mind. His work with patients convinced him that we retain everything we have
seen and experienced somewhere deep in our consciousness, and all these
impressions can be brought to light again. When we experience a memory
lapse, and a bit later ‘have it on the tip of our tongue’ and then later still
‘suddenly remember it,’ we are talking about something which has lain in the
unconscious and suddenly slips through the half-open door to
consciousness.”
“But it takes a while sometimes.”
“All artists are aware of that. But then suddenly it’s as if all doors and all
drawers fly open. Everything comes tumbling out by itself, and we can find all
the words and images we need. This is when we have ‘lifted the lid’ of the
unconscious. We can call it inspiration, Sophie. It feels as if what we are
drawing or writing is coming from some outside source.”
“It must be a wonderful feeling.”
“But you must have experienced it yourself. You can frequently observe
inspiration at work in children who are overtired. They are sometimes so
extremely overtired that they seem to be wide awake. Suddenly they start
telling a story—as if they are finding words they haven’t yet learned. They
have, though; the words and the ideas have lain ‘latent’ in their
consciousness, but now, when all caution and all censorship have let go, they
are surfacing. It can also be important for an artist not to let reason and
reflection control a more or less unconscious expression. Shall I tell you a little
story to illustrate this?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a very serious and a very sad story.”
“Okay.”
“Once upon a time there was a centipede that was amazingly good at
dancing with all hundred legs. All the creatures of the forest gathered to watch
every time the centipede danced, and they were all duly impressed by the
exquisite dance. But there was one creature that didn’t like watching the
centipede dance—that was a tortoise.”
“It was probably just envious.”
“How can I get the centipede to stop dancing? thought the tortoise. He
couldn’t just say he didn’t like the dance. Neither could he say he danced
better himself, that would obviously be untrue. So he devised a fiendish plan.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“He sat down and wrote a letter to the centipede. ‘O incomparable
centipede,’ he wrote, ‘I am a devoted admirer of your exquisite dancing. I
must know how you go about it when you dance. Is it that you lift your left leg
number 28 and then your right leg number 39? Or do you begin by lifting your
right leg number 17 before you lift your left leg number 44? I await your
answer in breathless anticipation. Yours truly, Tortoise.”
“How mean!”
“When the centipede read the letter, she immediately began to think
about what she actually did when she danced. Which leg did she lift first? And
which leg next? What do you think happened in the end?”
“The centipede never danced again?”
“That’s exactly what happened. And that’s the way it goes when
imagination gets strangled by reasoned deliberation.”
“That was a sad story.”