2016年4月28日 星期四

The Freud Collection ;兩本《佛洛伊德傳》By Peter Gay、Sigmund Freud、Ernest Jones。'read' /predict dreams// Sigmund Freud's Antiquities/《安娜‧佛洛伊德---她一生完全為了兒童 》

Freud: A Life for Our Time is a 1988 biography of Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis, by historian Peter Gay
《佛洛伊德傳》By Peter Gay :看Sigmund Freud手稿一處,只寫Wivenhoe:這應該是英國Essex大學所在地Wivenhoe Park*。 該校有University of Essex Centre for Psychoanalytic Studies,每年有Freud 講座。我從該中心知道倫敦的演講資訊和這篇: Freud 收藏品展我1990在荷蘭萊登大學參觀過;Peter Gay 當時為它寫過一本書。

* 該校的The Freud Collection 事1998年從文學代理商  Mark Paterson and Associates (版權商)處轉來。所以Peter Gay 應該是到那兒去的,不是到大學圖書館。

When Ernst Freud's health began to fail the administration of the collection fell to the literary agent Mark Paterson, who had met Ernst Freud in the mid-sixties. The Freud Collection thereby entered the offices of Mark Paterson and Associates and in 1998 was transferred from their Wivenhoe offices to the Special Collections Room of the Albert Sloman Library.


Freud's collections and 'The Unconscious': How a new show of his antiquities helps us to understand him and ourselves better

To mark the centenary of 'The Unconscious', the psychoanalyst's collection of antiquities will be on show at his old London home as Freudian scholar Benjamin Poore explains

Collecting is a way of trying to stay in control of things. Just ask the Duke in Robert Browning's dramatic monologue "My Last Duchess". "That's my last Duchess painted on the wall," he tells us as we wander around his art collection, "Looking as if she were alive." As the poem unfolds, we learn that the Duke had his wife murdered because he suspected her of flirting with other men, and put her in a painting in his collection, behind a curtain, because that was the only way he could quell his murderous rages.
But the painting, in a rather unnerving move, has the last laugh. The Duke perceives in his companion a strong, perhaps even erotic, attraction and sympathy with the "depth and passion" of his late wife's "earnest glance" in the picture. And this only serves to rekindle in the Duke the anger that the painting was supposed to quiet in the first place. The bride waiting downstairs, we suspect, will surely become part of the collection, too.
When you try to arrange matters, Browning's poem seems to say, they can arrange you. Or as the author Hunter Davies, who has written extensively about his collections of Beatles' memorabilia and old tax discs, puts it: "You don't really start collections, collections start you." Davies is especially alive to the compulsive, almost pathological, character of the drive to accumulate: "I have lots and lots of doubles and triples," he writes, "I don't know why I want them – it's a sickness, a madness, an obsession." We collect all sorts of things, for mystifying reasons: I have hundreds of old train tickets and theatre programmes which I never look at; a friend of mine keeps a list of every lover she's ever had. Rod Stewart is keen on model trains.
A hundred years ago, Sigmund Freud published his essay "The Unconscious", and his ideas (like those of the psychoanalysis he invented) are not generally regarded as terribly cheerful. Freud suggests, for instance, that family life circles back and forth from murderous wishes to sexual impulses; or when discussing the unconscious, that we are constantly working to sabotage what we think of as our own best interests. As the writer Adam Phillips put it in his recent biography, Freud "shows us how ingenious we are in not knowing ourselves".
Yet, just as psychoanalysis can reveal the deepest aspects of the human psyche, so can a collection – and it is both fitting and fortunate that Freud was a keen collector. He collected nearly 3,000 antiquities of diverse kinds over the course of his life – statuettes of Greek, Roman and Egyptian gods, Assyrian fertility statues and, of course, plenty of phalluses – and in their own way they evoke the most primitive and unreconcilable parts of the human mind. If the 'id' – in German, das Es, "the It" – is a metaphor for the most deeply buried and prehistoric parts of the self, then Freud's collection provided the opportunity for his patients to stare his in the face.
What Freud collected tells us a lot about how he saw himself as a professional – suggesting new ways of understanding his thought – and this summer, there will be a chance to get up close and personal. To mark the centenary, the Freud Museum in London will be running "The Festival of the Unconscious", offering visitors the opportunity to experience artistic and intellectual responses to Freud's work through installations, talks and a replica psychoanalytic couch for visitors to try out – and allowing them to see his collection as his old patients once did.
Among their number was the American poet Hilda Doolittle, who mentions the collection in the memoir of her treatment with the psychoanalyst, Tribute to Freud. In her account, she often returns to the treasures Freud arranged in a semi-circle on his desk – which prompt her to further reflections on the nature of psychoanalysis and its attempts to unravel and decode the psyche. How do psychoanalysts know what is "real" or meaningful in our dreams or fantasies, and what is not? For Doolittle, the collection provides an analogy: "We can discriminate as a connoisseur (as the Professor does with his collection here) between the false and the true… there are priceless broken fragments that are meaningless until we find the other broken bits to match them."
In particular, she describes how Freud shows her a carved, ivory Hindu statue of Vishnu, sparking an encounter, and a reflection, both enigmatic and intimate. The detail on the statue reminds Doolittle of a trip to Greece, yet the "extreme beauty of this carved Indian ivory" makes her feel "a little uneasy… [it] compelled me, yet repulsed me, at the same time". For the poet, these objects opened up the whole question of her relationship to the Viennese doctor analysing her. "Did he want to find out how I would react to certain ideas embodied in these little statues?" she wonders. "Or did he mean simply to imply that he wanted to share his treasure with me – those tangible shapes before us that yet suggested the intangible and vastly more fascinating treasures of his own mind?" Freud's collection might help him to do his job, drawing out her unconscious thoughts and conflicts; or it allows Freud to show off to her, rather grandiloquently and narcissistically, how mysterious and fascinating he is himself. In either case, the collection is the first stop on what Freud called, in the context of dreaming, "the royal road to the unconscious".
But what does Freud's collection – these symbolic objects, dug up from the past – reveal about him? What can we make of his fascination with archaeology, and especially the 19th-century archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann, who claimed to have discovered and excavated the ancient city of Troy? Freud would come to identify the work of the psychoanalyst with that of the archaeologist, excavating away the layers of the conscious mind to find the ruined palaces and streets on which our mental lives are ultimately founded: the buried traces of memories and desires that linger on in our psychic lives. In his famous case of the "Wolfman", a patient haunted by a childhood dream of a pack of wolves, it is reported that Freud said to his client: "The psychoanalyst, like the archaeologist in his excavations, must uncover layer after layer of the patient's psyche, before coming to the deepest, most valuable treasures."
Sigmund Freud at his desk in London in 1938, with some of his extensive collection of nearly 3,000 itemsSigmund Freud at his desk in London in 1938, with some of his extensive collection of nearly 3,000 items (Getty)Freud's work offers descriptions of dreams, slips of the tongue, half-recovered memories, flashes of unconscious fantasy. In this way he builds a collection of the artefacts, the excavated treasures, of our internal world. Walking around Freud's study, with thousands of artefacts bearing down on you, isn't so different from taking a wander around the psyche. And perhaps this is why Freud's collection appears obliquely in The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, from 1903 – the text that introduced the concept of the "unintended action", or "Freudian slip", to the world. "A slip in reading that I perpetrate very often when I am on holiday… is both annoying and ridiculous: I read every shop sign that suggests the word in any way at all as 'Antiques'. This must be an expression of my interests as a collector." In a sense, the book is itself a sort of collection – of anecdotes, of second-hand stories – that, while it is chatty and informal, is at the same time a serious attempt to put in order what we normally regard as trivial: slips of the tongue, mis-spellings, a dropped pot or stubbed toe. True, they are homely and bourgeois – but they are private, too, committed behind closed doors. And it is what goes on behind closed doors that psychoanalysis is interested in.
Freud's contemporary, the philosopher Walter Benjamin, felt collectors to be of special interest because they represent the poles of order and disorder which are characteristic of modern urban existence. The collector, Benjamin writes, "takes up the struggle against dispersion" and is "struck by the confusion, by the scatter, in which things in the world are found". The modern world – exemplified in shopping centres, underground trains, bombed-out cities, crowds of refugees – is a cacophony, and the collection is modernity's tuning fork. The unruliness of the internal world that Freud described is something we all intuit today, but he was the first to see it as a reflection to the sound and fury of early 20th-century European life, regularly punctuated by technological, political and social upheaval. For him as for Benjamin, then, collections are attempts to guard ourselves against being swept away by the tumult. And this was a tumult that Freud would experience first hand, with his collection as witness: it was only catalogued when the Gestapo came to call to ascertain its value after the Anschluss in 1938.
Freud, being Jewish, fled from Vienna in 1938 so that he might die in freedom in London. And the collection, which followed shortly after, played an important role in the final stages of his life. When he arrived, according to his first biographer Ernest Jones, great efforts were made in the display of the collection: "His son Ernst had arranged all pictures and the cabinets of antiquities to the best possible advantage in a more spacious way than had been feasible in Vienna." As for Freud's desk, the family maid Paula Fichtl knew the collection so well that she was able "to replace the various objects... in their precise order, so that he felt at home the moment he sat at it on his arrival". Freud's collection allowed him to feel at home when he was displaced. It even played a talismanic role. A bronze statue of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, was the mascot for his emigration. "We arrived proud and rich," Freud wrote in a letter, "under the protection of Athena."
However, the thing about collections is that they are never finished, and adding something new changes the way everything else looks. (As Walter Benjamin wrote of the acquisitive type, "his collection is never complete; for let him discover a single piece missing, and everything he's collected remains a patchwork".) Freud was, in the tinkering manner of a collector, endlessly editing and supplementing his earlier books with footnotes, asides and new observations. His three most famous books – Interpreting Dreams, The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, and Jokes and their Relation to the Unconscious (if it's not one thing, then it's your mother) – are among the most heavily revised of all his texts, with Freud making emendations decades after their publication.
Collecting is key to Freud's understanding of how we come to be the people we end up as. "The character of the ego," he writes in The Ego and the Id, "is the precipitate of abandoned object-cathexes… it contains the history of those object choices." Behind the rather bloodless language lies something more disturbing. Our sense of ourselves – the "I" that we each imagine ourselves to be – is made up of all the people and things we have once cherished and then lost or abandoned. Your identity is the accumulated heap of lost love objects. Which is to say, if you were to wander around your psyche, it might look rather like a room stuffed to the gunnels with dusty old artefacts, some tarnished, and now unloved, some recently rearranged, or polished; rather, in fact, like Sigmund Freud's study.
'The Festival of the Unconscious' at the Freud Museum, London, opens on 24 June



Sigmund Freud (1856-1939)

Sigmund Freud Sigmund Freud  © Freud was an Austrian neurologist and the founder of psychoanalysis, who created an entirely new approach to the understanding of the human personality. He is regarded as one of the most influential - and controversial - minds of the 20th century.
Sigismund (later changed to Sigmund) Freud was born on 6 May 1856 in Freiberg, Moravia (now Pribor in the Czech Republic). His father was a merchant. The family moved to Leipzig and then settled in Vienna, where Freud was educated. Freud's family were Jewish but he was himself non-practising.
In 1873, Freud began to study medicine at the University of Vienna. After graduating, he worked at the Vienna General Hospital. He collaborated with Josef Breuer in treating hysteria by the recall of painful experiences under hypnosis. In 1885, Freud went to Paris as a student of the neurologist Jean Charcot. On his return to Vienna the following year, Freud set up in private practice, specialising in nervous and brain disorders. The same year he married Martha Bernays, with whom he had six children.
Freud developed the theory that humans have an unconscious in which sexual and aggressive impulses are in perpetual conflict for supremacy with the defences against them. In 1897, he began an intensive analysis of himself. In 1900, his major work 'The Interpretation of Dreams' was published in which Freud analysed dreams in terms of unconscious desires and experiences.
In 1902, Freud was appointed Professor of Neuropathology at the University of Vienna, a post he held until 1938. Although the medical establishment disagreed with many of his theories, a group of pupils and followers began to gather around Freud. In 1910, the International Psychoanalytic Association was founded with Carl Jung, a close associate of Freud's, as the president. Jung later broke with Freud and developed his own theories.
After World War One, Freud spent less time in clinical observation and concentrated on the application of his theories to history, art, literature and anthropology. In 1923, he published 'The Ego and the Id', which suggested a new structural model of the mind, divided into the 'id, the 'ego' and the 'superego'.
In 1933, the Nazis publicly burnt a number of Freud's books. In 1938, shortly after the Nazis annexed Austria, Freud left Vienna for London with his wife and daughter Anna.
Freud had been diagnosed with cancer of the jaw in 1923, and underwent more than 30 operations. He died of cancer on 23 September 1939.

Sigmund Freud: Audio Library

BBC-Interview: Sigmund Freud (English/German) Recorded 7.12.1938 in London. "I started my professional activity as a neurologist trying to bring relief to my ...

Sigmund Freud: Audio Library

BBC-Interview: Sigmund Freud (English/German) Recorded 7.12.1938 in London.
 "I started my professional activity as a neurologist trying to bring relief to my ...

Out of these findings grew a new science, Psycho-Analysis, a part of psychology and a new method of treatment of the neuroses.

I had to pay heavily for this bit of good luck. People did not believe in my facts and thought my theories unsavoury.

Resistance was strong and unrelenting. In the end I suceeded in acquiring pupils and building up an International Psycho-Analytic Association. But this struggle is not yet over. Sigmund Freud. (transformingArt)

我從不後悔這樣的決定。 三十多年前,因為美國急需醫生,所以我們大多數的畢業生都去美國執業,我原先計劃到威恩州立大學附設醫院接受神經外科訓練,後因個案數過少,原本的訓練計畫因而停止,因此我便回台大醫院完成我的外科訓練。離開台大醫院後即投入長庚紀念醫院當了27年小兒外科醫師,一年前來到台中加入中國醫療體系。以前身為台大人,總年少輕狂,想有一番大作為,所以我們幾個人包括張昭雄、廖運範、陳敏夫等,來到長庚紀念醫院一起奮鬥幾十年,從來不曾想過要停止。這幾年張昭雄校長離開,我來中國附醫,每個人境遇逐漸不同。

弗洛依德傳 / 彼得.蓋伊 Peter Gay著 ; 梁永安等譯
臺北縣新店市 : 立緖文化, 民91[2002] (3冊)


《佛洛伊德傳》有PG的一貫特色:非常豐富。「Freud 學說與歷史」當然貫穿全書,但只怕譯者的譯文不是你都看得懂。

這讓我想起最近重溫Peter Gay《佛洛伊德傳》時看到的一段話

在英國的一趟講學之旅上,阿德勒因為心臟病發,倒斃於阿伯丁(Aberdeen)街頭。得知這個消息後,阿諾德‧茨韋格流露出一些哀悼之意,但弗洛依德卻一點類似的表示也沒有。他恨阿德勒恨了超過四份一世紀――阿德勒恨他的時間一樣長,而且一樣直認不諱。「一個來自維也納市郊的猶太小孩,最後卻死於蘇格蘭的阿伯丁,這可說是一件前所未有的事業,足以反映出他走了多遠的路。真的,因為他對精神分析的駁斥,他曾經獲得了世人很大的獎賞[1]。」在《文明及其不滿》一書中,弗洛依德曾經說過,他不明白基督教泛愛世人的教誨,因為世上可恨之人實在太多了。而顯然的,在他認為最可恨的人中間,包括了那些讓他失望的人和那些為迎大眾所好而詆毀其原慾理論的人。 儘管弗洛依德對阿德勒的死感到快樂(最少是不感到痛苦),但卻有其他人讓他憂慮萬分。

1930年代起,Sigmund Freud舉世知名。我們可以讀一篇悼詩

原作的標點是很重要的。 上周(2013.8)我介紹

In Memory of Sigmund Freud. by W. H. Auden

 這首名詩 In Memory of Sigmund Freud. by W. H. Auden ,其實也不難懂。請特別注意它的標點符號,  尤其冒號和分號。這些是原作者的思想。

《佛洛伊德傳》By Peter Gay 精彩的地方在:傳主人生關鍵處的"自敘"中,提出其分析和批評:
 Peter Gay在第一章--中文本第38頁及其出處注解等--做一段"精神分析",包括指出該文經專家指出非哥德作品。

  1. NATURE - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Translation by ...


    Dec 12, 2011 - Uploaded by BMAStudios1
    "For Goethe human knowing was nature's knowing raised into the self-consciousness of humanity. He was ...


《佛洛伊德傳》 廖運範譯 ,台北:志文, 1969
本書含兩部分:《佛洛伊德的自敘傳》,pp.7-86、Ernest Jones 著《佛洛伊德的一生》,pp.87-194;L. Trilling《評介佛洛伊德》pp.195-206;《年譜》,pp.207-225
佛洛伊德自述偶有些感人的軼事,是Peter Gay的傳記中沒收入的。譬如說在與哲學家William James 散步時,James 夾心症發作,要Freud 先走,他隨後就趕上 (頁59)。"他於一年後因夾心症逝世,我經常希望我能像他那樣,面對逼近的死神能毫無懼色。"
事實上,Freud 在這方面是做到了。

 這本書有些錯誤。 譬如說 ,頁103提到"90歲" 。Freud "只"活83歲。

"這些信不只一次地堪堪逃過被毀的厄運" (佛洛伊德和瓊斯《佛洛伊德傳》廖運範譯,台北: 志文,1969/1989,頁140 )


  知識只能靠整個心靈的移動,才能從物質的世界(World of becoming)轉向生命的世界(World of being),而且逐步學習生命的景象,或最光彩美麗的生命,換句話說,就是生命中美好的東西。(p.37) 」*
---(尋智書摘:柏拉圖等作{教育的藝術} 譯者:廖運範,出版:志文出版社)


「物質的世界(World of becoming)轉向生命的世界 (World of being)」是西方哲學中兩個比較玄的想法,廖先生大膽地這樣譯出,可供我們參考。

我們可以肯定;廖先生的少作很可能是「錯誤」的(我們搞不清楚「物質的」是否相對於「善之相」 …..)。
可參考小讀者給我們寄來一份比較 *

要了解古希臘的教育思想,參考陳康先生的作品最穩當:關子尹 江日新等編《陳康哲學論文集》台北:聯經,1985 ,頁59-87「希臘的教育思想」。

我們參考:「在柏拉圖的著作中,最能把他的教育觀表達淋漓盡致的,當推他在《理想國》裡,一篇有關地窖的寓言。那篇寓言描述一位不曾見過比陰影更具體的東西的囚徒,有一天被釋放,被帶到陽光下,起先他想逃避那刺眼的光輝,但是最後他終於認清了,只有能看到事物真面目,才是屬於人類的生活,於是他明白他有著不可否認的權利去追求真理,他也有不可避免的義務,回到地窖去,幫助裡面的人看透他們的虛幻。這則難忘而極有啟發性的寓言,正是古典教育哲學的濫觴。 (尋智書摘:柏拉圖等作 {教育的藝術 } 譯者:廖運範,出版:志文出版社, p.28)

我的看法是: "World of becoming【個別事物或變動的事務】轉向World of being" 【不變動的「有」;絕對價值,「善之相」或其他以「相」為對象之純粹哲學】,就是從「地窖」轉向「事物真面目」。

*The Forms vs. the Cosmos

April 4, 2013

Scientists Figure Out What You See While You’re Dreaming

A learning algorithm, coupled with MRI readings, was able to predict the images seen by dreamers with a 60 percent accuracy. Image via Wikimedia Commons/Mark Sebastian
In today’s science-so-weird-it-absolutely-must-be-science-fiction contest, we have a clear winner: a new study in which a team of scientists use an MRI machine, a computer model and thousands of images from the internet to figure out what people see as they dream.
Unbelievable as it sounds, researchers from Kyoto, Japan, say that they’ve built something of a dream-reading machine, which learned enough about the neurological patterns of three research participants to predict their sleeptime visualizations with 60 percent accuracy. The study, published today in Science is believed to be the first case in which objective data has been culled about the contents of a dream.
The seemingly extraordinary idea is built from a straightforward concept: that our brains follow predictable patterns as they react to different kinds of visual stimuli, and over time, a learning algorithm can figure out how to correlate each of these patterns with different classes of visualizations. A 2005 study by one of the researchers accomplished this in a much more primitive way—while subjects were awake—with a learning program correctly using functional MRI readings (fMRI indicates blood flow to various parts of the brain) to determine in which direction a subject was looking.
This study followed the same principle but took it in a much more ambitious direction, seeking to match actual images—not just visual directions—with fMRI readings, and do it while the subjects were asleep.
The research was done on three participants, each of whom took turns sleeping in a MRI scanner for a number of 3-hour-blocks over the course of 10 days. The participants were also wired with an electroencephalography (EEG) machine, which tracks the overall level of electrical activity in the brain and was used to indicate what stage of sleep they were in.
The deepest, longest dreams occur during REM sleep, which typically begins after a few hours of sleeping. But quick, sporadic hallucinations also occur during stage 1 of non-REM sleep, which starts a few minutes after you drift off, and the researchers sought to track the visualizations during this stage.
As the fMRI monitored blood flow to different parts of the subjects’ brains, they drifted off to sleep; then, once the scientists noticed that they’d had entered stage 1, they woke them up and asked them to describe what they were previously seeing while dreaming. They repeated this process nearly 200 times for each of the participants.
Afterward, they recorded the 20 most common classes of items seen by each participant (“building,” “person” or “letter,” for example) and searched for photos on the Web that roughly matched the objects. They showed these images to the participants while they were awake, also in the MRI scanner, then compared the readings to the MRI readouts from when the people had seen the same objects in their dreams. This allowed them to isolate the particular brain activity patterns truly associated with seeing a given object from unrelated patterns that simply correlated with being asleep.
They fed all this data—the 20 most common types of objects that each participant had seen in their dreams, as represented by thousands of images from the Web, along with the participants’ brain activity (from the MRI readouts) that occurred as a result of seeing them—into a learning algorithm, capable of improving and refining its model based on the data. When they invited the three sleepers back into the MRI to test the newly refined algorithm, it generated videos like the one below, producing groups of related images (taken from thousands on the web) and selecting which of the 20 groups of items (the words at bottom) it thought were most likely the person was seeing, based on his or her MRI readings:

When they woke the subjects up this time and asked them to describe their dreams, it turned out that the machine’s predictions were better than chance, although by no means perfect. The researchers picked two classes of items—one the dreamer had reported seeing, and one he or she hadn’t—and checked, of the times the algorithm had reported just one of them, how often it predicted the correct one.
The algorithm got it right 60 percent of the time, a proportion the researchers say can’t be explained by chance. In particular, it was better at distinguishing visualizations from different categories than different images from the same category—that is, it had a better chance of telling whether a dreamer was seeing a person or a scene, but was less accurate at guessing whether a particular scene was a building or a street.
Although it’s only capable of relatively crude predictions, the system demonstrates something surprising: Our dreams might seem like subjective, private experiences, but they produce objective, consistent pieces of data that can be analyzed by others. The researchers say this work could be an initial foray into scientific dream analysis, eventually allowing more sophisticated dream interpretation during deeper stages of sleep.

《安娜佛洛伊德---她一生完全為了兒童 》台北:幼獅 1987

愛利克·埃里克森- MBA智库百科

2010年5月10日 – 在學校,人們說他是猶太人,而在繼父的祖廟裡,卻叫他為異教徒。 ... 擔任了指導教師,最後,安娜·弗洛依德征求他是否願意接受培訓當兒童精神分析者。愛里克森接受了安娜的提議,以每月支付七美元培訓費的條件接受安娜的精神分析訓練。 ... 因為愛里克森沒有獲得高級學位,所以他完全可以成為弗洛依德所認為的 ...


Sigmund Freud's Antiquities: Fragments of a Buried Past

19 April–17 June 1990
Psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud spent a lifetime amassing a collection of antiquities, namely vases, fragments of sculpture, and figurines. He repeatedly compared archaeology to the study of the human psyche, which according to his method, had to be excavated layer by layer until the deepest and most trenchant elements were unearthed and reconstituted as subjects of examination. His collection remained dear to him throughout his life, and when he fled Vienna at the onset of World War II, he managed to have the entire collection spirited away to his home in exile in London. A favorite of his pieces was a figurine of Athena, though without her typical attributes of the spear and aegis – a shield with the snaky-haired head of the gorgon, Medusa on it. The decapitated head of Medusa symbolized castration, though the fearsome act was mitigated by the appearance of the snakes, symbols of and replacements for the lost phalluses. Devoid of these empowering attributes, the statuette represents Freud’s determination to understand female sexuality as secondary to normative male sexuality. The Smart Museum held a symposium in conjunction with the exhibition, which featured lecturers from around the country.
Curator: The exhibition was organized by the State University of New York at Binghamton in conjunction with the Freud Museum, London.
The exhibition was sponsored by grants from CIBA-GEIGY Pharmaceuticals and the National Endowment for the Arts. Additional funding for the Chicago showing of the exhibition was received from the Illinois Arts Council, and the Institute of Museum Services.

Freud's Antiquities: A View from the Couch

Stephen Scully
Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics
Third Series, Vol. 5, No. 2 (Fall, 1997), pp. 222-233
Published by: Trustees of Boston University
Article Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20163680

The unexpected private passion of Sigmund Freud. (traveling exhibition of antiquities, originating at the Freud Museum, London)


| August 01, 1990 | Dudar, Helen | Copyright
No matter how many times you have seen photographs, the room at first sight-and second and thirdjostles and jolts the eye. Here, on a peaceful suburban London street, in his last home, is Sigmund Freud's study, the place where he spent his last year and where he completed his last book and where, on a September day in 1939, he died. In the warm domestic surround that summons up turn-of-the-century Vienna, here is the couch covered with a good Persian rug, and just behind it, the green armchair where Freud famously positioned himself to escape the patient's direct gaze. Here are photographs of friends and colleagues. Here are the well-used books of a man who read widely, deeply and ferociously-full sets of Goethe, Shakespeare, Balzac and Anatole France, a wall of volumes on archaeology.
And everywhere the astonished gaze wanders, here are emblems of the vanished past. Terra-cotta and bronze figures and fragments of figures throng the shelves. Mummy masks hang from a bookcase and lie under glass. Ancient Greek pots, Egyptian scarabs, Roman oil lamps, Sumerian seals that have survived for more than four millennia-forests of these things repose in serried ranks in vitrines. The cherished pieces crowd the edge of Freud's desk, an attentive, questioning audience. Squirreled away in drawers are still more objects, odds and ends too small or too difficult to display. Infinite riches in a little room you could say-these are Freud's antiquities, 2,300 of them by the best estimate. In the felicitous phrase of one of his biographers, "the archaeologist of the mind" had an unappeasable appetite for the entombed treasures of other times. The sturdy brick house at 20 Maresfield Gardens in Hampstead, in northwest London, became the Freud Museum in 1986. Last fall, a sampling from the collection began a 30-month tour of the United States, crisscrossing the country to settle for weeks at each of 13 galleries. (The exhibition schedule for this year includes the University of Colorado, Boulder, july 6-August 18; the University of Miami, Coral Gables, August 30-September 30; and the University of California, Irvine, November 11-December 16. In 1991, the show will be at Stanford University, Stanford, California, january 15-March 17; the New Orleans Museum of Art, April 21-june 3; the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, june 28-August 16; the University of Houston, September 7-October 13; the jewish Museum, New York, November 7-February 18, 1992. In 1992, the show will be at Boston University, February 26-April 6. The exhibition is sponsored by CIBAGEIGY Pharmaceuticals and the National Endowment for the Arts.)
It is an elegant little show designed for the intimate spaces of smallish museums, a digestible portion of the art that absorbed this great man's attention and spare funds for more than 40 years. Entitled "The Sigmund Freud Antiquities: Fragments from a Buried Past," the exhibition was formally intended to mark the 50th anniversary of the death of the founder of modern psychiatry. More aptly, it celebrates his work and evokes his ideas and passions.
"The Freud Antiquities" consists of 65 pieces, embracing a range of ancient times and places that held Freud's interest. Not surprisingly, many of them represent humans or animals-gods and sages and magical figures that embodied the mythology of ancient religions. Aptly enough, the show usually begins with Eros and ends with Thanatos-visual examples of Freud's conclusion that civilizations evolved through the drive to live, struggling eternally against the urge to die. It offers a sphinx, whose mystery was fatally unriddled by Oedipus; the Theban king would, in turn, bestow his name on what Freud decreed was a universal force of infantile sexuality, the Oedipus complex. It displays a balsamarium, an Etruscan container for perfumed oil, a favored piece that sat on his desk. One side wears a female face, the other a male visage, a double image for this master of dichotomies who found dualities everywhere he looked, and who saw bisexuality as basic to human nature.
The show has surprises. It was to be expected that Freud would be drawn to Egyptian, Greek and Roman imagery mirroring Freudian ideas and theories. On the other hand, he also found his way to the less-familiar, less-fathomable art of the Orient. And if the symbolism of ancient human and animal forms compelled his interest, he could also allow himself to own beautiful old jars and bottles that reflect nothing more than the master glassmaker's art.
And he could be fooled. The exhibition cases house a few forgeries; two are the kind of pieces that the modern museum world labels airport art"-massmarketed souvenirs produced for tourists. Scattering a few fakes among the authentic works was a calculated gesture, an essential ingredient of this homage to the whole, complex persona-scientist, thinker, explorer of the human psyche, medical practitioner, humanist, family man and, rather touchingly, obsessive collector who, like collectors almost everywhere, would sometimes succumb to a longing for a questionable object simply because he loved it and had to have it.
The exhibition is the joint effort of Lynn Gamwell, director of the University Art Museum of the State University of New York at Binghamton, and Richard Wells, director of the Freud Museum in London. Modestly scaled though it is, "The Freud Antiquities" was meant to represent the full range of the collection, including trivia. As Gamwell explains, "We did not want it to be simply honorific; we wanted to reflect the fact that he made mistakes." Actually, the low end of the selection stops short of her co-curator's assessment; with charming candor, Wells is apt to tell a visitor to the museum that while Freud's esthetic sense was a good deal more refined than friends and family gave him credit for, he did wind up with "a certain amount of junk and tat."
It should hardly come as a surprise that Freud understood better than many collectors what his buying meant on the simplest level and in the most personal terms. It was "an addiction," he once told his personal physician, Dr. Max Schur, and it was rivaled in intensity only by his need for nicotine. Plainly, at least one of those habits was necessary to his sense of well-being. Cigar smoking afflicted him with cancer of the palate and, beginning with his first surgery in 1923, would ever after be a relentless cause of suffering. Collecting was, at least, a benign addiction. It offered the good doctor the kind of comfort known to everyone who has ever succumbed to the desire to buy something-as a reward, as an antidote to a spell of low spirits, as a remedy for boredom, as an amulet against anxiety.
Freud's attraction to objects of antiquity was layered with meanings, but there is a touching simplicity to his report on a purchase he made just after an especially unhappy medical episode. He had been fitted with a new artificial palate after yet another encounter with oral surgery. The prosthesis impaired his speech and put an end to his public lecturing; just inserting and removing it was a harsh effort. Reporting his medical news to his colleague and friend Max Eitingon, he wrote, "I got myself an expensive present today, a lovely little dipylon vase-a real gem-to fight my ill humor. Spending money is indicated not only for states of fear.)"
Freud bought his first art in 1896, about the time his ailing elderly father was not far from death, or possibly just after jacob Freud had died. No one is quite sure. If you share the Freudian view that there are no accidents or coincidences n human affairs, then explanations are in order. It has been suggested that buying copies of art he admired was both a way to console himself in a time of mourning and the representation of a kind of relief universally felt by a survivor.
The earliest purchases were replicas of sculpture of the Florentine Renaissance. Very soon after, Freud began to buy originals of classical sculptures. Like any serious collector, he was finicky about authenticity. Most of his purchases were checked out at the Vienna Kunsthistorisches Museum. If an authority concluded that a piece was a forgery, it was given away. But the experts were not always certain and not always correct.
Not surprisingly, Freud's partiality for remnants of the distant past was linked with powerful memories. Before his medical schooling had begun, he had absorbed and enjoyed a classical education; the old Greek and Roman civilizations and even-older cultures they drew from were familiar territories for him. It is hard to imagine the adult Freud coveting another man's triumph, but the contemporary figure he envied was Heinrich Schliemann who, in Freud's youth, found and began to dig up the lost city of Troy.
The objects Freud collected came from sunny lands that he loved or longed to visit, and they held a mysterious grip on his imagination. To a colleague, he once wrote of "strange secret yearnings" that rose up in him when he studied the art he owned. Perhaps, he said, these feelings stemmed "from my ancestral heritage for the East and the Mediterranean and for a life of quite another kind: wishes from childhood never to be fulfilled and not adapted to reality."
For the professional brethren, on the other hand, the significance and weight of Freud's collecting dwells in what the psychoanalytic literature calls "the archaeological metaphor." Freud began collecting his antiquities during the last decade of the past century, while he was in the process of self-analysis, the painful and meticulous exploration of his own unconscious. The effort would lead to a new method of dealing with emotional distress, to the science or art of psychoanalysis, to what has been more lightly described as "the talking cure." He would write and he would tell some of his patients that the search for suppressed memories they had launched, the effort to rummage through buried experiences "layer by layer," was not unlike the technique of excavating a buried city." The message to the patient was: dig. New York writer Helen Dudar, a frequent contributor to these pages, wrote on the drawings of Jasper Johns in the june 1990 SMITHSONIAN. Like the dualities in Freud's own ideas of human experience, the metaphor is at once relevant and beside the point. After all, what sensible man would assemble more than 2,000 objects for the sake of supporting analogy when a dozen would have made the point? Moreover, the Freud collection includes 100 fine pieces of antique glass; as the museum's Richard Wells points out, "there's no intellectual mileage in ancient glass." Freud bought steadily the way collectors often buy: for the joy of buying, for the pleasure and for the childlike, almost primitive sense of power that ownership of valuables evokes. Sometimes he bought in a way that fed another artery into his fantasy life. Searching the Hampstead study for material to be used in the exhibition, Lynn Gamwell pulled open a drawer and found it crammed with etchings and engravings, more than 50, many of them of archaeological sites, including an 18th-century Piranesi. There was little wall space left in Freud's study, but clearly he could not resist prints of digs that appealed to him. Treasure smuggled by a princess Colleagues and friends learned to look to Freud's interests. When a Roman cemetery was discovered buried under farmlands in central Hungary in 1910, Sandor Ferenczi, a fellow collector who practiced psychoanalysis in Budapest, shared the booty. Lamps and beads from the site were bought for Freud's collection. In later years, Princess Marie Bonaparte, who had been his analysas and and became an important friend and benefactor, seldom arrived from Paris without a prime piece. She was also willing to break the law on his behalf. When it looked as if he might have to leave the collection in Vienna, the princess smuggled out a treasured piece, the fine little figure of Athena that is in the show. In our time, the last knowledgeable witness of Sigmund Freud's buying habits was Robert Lustig, a small, round, rosy man who died last February at the age of 83. In Vienna, Freud was the first and, 13 years later, the final customer for his antiquities. As a boy, Lustig had haunted the galleries of ancient art at the Vienna museum. In 1925, at the age of 19, he somewhat reluctantly went to work in the family watchmaking shop. Still, he prowled the auction rooms and one day triumphantly came back with a bargain, a dozen Egyptian alabaster urns, miniatures no more than three inches tall. To his father's angry dismay, he pushed aside some watches in the window to make room for his find. There they were spotted by a passer-by, a small bearded man who walked into the shop to ask about them. He liked the price.
"Bring them to my house, and I will pay you there," he told the young man, fishing a card out of his pocket. The card announced he was Professor Freud, a name Lustig vaguely knew was famous. When Lustig arrived at the apartment at Berggasse 19 with the little urns, he was overwhelmed by the study: "I had never seen so many things in a private collection." He left with his money and the professor's instructions, "Whenever you find something, bring it up to me."
In a few years, Lustig had his own shop on Wieblinger Strasse. Although it was Freud's habit to route his dally walk through the commercial districts where he knew he would pass antique stores, Lustig usually brought his merchandise to Berggasse 19, sometimes waiting with patients in an outer room until Freud could see him. He came at least once a week and sold something nearly every time. In keeping with local custom, Freud always bargained; the price always came down a trifle. But he was not practiced at pretending indifference.
"When I saw on his face that he liked something very much," Lustig confided, "I charged him a little more. But he took me down anyhow."
Far from rich, Freud was usually a cautious buyer. Some of the money he used for antiquities was unexpected cash-fees paid by patients who knew that for an hour every afternoon Freud could be consulted without an appointment. But in Vienna in those days, collecting classical pieces was not an expensive hobby; the high-priced objects in the shops were from the Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque periods.
At least once, when he was short of cash and wanted something that Lustig was offering-"I have to have it!" Lustig recalled him exclaiming-a trade was arranged. The piece Freud longed for was an Egyptian coffin mask. He proposed that he pay half the price in cash and the remainder with pieces that were duplicates in his collection. "He opened a drawer, and it was full of Greek and Etruscan mirrors," Lustig recalled. The young dealer went off with three or four mirrors and a small prehistoric Greek terra-cotta figure, a seated monkey, which he took to the museum. The curator of the Grecian department gave him an Etruscan bronze in exchange for the piece and put the monkey on display in a glass cabinet of its own. Owning a piece of sculpture that warrants museum display of that kind would suggest that the owner had a better-than-fair eye for quality. Of course, Freud occasionally bought a fake; even museums wind up with fakes. To Lynn Gamwell, co-curator of the show, the quality of much of the collection is impressive. Still, friends and strangers tended to be patronizing about Freud's art interests. One of his major biographers, his colleague Ernest jones, was advised by Ernst Kris, an art historian who became an analyst, and by Freud's son, Ernst, an architect, to avoid the subject entirely. Since Freud had little esthetic appreciation, they argued, there could be nothing worthwhile to say. As a theoretician, Freud certainly was more interested in the role of an artist's fantasy life in the creation of art than he was in esthetics. Still, in the end, the explorer of the human unconscious seems to have thrown up his hands at the prospect of divining the secrets of creativity. "We have to admit," he wrote in his book on Leonardo da Vinci ". . . that also the nature of artistic achievement is inaccessible to us psychoanalytically."
Freud's written views on art nevertheless angered and disturbed a good many people, among them, famously, the distinguished British art critic Roger Fry. His supposition was that Freud did not understand the basic elements of esthetic pleasure-ideas of mass and line, light and shade, space and color. The pursuit of simple beauty In Freud's defense, Ernest jones wrote that there was evidence to show that he had "a keen sense of simple beauty, notably in the sphere of nature, and also that he had some capacity for esthetic appreciation." After all, jones argued, no one would have spent year after vacation year wandering through the art galleries of Italy without some feeling for the art and architecture he was encountering.
Freud's days were crowded. There were patients to be seen, books and papers to be written, professional meetings to be organized, defections of the once faithful to be dealt with, and hundreds of letters to be composed-in his final year in England, 880 reached friends and family and admirers. But there was always time for the collection.
Freud kept a journal, his Chronik," in which he briefly noted some daily events. The last Chronik, the only one to survive the move from Vienna, consists of 20 unbound foolscap sheets covering ten years-an odd document that museum scholar Michael Molnar is trying to explicate. There are perfectly clear, and chilling, comments. The final entry, on August 25, 1939, rePorts "War panic." And there are lines tinged with disappointment: "October 31, 1929, Passed over for the Nobel Prize." And there are tantalizing notes like John D. Rockefeller jr." Did he visit? Did he write? Molnar is still hunting for a clue. New pleasures every few months Freud seems never to have failed to note the acquisition of an important piece. Every few months, the Chronik reports a new pleasure. "Painted Chinese lady," says the entry for March 17, 1933. Ivory Buddha," he reports on May 7, 1934; coming as it did a day after his birthday, it could even have been a gift to himself. Isis with Horus" is recorded on August 2, 1935; the piece, bought from Robert Lustig, is in the exhibition. Traveling from Paris to see him on October 29, 1938, Princess Marie Bonaparte and her daughter, Eugbnie, did not come empty-handed. The visit is reported in Freud's usual laconic style with the note "bronze Venus"-another piece in the show.
Considering how much the collection meant to him, one of the surprises at the museum is the discovery that his antiquities were kept totally separate from the family's living quarters. Freud would sometimes carry a new object to the dinner table to examine and enjoy, but all of his treasures dwelt in the study.
Perhaps Martha Freud, a sturdy, conventional wife and mother who ran the house, disliked his alien stones. Possibly Freud persuaded himself that his antiquities belonged exclusively to his work. No one has quite addressed the question, although Richard Wells, whose career includes both the practice of psychoanalytical group therapy and the management of museums, is willing to guess that the arrangement may have represented Freud's careful division between work and family life: on the one hand, we have the radical thinker who suffered isolation, ridicule and want of advancement for his revolutionary views; on the other, there is the bourgeois paterfamilias who sired six sons and daughters, who loved children and dogs, who always came to the dinner table on time and who believed in mountain walks for the sake of health.
When Freud sat down at his handsome Art Nouveau desk each morning, the first thing he did was reach over and affectionately pat one of his stone "friends." They keep odd company in the museum. Amid these elegances stands a small souvenir figure of a porcupine, an undisguised piece of kitsch that some visitors are shocked to see, but one that represents a sweet moment in early psychoanalytic history. It was given to Freud in 1909 during his only visit to the United States. He had been invited to Clark University to receive an honorary degree and deliver a series of lectures. Before he sailed, whenever anyone asked about the purpose of his trip to Worcester, Massachusetts, Freud would announce that he was going to look for porcupines-to Europeans, exotic American beasts. For years afterward in psychoanalytic circles, the standard expression of anxiety about a looming event was to announce that you were going to look for porcupines. Freud had surely never reckoned that the porcupine, the desk, the figures, the books, the rugs, would make one final trip with him when he was too old and too ill to be traveling. In 1938 Hitler's forces moved into Austria; soon a swastika was draped over the door of Berggasse 19, and jews were set to work cleaning the streets with toothbrushes. The man reviled as a dangerous jew and as the inventor of an insidious set of theories was in peril. Freud finally caved in to the urgings of his friends and family to leave the city. It took some pressure from friends of international stature to get him out, and also payment of a ransom to allow his valuables to leave. When Freud moved into 20 Maresfield Gardens, his son Ernst and the family maid, Paula Fichtl, had already arranged the objects in his study as closely as possible to the way they'd been in the Vienna room. His greatly loved daughter Anna, a distinguished analyst in her own right, who lived in the house until her death in 1982, left the place largely as it had been when her father died.
Somewhere in that room, stuffed into curio cabinets or crammed into drawers, are the last items Freud ever bought from Robert Lustig. One day in March 1938, warned by a policeman friend that the Nazis were taking all the jews to concentration camps," the dealer filled his pockets with a few small items from his showcase, closed his shop and headed for the Czech border on his way to America. But first he made a stop at Berggasse 19. He needed money, a small sum to help him get out of Austria. There was never a doubt in his mind that Freud would help, and so he did. Lustig left behind his pocketful of old pieces and went off with a little cash and the professor's good wishes ringing in his ears. "Lots of luck to you," he remembered Freud saying. "I have to go, too."

Stock Image

Sigmund Freud and Art His Personal Collection of Antiquities

Peter Gay
BookDetails12 x 9", 192 pp., Published in conjunction with the exhibition "The Sigmund Freud Antiquities: Fragments froma Buried Past. Freud was a passionate, collector of ancient art. This book examines what the collection may have meant to Freud and the connections he made between art, antiquities, archaeology, and psychoanalysis. Includes a list of books on archaeology and related areas that were found in Freud's last study and consultation room in the Freud Museum, London. VG/VG. Fresh, clean copy., Nice DJ. Bookseller Inventory # 007288


Japan scientists can 'read' dreams
TOKYO — Scientists in Japan said Friday they had found a way to "read" people's dreams, using MRI scanners to unlock some of the secrets of the unconscious mind.
Researchers have managed what they said was "the world's first decoding" of night-time visions, the subject of centuries of speculation that have captivated humanity since ancient times.
In the study, published in the journal Science, researchers at the ATR Computational Neuroscience Laboratories, in Kyoto, western Japan, used magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) scans to locate exactly which part of the brain was active during the first moments of sleep.
The scientists then woke up the dreamers and asked them what images they had seen, a process that was repeated 200 times.
These answers were compared with the brain maps that had been produced by the MRI scanner, the researchers said, adding that they later built a database, based on the results.
On subsequent attempts they were able to predict what images the volunteers had seen with a 60 percent accuracy rate, rising to more than 70 percent with around 15 specific items including men, words and books, they said.
"We have concluded that we successfully decoded some kinds of dreams with a distinctively high success rate," said Yukiyasu Kamitani, a senior researcher at the laboratories and head of the study team.
"Dreams have fascinated people since ancient times, but their function and meaning has remained closed," Kamitani told AFP. "I believe this result was a key step towards reading dreams more precisely."
His team is now trying to predict other dream experiences such as smells, colours and emotion, as well as entire stories in people's dreams.
"We would like to introduce a more accurate method so that we can work on a way of visualising dreams," he said.
Kamitani, however, admits that there is still a long way to go before they are anywhere near understanding a whole dream.
He said the decoding patterns differ for individuals and the database they have developed cannot be applied generally, rather it has to be generated for each person.
The experiment also only used the images the subjects were seeing right before they were woken up. Deep sleep, where subjects have more vivid dreams, remains a mystery.
"There are still a lot of things that are unknown," he added.
Kamitani's experiment is the latest in a government-led brain study programme aimed at applying the science to medical and welfare services, government officials said.
"Our expectations from the dream study are quite high," said an official of the science and technology ministry's brain research promotion programme.
The ministry spent around 3.4 billion yen ($35 million) on the dream and other neuroscience studies for the fiscal year that ended on March 31.
"This technology may help disabled people to be able to move artificial limbs with their brain, or it may lead to a remedy for dementia or other brain-related diseases in the future," the official said.
"But we are looking carefully at the ethical aspects of the technology, which may allow a third person to look at somebody else's thoughts in the future," she said.
In 2011, a team of researchers at the University of California, Berkeley, used an MRI system to capture images from the brains of subjects who were awake and later reconstructed them as video clips.