THE STUDIO: A PSYCHOANALYTIC LEGACY by Gill Gregory, Reviewed by Janet Sayers

The Studio: A Psychoanalytic Legacy  by Gill Gregory (London: Free Association Books, 2015)

Reviewed By Janet Sayers [1]

There are many ways of combining art and psychoanalysis. Freud notoriously combined them in illustrating his wish-fulfilling theory of dreams in terms of the life and work of Leonardo da Vinci. Lacan combined them in seeking to demonstrate the captivating effect of the external world on the life of the mind. And the art critic, Adrian Stokes, combined them to highlight the centrality of the physical form of art in achieving its psychological effect.

Now in The Studio, poet and university lecturer, Gill Gregory, combines free associations about members of her family evoked in her by various works of art and by quotes from the edition of Freud which her father once owned. To these free associations she adds details about the creators of these works of art and about members of her family informed by what she has learned from years of psychoanalytic treatment beginning after her father’s death several decades ago.

‘Children have no scruples over allowing animals to rank as their full equals,’ she quotes from Freud’s book, Totem and Taboo, in going on to link this with a painting by Edwin Landseer. Not his famous picture of a stag, Monarch of the Glen (1851), but his picture, The Arab Tent (1866), including a mare and her foal which she equates with her mother and Andrew. It reminds her of their family home in Surrey where tea-time was regularly interrupted by Andrew’s petit mal epileptic seizures – ‘his poor body rigid and jerking’ – after which he returned to normality when it seemed to Gregory that his life depended on the family resuming eating and wiping their plates clean. She also tells us how such interruptions have made it difficult for her to achieve a ‘connected sense of the world’; and how, as his illness worsened, Andrew believed he was the messiah, planned to go to Jerusalem but was prevented by a grand mal seizure, after which he made himself a coffin in which he sat playing a guitar ‘beaming with dark, surreal humour’.

She precedes this with the story of Landseer’s insanity, and with a chapter which takes its message from Freud’s approval of science. She links this with praise of the anatomical detail of George Stubbs’s painting, Zebra (1762-63), and with her admiration of, love for, and regret that her father’s psychiatric work at Horton Hospital in Epsom, his psychoanalytic training, and his directorship of the Paddington Day Hospital in London took him away from her and their family in Surrey when she was a child.

Particularly engaging, however, is a chapter which starts with Freud’s reflections about the derivation of the word ‘material’ from the Latin word for mother, and with the cover of Stokes’s book featuring Cézanne’s painting, The Gardener Vallier (c.1906), depicting Vallier sitting on a wooden chair. It reminds Gregory of her therapist’s comfortable looking chair with wooden arms; and of her psychiatrist father’s ten year psychoanalytic treatment by Paula Heimann helping him keep going during the ‘stultifying depression’ that followed his divorce from Gregory’s mother after Andrew’s death aged twenty-six in 1977. This painting also reminds Gregory of a colleague of her father describing him as a ‘stoic’, this evoking an image of him sitting Vallier-like on a wooden chair.

Cézanne’s Vallier painting also brings to mind in Gregory her archive-based discoveries about her art collector relative, Frank Stoop, and his bequest of this painting and of other works of art to the Tate Gallery in London. Together with Freud saying ‘Humour is not resigned; it is rebellious … against the unkindness of real circumstances’, these discoveries remind Gregory of her mother, despite the problems posed by Andrew, smiling to herself as though ‘enjoying a joke her family will never understand’. To this Gregory links another item in the Stoop bequest, Cézanne’s painting, Still Life with Water Jug (c.1892-93). Reproduced on the cover of The Studio, it evokes in Gregory an image of her mother laying lunch – ‘bread and cheese and apples, jugs of water and wine to wash them down’.

Gregory follows this with Freud’s observations about a sculpture, Gradiva; with Stoop’s gift to the Tate of a sculpture, Red Stone Dancer (c.1913), by Gaudier-Brzeska: and with free associations they evoke in her. She then regales us with Freud’s account of his patient Sergei Pankieff’s dream about wolves; with Stoop’s bequest to the Tate of Gaudier-Brzeska’s sketches of animals; and with the story of Van Gogh and his painting, The Oise at Auvers (1890) – a painting she links with Van Gogh’s sunflower pictures and with Freud’s account of ‘[t]he Lernaean hydra with its countless flickering serpent’s heads’.

More amusing is Gregory’s quote from Freud’s dream of himself with his brother seeing a ‘breakfast-ship’ and her imagining her Russian émigré grandfather, Alexis Chodak-Gregory, on board. This leads her into telling his story. It includes the sale in 1949 at Sotheby’s of his collection of paintings by Constable, Gainsborough, Girton, and Turner. She ends, however, with the story of the modern artist, Christopher Nevinson, which she links with Freud describing a bridge as a symbol of ‘transitions or change’, and with the change symbolised for her by Nevinson’s painting, A Studio in Montparnasse (1926), shown in 2013 at an exhibition in the Dulwich Picture Gallery near where she now lives.

Unlike other combinations of art and psychoanalysis with which I began the combinations for which Gregory opts can seem overly haphazard relying as she does on what her free associations tell her. Nevertheless, through thereby tracing and movingly recounting the stories not only of artists but also those of her brother, father, and mother, and of her art collector relatives, Gregory provides an intriguing family saga akin to that tracked down by the potter, Edmund de Waal, in association to a tiny sculptured Japanese netsuke object in his book, The Hare with Amber Eyes.



[1] The Studio was published by Free Association Books in September 2015. Its author, Gill Gregory, is a poet and lecturer at University of Notre Dame in London. Its reviewer, Janet Sayers, is emeritus professor of psychoanalytic psychology at the University of Kent in Canterbury where she works as a clinical psychologist for the NHS. Her most recent book, Art, Psychoanalysis, and Adrian Stokes: A Biography, was published by Karnac in July 2015.

Shared Psychoanalysis Course Outlines

Today, the REFRAMING PSYCHOANALYSIS website makes public its online archive space for sharing downloadable psychoanalysis and humanities/arts related course outlines. The archive launches with the following syllabus:

If you have an outline you’d like to deposit with us to share online, please contact us at with details. Thank you.

2. “The baroque is the regulating of the soul by corporeal radioscopy”

REFRAMING PSYCHOANALYSIS presents the second in our series of SPEAKING LACANESE posts by Will Greenshields that seek to make legible Lacan’s various aphorisms and neologistic puns. If you disagree with the interpretation offered, have a suggestion as to how it might be improved, or would like to see a particular Lacanian phrase discussed here, please don’t hesitate to contact Will, or leave a comment below.

By Will Greenshields

Our second bit of Lacanese comes from p. 116 of Seminar XX: Encore (New York and London: Norton, 1998):

The baroque is the regulating of the soul by corporeal radioscopy.

One of the things that I most enjoy about reading Lacan is that the subject matter of his seminar sessions very often depended upon some contingent encounter (in this instance, a visit to Rome). The twenty-eight books of the Séminaire are neither the components of a philosophical Weltanschauung, nor a coherent, consistent and synthesised theoretical edifice. However, this is not to suggest that they are a scatty and ill-disciplined mess: what most often resulted from the numerous interdisciplinary confrontations between Lacan’s psychoanalytic insight and a cultural event or artefact was something precise. In his editorial preface to a series of books titled ‘Short Circuits’, Slavoj Žižek outlines the precepts of a mode of reading that is both anarchic and focused:

A short circuit occurs when there is a faulty connection in the network – faulty, of course, from the standpoint of the network’s smooth functioning. Is not the shock of short-circuiting, therefore, one of the best metaphors for a critical reading? Is not one of the most effective critical procedures to cross wires that do not usually touch: to take a major classic (text, author, notion) and read it in a short-circuiting way, through the lens of a ‘minor’ author, text, or conceptual apparatus (‘minor’ should be understood here in Deleuze’s sense: not ‘of lesser quality,’ but marginalized, disavowed by the hegemonic ideology, or dealing with a ‘lower,’ less dignified topic)? If the minor reference is well chosen, such a procedure can lead to insights which completely shatter and undermine our common perceptions. This is… what Freud and Nietzsche did with morality (short-circuiting the highest ethical notions through the lens of the unconscious libidinal economy). What such a reading achieves is not a simple ‘desublimation,’ a reduction of the higher intellectual content to its lower economic or libidinal cause; the aim of such an approach is, rather, the inherent decentring of the interpreted text, which brings to light its ‘unthought,’ its disavowed presuppositions and consequences.

In Lacan’s aphorism it is pretty clear between which crossed wires a short circuit is taking place: corporeality and the soul. As for the reading that spawned this aphorism, Lacan appears to have repeated the Freudian procedure: namely, ‘short-circuiting the highest ethical notions’ – the religious ecstasy, stimulated by God’s grace, that is exhibited by baroque sculpture – ‘through the lens of the unconscious libidinal economy.’ There are moments, however, when Lacan’s reading does not quite conform to what Žižek wants to call  ‘simple “desublimation”’. Having just returned from his sojourn around Rome’s collection of contorted marble bodies, Lacan bluntly told his audience that he had the impression of being confronted with an ‘orgy’ (SXX: 113). However, as we shall see from Lacan’s more considered observations, this is a very peculiar orgy, an orgy in which the sexual rapport is absent.

Before we concentrate on the aphorism itself, it’s worth briefly taking a look at some of Lacan’s other comments on the baroque. Whilst there is certainly a place for the transcendent and immaterial in Christian doctrine (e.g. the Holy Ghost or souls), it is also the case that it chiefly concerns ‘the incarnation of God in a body’: ‘Christ… is valued for his body, and his body is the means by which communion in his presence is incorporation – oral drive – with which Christ’s wife, the Church as it is called, contents itself very well, having nothing to expect from copulation.’ (Ibid: 113) Hence the cheap wine and tasteless wafers. In this regard, the Church’s conservative parish and celibate priests are more enlightened than those of us who do have something to expect from copulation and, to reverse one of Lacan’s most famous pronouncements, do believe that the sexual rapport – the faultless (comm)union of desirous subjects – exists.

That belief in the sexual rapport is a belief that the very same lack that has been caused by language (i.e. the impossibility of ontological unity for a subject that speaks, and is spoken of, with differential signifiers that interminably displace meaning) can be made good by language (i.e. the immaculate vocalisation of one’s own desire and the perfect comprehension of the Other’s desire). There is, in Lacan’s appraisal, a certain admiration for what we might call the Catholic Church’s polymorphous perversity, its renunciation of normative, genital sexuality in favour of the ‘oral drive’. It is through the consumption of a partial object that ‘Christ’s wife’ supports a perverse rapport and derives jouissance.

It is precisely this jouissance without copulation that Lacan witnesses in the baroque ‘orgy’:

In everything that followed from the effects of Christianity, particularly in art – and it’s in this respect that I coincide with the ‘baroquism’ with which I accept to be clothed – everything is exhibition of the body evoking jouissance… but without copulation. If copulation isn’t present, it’s no accident. It’s just as much out of place there as it is in human reality, to which it nevertheless provides sustenance with the fantasies by which reality is constituted…

[As an aside, it’s worth noting that Lacan is not contending that nobody copulates, just as when he says ‘il n’y a pas de rapport sexuel’ he is not contending that nobody has sexual relations: ‘copulation’ or the ‘rapport sexuel’ are simply bywords for a normative ideal – a perfect union of partners that negates lack and results in an ontological One – that cannot exist.]

…Nowhere, in any cultural milieu, has this exclusion been admitted to more nakedly… I will go so far as to tell you that nowhere more blatantly than in Christianity does the work of art as such show itself as what it has always been in all places – obscenity. (Ibid: 113)

This last observation is not that of a miffed Protestant, made rancorous by Roman excess: art, according to Lacan, is obscene because it offers both the artist and the viewer a jouissance that is, to cite one of his puns, ‘a-normal’ – a jouissance derived not from copulation but from an object (a) that covers an irreducible void at the heart of being. If bored by his priest’s monotone incantations, the church-goer can indulge his scopic drive, gazing at this exhibition of bodily jouissance as he picks the last bits of wafer (qua oral object) from his teeth. What is particularly obscene about baroque art is that it not only provides the viewer with a jouissance not derived from copulation but that this jouissance is so obviously its subject (‘everything is exhibition of the body evoking jouissance… but without copulation.’).

Lacan’s primary reference here is Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s The Ecstasy of St Teresa (1645-52). The artist’s tableau is very much an exhibition: Bernini’s clients, the Cornaro family, look on, as if occupying boxes in a theatre, while the Spanish nun experiences the rapturous jouissance – an affect somewhere between pleasure and pain – that she had described in her book of heavenly visions and visitations.

Speaking Lacanese 2

Here, most vividly, ‘[t]he dit-mension’ – the dimension of what is said (dit) – ‘of obscenity is that by which Christianity revives the religion of men’, converting subjects not through coercion and dry scripture but through an overwhelming spectacle of divine jouissance (Ibid: 113).

Whilst Lacan’s aphorism (‘The baroque is the regulating of the soul by corporeal radioscopy’) is hopefully starting to make a little more sense, we ought still ask what exactly he means by ‘the soul’. For Lacan, Aristotle’s decision in De Anima to align the activity of thinking with the soul (as separate from the body) was problematic because ‘Man does not think with his soul… He thinks as a consequence of the fact that a structure, that of language[,]… carves up his body… Witness the hysteric… Thought is in disharmony with the soul’ (Lacan, Television, p. 6).

In other words, discordant unconscious thought – the Lacanian unconscious that has the ‘structure… of language’ and is comprised of signifying chains obscurely knotted to traumas that these chains cannot assimilate – emerges at the level of the body in the form of psycho-somatic symptoms from which the subject derives a mixture of pleasure and pain: a jouissance without copulation. The unified and coherent body of which the ego, following the Mirror Stage, believes itself to be master, is ‘carve[d] up’, fragmented and disharmonious. ‘[T]he soul is what one [consciously] thinks regarding the body’; it is this imagined unity that egoic subjects believe themselves to be – not a body affected by thought but a body supposed by thought – and, as such, it is always in disharmony with unconscious thought (SXX: 110).

‘Witness the hysteric’, witness Bernini’s St Teresa: the baroque’s visions of bodily jouissance (its ‘corporeal radioscopy’) literally provided novel and Church-sanctioned regulations for the soul: out with ascetic self-discipline and in with uninhibited ecstasy. In much the same way, Charcot’s demonstrations provided a shocking insight into the extent to which the harmony between body and thought can unravel. In this sense the baroque is really more of a deregulation of the soul by corporeal radioscopy. I’d also note that the translator’s decision to render the French ‘scopie’ as ‘radioscopy’ is perhaps an unnecessary complication; it’s more likely that Lacan had in mind the Greek, skopéo , simply meaning to ‘look upon’ or ‘inspect.’

Finally, I’d like to return to the highly suggestive parenthetical remark that Lacan made in the long passage quoted above: his acceptance of being clothed in ‘baroquism’. He makes this same observation in an even more explicit fashion earlier in the session: ‘I am situated essentially on the side of the baroque.’ (SXX: 106) This declaration has always puzzled me and I’ve never managed to reach an entirely satisfactory conclusion: is it an allusion to Lacan’s own Catholic upbringing, a salacious admission of his own ‘obscenity’ or a reference to Freud’s theorisation of polymorphous perversity (and the concomitant refutation of the ideal of sexual normality qua ‘copulation’) on which Lacan builds? In Sensible Ecstasy, Mysticism, Sexual Difference, and the Demands of History (2002), Amy Hollywood provides an alternative explanation:

Baroque, as a seventeenth century style of artistic expression, is an art of excess in which the materiality of the signifier and/ or of representation constantly threatens to supersede signification and mimesis. Similarly Lacan’s baroque style impedes interpretation, suggesting that what is crucial in his work is not signification but that which goes beyond. Lacan here makes clear that the ultimate goal of psychoanalysis is not scientific knowledge but the eruption of affect in and through language. (162)

Baroque art sought not to inform the subject but to move him. In a happy coincidence, Hollywood cites, as an example of Lacan’s baroque style, the very same aphorism that we examined in the previous entry: ‘I demand that you refuse what I am offering you… because: it is not that.’ Here, ‘that’ should be thought of as equivalent to ‘copulation.’ We saw how the effect of this peculiar knotting of verbs goes beyond signification by enabling the object to ‘arise.’ Interestingly, the very same evidence that critics provide in support of the claim that Lacan was a sort of cult leader (i.e. his carefully cultivated baroque style) is precisely the evidence that absolves him: after all, a cult leader would demand that you accept what he is offering because it is that.

1. “I demand that you refuse what I am offering you… because: it is not that”

REFRAMING PSYCHOANALYSIS presents the first in a series of SPEAKING LACANESE posts by Will Greenshields that will seek to make legible Lacan’s various aphorisms and neologistic puns. If you disagree with the interpretation offered, have a suggestion as to how it might be improved, or would like to see a particular Lacanian phrase discussed here, please don’t hesitate to contact Will, or leave a comment below.

By Will Greenshields

Our first bit of Lacanese comes from the fifth session of Seminar XIX: …ou pire (1971-1972) (the unofficial English translation by Cormac Gallagher is available here:

I demand that you refuse what I am offering you… because: it is not that.
Je te demande/ de me refuser/ ce que je t’offre/ parce que: c’est pas ça. (SXIX 9/2/72)

At first glance this statement appears to be little more than a playful reiteration of a familiar Lacanian theme: the satisfaction of desire is impossible, the purpose of the analyst (present in this aphorism as ‘I’) is not to annul the subject’s lack in the fashion promised by today’s quasi-spiritual self-help books, ‘that [ça]’ – the extra-discursive object-cause of desire that would bring the divided subject ontological oneness – is impossible to attain, etc. The aphorism twice relays between ‘I’ and ‘you’ before abruptly concluding that nothing final and definitive can come of the communion between two desirous subjects.

Lacan seems to encourage this interpretation when he refers his audience to the famous aphorism that closes Wittgenstein’s Tractatus logico-philosophicus (‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent’), commenting that ‘it is very precisely… what one cannot speak about that is at stake [when I say]… it is not that’ (Ibid). However, rather than aligning himself with what he calls Wittgenstein’s ‘admirable asceticism’, Lacan makes a quite different claim about the function of his own aphorism: far from being just another pithy précis of the human condition, it instead does something (Ibid). This ‘formulation’, he would later reflect in Seminar XX, ‘is carefully designed to have an effect’ (111) – an effect that goes beyond the production of meaning, an effect that exceeds the sum of the aphorism’s constituent parts: ‘What I am leading you to is the following. Not to know… how meaning arises, but how it is from a knot of meaning that the object arises, the object itself’ (SXIX: 9/2/72). In other words, the aphorism somehow makes present that which cannot be spoken about. How exactly does it accomplish this?

Here, Lacan’s object (a) or ‘that [ça]’ should be thought of less as a ‘thing-in-itself’ that exists beyond or prior to language and more of a structural impasse that is very much internal to language, a consequence of language’s formal properties. The signifier is differential, the desirous subject cannot achieve self-identical meaning in language; whatever he asks for and whatever another subject understands that he is asking for is always ‘not that.’ Later in Seminar XIX Lacan remarks that the object (a) ‘is always between each of the signifiers and the one that follows’ – a structural fault that leaves the spoken and speaking subject, as that which one signifier represents for another signifier, ‘gaping’ and unable to merge these differential signifiers together (to produce signification without gaps) by immaculately articulating his desire (SXIX: 21/6/72). The object is not simply beyond language; it is really more of a beyond produced by language, an impasse created by the fact that signifiers cannot signify themselves. It is for this reason that Lacan argues that ‘[w]e are confronted with it at every instant of our existence’ (SXIX: 9/2/72). That is to say, we are confronted with it as absent. If it were simply non-existent or beyond language it wouldn’t bother us; instead, it exists as that which is missed by language.

Lacan is not suggesting that his aphorism has achieved the impossible by circumventing the logic of signifier and closing the gap but that the object ‘arises’ from it as missed, thereby demonstrating how the object is not absent from language but is instead an absence internal to language. In other words, Lacan is not seeking to make the impossible possible but to better demarcate the impossible. Now, all this talk of structural gaps seems to imply that a certain visualisable space is at stake and Lacan fiddles about with several figures in order to show the paradoxical space that the object occupies. Remember that whilst it is not assimilated into the signifying chain it is also not definitively excluded:


The above figure shows the object dropping out of the aphorism’s matrix of verbs and pronouns. It does not, however, sufficiently testify to the way in which the object is both the structural ground of Lacan’s aphorism – it literally being this aphorism’s object, the ‘something’ that this aphorism is about, the motivation for Lacan to demand that we refuse what he is offering – and its gap. If we assume the object’s straightforward absence, the three-verbed construction collapses. With the ‘it is not that’ removed, there would be no reason for Lacan to demand that you refuse what he is offering. It is through its absence that the object is present as the aphorism’s support. Furthermore, if the negatively denoted object is the necessary support of this construction, the latter is also the necessary support of the former: if we lose any one of the verbs, ‘that’ becomes completely non-existent because the construction supporting it collapses (e.g. what would it mean for Lacan to demand that you refuse if he had not made an offer?). Far from pre-existing the statement, the object instead arises as its effect.

It is in this fashion that the aphorism perfectly captures the structural paradox of language – i.e. that language’s beyond is internal to language and that, as any psychoanalyst would doubtless testify, the subject cannot stop speaking about that which he cannot speak about. The failure of diagrams, such as the one reproduced above, to adequately present the structural ‘place’ of an object that is neither completely excluded nor an assimilated part of the chain, forms the prelude to the introduction of a topological structure that will dominate Lacan’s later seminars: the Borromean knot:


Like the aphorism that it represents, the Borromean knot requires three components to hold together. It is knotted in such a fashion that no two of its rings can remain together when one is removed; it either subsists as a three or not at all. The effect of this knotting is to produce a hole – a hole that disappears when one of the components is lost. It is in this hole – that is both beyond the materiality of the knot and integral to it – that Lacan places the object (a).

VIDEO: Sigmund Freud – Thinkers for our Time

Video recording of the event which took place on Wednesday 25 November 2015 at
The British Academy, 10-11 Carlton House Terrace, London, SW1Y 5AH

Chaired by Professor Laura Marcus FBA, University of Oxford

The work of Freud has shaped ideas, discussion and social discourse since the start of the twentieth century. This event revisited his key ideas and the influence they have had on society over the past hundred years.

This event was the first in a series re-examining the life and works of influential historical figures from across the humanities and social sciences, exploring the important and continuing influences they have on society and debating their place as key thinkers for our time.


Professor Stephen Frosh, Birkbeck, University of London
Professor Ankhi Mukherjee, University of Oxford
Dr Shohini Chaudhuri, University of Essex
Dr Jana Funke, University of Exeter