Sabert Basescu

Selected Papers on Human Nature and Psychoanalysis

George Goldstein, Helen Golden

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2011
• ISBN:
  9781135251734
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Psychoanalysis
• Index: Psychology

An influential part of the New York psychoanalytic scene for more than 50 years, Sabert "Sabe" Basescu is regarded as an outstanding analyst and a significant proponent of the integration of existentialism and phenomenology into psychoanalytic theory and practice. Existential themes serve as a central hub, a crossroads or meeting place for a variety of contemporary psychoanalytic approaches. Basescu was ahead of his time in anticipating these current trends – his teaching and writing were significant in the genesis of the relational turn as well as the ongoing development of the interpersonal tradition, thus it seems fitting that contemporary analysts remember him now.

To that end, this book comprises a selection of seven of Sabe's articles, written across his career and exploring such issues as self-disclosure in the therapy session, the origins of creativity, and even his own anxieties as an analyst. Preceding each original paper is a thoughtful commentary by a different member of the contemporary psychoanalytic community, providing theoretical and clinical as well as personal context for Sabe's work. Opening with an introduction that contextualizes the existential and phenomenological influences in psychoanalysis and closing with a heartfelt afterword by Sabe's wife, this book is a fitting tribute to a man who is known for his warm, engaging demeanor even through the misfortunes of his elder years, and whose legacy in the field still resonates through contemporary voices.

1

ANXIETIES IN THE ANALYST

An Autobiographical Account (1977)

COMMENTARY BY IRWIN Z. HOFFMAN

Finding oneself reflected in the sensibility and writings of another is an unusual, validating, and sometimes even uncanny experience. It’s more than just finding certain points of agreement. Sometimes the wording, the flow of ideas, or the combination of thoughts and feelings yields something more than that, something hard to describe. There is a sense of a whole that is more than the sum of its parts and of a match between that whole and oneself. In fact, that sense of connection is not overridden by certain points of disagreement because the overall spirit of the other’s perspective seems so like one’s own.

Such was my experience in reading Sabert Basescu’s “Anxieties in the Analyst: An Autobiographical Account” in February 2002. He had sent it to me along with one other article after reading my book, Ritual and Spontaneity in the Psychoanalytic Process (Hoffman, 1998). In his handwritten cover letter he said: “Since I so much sense a kindred spirit in you, I’ve taken the liberty of enclosing two articles I wrote some 15–25 years ago, which gave me a good time in the writing.” And indeed so much in this very rich, personal, informal, self-revealing essay seemed to correspond with what I had written about somewhat more formally over a 20-year period. Sabe’s essay antedates the book, in which much of my work was collected, by 21 years. I regret that I didn’t discover it, or Sabe’s contributions generally, which were so ahead of their time, until that moment.

I will have to be very selective in the points I take up because I found myself resonating continually with Sabe’s account of his experience, and reporting on all of it would be impossible. So here are some of the ideas that stood out for me.

A central conviction that can be viewed as a kind of wellspring for everything Sabe is teaching us through his account of his experience as a therapist is simply that the therapist or analyst is a person, a human being, and that the analytic role, however it affects the nature of the analyst’s involvement, does not negate that simple reality. I’ve become accustomed to the realization that in psychoanalysis sometimes the assertion of the most seemingly obvious truths can amount to revolutionary developments. So Sabe, with his characteristic self-effacing, wry humor, states the following:

I know that the conception of the role of the therapist has evolved from that of the anonymous reflector, through that of the participant observer, to the current standard of the therapist as human being. It is not so easy for me to be a human being. I think it would be easier for me to be a mirror. The rules for being a mirror are more clear-cut than the rules for being human. (p. 159)

Well, I would say that the standard of being human within the role of therapist is one that 30 years later is still not fully accepted, much less met, in theory or practice, even though anything to the contrary would be disclaimed. But wouldn’t the same thing have been the case in 1977? I mean, would anyone holding to the model of therapist as mirror (he means in the classical sense, not the self-psychological sense) or the model of therapist as participant observer have thought that he or she was advocating or being anything other than a human analyst? Surely not. And yet it is so interesting to me that Basescu in 1977 had the idea that being a human being is a late development in conceptions of what it means to be a therapist. Beyond that, he has the sense that what seems like a virtual truism does not go without saying. The genius is in the recognition that it is necessary to say it and to spell out its implications, and in the awareness that saying it captures something that might well be missed if it were left unspoken. What is the context, by implication, of that realization? I believe that it is the appetite for dehumanizing, “clear-cut” rules (like, as Sabe says, “the rules for being a mirror”) that create grounds for knowing how one should work analytically from moment to moment, an appetite that was active in 1977 and is active even now. Sabe was at war with that mechanistic, standardizing tendency back then. I would submit, however, that that war is going on to this day. Indeed, by its nature, it may be a perpetual struggle to which Sabe Basescu’s quietly passionate, humanistic convictions will always be relevant.

It’s noteworthy, however, that the standard of humanness that Sabe adopts in his role as therapist does not imply that he intends to participate in the therapeutic relationship as he would in social life outside that role. Sabe spells out various attitudes that the role of therapist precludes in their full form.

A therapy relationship is not a mutual relationship for me, although there are certainly aspects of mutuality in it. It is not a friendship, although there are certain qualities of friendship about it. It’s not love, marriage, or parenthood either, although there are analogies to those relationships. As a therapist, my awareness of purpose is very different for me from other truly interpersonal relationships. That is, the purpose of being there, the purpose for the relationship existing is always an overriding presence which exerts a pressure on me that I am more or less aware of all the time. (p. 159)

I am reminded of a related statement of my own:

Every interaction … is experienced by the analyst as a psychoanalytic interaction. There are no exceptions. Whether the analyst is reacting emotionally, talking about the weather, or talking about the patient’s childhood, the stamp of the analytic situation should never be lost on the participants. (1998, p. 177)

Sabe continues:

That awareness does not exist in the same way for me in other kinds of relationships, even those that can be described as purposeful. The combination of my awareness of purpose and the feeling I have that being open and “human” is desirable is, I think, what gives rise to my moments of doubt about what is going on when I talk about myself or expose my feelings (or avoid talking about myself). (p. 159)

What Sabe encourages here, in line with my own viewpoint, is the interplay, the dialectic, of the analyst’s personal, spontaneous responsiveness and certain constants that are inherent in the unique role of analyst. Aware of the importance of this combination, Sabe is determined not to let go of either aspect. He doesn’t use the term dialectical, but in my view it is clear that he is talking about that kind of relationship. And when one thinks in terms of dialectical relationships, language fails. On one hand, we are talking about two factors that seem to be opposites in some sense, or at least distinct and contrasting. On the other hand, we want to show that each factor includes the other as part of it, even as integral to it, which shatters the nondialectical and, perhaps, conventional meanings of the terms. So, for example, the kind of analytic “presence” that Sabe feels is always inherent in his sense of his role as analyst sets this relationship apart from “other truly interpersonal relationships.” However, the experience of presence is itself an interpersonal one, just as overtly mutual interpersonal moments—moments of disclosure, for example—are not devoid of consciousness of the importance of sustaining and protecting a special kind of presence in the patient’s life. Each pole—the relatively constant sense of a unique kind of presence and the openness to immediate, personal, fluctuating qualities of engagement—is embedded in the other. The sense of contrast, even tension, coexists with a sense of synthesis.

I would say the poles in a dialectical relationship are complementary in that each has the opposite figure-ground relationship embodied within it. Consider the dialectic of ritual and spontaneity. When we are acting in accord with the standard ritual requirements of the analytic role, we may also be expressing something personally meaningful, but the relatively standard behavior (for example, starting and ending at certain regular times, or listening to what the patient has on his or her mind) is in the foreground. When we deviate and express ourselves more personally in the moment, we may have in mind the importance of judiciousness relative to the protection of that special kind of presence that we want to construct, but now the spontaneous self-expression is in the foreground (Hoffman, 1998).

What pulls it all together experientially is the sense of uncertainty that Sabe speaks of. That uncertainty, and the anxiety that goes with it, is highly personal but at the same time is absolutely integral to an optimal kind of analytic presence and analytic attitude. Again, Sabe says (like many of his comments, it bears repeating):

The combination of my awareness of purpose and the feeling I have that being open and “human” is desirable is, I think, what gives rise to my moments of doubt about what is going on when I talk about myself or expose my feelings (or avoid talking about myself). (p. 159)

It is so important, I think, that Sabe’s sense of doubt accompanies not only the more controversial talking about himself but also (parentheses notwithstanding) the more standard avoidance of such talk. For Sabe, to have the patient’s long-term interests in mind, via the special kind of presence that his responsibility entails, does not mean yielding to a comforting belief that it is possible to know the “right” thing to do in order to optimize the quality of that presence. Sabe recognizes, first, that each moment with each patient is unique so that mechanical generalizations are not possible, and second, that it is inescapable that his own behavior will be shot through with his personal, subjective involvement from moment to moment. Therefore, uncertainty about the meaning and merit of what he is doing is inevitable. Paradoxically, I think it’s that uncertainty itself that might be embraced as integral to the new experience that an analyst might strive to provide. The sense of uncertainty, and with it a sense of openness to criticism and to possibilities other than those one has pursued, becomes integral to an optimal analytic attitude.

The following is a sample of my own musings on the interplay among the analyst’s personal participation in the process, the special kind of presence that the analyst has in the patient’s life, and the analyst’s struggle with uncertainty with respect to the balance between the two. I believe that the analyst’s presence entails a degree of authority that is fostered by the ritualized asymmetry of the analytic situation:

Corresponding, again, with what several authors have discussed in terms of an interplay between the “principle of mutuality” and the “principle of asymmetry” … there is an ongoing dialectic between the patient’s perception of the analyst as a person like himself or herself and the patient’s perception of the analyst as a person with superior knowledge, wisdom, judgment, and power. Each way of viewing the analyst is very much colored by the other. Whichever is in the foreground, the other is always in the background. What the balance should be for any particular analytic dyad, at any particular moment or over time, is very difficult to determine or control. Also, it must emerge from an authentic kind of participation by the analyst rather than from adherence to some technical formula. The patient may benefit, however, simply from his or her recognition of the sincerity of the analyst’s struggle with the issue….

The very fact that we usually maintain the analytic frame even after termination to the extent that, for example, we do not become friends with or socialize with our patients in the usual sense, indicates that we want to preserve rather than undo the special kind of presence in our patients’ lives that the analytic situation fosters. So those of us who are interested in developing more mutual and egalitarian relationships with our patients should not deny the extent to which we are drawing upon the ritualized asymmetry of the analytic situation to give that mutuality its power. The asymmetry makes our participation in the spirit of mutuality matter to our patients in an intensified way, one that helps to build or construct our patients’ views of themselves as creative agents and as persons ultimately deserving of love. (1998, pp. 83–85)

Sabe tells us that there are a number of feelings stirred up in his analytic work with which he is uncomfortable. One of them is the feeling of being admired by a patient, especially when he has the sense that he “needs” the admiration. He writes in that regard:

Why shouldn’t somebody have good feelings about me, especially if I’m tuned in and the work is going well? I can experience that without too many twinges of anxiety as long as it doesn’t happen too often. But if I start to feel that I need the admiration, the love, the affection, the praise, I get very anxious and guilty. There are so many opportunities and temptations for self-aggrandizement and self-gratification in this kind of work, and since I’m no more calloused to admiration than I am to criticism, it’s very easy for me to feel suspicious, and then anxious, and then guilty in the face of praise from my patients. Many times I’m right! (p. 155)

On one hand, there is so much in this that I think is warranted. At the heart of the attitude Sabe conveys is a kind of “worrying” about his motivation. Without such worry, he could drift toward complacent self-satisfaction, toward being uncritically enamored of his way of doing things, and that just wouldn’t be Sabe, nor in fact would it be good. On the other hand, I think there might be an excessive concern here, possibly proportional to insufficient theorizing about the dialectic of the analyst’s and the patient’s needs. Yes, it is certainly important to worry about the exploitative potentials of the analytic situation, what I’ve called “the dark side of the analytic frame.” The potential for abuse of power, moreover, does not reside only on the side of deviations from the ritualized asymmetry of expression of need. Rigid adherence to the frame can also reflect a “power play” in which the analyst is always in control, always above feeling vulnerable, always beyond needing something from the patient.

Wisely, Sabe acknowledges, again in parentheses, a truth that is the opposite of the one he seems most worried about. He says, “I realize, incidentally, that serving my needs has its place and therapeutic value in my work, but that doesn’t simplify the problem of my doubts. It complicates it” (p. 159). One way to formulate that complication with respect to therapeutic action is to say that the patient needs, in some measure, to be needed, even by his or her analyst. There is a certain kind of respect and recognition that the patient cannot get unless there are interludes in which he or she can be appreciated for being a source of positive, caring influence on the analyst. Perhaps there is an ongoing unspoken current in every successful analysis in which the analyst is the beneficiary of the patient’s therapeutic impact (cf. Searles, 1975). But that factor cannot be overdone either. The analytic relationship, overall, should be asymmetrical in the other direction. So in the end, the analyst is always thinking on the spot, always thinking and struggling and, as Sabe says, doubting whether his or her actions have been optimal for the patient’s long-term well-being.

It gets really complicated when you consider that analytic ritual—the fundamental structure of the frame that presumably privileges the patient’s needs over the analyst’s—is the very framework that may encourage the admiration, even the idealization, with which Sabe is uncomfortable to the extent that he feels he needs it. Given that context, the analyst revealing some need overtly can, paradoxically, mean sacrificing something for the patient’s sake, whereas adhering to the rule of abstinence can mean stubbornly holding on to one’s power and all the rewards that go with it.

One of Sabe’s many departures from convention in his way of working is his eschewing of exploration of the patient’s history as a priority. He writes, “I think that what is significant about the past is active in the present in such a way that a full understanding of what is going on now is sufficient without necessitating an understanding of how and why it got to be that way” (p. 161). To my mind, Sabe underestimates the importance of the history in two ways. First, understanding the origins of a person’s repetitive patterns and symptoms can help free him or her of their grip. Exposing the possible origins of certain problematic ways of being means showing their relativity to particular childhood experiences, thereby helping to free the patient of the sense that they are essential components of his or her “nature.” Second, the history colors the patient’s experiences in the present insofar as they seem familiar or unfamiliar, resonating with or contrasting with experiences in the past. In that sense the history emerges not just as explanatory but as integral to the quality of immediate experience. I believe Sabe’s thinking about the past and the present is too dichotomous in that the past is not sufficiently recognized as a live dimension of the phenomenology of the present.

Perhaps one factor that contributes to Sabe’s disinterest in the history is its traditional association with psychoanalytic zeal about determinism. Traditionally, the drives determine childhood experience, and childhood experience, in turn, determines experience in adult life. But the paradigm of determinism is anathema to Sabe, although it makes him anxious to turn away from something so entrenched and widely accepted. Instead his focus is on the individual as a free agent who is responsible for his or her choices, however influenced they may be by internal pressures and surrounding conditions. I could not agree more with Sabe’s simple, brave assertion that “unconscious processes and their influence on behavior … are often dealt with in psychoanalytic work in a way that induces passivity, and a discounting of the effectiveness of a person’s will” (p. 162; cf. Hoffman, 2006). Among psychoanalytic theorists, it is perhaps only Otto Rank who gives human willing the kind of status that Sabe feels it deserves.

It is Sabe’s radical existential sensibility that brings us full circle, back to his anxieties as an analyst. Sabe recognizes that at the heart of what it means to be human within his analytic role, he is, at every moment, a choosing subject, aware of his inevitable uncertainty and yet fully responsible for his actions as they bear on his own and another person’s life. Theories of technique, traditional rules, the pressures of the transference and of the countertransference, the opinions of others, and untold other considerations are powerful sources of influence, but they do not eliminate, for Sabe, his obligation to participate courageously in the process in a personal, self-expressive, responsible way, exercising his judgment as best he can as a free agent. In the end, it is Sabe’s extraordinary, profound integrity as a person that his patients and students could count on, and by which all of us stand to be inspired.

References

Hoffman, I. Z. (1998). Ritual and spontaneity in the psychoanalytic process: A dialectical-constructivist view. Hillsdale, NJ: Analytic Press.

Hoffman, I. Z. (2006). The myths of free association and the potentials of the analytic relationship. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 87, 43–61.

Searles, H. F. (1975). The patient as therapist to his analyst. In P. L. Giovacchini (Ed.), Tactics and techniques in psychoanalytic therapy: Vol. 2. Countertransferences (pp. 95–151). New York: Jason Aronson.

ANXIETIES IN THE ANALYST: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT¹

In the family in which I live there are four people of whom I am afraid. Three of these four people are afraid of me, and each of these three is afraid of the other two. Only one member of the family is not afraid of any of the others, and that one is an idiot.

—Joseph Heller, Something Happened (1974)

I am used to being told by people I see in psychotherapy that I seem so calm and unruffled. I know I appear that way and it really does reflect an aspect of my being as a therapist. It’s not that I make any effort to appear that way. It’s just the way I am. But it’s not the whole story, not by any means. When I make a point of noting the stream of thoughts and fleeting feelings that flow through me during my work, I am amazed at how many things I am uneasy about and afraid of.

For example, whenever someone I’m seeing (I don’t really think of the people I see as patients, or clients, or analysands, and I usually feel a twinge of uneasiness—see what I mean?—when I refer to them that way, so I mostly refer to them as people I see or work with. But that can get to be semantically awkwar...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Contributors
• Preface: Friend of the Family
• Introduction: Existentialism and Phenomenology
• Chapter 1. Anxieties in the Analyst: An Autobiographical Account (1977)
• Chapter 2. Behind the “Seens”: The Inner Experience of at Least One Psychoanalyst (1987)
• Chapter 3. The Therapeutic Process (1988)
• Chapter 4. Battered, Bothered, and Bewildered: The Daily Life of an Analyst (1995)
• Chapter 5. Creativity and the Dimensions of Consciousness (1967)
• Chapter 6. Human Nature and Psychotherapy: An Existential View (1961)
• Chapter 7. Tools of the Trade: The Use of the Self in Psychotherapy (1990)
• Afterword
• Bibliography of Works by Sabert Basescu
• Index