I went into it the same way I usually do, without much research ahead of time. I’m a big believer that letting the plot unfold organically is one of the things that makes the experience so special. It’s also one of the reasons why rewatching never quite has the same impact.

Released on February 29, 1980 (the day of the leap year), this weird little project was the directorial debut of William Peter Blatty, the writer of The Exorcist, both the novel and the screenplay. The Ninth Configuration is the second installment in The Trilogy of Faith, a loosely linked collection of films that includes The Exorcist (1973) and The Exorcist III (1990). However, don’t be fooled, aside from a religious undercurrent that runs so deep, it comes to a boil before splattering all over the kitchen at the end, it doesn’t really have much in common with the two Exorcist movies.

At first, it feels like M*A*S*H on acid, but then you wake up in a cold sweat and realize it was all part of a fever dream. Starring Stacey Keach (the cop from Cheech & Chong’s Up in Smoke) and Scott Wilson (that old guy from The Walking Dead), the film is an existential thriller masked as a slapstick comedy under a looming cloud of darkly surreal scenes and Barry De Vorzon’s masterfully executed, oh so very haunting, intense but subtly restrained soundtrack.

The movie succeeds in ways that many would fail. It starts with an ambiguous plot predicated on Vietnam veterans suffering from mental illness, overlaid with comedic dialogue. Watching this for the first time, I didn’t know how to feel. Should I be laughing? Should I be uncomfortable? Am I supposed to ruminate on the tragic effects of war?

One thing was certain: I was captivated by the sheer beauty of it all. I’ve always been drawn to the texture of 35mm film from the 1970s and 1980s. The setting was pretty cool too, the majority of which was set in an eclectic European region. Filming locations included the famous Castle Eltz in West Germany, while the courtyard scenes were filmed in Vienna, Austria. The dream sequences felt convincingly dream-like, reminiscent of 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) mashed together with Altered States (1980).

That psychedelic quality is on full display in perhaps my favorite scene in the movie. An astronaut is planting the American flag on the moon as De Vorzon’s soundtrack conjures an ominous vibe. The camera then pans out to a crucified Jesus Christ (also on the moon), a few yards away.

The scene, which is a dream, of course, is accompanied by a voiceover by Keach, saying:

“In order for life to have appeared spontaneously on earth, there first had to be hundreds of millions of protein molecules. The ninth configuration. But given the size of the planet earth, do you know how long it would take for just one of these protein molecules to appear entirely by chance? Roughly ten to the two hundred and forty-third power. Billions of years. And I find that far more fantastic than simply believing in a god.”

Other notable scenes benefited from strong dialogue as well, such as a claim by one of the veterans that he can walk through walls by rearranging his atoms. There’s an excellent one-liner, where a patient says to the doctor: “I believe in the devil alright. You know why? Because the prick keeps doing commercials.” The writing maintains this level of awesomeness right through to the end. But the most impressive thing is how the cinematography, the music, and the acting all keep pace.

This is a film that fires on all cylinders. It has all the makings of a classic, being that it contains something for everyone, as all good films should. Not only is it critically acclaimed, but it deals with perhaps the biggest question there is: Does God exist? While it sets out to answer this by examining human behavior, if you haven’t already guessed, nothing here is straightforward.

Against Inquisition

One of the GOATs of the literary essay, Susan Sontag, had a lot to say on the matter. In her revolutionary essay, “Against Interpretation,” she argued that art need not contain hidden meanings, and the point of engaging is not to uncover what it’s all about. Instead, it should be thought of as a sensual experience, like food, going on a drive with the top down, or sex. What does it feel like to view it, read it or listen to it? That’s my interpretation at least (pun intended).

“The fact is, all Western consciousness of and reflection upon art have remained within the confines staked out by the Greek theory of art as mimesis or representation. It is through this theory that art as such—above and beyond given works of art—becomes problematic, in need of defense. And it is the defense of art which gives birth to the odd vision by which something we have learned to call “form” is separated off from something we have learned to call “content,” and to the well-intentioned move which makes content essential and form necessary.”

-Susan Sontag, Against Interpretation

This split is problematic because it assumes a bifurcation of artistic intent. It assumes the artist regards each work she creates as a composite of two individual components: content and form. While content more or less has to do with what the work tries to communicate, form is predicated on style as much as the overall structure of the piece. The unfortunate reality of which Sontag is speaking is that whether a work of art is a realistic representation, or an abstract expression, the questions remain the same: what does it mean, what is its purpose, what is its content?

However, content and form can be one and the same. Art doesn’t need to harbor an intrinsic meaning. The form, being the style or structure, implies meaning in itself through the sensory experience it provokes and its inherent existence. That’s what Gass maintained regarding the role of literary language, and I believe that’s the argument Sontag begins to put forth dialectically.

Before this, however, she shows that the issue transcends bifurcation, or the divorced function of “form” and “content”, and comments on the larger problem: the hierarchy historically placed on one over the other, dictating not only which should be prioritized with respect to creation, but also with respect to engagement:

“Even in modern times, when most artists and critics have discarded the theory of art as representation of an outer reality in favor of the theory of art as subjective expression, the main feature of the mimetic theory persists. Whether we conceive of the work of art on the model of a picture (art as a picture of reality) or on the model of statement (art as the statement of the artist), content still comes first.”

-Susan Sontag, Against Interpretation

As a writer and photographer, I can attest that this is extremely annoying. It creates a toxic relationship between the artist and the act of creating, where they feel they must answer a question about their work, which in many cases hasn’t even been asked yet. Not only is it stifling, but it leads to stale work, at least for me.

There are times when I get so tired of thinking about how the invisible audience will respond to what I’m creating that I begin to break every single rule that constitutes a logical approach. I shoot photos that lack a clear subject, where lines sometimes appear hardly to exist; I write what any good critic would consider “purple prose” because it doesn’t really say anything at all, so burdened by descriptive nonsense it is, with mixed metaphors and all that stuff, or whatever.

There was a period of my life when I stopped reading novels to understand. I’ve oscillated back and forth with this approach, depending on what I’m reading. For more avant-garde works, like Marguerite Duras’s The Malady of Death and other gems from the Nouveau Roman movement, and even some Richard Brautigan stuff, like Trout Fishing in America and In Watermelon Sugar (an all-time favorite of mine), I aim to experience the work as if my mind is a drive-in theater, and I’m there just watching the scenes unfold.

Even if the mental image it provokes is mixed up or confusing, the point is that it results in a vivid thought, an intense feeling. That’s not to say there is no “content,” or meaning, but those works mean so much more to me than that (see what I did there).

“Interpretation does not, of course, always prevail. In fact, a great deal of today’s art may be understood as motivated by a flight from interpretation. To avoid interpretation, art may become parody. Or it may become abstract. Or it may become non-art.”

-Susan Sontag, Against Interpretation

And this is where Pollock and Abstract Expressionism come in, as well as many other great movements, such as Rothko and Color Field Painting, Charles Olson and Projective Verse Poetry, some of the more avant-garde deconstructed prose of Samuel Beckett, like The Unnamable, and the dreamy unconventional cinema of Alain Resnais, particularly The Last Year at Marienbad, which just so happened to be penned by Nouveau Roman’s own Alain Robbe-Grillet.

Over the last hundred years, there have been so many artistic movements, so many artists setting out to see just how far they could take their respective mediums, that there are no shortage of examples of trailblazers avoiding, or rather escaping interpretation. Those who solely seek to interpret mistakenly assume that finding meaning is the ultimate goal. Perhaps they do this because it’s human nature to try to make sense of it all by finding some hidden meaning. But why should one’s creation be conflated with another’s existential pursuit?

Personally, I don’t want my work to be engaged with if that’s the ultimate goal. Maybe that’s arrogant, or ignorant in the way that it ignores any notion of audience altogether, but that’s not the point. I bring my art into the world, like parents bring their children into the world, by having a bit of fun. Sometimes it’s by accident and other times it’s on purpose, but at the end of the day, I just want to put something out there I can be proud of. And if it leaves a positive impression, I have even more reason to be proud. The simple fact that a piece of me exists on its own out there is why I do it.

And not everything in life needs to be outcome oriented. There’s a real argument to be made that many artists create simply because the act of creating brings a level of balance to their lives that otherwise wouldn’t be there.

“What is important now is to recover our senses. We must learn to see more to hear more, to feel more.

Our task is not to find the maximum amount of content in a work of art, much less to squeeze more content out of the work than is already there. Our task is to cut back content so that we can see the thing at all.”

-Susan Sontag, Against Interpretation

Keep in mind that this was published in 1964, during the emergence of postmodernism, abstract art, the avant-garde, and arthouse cinema. Since then, there has been a return to content and easy-to-follow messaging that usually serves a higher purpose than aesthetics, whether that be social commentary or an appeal to get humanity to reengage with its morality.

Art as a Vessel

Since the publication of Sontag’s landmark essay, new approaches to literature have emerged, such as the New Sincerity Movement, a revolt against postmodernism’s revolt against the sententious works of the 19th century. From my understanding, this marked a return to meaning-oriented work that moved away from abstraction and opacity. With this general shift came greater value placed on art that serves a purpose.

Much of today’s art seeks to break the chains of marginalized groups and eradicate the long, unfair tradition of literary inequality perpetuated by the ubiquitous white-male voice that has dominated the novel for hundreds of years.

While this is not only understandable, but necessary, has there been too much emphasis on art as a means for change? Has the pendulum swung too far, where both utilitarian works, developed to stoke social change, and more experimental works, created to shatter boundaries, cannot coexist among literary critics and academia, who decide what gets awarded, promoted and taught?

There was a time when the prevailing literature did both. Just read the first few pages of Emile Zola’s landmark social realist novel Germinal, constructed with poetically attractive language, but convincingly communicating the labor struggles of the economically disadvantaged. Dostoevsky did this as well with Demons, and its harsh depiction of a socialist revolution gone wrong, and if you want something that straddles the avant-garde, postmodern way of critiquing government, look no further than Vladimir Sorokin’s Blue Lard, or his short story collection, The Red Pyramid and Other Stories. And those are just a few examples. Then of course there are the legendary works that came from black authors depicting inequality and racial injustice, such as James Baldwin’s bibliography, Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man and Toni Morrison’s greatest novels, most notably The Bluest Eye and Beloved, praised by William Gass, who famously labeled her work “operatic realism.”

Today, however, specifically in the U.S., I feel as though artistically daring work isn’t given the same spotlight as work that clearly, and often plainly, articulates important messages surrounding our country’s most pressing issues.

To be fair, we have a lot that needs to be talked about in an easy-to-comprehend, digestible fashion, because, after all, we don’t want the message to get lost or the efficacy to be diminished, but not only are there many avenues to incite social change, and believe me, I’m not saying art isn’t one, but I’m not sure it needs to be treated as the sole vessel, and if it is used that way, does the aesthetic edge need to be dulled?

Permission to Exist

I personally believe art should be allowed to exist regardless of content. It should be celebrated for its beauty, even if that’s all it has to offer.

The poetry, the novels, the photography, the music, the movies, the paintings, none of it has to “mean anything” for me to enjoy it. There doesn’t need to be a message. I’m fully aware that for others that may not be the case. And to each their own. But anyone who participates in this thing we call artistry knows it’s primarily about how the thing makes you feel. Whether you feel good, bad, happy, sad, enlightened, stupid, confused, the point is it affected you, dare I say moved you.

I want things that move me, not things that feel repetitive because repetition erodes impact. The more we experience something the same way with the same “message” is, frankly, the less moving it is, and perhaps even the less memorable. If the sensual impact is lost, it no longer results in that “special feeling” that only art is capable of producing.

You may not care, but I’m going to continue creating things that I believe are beautiful because they make me feel something. There will likely never be a hidden agenda or explicit message. My only hope is that people look beyond meaning, stop trying to interpret it and simply just experience it.

I hope artists continue to push boundaries and inspire others to pursue new frontiers they didn’t know existed. Without that, art stops being art. I also hope the world becomes a better place, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of experimentation and innovation.

Drunk driving. East Hampton, New York. August 11, 1956. Forty-four years old. Abstract Expressionism.

While they were both relatively young when they died, the similarities for the most part end there, had it not been for the fact they were each among the most famous artists of their generations. However, they died over 420 years apart, nearly 4,300 miles away, and from two totally different causes.

Raphael and Jackson Pollock were undisputed masters in their respective movements. Immortalized in the immense, highly influential bodies of work they left behind, the world will likely talk about them until the end of time.

But why am I talking about them? Because—aside from being a major fan—by taking a look at some of their distinct traits and what they meant for the evolution of not just painting, but all art, I’m able to take a deeper look at my own artistic philosophy and predilections.

High on Renaissance

Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, commonly known as Raphael, one-third of the great masters of the High Renaissance (which included Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo), was nearly unparalleled during his lifetime when it came to artistic representation.

Commissioned by the likes of Pope Julius II to paint many of the most famous works in the Apostolic Palace at the Vatican, such as The School of Athens, a fresco depicting western civilization’s greatest thinkers, such as Plato and Aristotle alongside Socrates and Pythagoras, Raphael conceived of a body of work, which included hundreds of standalone paintings, drawings, sketches and tapestries, and also featured incredibly detailed and innovative portraits of wealthy patrons, his friends and of course himself.

Anatomy was extremely important during this time, with many painters expending vast amounts of energy pushing the boundaries of how subsequent artists would depict the human body and facial features for centuries to come.

This goes to show that representation, whether it be who the paintings were portraying, how accurately the models were captured, or simply the story being told, was the pinnacle of artistic achievement.

The art of painting in Western Europe continued to evolve, ushering in the Baroque period’s extreme contrast between light and dark, as seen in works by Caravaggio and Rubens; Neoclassicism’s smooth scenes of self-sacrifice, popularized by Jacques-Louis David’s academic studies; Romanticism’s lush, vibrant landscapes, dramatized by Casper David Friedrich; Impressionism’s depiction of a world filled with breath and motion, achieved by the groundbreaking techniques of Monet and Van Gogh; the Surrealism of Dali; the cubism of Picasso.

Breaking Boundaries

But beyond merely listing different movements, let’s zoom in on one in particular: action painting, a form of abstract expressionism popularized by Willem de Kooning, Franz Kline and Jackson Pollock.

These guys were known as The New York School and kicked off a whole new dimension of modern art, marking a drastic paradigm shift. While it broke from traditional approaches, like its predecessor impressionism, it actually took things a step further.

In an effort to not just break boundaries but take a stick of dynamite and blow them into particle dust, Pollock, the central figure of the movement, decided he wasn’t going to depict the outside world at all, opting instead to focus on the world within.

This meant portraits, landscapes, biblical tales, literature-inspired themes, all that stuff was out the window. The goal now was to depict raw emotion, energy through the painters’ physical movements, hence action painting.

Treating the canvas as an object to be looked at, not looked through for a deeper meaning or narrative, emotional evocation was the prime objective. How did the physical appearance of the canvas, not what it represented, affect you?

Gass, Ether, Ethereal, Ephemerality, Beauty

One of my favorite authors and arguably one of the greatest literary theorists of all time, William Gass, held strong beliefs surrounding the role of literature, particularly the literary language found in poetry and novels, as opposed to scientific or journalistic prose. He saw literary works as architecture, opaque and full of structures not solely for serving a utilitarian function but instead intended to be admired in their own right.

His postmodern masterpiece, The Tunnel, is jarring at first, but such a remarkable example of how one can truly make the language sing. Dealing with highly disturbing subject matter from the perspective of one the most bigoted, selfish, and an altogether nasty individuals of twentieth century literature, the novel is built from Gass stringing sentences together in a manner as sublime as Milton’s Paradise Lost. Here’s a brief example, sans any “relevant” context:

“I told Martha once more about the time a bolt of lightning struck a landing window at the very moment my mother was descending the stairs, and how powered glass had filled her hair so it looked like the head of a fall weed, the bolt blowing away her blood, too, like foam from a beer, and leaving her faint. Later, after she had had shock treatment and her hair was white with alcohol and age, she would be disoriented again as she was then.”

-William Gass, The Tunnel

He aimed to elevate language so it would transcend an existence solely intended for interpretation. Beyond just conveying a message, the language itself was to be the point. The way it sat on the page, the feeling of the words in the mouth. In direct opposition of scientific, philosophic or journalistic writing, the primary objective was to rise above merely communicating, and to exist as a work of art in itself.

“I can hold a stone to the light, set it in silver, let it decorate my finger, even permit it to reveal my marital intentions, but I’m not supposed to walk through Kant as through a cathedral, admiring the beauties of the nave, transept, and choir, curious about the catacombs, dubious about the dome, and positively frightened by the spire.”

-William Gass, Carrots, Noses, Snow, Rose, Roses, from his 1978 essay collection World Within the Word

At times he could be hilariously sarcastic, hammering home a point with elaborate irony just to illustrate just how serious he was about literature’s true role:

“Only the writer who writes to provide such carless strolls is worse, they say. This villain who puts words together with no intention of stating, hoping, praying, or persuading… only imagining, only creating… is to many immoral, certainly frivolous, a trivial person in a time of trouble (and what time is not?), a parasite upon whatever scrofulous body the body politic possesses at that moment. And roses are intolerably frivolous too, and those who grow them, and snowmen and those who raise them up, and drinking songs and drinking, and every activity performed for its own inherent worth.”

-William Gass, Carrots, Noses, Snow, Rose, Roses, from his 1978 essay collection World Within the Word

Even when articulating the anti-utilitarian role of literature, and art as a whole if you think about it (and yes, that means not everything needs to have a message that requires decoding), he’s still using language in the most dazzling way. One can sit back and appreciate the beauty of the words, like a fine wine or an autumn breeze, ruminating on his sentences, brick by brick, as they’re absorbed through the membrane of the mind.

World Within the Word also features a thought-provoking essay, which takes a critical stance on Jean Paul Sartre as he began advocating for the “People’s Theatre,” intended to serve a higher social purpose through the art of drama. According to Gass, the issue was that Sartre, admittedly one of the most important philosophers of his time, who also happened to be a major advocate for socialism in France in the 1960s, made a name for himself attacking the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie, known for their materialism and their steadfast belief in the individual pursuit of happiness, also placed a high value on utilitarianism.

Like Pollock, Gass’s ultimate goal was not representation. When the critics say: “Yes, this is nice, but what does it mean,” they are simply missing the point. It means nothing more than what it is: a string of words, a collection of brush strokes. I believe the more important question will always be: “How does it make you feel?”

(Continued in Part II)

The Gita states that the world as we know it, including the hierarchal importance we place on the objects and the people who populate it, is a culmination of Maya, a mirage of sorts, which shrouds the truth from those who have yet to attain the final stage of transcendence. Hindu philosophy describes this as Moksha, which is when the Atman, the eternal self, is freed from the chains of samsara, or reincarnation, and returns to its rightful place, the Brahman, the divine spirit which animates everything.

Conceptually, the Atman-Brahman relationship is built on the belief that we are all one, and individuality, which includes our mind and perception, is a false reality. Not only does this mean that personas are merely an illusion, but it also means that the hardship to which we react, the “we” that does the reacting, and even our reaction itself, are all illusions as well.

Furthermore, our pre-reflective tendency to embody different personas according to the setting in which we find ourselves is a product of the same falsehood that comprises reflective consciousness, otherwise known as our awareness of our own individuality.

So, do we really become someone other than ourselves when confronted with different circumstances? Are we ever really ourselves to begin with? Do we even exist? Does any of it actually matter? Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. But it is fun to think about.

At present, you can only be sure of one thing: you, or someone you believe yourself to be, has made it to the end of this essay.

If you’ve never heard of him, you should know that aside from being an extraordinary craftsman of poetry spanning everything from metaphysics to the mundanities of everyday life, he wrote from the standpoint of over seventy different heteronyms (in the literary sense, not the linguistic one), all of whom had distinct personalities, perspectives and writing styles.

While his work was fairly well known in Portugal during his lifetime, he didn’t achieve international recognition until years after he died. Further cementing his legacy was The Book of Disquiet, which wasn’t published until 1982. Structured as a myriad of diary entries on a wide range of subjects, it was compiled from unpublished notes and letters found in a trunk. In a fitting manner, the author of the book is listed as Bernardo Soares, a fictional bookkeeper in downtown Lisbon and one of Pessoa’s most renowned heteronyms.

While I could go on and on about Pessoa and the impact he’s had on me not only as a writer and a thinker, but as a human being, we must stick to the task at hand, which, thankfully, the nature of his artistry has made quite easy.

In doing so, we must ask ourselves why a writer of such enviable talent would publish his work under the guise of fictional characters. While I don’t believe he ever revealed why, there is an undeniable history of people developing personas as a defense mechanism, as previously discussed.

If multiplicity is inextricably linked to maturity (my bold claim at the start of this essay), and maturity arises from confronting the hardships of the world, then one can surmise that the development of multiple personas may be an adaptation to hardship experienced at the hands of others.

For this to be true, Pessoa would also have had to experience hardship of this nature. Luckily, we have The Book of Disquiet:

“I sometimes think with sad pleasure that if, one day in a future to which I will not belong, these sentences I write should be met with praise, I will at last have found people who ‘understand’ me, my own people, a real family to be born into and to be loved by. But far from being born into that family, I will be long dead by then. I will be understood only in effigy, and then affection can no longer compensate the dead person for lack of love he felt when alive.”

He is clearly stating that he felt unappreciated. He did not feel loved; he did not feel understood. Could the multiplicity of authorship, of approaches to writing and viewing the world, be his way of attempting a multitude of different routes to reaching the same destination: acceptance?

And what of his self? What did this indefatigable armor have to say about what it was trying to defend? Looked at another way, what was it afraid of letting out?

“The human soul is a madhouse of caricatures. If a soul could reveal itself entirely, if its need for concealment did not go far deeper than all its known and named acts of ignominy, it would, as people say of the truth, be a very deep well indeed, a sinister well, full of vague echoes, inhabited by ignoble lives, dead slime, lifeless slugs, the snot of subjectivity.”

Fear of judgement. Fear of condemnation. While I can’t speak for Pessoa, I can honestly say the masks I’ve worn throughout my own life have been for defense against judgement, perhaps even of my own ignobility and subjectivity. Whether or not you’d like to admit it (or are aware for that matter), I’m sure you do the same. After all, it’s only natural we develop personas. I mean it is human nature.

(Continued in Part IV)

Not long after the start of the film, we’re introduced to the two main characters: Alma, played by Bibi Andersson, who is assigned as the personal nurse to troubled actress Elisabet Vogler, portrayed by Liv Ullmann.

After suffering a nervous breakdown, Elisabet takes a vow of silence, cloaked as vocal catatonia, and is admitted to an institution. While it’s not initially clear why or how Elisabet’s mental state has resulted in her inability to speak, it’s eventually revealed to be intentional.

The head doctor asks Alma, who’s initially bookish and slightly reserved, to take Elisabet to her summer home in the Swedish countryside, where they’ll be alone, hoping the peaceful environment will act as a cure.

One of the highlights of the film, and perhaps the most relevant to this essay, comes when Alma, who’s been talking to Elisabet about everything under the sun in an attempt to provide multiple opportunities to reciprocate conversation, reveals one of her biggest secrets. Prompted by sheer loneliness, boredom and a general yearning to break the silence of an exceptionally uncomfortable trip, she goes deep into monologue, allowing Bergman to play on the dirtiest strings of your imagination.

Although some level of detail is necessary to make this work, I hesitate to reveal too much, because you should eventually watch this movie, you really should. It encompasses two of the greatest performances by any actor in history. In this particular scene, Alma recaps a spontaneous foursome, an orgy, where she gives herself to two men spying on her and another woman as they sunbathe in the nude on a secluded beach.

It goes something like this:

When Alma’s husband goes into town to run errands, she goes to the beach, where she meets another woman and they sunbathe naked. The other woman represents a freedom Alma wishes she had—at least that’s how she makes it seem when she describes their respective reactions upon discovering two men watching them from the rocks above.

When Alma complains to the other woman, the latter flips onto her back, giving them a full show, and says something to the tune of, “who cares, let them watch.” Alma, clearly the more reserved of the two, stays on her stomach, hiding as much as she can, while the other woman ups the ante and calls the men over.

Her friend starts getting it on with one of them while the other guy watches. Then Alma has sex with the same guy and lets him finish inside her. After a short while, both women do it all over again, only this time with the one who was watching. Later that night, Alma has dinner with her husband and makes love to him. When she finishes telling the story, she says something to Elisabet like, “Is it possible to be two people at the same time?”

Now this is where Bergman reveals something much deeper than the question with which Alma nearly breaks the fourth wall. She wasn’t just two people, she was many. There’s the Alma telling the story, who doesn’t seem capable of the actions she’s describing to Elisabet. Then there are multiple Almas within the story.

There’s the Alma who likely kisses her unsuspecting husband goodbye as they go their separate ways for the day (note: whether or not he knows where she’s going is not explicitly stated); there’s the Alma who goes to the beach and sunbathes in the nude with the other woman (this is the same Alma who’s initially shocked when her friend has no problem letting the men peep); there’s the Alma who can’t seem to look away as she finds herself fascinated with the uninhibited nature of the other woman (this Alma is no longer disturbed by the presence of the men, but curious instead); there’s the Alma who not only has sex with the same man, but also with his friend afterward; then there’s the Alma who goes home like nothing ever happened (albeit harboring a secret), has dinner with her husband and makes love to him.

How did we get here? On a Shakespearean level, Bergman gives us a masterclass in the multiplicity of persona so real it threatens to break through our tv screens and kickstart a process of self-reflection years of therapy couldn’t induce. And it doesn’t end there.

Alma finds out Elisabet has been corresponding with the doctor via post, writing letters judging her for what she revealed. In an act of pure genius, Bergman gives us yet another Alma: one that is quieter, on her guard, angry and eventually vindictive. Alma adopts these traits as a defense mechanism against her adversary, which isn’t too dissimilar from how many of us act when we’re burned for revealing parts of ourselves we should’ve otherwise kept hidden.

One could say this is all the same Alma; she’s just changing as circumstances arise. And they would be right. That’s what makes us human. Otherwise, we’d just be static, predictable characters in some cartoon strip, like Dennis the Menace or Archie. However, the interesting thing isn’t necessarily the change, it’s the catalyst of change. Alma’s story supports the notion that we are in fact a product of our environment. The company we keep brings about different versions of ourselves. Just think, would we be anywhere near as dynamic if we lived in solitude? Would multiple personas still have reason to exist?

(Continued in Part III)

If we can agree on that premise, it becomes necessary to ask why we accumulate such undesirable traits as we pass through life? The straightforward answer is that the world is a tough place, and we must toughen up in order to survive it.

While there is much to discuss on immorality, to which volumes of works have been dedicated, I’m personally more interested in duplicity, and more specifically, multiplicity. However, on this too, there is no shortage of analyses, particularly within the field of psychology.

Popularized by Swiss psychologist Carl Jung in the early 20th century and derived from the Latin word for masks worn by actors, persona is defined as the psychological mask presented by individuals in various social situations (i.e., work, school, friendship, romantic relationship, family, etc.). The idea is that people put on a different mask for each setting. Jung believed that not only was it healthy and natural to possess various masks, but by acknowledging this reality and ensuring no single persona becomes overly dominant, one can move between roles while continuing to properly function in society. In other words, he believed it was an essential element of human nature.

The persona has been the central theme of countless dramatic works on the stage, the page and the screen. But the reason I’m interested transcends that.

Paradoxically, while I pride myself on possessing a high level of self-awareness, I’m self-aware enough to know that my own multiplicity gets in the way of knowing and expressing my true, authentic self. This is a hard pill to swallow as an artist and a writer, as both disciplines require raw, unfiltered communication. Then how do I rationalize this? By acknowledging that it’s one of life’s many inevitabilities.

At a certain age, human beings begin to consciously, and many times unconsciously, select from a multitude of selves, depending on where they’re interacting and with whom they’re interacting. If that sounds like a bold, unsubstantiated claim, let’s make a brief appeal to empirical reasoning.

When you’re at work, are you the same person as when you’re with your family at home? How about when you’re with them in public? And what about when you’re by yourself in public? Does that differ from who you are when you’re by yourself at home? There are countless social environments that bring about different emotions, personality traits and thought patterns. That’s what Jung is referring to when he speaks of persona. 

(Continued in Part II)