not from a pathological foundation but from a notion of art-making which tends towards the active transformation of experience. We see imagination as both bound and free: sometimes stuck and looping back upon itself, sometimes flowing and experimental. The task of therapy with children which uses play is to mobilize the imagination, to free it up and to loosen the play as much as possible. At times, we might need to teach a child to play if the ability to play has become constricted. Play and imagination go hand in hand in expressive arts therapy. From psychoanalysis we can take the notion of the constriction of play and imagination under the influence of trauma. Our work is to augment this reproductive notion of imagination with a more productive notion, one which takes account of the activity of shaping that goes on in both play and art-making. We see the imagination as critically involved in the process of development as the child moves into adulthood. If the child is bound by trauma and unable to use imagination productively, one of the consequences is an inability to continue along the developmental line; development depends in part upon the imaginative transformation of experience. The capacity to shape our experience imaginatively, in the way that the artist does, is an essential part of our being in the world.

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Transitional space and transitional phenomena Imaginative work in therapy, work which plays with the life material of the child, requires an engagement in the relationship between the child and the therapist. If we return to the vignettes cited above, we see that the therapist survives David’s attacks because of the play-space that has been created between them. The therapist is David’s play-mate. More importantly, he is also holding David in a bounded frame, a frame that marks off this space from the space outside the room. The therapist waits until he and David are inside the room to begin the play. They do not play in the waiting area or in the hallways. The frame around the play room heightens and enriches the potential for possibility. What occurs inside the frame, when therapy is working, has been termed the ‘transitional experience’ (Winnicott 1971). It is ‘transitional’ because it is created between the therapist and the patient, as a co-creation by the two of them. Matthew, on the other hand, has been playing with the arts and using the art material in a toy-like manner. He has also been participating with the therapist in a bounded relationship, one in which the therapist makes an intervention and introduces her images as a way of beginning a to-and-fro exchange between them. Her images take off from Matthew’s, and their collaborative activity has the effect of producing Matthew’s art work. This work of art is itself a transitional object. It is ‘transitional’ because its creation depends upon the sharing of images between Matthew and the therapist. Matthew paints a picture which was stimulated by the imagination of the therapist. The therapist, in return, provides a response to the image which helps to further its emergence. Thus they create an object together which is both of and by Matthew and of and by the therapist. The back-and-forth, to-and-fro quality of the relationship is generated by the presence of the therapist as a witness and responsive partner in the showing/display of the work of the child. In expressive arts therapy, we emphasize the importance of the therapist as seeing and responding to the showings of the child. Art-making gives rise to a work that becomes manifest in the world. As expressive arts therapists, we give what is termed an ‘aesthetic response’ (Knill, Barba and Fuchs 1995) to the work, and thereby create a shared world between us. Our aesthetic response is a responsibility to the child; it indicates our degree of attunement and the quality of the relationship. This witnessing and responding and the back and forth of the play together is what builds up the transitional space between us. The creation of a bounded space in which therapy takes place is also a key concept

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in both expressive arts therapy and in play therapy. The bounded quality of the space is surpassed by the kind of activity that can take place there. This activity is transitional because it is neither just of or from me or just of or from the other. It is an intermingling of both of us, a back-and-forth interchange which builds a world between us. This co-created world is the third area, the transitional space in between us. As Ogden (1989) notes, this space might also be conceptualized as a dialectical relationship in which the patient and the therapist each create the other. Ogden uses a dynamic rather than a spatial metaphor to understand the area of co-created in-betweenness in therapy. He uses the conceptual analogy of a dialectical process to understand the formation of transitional experience. He understands it as a process in which two opposing forces create, preserve and negate the meaning of each other as they stand in dynamic relation to each other in the form of a co-created potential aliveness. There is no patient without a therapist, and there is no therapist without a patient. Between patient and therapist, there is constant movement, a continual ‘resonance of meanings’ (Ogden 1989, p.259). Ogden posits a notion of aliveness in a dialectical relationship in opposition to the deadness of a relationship in which imagination has collapsed into reality. He gives the example of a patient who cannot play with the as-if situation of therapy and literally believes that the therapist is her mother (the delusional transference of a borderline or schizophrenic patient, for example). In play therapy, there is a dialectic between fantasy and reality as well, where ordinary objects are transformed by play into imaginal objects, ready to be used by the one who is playing. This transformation can only take place in a particular state of mind which is established by the dialectic of patient and therapist. Here is where we can play, in the as-if realm where objects can take on many different characteristics. We are not playing in the real or literal world, where objects are defined by their function. In the literal world, we regard a table as a repository for things, a resting place. In the imaginal mind of the play, a table can have an unlimited number of uses and appearances – a bed, a boat, a beach, a parking lot, and so on. The notion of transitional space arises out of the psychoanalytic literature and was developed particularly in the work of D.W. Winnicott, British psychoanalyst and pediatrician. For Winnicott, all therapy has to do with two people playing together; ‘… playing is itself a therapy’ (Winnicott 1971, p.58). But playing does not just happen. It emerges as a developmental line, appearing first in infancy as part of the initial bonding dance between

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mother and infant. When the newborn emerges from its sole and exclusive preoccupation with its own bodily needs, it starts to respond to the world. This response usually begins with a smile. With the smile, the infant begins to show a response to others outside of itself. By this response, the mother can also feel recognized and validated. So the dance of back and forth can begin. The bond is being co-constructed as it comes into existence. Yet, as the infant grows and is able to master more tasks, more and more separateness is allowed to enter the relationship. The reliability of the mother and the establishment of a sense of trust are crucial for the infant to begin to separate. But this separateness involves loss at the same time: loss of the state of merger and oneness with the mother and loss of the feeling of being totally held. In order to re-create the lost aspects of the relationship which have been discarded in the process of developing and becoming more independent, the infant creates a symbol of the relationship embodied in the transitional object. Typically, this object is real: the thumb, a scrap of blanket, a teddy bear. Yet, paradoxically, the real object is now a loaded symbolic equivalent of the experienced relationship. The transitional object retains its aliveness and symbolic character because it gets its charge by continually participating in a flow between the absence and the renewed presence of the mother. The transitional object can temporarily fill up the absences. It is, then, an absent-presence and, as such, can be a field or container for all sorts of imaginative activity. Winnicott expands the idea of the transitional object to that of a space or area of experience in which many such objects can be contained. Such a notion of a locus of imaginative activity is useful in understanding the therapeutic action of play and the arts. The therapeutic space is quite peculiar, and yet it is akin to other experiences in which there is imaginal work going on. Sometimes these experiences occur alone when no one is watching, for example, drawing, reading, or solitary fantasy play. The therapy space maximizes the presence of an other who also takes part in the action. The relationship is the ground upon which the transitional space can flower. It is built out of experiences of trust and reliability, first with the mother and then with the therapist as an active participant who fosters these qualities. When the patient has had the experience of a break in trust or a chronic violation of the trust that is so necessary to the formation of the self, there is a consequent inability to form the ground upon which imaginal/transitional experiences can be built. It takes a great deal of time to establish a trusting relationship with such people, let alone a transitional area of experience.

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The capacity to play and to form relationships seems connected from this perspective. If the mother is continually inconsistent and/or unreliable, then the infant cannot feel held. As a consequence, confidence-building is interrupted, and the infant cannot experience any rudimentary sense of control or omnipotence which is so necessary to self-formation at its earliest stages. What can result is an inability to play, a lack of access to a ‘basic form of living’ (Winnicott 1971, p.50). This ‘place where we live’, as Winnicott refers to it, is the location of the therapeutic encounter as well as the location of cultural experience in general. It is also the place where play and art-making occur. In play, as we have seen, there is a back-and-forth, to-and-fro movement of shared images. In art-making, the power of the work stands in between the maker and the world. The making of art requires a mediated relationship in which the work takes on a life of its own and asks for something from the maker. Introducing play and art-making into therapy work shifts the action from the direct encounter between patient and therapist, where the focus is on transference and counter-transference as the primary matrix, to a focus on the work of art or onto the play creations. With play and with art, patient and therapist enter a domain which they create between them. It is separate from them and yet the same as them. It is both me and not-me, you and not-you. It is us: our world, our story, our making. We develop our own language, our own stories, our metaphors. The works of art that emerge between us take on a life of their own; in these works we can recognize the flavor and characteristics of our relationship. We can remember the works that we created in the therapy encounter as markers and points of emphasis in the process of treatment: one young woman of 19 remembers ‘that painting of the girl with the colors swirling around in her stomach, the angry girl’. She painted this work when she was ten years old and wants to see it again to remind herself of the power of the image and to reconnect to it. Even years later, when she looks at it again, she is moved by it. Through viewing the work, she can connect her current feeling with her state of mind at that time and, in so doing, gain some insight.

The frame The creation of an as-if world is central to both playing and art-making. It is also what guarantees the safety of the therapeutic encounter. This safety depends greatly on the maximization of the boundaries around the encounter. When the therapist emphasizes the special nature of the space in

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which the work takes place, he or she is firming up the frame. If the frame is secure, it can hold anything. We can go anywhere, do anything, providing we stay within the frame. The frame holds imaginal activity. Firming up the frame requires speaking about how special the space is, how the time is circumscribed, and how we cannot hurt each other. We can do anything as long as we pretend to do it. Establishing the pretense is the creation of the as-if world; this makes it possible for playing, as therapy, to take place. What is inside the frame is the transitional space. It is a potential space, filled by the imaginal work between the patient and the therapist. The job of the therapist is to enrich this area as much as possible. This might be done by a variety of means. The therapist might initially set the stage by emphasizing the difference between everyday reality, where the child would be accountable for her actions, and this play space, where there is no censorship or direction. The therapist might say that we can play with anything, make and do whatever we want to do. There might be a need to go a bit further in modeling what this play might actually look like. As with Matthew, it might involve inviting the child into something that the therapist has initiated in order to help begin enriching the potential space. As with David, it might mean playing with the child in the sense of demonstrating to him that the activity of play is valued and welcomed when it arrives. In play therapy, this would be a process of amplification – making the play bigger through a tone or quality of voice and bodily gesture. However, one needs to take care not to impose one’s own needs and images on the child at this point. Following the lead of the child is central to this work. Transitional space can only arise when the child can feel heard, seen and understood. This might mean holding back for some time and allowing the child to come forward until there is an opening for engagement. Many children who come for therapy do not feel a sense of agency or control in their lives, and they need to be given the freedom to explore in a wide-ranging way. This search takes place in the presence of someone who holds the frame for them. The holding does not impose upon them but guides them into imaginal activity. James was five when he entered therapy. His mother, Ms M, said that he had been sexually abused, allegedly by his father, from early infancy until the age of three. James had not seen his father since these allegations had been made public. Currently, Ms M was having difficulty with James at home: he was angry, oppositional and threatening to throw himself out of a window. After some time of seeing James alone, the therapist received a

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phone call from Ms M asking her advice about a recent incident. James had a rope that was given to him by his father, and he was using the rope to tie up his dog and himself. Ms M was afraid that James would hurt the dog or himself. The therapist suggested that Ms M and James come in together and bring the rope. In the beginning of the session, the therapist raised the issue of the rope quite directly. She spoke to James in front of Ms M, sketching out her hypothesis and a preliminary interpretation about the rope – mainly her sense that this rope was very important and powerful, that it might remind him of his father, and that he might be using the rope to stay close to his father. However, she went on, James was using the rope to hurt the dog and himself. He knew this was not good but part of him did not know how to stop. James sat on his mother’s lap, holding the rope. He cried as the therapist spoke to him. After the therapist spoke and James cried, he brightened and said that he had an idea. He hopped off his mother’s lap and asked for some paper and markers. He began to draw furiously. He said that he was making a special machine to take the power of the rope away. James took charge of the session at this point, assigning roles to the therapist and to his mother. When the drawing of the machine was finished, he instructed his mother and the therapist to sit on the floor and to hold the drawing up off the ground slightly by holding opposite ends of it. James placed the rope under the drawing. He then drew the ‘control panel’ for the machine. Ms M and the therapist were directed to make machine noises as James pushed the control buttons. Depending upon the button – high, medium, or low – the noises had to follow. They were also supposed to shake the drawing as if the machine were vibrating. This went on for some time, over and over, until James was finished. At the end, James removed the rope from under the machine. He announced that the rope had ‘lost its power’. James and his mother left the session with the rope. They agreed that they would put it somewhere safe where it could not hurt anyone any more. Several weeks later, when the therapist asked about the rope, neither Ms M nor James could remember where they had put it. James was also beginning to be easier to handle at home. The therapeutic action of this vignette has many layers. For our purposes, it serves as a good example of the power of framing in order to intensify imaginal work, work in the transitional area. The therapist creates a frame by

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inviting the rope into the space and by naming the rope as a central symbolic object. She then relies upon the child’s creative powers to come up with a way of defusing the power of the symbol. This also has the effect of putting the power in the child’s hands, trusting that he has the resources to come up with an imaginative way through the impasse. The therapist also takes a risk in setting down the frame: she puts out an interpretation in the form of an understanding of the meaning of the symbol. This interpretation is preliminary, a hypothesis, but it becomes material upon which the child can work. Then, together, a world can be created in which the child feels safe. This is, of course, an as-if reality, but one in which powerful psychic work can occur. The frame would not work in this way unless the child could also begin to resonate with it. The therapist, of course, need not always introduce an interpretation. In James’s case, this intervention was chosen by the therapist based on an intuition and upon her understanding of James and his mother over time. James was highly imaginative, but he was also quite confused. Ms M was usually afraid to speak openly to James about experiences from the past and, especially, about his father. This had to do with Ms M’s fear of James’s father and her sense of being ‘hunted’ by him. James and Ms M were literally hiding out from James’s father. By bringing in the notion of the father, the therapist sought to de-mystify him and to create a more open climate where James could feel more free to act. The act that he chose, in this case, was play.2

Experimentation Playing and art-making in the therapeutic encounter involve a high degree of experimentation in which there is no truth beyond what seems to resonate and keep the images flowing back and forth. Experimentation requires an exploratory spirit which remains open and flexible to possibilities. For children, play is a way of trying out different outcomes. It is a major way in which they learn about themselves, others and the outside world. In addition, play is the work that children do to come to some mastery; it is a way of 2

At the time that I worked with this child, I was primarily using a psychoanalytic framework in which interpretation has a central place. Perhaps today, from a more artistic point of view, I might have begun by inviting the child to play with the rope and then wait to find its meaning later. The whole question of the relationship between art, play and interpretation in expressive arts therapy needs to be explored in greater depth.

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turning passivity to activity. This is precisely what James did when he invented the machine to disempower the rope; he was mastering an experience in which he felt helpless and controlled. He tried out an idea which began to work, and he enlisted his mother and the therapist as play-mates in this task. The experiment grew and built upon itself until it was completed. Art-making, too, involves exploration and discovery. Creating requires destroying and making again. Sketching, trying out all the different possibilities, is central to the way in which many artists work. Musicians do many ‘takes’ before they arrive at a piece. Sculptors will often look at the stone to find the possibilities that are suggested within the material and then follow them. Dancers may begin a piece with an idea or some music and then find the movements which fit, listening to the music and beginning to move until the movements cluster into a dance. Many movements might be thrown out or reformulated along the way. In the establishment of a transitional space, playing with possibilities is an essential element: a willingness to go where one has never gone before or, conversely, to go where one always goes over and over until something new arrives. Expressive arts therapy is distinguished from techniques such as behavior modification which prescribe in advance the course of the treatment and do not rely on exploration or wandering around to achieve a therapeutic result. Ms M knew that she wanted James to change his behavior, but the therapy with play and the arts did not go precisely for that. There was a willingness to see what would happen in the as-if. The hope was that James would ultimately begin to feel less of a need to hurt others and himself, but this was only loosely held as a hope. If the therapist had been attached to a particular outcome, namely that James stop tying up the dog – change his behavior – the chances are that James would have come up with another way to discharge his feelings. Creativity would have found its way but in a negative sense – in opposition to the agenda of the therapist and, of course, of the mother. If behavior modification had been employed as a therapeutic strategy with James, the therapist would have worked with the mother to design a program of rewards and punishments for him. Such a program would not make use of James’s innate inner resources. Partially this would be because it would not enlist James in the process but also because it could not rely too much on chance and possibility. The goal is embedded in the whole process from the beginning. Unlike behavior modification, which is essentially

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goal-directed, working with play and the arts in therapy is a matter of putting out probes and following the lead of the outcomes of these probes.

Circularity Any discussion of exploration and experimentation in relation to play and the arts must take account of the notion of circularity. Play is, by definition, circular activity. It gains its meaning by virtue of being done as an activity in and for itself. It is distinguished, then, from ‘game’, which implies a sense of a goal or an end result. Games have rules and a firm structure which are agreed upon by participants. The etymological roots of the word ‘play’ are connected to the roots of the word ‘dance’ or ‘the stepping forward and backward and to the sides’ (Knill et al. 1995, p.24). Playing can have the effect of going around and around in endless repetition. Playing derives its satisfaction and its heightened emotional charge from this repetitive, circular movement. Repetition is central in the process of ‘working through’ in play therapy. Children will often play the same sequences over and over, session after session. This repetition has an ebb and flow character, a back-and-forth movement that loops back over itself, either in terms of the concrete images (a truck gets buried in the sand and then another truck rescues it) or theme (good guys versus bad guys). The repetition is necessary in order to probe and explore more deeply and in order to repeat until something shifts. Distinguishing between empty, stereotypic repetition and repetition in the service of working through is important for the therapist. Empty repetition seems devoid of life; rather than being circular, it appears stuck. If we look back at the initial discussion of imagination, empty repetition would signal the appearance of the reproductive imagination which would, in turn, give us an indication of the presence of pathology. Here we can see that the psyche cannot generate any options for itself. All possibilities have collapsed. In terms of intervening, one might try to interrupt an empty cycle by introducing a new character or a new option within the metaphor of the play. If the repetition is seen to be in the service of the child, the therapist might work on containing her own feelings of boredom by understanding how important the play is for the child and by beginning to see the small and subtle shifts that are taking place. Because of its circularity, play can sometimes be frightening in a way that games are not. The game, by staying within its structure, keeps feelings on the perimeter. The child can be upset or elated by the outcome of the game in terms of winning or losing, but a direct

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connection to emotional life is not necessarily activated by the process of playing the game. At least whatever feelings are emerging must be kept under control so as not to spoil the game. In play, feelings are actively engaged to fire the play as it goes along.

Metaphor Peter, age six, came for therapy because of aggressive behavior in school and at home. He attended kindergarten for half of the day and grade one for the other half. In kindergarten, he was able to function, whereas in grade one he seemed distressed and agitated most of the time. At lunch time, Peter needed his mother to come to school and feed him or he would refuse to eat. At home, he often attacked his younger sisters. It was difficult to discipline Peter; his behavior was leading his parents to define Peter as ‘bad’. Both parents worked long and irregular hours, and the children were often left in the care of babysitters. Peter had been tested several times; there was a suspicion that he might be developmentally delayed. Peter began therapy and, for several weeks, played with his back to the therapist. She could barely hear Peter while he was playing. Although she felt quite shut out, she stayed in this position. After some time, Peter began to include the therapist in his play. This play shaped itself around a particular metaphor: Peter took a large pillow and made himself a ‘home’ on the floor. He would turn out the lights and go to sleep lying on the pillow. After a few minutes, he would wake up and begin his day. He called the therapist ‘mommy’, and together they would have breakfast. Peter would make breakfast for ‘mommy’; then they would spend the time happily eating and chatting about the ‘food’. Peter continued to circle back to this play sequence several times in subsequent sessions. This metaphor became his signature and his touchstone, even when he was immersed in other activities in a session. The ‘home game’ was somehow necessary for Peter to play out repeatedly with the therapist. On her part, the therapist reported a growing identification with, and empathy for Peter as he played out this particular metaphor. She was not afraid to be ‘mommy’ in the play and to have strong loving feelings for Peter. She did not act out these feelings in a literal way but took these feelings and re-inserted them into the play in order to make the metaphor even richer.

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The circularity of the to-and-fro movement of play within the therapeutic context is also a container for the work that is going on between patient and therapist. Their co-creation takes the outward form of metaphorical constructs: play sequences in which stories are embedded. The process involves circling back and forth among the parts of the child’s inner life, as they are put into metaphorical form, responded to by the therapist within the metaphor, and then taken back again and transformed by the child in a more creative way. Because the therapist can hold powerful material, such as anger and aggression or love and sexuality, by empathizing with this material and playing with it but not retaliating, she can give these feelings back to the child in order for the child to accept them. Metaphor in play therapy allows a distancing to occur. If we work with a doll, a character or a story emerging from an encounter between various toys, we are recognizing that the feelings associated with this play can be separated from the child and encountered indirectly. This act of distancing is sheltered in the construction of the metaphor. It can protect fragile and vulnerable parts of the self and provide a way of working with them that is less intense and threatening than confronting them directly. Generally, children who come for play therapy have split-off, unacceptable aspects of themselves and see themselves as ‘bad’. The therapist is not afraid to look at and play with these split-off, ‘bad’ parts of the child. Constructing metaphors and playing with them involves the willingness to go around and around, back and forth, over and over again, sometimes with distressing and upsetting content. This movement results in the building up of the child’s resources and draws upon his fundamental creativity. Over time, the building up of characteristic stories ultimately allows the child to experience himself as seen and recognized by the therapist. Metaphor is the major way in which this work is carried forward. ‘When the child is entranced by the play metaphor, experientially anything is possible’ (Caspary 1993, p.211). Staying within the metaphor is necessary for the carrying out of this work. To step outside of the material crystallized and sheltered in a metaphor can lead to an empathic break with the child. In this way, the holding container of the transitional space can be broken. If Peter’s therapist had been uncomfortable with being assigned the role of ‘mommy’ in the play, confusing the literal with the metaphorical reality, she might have refused to play the role. This would have broken the magic of the metaphor. She would have lost a good opportunity to play (work) with Peter on something very important, namely his need for security and a home base

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that he could count on. Playing and living in the metaphor, most importantly, provides shelter and safety in order for the child to take some risks. These risks involve going into dangerous material and working it by playing with it. The example of James and the rope from his father is certainly another way in which metaphor shows itself as central to the work of therapy. It was in and through the acceptance of the significance of the rope as a charged repository of feeling and longing that the play with James could be a ‘working through’. Certainly in the arts, especially poetry, metaphor is central. Poetry speaks in metaphor. ‘The poet suspends every direct correspondence and thereby awakens intuition’ (Gadamer 1986, p.170). Metaphor in poetry both shelters and reveals the truth by distancing and suspending literal reality.

Conclusion As practitioners of expressive arts therapy, our work uses play and art-making to broaden and deepen imaginative activity. The imagination is implicitly therapeutic. Yet in therapy we are creating a special context for playing and art-making. We are carrying out these activities in an intentional way within a relationship that makes use of transitional experiences. When we heighten the efficacy of the transitional space by firming up the frame within the relationship, we allow imagination to flower. The aesthetic response of the therapist accepts the impulses and feelings of the child and encourages the possibility of their transformation. Our intention has to do with helping something new to arrive and freeing the imagination. When imagination can be framed and enhanced in play in this way, then a shift may occur in the child’s relationship to reality. Ultimately, the connection between child psychotherapy and expressive arts therapy rests on the same foundation: the capacity of the imagination to shape experience. In psychotherapeutic work with children, we must pay attention to the fundamental interconnection between play and art-making, to the essential role of metaphor and imagination in the creation of a play-space of safety and risk for the child. It is in this play-space that the child, like the artist, can emerge and re-create him or herself in and through playing with images. Ultimately, then, psychotherapy with children takes place on the play ground of the imagination.

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References Caspary, A. (1993) ‘Aspects of the therapeutic action in child analytic treatment.’ Psychoanalytic Psychology 10, 2, 207–220. Gadamer, H-G. (1986) The Relevance of the Beautiful and Other Essays. Edited by R. Bernasconi. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Knill, P., Barba, H.N. and Fuchs, M.N. (1995) Minstrels of Soul: Intermodal Expressive Therapy. Toronto: Palmerston Press. Ogden, T.H. (1989) ‘Playing, dreaming, and interpreting experience: comments on potential space.’ In M.G. Fromm and B.L. Smith (eds) The Facilitating Environment: Clinical Applications of Winnicott’s Theory. New Haven: International Universities Press. Winnicott, D.W. (1971) Playing and Reality. London: Routledge.

Further reading Jabes, E. (1972) The Book of Questions. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press. Levine, E. (1992) ‘Imagination and understanding in expressive therapy: guiding formulations and embedded interpretations.’ C.R.E.A.T.E: Journal of the Creative and Expressive Arts Therapy Exchange 2, 23–26.

The Contributors Annette Brederode is an artist, expressive arts therapist and Gestalt therapist. She has worked with adults in mental hospitals, therapeutic communities and out-patient clinics. She is the Director of the Center for Expressive and Creative Arts Therapy in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, founded by her in 1985, and is in private practice in that city. She also directs a training program in expressive arts therapy in Helsinki, Finland. In 1986, Annette co-founded the International Network of Expressive Arts Therapy Training Centers. Margo Fuchs, PhD, is the Program Director of the Expressive Arts Therapy Program at the European Graduate School, Switzerland. She is a poet, supervisor and psychotherapist who teaches and publishes in Europe and the United States. She is the author of Season-ing Life (Palmerston Press) and co-author of Minstrels of Soul (Palmerston Press). Daria Halprin, MA, trained as a dancer and performance artist and had a film career before becoming a psychotherapist. She is co-founding Director of Tamalpa Institute in California and author of Coming Alive: The Creative Expression Method (Tamalpa Institute). She is an international teacher and trainer and an adjunct faculty member of the European Graduate School, Switzerland. Majken Jacoby, MA, initially trained as an art teacher and painter, has worked as a producer and director of television and radio productions at the Danish Public Service TV and Radio Station. She has exhibited as a visual artist, illustrated books and created theater sets and puppets. She is the founder of ISIS-Denmark, a training program in expressive arts therapy, and an adjunct faculty member of the European Graduate School, Switzerland. Paolo J. Knill, PhD, is Professor Emeritus at Lesley College Graduate School in Cambridge, MA, and Provost and Dean of the European Graduate School, Switzerland. He is a performance artist, teacher, supervisor and psychotherapist. He initiated the International Network of Expressive Arts Therapy Training Centers and is the co-author of Minstrels of Soul (Palmerston Press), and author of Ausdruckstherapie and Medien in Therapie und Erziehung, both published by Eres Edition Lilienthal. Ellen G. Levine, MSW, PhD, is a child psychotherapist and an expressive arts therapist. She is a visual artist and has worked extensively with children and adults, both privately and in clinical settings. She is Co-Director of ISIS-Canada in Toronto and the author of Tending the Fire: Studies in Art, Therapy and Creativity (Palmerston Press). She is a core faculty member and the North American Liaison Director of the European Graduate School, Switzerland. Stephen K. Levine, PhD, DSSc, is Associate Professor of Social Science and Social and Political Thought at York University, Toronto. An actor, poet and clown, he is Co-director of ISIS-Canada in Toronto and the author of Poiesis: The Language of

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Psychology and the Speech of the Soul (Jessica Kingsley Publishers). He is Associate Dean and Director of the Doctoral Program in Expressive Arts Therapy at the European Graduate School, Switzerland. Elizabeth Gordon McKim is a poet and teacher of poetry to people of all ages. She is an adjunct member of the Graduate Faculty of Lesley College in Cambridge, MA, both in the departments of Expressive Arts Therapy and Creative Arts in Learning. She has published four collections of her poetry, a teaching manual co-authored with poet and teacher, Judith Steinbergh, and an audio tape of music and poetry entitled To Stay Alive. Shaun McNiff, PhD, is the Provost of Endicott College in Beverly, MA. He was the founder of the Expressive Therapy program at Lesley College, Cambridge, MA, and is the author of many books in the field of expressive arts therapy including The Arts in Psychotherapy (Charles C. Thomas), Art as Medicine (Shambhala), Depth Psychology of Art (Charles C. Thomas), Art-Based Research (Jessica Kingsley Publishers) and others. Melinda Ashley Meyer, MA, is a psychodramatist and a bioenergetic therapist. She is the founder and co-leader of the Norwegian Institute for Expressive Arts Therapy. She is a founding member and council member of the Federation of European Psychodrama Training Organizations. Yaacov Naor, MA, is a psychodramatist and an expressive arts therapist. He has worked as a therapist with psychiatric patients, children and adults in addition to his artistic work as a theater actor and director. He is the founder and director of the ‘Inner Theater’ psychodrama training center and of ISIS-Israel, a training program in expressive arts therapy. Paul Newham is a therapist, teacher and author based in London, UK, where he is the Director of The London Voice Centre. He leads the professional training in voice movement therapy and is founding director of the International Association for Voice Movement Therapy. He is author of Therapeutic Voicework (Jessica Kingsley Publishers) and teaches courses in the therapeutic use of voice in Europe and the United States. Natalie Rogers, PhD, is an author, artist and psychotherapist. She is the founder of the Person-Centered Expressive Therapy Institute in Santa Rosa, CA. She lectures and facilitates workshops in Europe, Russia, Japan and Latin America, as well as in the United States. She is the author of Emerging Woman: A Decade of Midlife Transitions (Personal Press) and Creative Connection: Expressive Arts as Healing (Science and Behavior Books). Margareta Wärja, MA, is a music psychotherapist and a Fellow of Guided Imagery and Music. She is currently in private practice in Stockholm, Sweden, and is the Training Director of the Swedish Expressive Arts Therapy Training Institute.

Subject Index amacoustic expressions 93–4 active imagination 90 aesthetic probing 48 aesthetic response 261 aesthetic responsibility 11, 34, 48 aesthetic theory 48–9 aesthetics of music 176, 182 necessity of form 53–66 as theoretical foundation 19–20 affect attunement 185 alienation, in poetry 199 American Indians, voice and song 98 Andy, poetic therapy 208 anger 126, 226 appearance 42 arena of authentic music 178 art bodily being 32–3 as disciplined play 42–3 Plato on 22 poiesis 28–32 in voicework 103–5 art making aesthetic response 261 experimentation 267–9 and play therapy 257–9 survival 246 wilful interaction with imagination 40 art media 65 Art Studio, healing experience 151–69 beginning 153–5 cleaning up 167–8 in dialogue with images 158–60 individual work 160–5 layer upon layer work 155–8 presentations 165–7 art work articulation 56–7, 62, 64, 66 distance 64 and psychological reflection 69–74 sensory nature of 63 articulation, of tuned sensing 56–7, 62, 64, 66 artist-in-residence 78–9 artistic inquiry 67–84 arts as a continuity 43–5 as human existential 39–40, 52 association, in poetry 212 astonishment, through poetry 202 audio-phonic skin 95 authentic music 173 babbling 93, 99

Baby Sister 219 beauty 19–20, 53–4, 59–60, 61, 176, 205 behavioral science methodologies 83 Being, concept of 23–7 belief, poetry and 197–8, 202–6 bodily being 32 body stories, exploring 138–9 Bonny Method of Guided Imagery and Music (GIM) 175, 189 bound expression 57, 59 bounded space 261–2 California Institute of Integral Studies 10 care 37 care-taking 66 catharsis 98–9 Center for Expressive and Creative Arts Therapy 151 change, through intentional movement 137 child psychotherapy 257–72 children of Holocaust survivors 224–7 of Nazis 227–8 Cicero 98 circularity, play therapy 269–70 client-centered approach, politics of 120 clinification syndrome 78 collective singing 108 collective unconscious 101–2 coming between, poetic therapy 206–7 community 35 Confronting the Holocaust Through Psychodrama 223–4 congruence 121–3 continuity principle 43–5 cooing 93, 99 creation, tension between annihilation and 65–6 creative connection 115–19, 137 creative inquiry 81creativity 245 crystallization theory 47–8 Da-sein 30, 33 dance 134 dance movement therapists, voicework 108 David, play therapy 257–8, 261 day-dreaming 40 deconstructionism 9 deviation, in poetry 199 dialectical relationships, play therapy 262 diet and medicine concept of 49–50

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in expressive arts therapy 50–2 differance 34–5 Dionysus 23–4 dis-belief, and poetry 203 disability, influence on voice 106 disintegration 82–3 dissociative experiences, PTSD 243 distance in art work 64 therapeutic 74 double life, concept of 75 drama therapists, voicework 108 drawing, movement-based arts therapy 140–2 dreams imagination 40 soul nourishment 50 Easter Symposium 10 eating disorders, voicework 107 ecstasy, experience of 20 effective reality 41 effectiveness, in professional practice 81–2 eidos 21, 23 embodied experience 136 emotions see feelings empathy 124–5 enlightenment 114 epic poems 20 ethical demand 57–9, 62 ethics 53–66 European Graduate School 10 European Network of Expressive Therapy Training Centers 10 eurythmy 102 Eva, psychodrama workshop 234–5 exchange, artists and art work 64 exile 246 experience, poetic 201–2 experimentation, play therapy 267–9 exposedness, sovereign life utterances 57 expressive arts chorus 138–9 expressive arts therapy child psychotherapy 257–72 defining 10–12 development of 9–10 ethics and aesthetics 53–66 poetry 206–9 psyche medicine 50–2 research 67–84 theoretical foundations 19–36 trauma survivors 245–54 work-oriented approach 43–9 see also expressive music therapy; movement-based expressive arts therapy; play therapy;

SUBJECT INDEX Holocaust survivors receptive music therapy; children of, characteristics therapeutic voicework; voice 224–7 movement therapy workshops, processes and events expressive music therapy 172–4 230–7 Expressive Therapy Program 9 Homer 20, 21 facilitative relationships 120–1 hormones, effect on voice 103–4 false self 180–1 house of the body 241–2 fantasy 244 feelings corresponding vocal sounds 98 evocation through music 187–9 expression through movement 137 healing through experiencing 117–19 muscle change 135 re-experiencing through group therapy 248–52 uncovering 126–8 felt sense 49 field of play, music 182–6 form, necessity of 53–66 Form of the Good 21 forms, theory of 21–2 foundationalism 19 frames, play therapy 42, 264–7 functional voice disorders 104 Germans, born after World War II 227–8 Gestalt experience 141 good-enough mother 177 graduate students, art–based research 68–74 Grotowski, Jerzy 101–2 group process, psychodrama 237–8 group therapy, traumatized refugees 241–54 guided imagery 117–18 handling 177 hands up exercise, psychodrama workshop 234–5 Harold, psychodrama workshop 232–4 Hart, Roy 101 Harvest Symposium 10 healing Art Studio experience 151–69 ceremonies, singing 97–8 in poetry 213–14 power of theater 228–30 saving sorceress 147–8 Hegel 23 Heidegger 27–32 hermeneutics 9 Hippocrates 98 holding function, music as 177, 190–1

idea (eidos) 21, 23 identity, and voice 91 IEATA see International Expressive Arts Therapy Association image, and voice 91–2 images dialogue with 158–60 expression through movement 137 music therapy 175 imaginal reality 41 imagination as a continuity 43–5 distinguished from fantasy 244–5 intermodal aspects of 40–1 play therapy 259–60 poetry and 195–202 impersonal evaluation 74 improvisation musical 46, 173 singing 94 individual work, Art Studio 160–5 infancy, early songs of 93–6 inner ear 102 inner polarities, transcending 125–30 inoperative community 35 insight through intentional movement 137 through metaphoric messages 115 inspiration, for poetry 214 installation art 46 intentional movement 137 intermediary space 181–2 intermodality 11–12 International Expressive Arts Therapy Association (IEATA) 10 International Network of Expressive Arts Therapy Training Centers 10 International School of Interdisciplinary Studies (ISIS) 9–10 International Theatre Research Centre 101 interpersonal theory 45 interpretation, aesthetic theory 49

277 intrapersonal theory 45–6 Invisible, The 166 ISIS see International School of Interdisciplinary Studies James, play therapy 265–7 justification research 76–84 Kant 19 knowing, artistic 82 language, acquisition of 95 Lars, field of play 183–6 layer upon layer work 155–8 leaving out, in poetry 199–200 Lesley College, Expressive Therapy Program 9 letter-writing 236–7 Lexical Syntactic Deficit Syndrome 108 literal reality 41 locked memory 244 love 58, 129, 204–5 low-skill high-sensitivity 12, 45–6 make believe, poetry 196–7 Marcia, person-centered expressive arts 117–19 Maria, expressive music therapy 173–4 martyrdom, children of Holocaust survivors 226 masks, vocal 92 mastery 61 maternal flow, of music 191 maternal voice 94–5 Matthew, play therapy 258, 261 me-ness 181 meaning, cognitive process of finding 43 medicine see diet and medicine medicine song 98 memories, evoking 155–6 memory, locked 244 mental illness, poetry as cause of 203 metaphors house of the body 241–2 movement as 135–6 play therapy 270–2 metaphysics 20–3 methodological stances, artistic inquiry 69–74 mimesis 22 mother–child dyad 176–9 mothering function, music 171–92 movement, influence on voice 102 movement-based expressive arts therapy as agent for change 137 case study 143–7

SUBJECT INDEX Path, The 198 pathology, imagination 259, 260 Person-centered expressive arts Marcia, healing process 117–19 philosophy 120–5 principles 130–1 Person-Centered Expressive Therapy Institute 113–14 personal artistic inquiry 69–74 personal aspects, poetry 211–12 personality therapists 37–8 and voice 92 Peter, play therapy 270 phenomenology 9 physical intervention, therapeutic voicework 103 Plato attack on Greek poets 20–1 critique of art 22 on poetry 203 theory of forms 21–2 truth 21 play art as disciplined 42–3 as a continuity 43–5 existential phenomena 39–40 theatrical 41 play room, for traumatized refugees 247–52 play therapy and art making 257–9 circularity 269–70 experimentation 267–9 frames 42, 264–7 imagination 259–60 nazis, children of 227–8 metaphors 270–2 Nela, traumatized refugee 250–2 transitional space 261–4 Nietzsche 23–7 playback theater 233 non-verbal expression 117 poetic openness 59–62 non-verbal singing 108 poetry non-verbal sounds 96 and belief 202–6 not me experiences 181 and imagination 195–202 now, sensory experience of 63 in the oral tradition 211–22 object-formation theory 38 as therapeutic intervention object-presenting 177 206–9 openness of speech 55 tragic dramas 20, 23–4 opera, therapeutic 108 poets, Plato’s attack on Greek Oral tradition 220–2 20–1 oral tradition, of poetry 211–22 poiesis 11, 28–32, 34 organic voice disorders 104 politics, poiesis 34 oscar, traumatized refugee 249–50 polyaesthetic theory 46–7 Other, experience of the 33–4 positivism, sensory experiences overman 25 55–6 overstructuring, in poetry 199 post-modernism, poiesis and 19–36 pain Post-traumatic Stress Disorder 243 controlling 243–4 practice, separate from research learning to cope with 234–5 68–9 Paracelsus 70

creative connection 137 evocation of feelings and images 137 exercise 139–42 integrating process 136 method 138–9 roots 134–5 saving sorceress 147–8 use of metaphors 135–6 movement-body point of view 233–4 multiculturalism 35 multidimensional approach 11 muscles emotional thoughts 135 voicework 103 music as an aesthetic field 176 evocation of feelings 187–9 field of play 182–6 holding function 190–1 image formation 175 intermediary space 181–2 mother-child dyad 176–9 Nietzsche 23 reaching pre-symbolic levels 186–7 sensory nature of 63 true and false selves 180–1 voicework 107–8 see also expressive music therapy; receptive music therapy; singing; songs musical space 182 myth of the eternal return 25, 26

278 practitioners, of voicework 98–103 present, sensory experience of being 63 preverbal infancy, sounds 95–6 psyche imagination in 259–60 metabolism of 49–52 voice and 90–3 psychoanalysis, imagination 259 psychodrama aims 229–30 method 223–4 music 172–3 workshops for Holocaust survivors 230–7 psychological liberation, through voicework 100–1 psychological reflection, art-based research 69–74 psychological states, voice 103, 105 psychology, relevance of 12 Psychosocial Centre for Refugees 248–52 psychotherapy 89–90, 107 Pythagoras 98 realities 41–2 receptive music therapy 174–5 recognition, sensory experiences 56 Renaissance composers 98 repair of the world 81 répétiteurs 96–7 repetition 269 repression 125–6 research 67–84 resonance of meanings 262 revolving feelings 55 rhythm 213 ritual group therapy, trauma survivors 248 theater 228 ritualistic facilitations 42 role-reversals 230–1, 233, 234, 236 saving sorceress 147–8 schizophrenics, voices of 100 Schopenhauer 23, 24 science, in voicework 103–5 seances, voices of the dead 99–100 self-direction, climate for 120 self-esteem, theater workshops 229 self-hypnosis, coping tactic 242–3 self-image, and voice 91–2

SUBJECT INDEX sensory basis, of human nature 54, 55–6, 62 separation/individuation, music therapy 186 sexual abuse, voicework 106–7 shadow 125 shamanism 147–8 sharing Holocaust workshops 233, 236–7 poetry 216–17 shortness, of poetry 200 singing 90, 92–3 healing ceremonies 97–8 improvisation 94 medium for expression 100 psychotherapy 107 transitional objects 94 see also songs singing partners 96 slave-morality 26 Socrates 24 songs healing power of 98 of infancy 93–6 presentation of trauma 106 spontaneous 94 see also singing sonorous envelope 95 soul nourishment 49–52 soul-maps 98 sound enactments 108 sounds, preverbal infancy 95 sovereign life utterances 54–5, 56–7, 203–4 spontaneity 245 spontaneous music-making 173 spontaneous song 94 studio-oriented approach 79 sub-personalities 100 survival, through art making 246 Susanna, mothering quality of music 177–9, 188–9

therapeutic voicework future of 107–9 history of 97–103 preverbal modes of expression 96 therapeutically instigated singing 107 therapists disintegration 82–3 intermodality 11–12 personality 37–8 working with trauma survivors 252–4 see also drama therapists therapy see expressive arts therapy; psychotherapy thesis projects mother–daughter relationship 70–2 personal reflections on art work 69–70 pictorial account, everyday life and imagination 72–4 thingly substance 40–1, 48–9 Thomas, false self 180–1 thought, metaphysical tradition 20–3 tikkun ha’olam 81 togetherness, music therapy 188 Tony, Holocaust workshop 235–7 tragic dramas 20, 23–4 transference, music 188 transitional experience 261 transitional objects, singing 94 transitional space infant development 181–2 play therapy 261–4 transpersonal theory 46, 51 trauma case stories 247–52 effects of 242–4

taking care of 66 talking cure 89, 99 temperature, quality of voice 91 testimony 245–6 theater, healing power of 228–30 Theater of the Holocaust 223–39 theatre groups, vocal styles 101 theatrical play 41 theoretical foundations 12, 19–36 theory of forms 21–2 therapeutic relationships conditions for 120–1 congruence 121–3 empathy 124–5 unconditional positive regard 123–4

presentation through song 106 therapists 252–4 treatment 244–5 see also Holocaust survivors triviality 60 true self 180, 181 truth 205–6 Heidegger 27–9 Nietzsche 26–7 Plato 21 tuned sensing 56–7, 62, 64, 66

expressive arts therapy 245–7

unconditional positive regard 123–4 unconscious, exploration of 125–6 unreal 41–2 Uprising 214–15

279 verbal language 94, 96 virtual realm, of poetry 197 vitality affects 186–7 vocal masks 92 vocal nourishment 94 vocal ranges, elements of earth 98 vocal styles, theatre groups 101 voice expressive art of 89–90 and psyche 90–3 see also singing; songs voice movement therapy 97, 105–7 voices, damaged 104–5 voicework art and science in 103–5 defining 96–7 see also therapeutic voicework Wagner, Richard 25 Waiting Room, The 203 war, effects of 242–4 Will, Nietzsche on 23–7 Wolfsohn, Alfred 100–1 word-play, in poetry 198–9, 214–16 workshops, for Holocaust survivors 223–4, 230–7 Writer, The 199 writing, expression through 159–60, 216

Author Index Achterberg, J. 175 Aigen, K. 176 Alexander, F.M. 102 Allen, P. 74, 78, 82 Anzieu, D. 91, 95 Aristotle 202, 204 Artaud, A. 101 Ayre, L. 96 Balint, M. 190 Bion, W. 94 Bonny, H. 175 Boone, D. and McFarlane, S. 105 Bowlby, J. 183 Brook, P. 101 Brownell, A. and Lewis, P. 108 Butcher, P., Elias, A. and Raven, R. 105 Canner, N. 108 Caspary, A. 271 Chamberlain, D.B. 177 Dalcroze, E.J. 102 Densmore, F. 98 Derrida, J. 34 Doane, J. and Hodges, D. 95-6 Dürrenmatt, F. 64 Eliade, M. 97 Fink, E. 39, 41, 42 Forrester, J. 89 Franco, G. di 108 Frank, J. 98 Freud, S. 99 Frey-Rohn, L. 89 Friere, P. 245 Gadamer, H.G. 41, 272 Gardner, H. 94 Gendlin, G. 49 Gilligan, C. 96 Goldberg, F. 175 Graves, P.L. 177 Greene, M. and Conway, J. 94 Greene, M. and Mathieson, L. 94 Gregersen, F. and Køppe, S. 64 Halifax, J. 97 Hargreaves, D. 94 Harris, J. 95 Hauge, H. 57 Heidegger, M. 15, 27, 28, 29, 30 Herman, J. 243 Highwater, J. 134 Hymes, D. 95 Innes, C. 101 Jenkins, K. 69, 70 Jensen, O. 56 Johnson, L. 40 Jung, C.G. 89, 100

Kenny, C. 176, 182 Kent, J.K. 38 Kessler, I. 107 Killingmo, B. 96 Kirkeby, P. 64 Klienes 204 Knill, P.J. 12, 44, 74, 269 Knill, P.J., Barba, H.N. and Fuchs, M.N. 11, 20, 32, 40, 43, 45, 79, 176, 261 Kolk, B.A. van der, Pelcovitz, D., Roth, S., Mandel, F.S., McFarlane, A. and Herman, J.L. 244 Kristeva, J. 96 Kumiega, J. 102 Lacan, J. 187 Laing, R.D. 199 Landy, R. 75 Langer, S. 95 Leedy, J.J. 203 Levinas, E. 33 Levine, E.G. 15, 80 Levine, S.K. 11, 32, 82, 245, 246, 247 Lewis, M. 93 Lindell-Fjaestad, M. 182 Løgstrup, K.E. 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 65 Lowen, A. 99 McKim, E. 31 McNiff, S. 9, 108 Martin, J. 101 Matthis, I. 191 May, R. 147 Meekums, B. 108 Merleau-Ponty, M. 11, 32, 95 Merloo, J. 134 Mitchell, S. 108 Moon, B. 74 Moreno, J.L. 172, 245 Moses, P. 99 Nancy, J.L. 35 Naumberg, M. 90 Nehamas, A. 197 Newham, P. 90, 91, 92, 96, 97, 100, 101, 104, 105, 106, 107 Nietzsche, F. 23, 24, 25 Nordoff, P. and Robbins, C. 108 Ogden, T.H. 262 Ostwald, P. 93 Paquet, N. 82 Passalacqua, L. 108 Paz, O. 200 Pinker, S. 95 Plato 21, 203 Politsky, R. 74

280

Rasmussen, K. 97 Redfearn, J. 91 Reich, W. 99 Rice, J.S. 71 Rilke, R.M. 199, 205 Robbins, A. 107 Rogers, C.R. 120, 123, 124 Rogers, N. 126 Rosolato, G. 95 Samuels, A. 90 Shapiro, J. 73 Silverman, K. 91 Skinner, B. 95 Smith, W. 96 Spariosu, M. 42 Steiner, M. 108 Steiner, R. 102 Stern, D. 185, 186, 187 Stewart, L. 175 Stuntman, K.R. and Bliss, E.L. 242, 243 Sutton, J. 108 Todd, M.E. 135 Tomatis, A. 94 Tong, R. 96 Tudor-Sandhal 180 Wärja, M. 173, 178, 179, 181, 188 Winnicott, D.W. 90, 94, 177, 181, 190, 261, 262, 264 Woodman, M. 172