cared to deliver a paper. I called and declined and she sounded relieved.
“But it would be nice if you at least welcomed the attendees,” she said.
“Would it?”
“Yes.” She hung up.
I did show up on the first day to offer brief words of welcome and, unable to escape graciously, remained on stage for the entire morning, with the other co-chair — Harvey Rosenblatt, the psychiatrist from New York. Trying to feign interest as Katarina strode to the podium, wondering if I’d see another side of her, softened for public consumption.
Not that there was much of a public. Attendance was thin — maybe seventy or eighty therapists and graduate students in an auditorium that seated four hundred.
She introduced herself by name and title, then read a prepared speech in a strident monotone. She favored complex, meandering sentences that lost meaning by the second or third twist, and soon the audience was looking glazed. But she didn’t seem to care — didn’t seem to be talking to anyone but herself.
Reminiscing about her father’s glory days.
Such as they were.
Anticipating the symposium, I’d taken the time to review Andres de Bosch’s collected writings, and I hadn’t raised my opinion of him.
His prose style was clear, but his theories about child rearing — the good love/bad love spectrum of maternal involvement that his daughter had used to title the conference — seemed nothing more than extensions and recombinations of other people’s work. A little Anna Freud here, a little Melanie Klein there, tossed with croutons of Winnicott, Jung, Harry Stack Sullivan, Bruno Bettelheim.
He leavened the obvious with clinical anecdotes about the children he’d treated at his school, managed to work both his Vienna pilgrimage and his war experiences into his summaries, name dropping and adopting the overly casual manner of one truly self-impressed.
Emperor’s new clothes, and the audience at the conference didn’t show any great excitement. But from the rapt look on Faithful Daughter’s face, she thought it was cashmere.
By the second day, attendance was down by half and even the speakers on the dais — three L.A.-based analysts — looked unhappy to be there. I might have felt sorry for Katarina, but she seemed unaware of it all, continuing to flash slides of her father — dark-haired and goateed in healthier days — working at a big, carved desk surrounded by talismans and books, drawing in crayon with a young patient, writing in the brandied light of a Tiffany lamp.
Then another batch: posing with his arm around
her —
even as a teenager, she’d looked old, and they could have been lovers — followed by shots of a blanket-swaddled old man sunk low in an electric wheelchair, positioned atop a high, brown bluff. Behind him the ocean was beautiful and blue, mocking his senescence.
A sad variation upon the home-movie trap. The few remaining attendees looked away in embarrassment.
Harvey Rosenblatt seemed especially pained; I saw him shade his eyes and study some scribbled notes that he’d already read from.
A tall, shambling, gray-bearded fellow in his forties, he struck up a conversation with me as we waited for the afternoon session to begin. His warmth seemed more than just therapeutic veneer. Unusually forthcoming for an analyst, he talked easily about his practice in mid-Manhattan, his twenty-year marriage to a psychologist, and the joys and challenges of raising three children. The youngest was a fifteen-year-old boy whom he’d brought with him.
“He’s back at the hotel,” he said, “watching movies on pay-TV — probably the dirty ones, right? I promised to get back in an hour and take him out to Disneyland — do you have any idea how late they’re open?”
“During the winter, I think only till six or so.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “Guess we’ll have to do that tomorrow; hopefully, Josh can deal with it.”
“Does he like arcade games?” I said.
“Does a duck
“But it would be nice if you at least welcomed the attendees,” she said.
“Would it?”
“Yes.” She hung up.
I did show up on the first day to offer brief words of welcome and, unable to escape graciously, remained on stage for the entire morning, with the other co-chair — Harvey Rosenblatt, the psychiatrist from New York. Trying to feign interest as Katarina strode to the podium, wondering if I’d see another side of her, softened for public consumption.
Not that there was much of a public. Attendance was thin — maybe seventy or eighty therapists and graduate students in an auditorium that seated four hundred.
She introduced herself by name and title, then read a prepared speech in a strident monotone. She favored complex, meandering sentences that lost meaning by the second or third twist, and soon the audience was looking glazed. But she didn’t seem to care — didn’t seem to be talking to anyone but herself.
Reminiscing about her father’s glory days.
Such as they were.
Anticipating the symposium, I’d taken the time to review Andres de Bosch’s collected writings, and I hadn’t raised my opinion of him.
His prose style was clear, but his theories about child rearing — the good love/bad love spectrum of maternal involvement that his daughter had used to title the conference — seemed nothing more than extensions and recombinations of other people’s work. A little Anna Freud here, a little Melanie Klein there, tossed with croutons of Winnicott, Jung, Harry Stack Sullivan, Bruno Bettelheim.
He leavened the obvious with clinical anecdotes about the children he’d treated at his school, managed to work both his Vienna pilgrimage and his war experiences into his summaries, name dropping and adopting the overly casual manner of one truly self-impressed.
Emperor’s new clothes, and the audience at the conference didn’t show any great excitement. But from the rapt look on Faithful Daughter’s face, she thought it was cashmere.
By the second day, attendance was down by half and even the speakers on the dais — three L.A.-based analysts — looked unhappy to be there. I might have felt sorry for Katarina, but she seemed unaware of it all, continuing to flash slides of her father — dark-haired and goateed in healthier days — working at a big, carved desk surrounded by talismans and books, drawing in crayon with a young patient, writing in the brandied light of a Tiffany lamp.
Then another batch: posing with his arm around
her —
even as a teenager, she’d looked old, and they could have been lovers — followed by shots of a blanket-swaddled old man sunk low in an electric wheelchair, positioned atop a high, brown bluff. Behind him the ocean was beautiful and blue, mocking his senescence.
A sad variation upon the home-movie trap. The few remaining attendees looked away in embarrassment.
Harvey Rosenblatt seemed especially pained; I saw him shade his eyes and study some scribbled notes that he’d already read from.
A tall, shambling, gray-bearded fellow in his forties, he struck up a conversation with me as we waited for the afternoon session to begin. His warmth seemed more than just therapeutic veneer. Unusually forthcoming for an analyst, he talked easily about his practice in mid-Manhattan, his twenty-year marriage to a psychologist, and the joys and challenges of raising three children. The youngest was a fifteen-year-old boy whom he’d brought with him.
“He’s back at the hotel,” he said, “watching movies on pay-TV — probably the dirty ones, right? I promised to get back in an hour and take him out to Disneyland — do you have any idea how late they’re open?”
“During the winter, I think only till six or so.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “Guess we’ll have to do that tomorrow; hopefully, Josh can deal with it.”
“Does he like arcade games?” I said.
“Does a duck
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