I am an artist, photographer, watercolorist, and primarily a modern psychoanalyst. I blog about politics and consciousness as well as create digital fine art photos of my pen & inks and my water colorings.
My hobby is studying piano.
I Am a co-creator. The Universe allowed me to live and be born onto this fragile planet. Evolution landed me here. I will be eternally grateful for having had the opportunity to live and study and create with a bounty-full of wonderful people who also enjoy the humanistic and spiritual aspects of being an artist. I am grateful to have been endowed with a sensitivity that allows me to catch glimpses of the eternally aesthetic. From time to time I have allowed the muse to pass through me; and when I have, I get to share that moment of found beauty, free of original sin. Truth and Beauty are never sinners.
Original Sin–the sin the Greeks called, “missing the mark,” is an aspect of the piece of work that is man.
“It is glory to have been tested,” Henry James told us, “to have had our little quality and to have had our little spell.”
“A second chance, that’s the delusion, there was never to be but one: We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task, the rest is the madness of Art.”
Iphotoimpression.com, is a service that takes from psychoanalysis the drive to create, and mixes it up with multi-medium arts and philosophies to arrive at instructions for a life well lived.
Ego and Instinct together create our particular brand of perspective and consciousness. It is from this seat of consciousness that we evaluate every thing we see, every thing we do, into the binomial system that we have evolved: (0 or 1).
(I like it, I don’t like it, I like this, I don’t like that, yes, no, I like this, I don’t like this. )
The meaning of the mindful law of attraction to psychoanalysis resides in the arena of drive and desire. The sum total of our “no’s & our “yes’s,” Becomes the aim, or direction of the instinct.
What you like and what you don’t like changes over time. As long as you have your consciousness, the seat from which you observe both internal and external data, you are evolving. You are in a state of flux, of flow–flowing.
If your consciousness is not disturbed–you are safe. As soon as the organism is disturbed either from within or without, you experience the intrusion of stress, a slight nod from the adrenal system that subjectively we experience or ignore. (It’s probably a binomial thing). Nonetheless, it gets louder over time. A wound that starts out as a minor stressor can grow exponentially into an attack of anxiety–A complete overload of the immure system.
Stress is the biological response to anything that impinged on you in any way, from light, to heat, to sensation, through to thought, mood and feeling & more. We measure stress both through quantity and quality. How much stress do you feel and how intense is the feeling?
Stress is biology. Anxiety is your conscious response to becoming aware that your biology just did something, or said something; it communicated to the aspect of you that collects and assesses that your attention is required.
Emotions can be as smooth as a mirror-lake in the mountains, or they can churn like a restless sea in a wind blown storm. Emotions are classified first as pain or comfort and later are further classified by intensity.
A pain can come from a sliver or from an ax; the range is regulated by how much, and how fast the Adrenalin is pouring into the system and how fast it is being absorbed.
This is a bit like learning the meaning of shutter speed and aperture on a camera. Most of us have that feature set on either auto or a programmed mode.
A story to go along with an idea:
Let me continue with a short story. A old patient wanted to re-gain her spirituality; however, many years before she had had a major falling out with the Church, and eventually with all churches, indeed her fall-out with the church became her fall out with her God.
She obsessed over her anxiety, she cried that she was alone, she pushed away anyone who tried to help her or even tried to get close to her. Her heart was entirely closed to the idea of rekindling her relationship with God or of attempting intimacy with anyone. She saw beauty but could not let it in. She turned away from truth for fear that she would be hurt by knowing it.
During one session I asked her what she thought what might happen if she walked into a church to help her remember the smells and the sensual delights she felt when she was wrapped by a location that had previously held the peace and serenity she was wanting again.
Absolutely refused. She was so frightened to hear rejection from any authority that she let no relationship pass the gate where her heart, her passion, for life lived in a small quiet corner, in the recesses of her heart & mind.
Old anger had become a fear of feeling. What if she heard something she did not want to hear? What if someone suggested that she begin to proceed on a healthier path? As long as she alone knew the source of her withholding, no one could extract it from her. All the resistances to changing were stock-piled behind a concrete wall of stubborn will-fullness.
In the next session she said she saw no need to come back to analysis since it was clear that I did not know when to stop. Her last session had produced too many feelings and she was not going to pay me just to feel worst than when she came in.
I had been accused of attempting to crush her rationalizations with mere emotion, and emotions only lead a person to unreasonable positions.
Under the totality of the narrative, the patient had created and was using all her energy to keep away feeling, leaving her with no room to create a life that might include joy, if not peace. She was locked away, but I had picked at the lock and that sent her back in service of her ego. I could not be trusted if she thought that the analysis would influence her. Above everything else, she knew she did not want to be influenced by anyone.
I told her that I so despised authority that I stopped listening to myself a long time ago.
She wavered in the transference between loving to hate me and in thinking I might be as crazy as her. That created a strong enough bond to keep the transference on a steady course. There would be time, time to see what the relationship will look like when she begins to recognize that what she shouts most vociferously about is being a victim of her own circumstances. She told me she abhorred victims and she thought she could chew them up and spit them out before they knew what was happening to them. The delusion lies not in the accuracy of that statement but in the idea that it was she who was most hurt, most devastated by her sabotaging intimacies.
What is art and what is psychoanalysis?
There are two themes in the above introduction to this essay. One involves what it is like to practice the art of psychoanalysis, and the second is the theme of art for art sake. I am inclined to believe that the two marry very nicely. Psychoanalysis has a lot in common with art, both require a lot of technical training and both have foundations in altruistic aspects of being humans. I am very interested in humans, they interest me as much as the other parts of nature do. Pine trees and red leaf maples are gorgeous like some humans are. Filthy dying swamps and the smell of low-tide also have a wabi-sabi kind of charm that smells like other aspects of humanity.
Perhaps it is in the attainment of a goal that the two disciplines meet. When I am involved with a digital painting or with a patient, nothing else is around to distract me from my mission in the moment: do the best that I can to represent and impress truth and beauty. I use the word impress as the root of the word impressionism.
Psychoanalysis has a lot in common with impressionism. Transference between the patient and the analyst is emotional impressionism. The painting above is an impression of Canada a place where much of my love is stored among the antiquities of my ancestors–poor farmers creating large families to populate the cold northern part of America, baptized as much by native Americans as by the English or the French.
To think like an artist and to think like an analyst require similar talents. Both causes require talent and both causes require time and dedication as well as a deep respect for the wisdom of witnessing as a form of cure for the existential conditions that humankind faces today in 21st century civilization. So many minute decisions are involved in the exact shade of color that is chosen and so many minute decisions are involved in deciding when an intervention is called for and when it is best withheld.
The disciplines of psychoanalysis and the disciplines of art require tremendous consideration be given to the subjective. Both disciplines necessitate boldness as well as empathy and contemplation.
Both require a gentle application of knowledge and neither can be rushed. There is a form of the sacred to both endeavors. In each form there is great desire to contribute.
Color, mood, form, lines, boundaries, choices, and “decisions and revisions” are always at play.
The interesting part is knowing that I never know the out-come before I star; I do not know the out-come until I am finished. I think both aspects of me have enjoyed the moments during which I was engaged. Both applications of myself take me out of my shell, my solitude, my narcissism, long enough to find and express joy in the process as much as the product.
I realize how important it is to start with a good image. I never have in mind what it will look like, it becomes “what it looks like” when buttons and levers…are pushed and drawn in the photo editing software. There is a quality of Dante that suddenly entered the image below, and it went from a Hand Sketched image of town ships in Quebec to this darker asscent to light…
Images are a way of communicating. They can be a form of codeing that becomes established between people. Like reading a fine novel, you know when you are reading a fine novel, and you sometimes begin to know other people who enjoy the same novels as you do.
Photo-graphics, image and writing, seem to meld easily. Some photos need no introduction, while other may have several layers of emotional feeling attached.
This one I call, Dante’s Township, photographed in Quebec, Canada
Really, I can’t do the things I used to do. Exhaustion and memory issues turns my mind to guilt. If only I had taken better care of myself, would I live longer with a more healthy life style.Would I be able to know how to spell seed, or is it sead.
And how long does short-term memory last.Will I know when it has become long-term.
The notion of courage, almost ignored entirely because serenity was so high on the list of must haves; and wisdom was an image of well-being and intelligence that i sough after it with gusto, as if gusto would grant me wisdom.
I forgot about courage and whenever i did think about it, it would occur to me that I had none and I wanted to hide from the very word.I never went to war.I was six when I pleaded with my father and mother to help me stay clear of any war zone.I was lucky.Vietnam was on the immediate horizon.I was classified 1A…ready to fight and kill is what it meant.
Then my daughter was born and my classification went to 1Y, and I never went to war.Having a wife and having a Daughter saved me from my first fear of hell.
Only many years later did I see that it had carved another form of hell out of where my heart was.The hole was alack of courage, a fear of being a man.Meekness became a virtue and the Lord said that i would inherit the earth; but, I am an atheist with a deep-seeded fear of the Lord.I do not believe in the God that I fear.
Mysticism and magic occupies the same quadrant in my compartmentalized brain.I might even think about cremation were it not for the resurrection of the body and the soul.
Age creeps into this petty life we lead. Everlasting and eternity are further away then they have ever been. There is a consequence to every action even if that action is only a thought.Consciousness is human, not divine.
This “short” is about courage and right now I have to find the courage of follow-through.
If I am going to be a writer, I better have the courage to let myself find an audience.
Writing with Light, using my cones and rods, I get to interpret light and use that interpretation to observe beauty from my subjective perspective.
On a walk around my Walden Pond, I could see November in the objects and their shadows. I could see light as it dropped like water on a leaf or a needle on a pine tree.
Light moves around when a leaf swirls in the wind and a new shadow is cast on a new branch.
It is a privilege to be able to have the time and the equipment needed to be able to have a day of gratitude. There are times in people lives when to bridge a divide means a lot of subjective work at uncovering clarity. This is an ongoing process in both art and therapy.
Mindfulness in Psychoanalysis is one aspect of my life, and iphotoimpression.com is another aspect of my professional life. These two ambitions drive me still today. What they have in common is the intensity of emotion as a reflection of intense color. The colors that make up the above composition are cream, aqua, deep red fuchsia and a hint of purple and green. Among these colors are variations in contrast and tonality.
I took my camera out to photograph light, only by coincidence and intuition did the objects end up in the images created. I love trees, they feel essential to me. I live among them. When I look out my window, I see nature and neighbors here and there in these woods on the edge of a New England Kettle Pond. Gratutude is a product of clarity and clarity is a product of solitude.
Journal • Sunday, Nov 11, 2018, 5:25 PM EST • 86 Sanctuary Rd, Charlestown, Rhode Island, United States • 41°F Clear
Journal • Saturday, Oct 27, 2018, 11:08 AM EDT • 86 Sanctuary Rd, Charlestown, Rhode Island, United States • 50°F Heavy Rain
I infrequently see angels. Although, I have at times felt startled thinking I was about to step on my little Yorkie. A more deliberate glance showed nothing there but the remains of a shadow that lives in my mind. Lyla continues to live: in my mind.
When I access my French Canadian roots, I feel enveloped by the arms and culture of my grandmother. Memere, was her name. I still see her in my minds eye much like I see little Lyla who was always underfoot.
My morality lives a different narrative in French than does my English narrative. I have know this for many years. As many year as I have know that a souls last death is when no one else on earth is alive to remember it. I keep Memere alive.
I guess I might call myself an emotional pragmatist–someone who follows nature, like another might follow football. I like knowing the nuances. And those same nuances that I see in the tall pines and the swinging birches, I see in the magnified imaginations of both my conscious and my unconscious mind.
Autumn is nearby. This year she has not given much warning about the impending transitions about to happen–in my case from a bathing suit and bare-feet to long pants and a sweater. But, that is only the start. Transitions at this time of the year demand that we pay a conscious attention to not only today, but to the inevitable death of summer tomorrow. In this case the fleeting last hours and the fleeting last flowers of summer 2018.
We can’t ignore it–at least, we can’t ignore it for long. High winds crawling across the Atlantic Ocean from South Africa will actually rip some trees out of their roots. Imagine what it might do to you, if you were unfortunate enough to be where the tree was when the winds hit the coast. And, of course, when the rain falls it will be cold, and the bones will feel the chill; just a month ago the wind was welcomed as a soft, gossamer breeze fluttering like a yellow finch or the humming birds sucking up nectar from the brightest flowers in the gardens.
Here, in my little Canada, I am fortunate enough to anticipate fall, and eventually winter. The Canadian geese are on a flight pattern that has them stopping for a lunch break on Watchaug Pond. It probably looks not much different from Les Canton d’es Est to these migrators. Except for one nuisance: in Canada they are generally satisfied, there is no perpetual motion for the next exciting bit of success and the latest gadget that complicates life while convincing Americans that this very expensive thing will make life easier. The light bulb, internal plumbing and gardens in the Townships seem to have been joyfully arrested in the clutches of 1950 sentimentality with a touch of 2018 wisdom.