Fritz

  Fritz

  Martin Shepard

  to Paul Frey

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1. The Finder of Gestalt

  2. Berlin: The Early Years

  3. From the Kaiser to the Führer

  4. South Africa

  5. New York

  6. Miami

  7. California

  8. The Esalen Institute, Big Sur

  9. Missed Connections

  10. Esalen, Continued . . .

  11. Esalen, Concluded

  12. Cowichan

  13. The Journey’s End

  Epilogue: The Work

  Acknowledgments

  All quotations from Fritz Perls, unless otherwise noted, are taken from In and Out the Garbage Pail or Gestalt Therapy Verbatim, and are reprinted with permission of Real People Press.

  I am grateful to the following people for having shared their experiences of Fritz with me. Without their help, this book could not have been written:

  Lloyd Aleksandr, Julian Beck, John Brinley, Arthur Ceppos, Al Drucker, Paul Frey, Marty Fromm, Ren and Art Gold, Bernie Gunther, Ann Halprin, Ralph Hefferline, Elaine Kempner, Janet Lederman, Jane Levenberg, Abe Levitsky, Teddy Lyon, Judith Malina, Natalie Mann, Dwight McDonald, J. L. Moreno, Michael Murphy, Vince O’Connell, Laura Perls, Rae and Steve Perls, Dick Price, Diane Berghoff Reifler, Stella Resnick, Janie Rhyne, Ilana Rubenfeld, Gene and Juanita Sagan, Will Schutz, Bob Shapiro, Elliot Shapiro, Irma Lee Shepherd, Julian Silverman, Jim Simkin, John Stevens, Ed Taylor, Marjorie, Cathy, and Wilson Van Dusen, Alan Watts, and Sue Williamson.

  Thanks, as well, are due to Grace Bechtold, Knox Burger, Craig Braun, Marc Jaffe, Bob Knegel, and my wife, Judy, for their support, encouragement, and suggestions.

  Prologue

  My occupation is psychiatry and my formal training has included psychoanalysis. I had always assumed that analytic treatment was the last word in therapy: the point beyond which advancement was impossible. It was untenable to continue holding that belief after my training, however, when I began to witness the casualties of the “cure” as well as the successes. These casualties included therapists as well as patients—people who were capable of articulating intricate conceptualizations of their own and others’ behavior, yet seemed pale imitations of human beings. Passion, drama, courage, wit, and audacity seemed lacking in healer and sufferer alike.

  It was both a surprise and a delight to meet Fritz Perls in the winter of 1968 and to become familiar with his work. His approach (which was then untaught at the universities, hospitals, or analytic training center I attended) toward curing people of their preoccupations was both brilliant and yet phenomenally simple, since it worked, primarily, by focusing attention on the present moment. When one can fully tune in to the Here and Now, the mind has no room to record yesterday’s recriminations or tomorrow’s potential travails. Moreover, Fritz dared to display emotions I had felt—feelings that seemed to be denied among many other professionals I trained with.

  I saw Fritz demonstrate his Gestalt Therapy on a number of occasions before he died and witnessed the burgeoning interest in his work. The more I saw of him, the more fascination he held for me. I appreciated, among other things, his ability to laugh at life’s adversities.

  He was, for example, tired and ill during the last full workshop that he ever gave. Nonetheless, he summoned up enough energy to be with those who occupied his “hot seat.” After working with some idealistic young woman who entertained ideas of living happily ever after with her husband, he commented, dryly, that “Life is a rose garden. The petals wilt and the thorns remain.”

  Intrigued with both the man and his formulations, I began—in the fall of 1972—to discover whatever I could about him. The task took a year and a half. I read all his published works and many of those that referred to him. I cross-indexed names, dates, and places. Finally, armed with a bulky tape recorder, I traveled about the country visiting people he had known and places he had been.

  In New York, I saw his wife, Laura, and his elder sister Grete. In New Jersey, I interviewed Ren, his daughter. There was a flight to Miami and the home of his former lover, Marty Fromm, followed by long-distance phone calls to her in Mill Valley as she divided her Gestalt practice between Florida and California. I went to New Mexico to talk with his son, Steve, and then to California to speak with those who knew him at the height of his career. Finally, there was a journey to Chicago to visit some friends who were with him when he died.

  Whatever historical shortcomings this biography has result from Fritz’s personality plus the traumas of the Second World War. Although Fritz’s professional transition from Freudian analyst (with its emphasis on childhood development) to the here-and-now Gestalt approach represented a slowly evolving process, in his personal life he rarely seemed to share past events with other people. Impressions of this continually changing man could only be gathered by speaking with people who knew him during particular time segments. But who was there to tell me about Fritz before he turned thirty-three?

  His only surviving sister, Grete, suffered a stroke some years ago and was unable to present any coherent story of those early years. Other friends and family members were decimated by the Nazis. Fritz’s school and university records were also unobtainable, another result of the Holocaust. Nor have any of the psychoanalysts Fritz saw survived him.

  The picture of these formative years that I present is thus based largely upon fragmentary recollections Fritz wrote about in In and Out the Garbage Pail, some few anecdotes he related to those I spoke with, and personal extrapolations and interpretations to fill in the gaps as best I could. My task became simpler after Fritz arrived in the United States.

  I remember the late Alan Watts, the philosopher, recalling Fritz as being “quite a marvel. His presence made people in awe and yet there was this fundamentally twinkly attitude. Because he did something that the paternalistic tradition has never done. The paternalistic tradition in the Catholic Church, in the Jewish tradition, has always been somewhat antisexual. And Fritz was different. He was paternalistic, yes. Patriarchal, yes. But very sexy. And this I appreciated because it accorded with my own views.

  “What I learned from Fritz was the courage to be me. I felt I had a brother. We saw things the same way. There are times when the most loving thing you could do for other people is to be honestly selfish and say what you want. Because if you don’t do that you will deceive them by making promises to do things which you are not going to come through with. So, if you say, quite frankly, ‘Sorry. I can’t be bothered with this. It’s too much,’ they are not deceived. And I think that’s one of the most important things Fritz had to say. To be honestly selfish is sometimes much kinder than being formally loving.”

  That made sense to me, for Fritz, in many ways, felt like my spiritual brother as well. I could empathize with his bravery in being perpetually open to new approaches in both his life and his work. I, too, knew that—to use Fritz’s words—”to die and be reborn is not easy.”

  I was struck, in my conversations about the man, by the contradictions within him, by the discrepancy between his message of be here now and his perpetual restlessness. I am particularly indebted to Julian Beck, the actor and director, for his comments, which eloquently addressed themselves to this issue.

  “A visionary like Fritz,” said Julian, “is always going to be discontent with the present. Because he’s always going to be seeing beyond. That discontent or bitterness that you talk about his having at the end is because he was still yearning for something that was going to go beyond everything that he had yet experienced. And that comes out of a certain Divine Discon
tent. Which he had.”

  All told, I taped and talked and phoned and visited with over fifty people who encountered Fritz, and compiled over six hundred pages of typed interviews. What follows is, in large part, their story.

  MS

  September 1974

  Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he dares not say “I think,” “I am,” but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing rose. These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in all moments alike. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  1. The Finder of Gestalt

  Friedrich Salomon Perls was admitted to the Weiss Memorial Hospital of Chicago on March 8, 1970. He was seventy-six years old at the time. His friends had asked that the news of his hospitalization not be given to the papers because they feared the place would be overrun by hippies, eager to pay respects to their psychological mentor. A police guard was put up so that no one would disturb him during his illness. But the grapevine being what it was, the young and the hip would assemble and sit on the grass in front of the hospital until March 14, the day he died.

  The only other person to have warranted police protection at Weiss Memorial was Sammy Davis Jr. That an aged and gruff psychiatrist inspired a public loyalty similar to that accorded a nationally recognized song-and-dance man was quite impressive. Particularly for a man who rose, in his own words, “from an obscure lower-middle-class Jewish boy to a mediocre psychoanalyst to the possible creator of a ‘new’ method of treatment and the exponent of a viable philosophy which could do something for mankind.”

  Ten years earlier, “fed up with the whole psychiatric racket,” doubting his own significance, and despairing over his lack of professional recognition, he dropped out for fifteen months and traveled about the world. Yet, by the time of his death, it was clear that Fritz Perls might have as significant an impact on psychotherapy as did another German Jew. For thirty years Fritz had radically challenged the assumptions and directions of Sigmund Freud and the psychoanalysts. And in his final years, many people began to listen. For the culture had begun to catch up with the man.

  The long-haired, bearded, unwashed dropout could readily identify with him because Fritz had traveled the same road. When he arrived in New York in 1946, he was Central Casting’s prototype of a European psychoanalyst—pinstriped suits, spats, a cane, and an occasional beret, which sat upon a stern, trimly mustachioed face. By 1966, firmly established as a fixture at The Esalen Institute of Big Sur, California, Fritz had donned the uniform of the West Coast Mountain hippies. A roly-poly five-foot-nine-inch chain-smoking bald-pated longhair, with a full-flowing beard, sparkling eyes, and a gruff no-nonsense voice, given to wearing jumpsuits, Cossack shirts, and beaded necklaces, he looked like a combination of Santa Claus, Rasputin, elf, primordial Father Earth, sage, guru, perhaps Jehovah himself. By his own description a “gypsy” and a seeker of new experiences, he had been through the drug scene, the Zen scene, and was still going strong within the sex scene. YOU STOPPED HERE

  Older intellectuals had much in common with him too, for Frederick (his anglicized first name) Perls, M.D., Ph.D., could hold his own with the best of them. He had the benefit (and the curse) of a classical German education. A lover of opera, of Mozart and Mahler, he could quote Heine and Rilke to his ladies and Goethe, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche to his colleagues. During his lifetime he authored four books,1 directed some theater, tried his hand at movie making, and debated with such esoteric luminaries as Baba Ram Dass and the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.

  1 Ego, Hunger and Aggression, Gestalt Therapy, In and Out the Garbage Pail, and Gestalt Therapy Verbatim. The Gestalt Approach and Eyewitness to Therapy was published posthumously.

  His friends and acquaintances in the field of psychology included such classicists as Paul Schilder, Kurt Goldstein, and Kurt Lewin. Among the psychoanalysts he encountered and was affected by were Paul Federn, Helene Deutsch, Otto Fenichel, Karen Horney, Ernest Jones, Erich Fromm, Clara Thompson, and, above all, Wilhelm Reich. His theatrical contacts extended back to the great German directors Max Reinhardt and Fritz Lang, through writers Christopher Isherwood and James Agee, actors Julian Beck and Judith Malina, and dancer Ann Halprin. From the world of philosophy and ideas he had more than a passing acquaintance with Sigmund Friedlander, Jan Smuts, Paul Goodman, Alan Watts, and Michael Murphy.

  Fritz’s niche in history rests not on the shoulders of his friends, however, but upon his own tireless efforts to revolutionize the practice of psychotherapy. Often alone, often scorned, often ridiculed, he nonetheless persisted until his message was heard. Given to wisdom and wit, passion and paranoia, he injected a new vitality into psychology. He called his school Gestalt, and he preached it with the same sense of drama and paradox as he lived.

  Fritz’s basic message was be here now and be truly yourself. This he taught by example as well as in therapeutic sessions. Laura Perls, his estranged wife, once referred to him as half prophet and half bum. Fritz felt the description accurate and used it himself, proudly. The prophet in him was fond of leading his psychological workshops in a reading of his Gestalt Prayer:

  I do my thing, and you do your thing.

  I am not in this world to live up to your expectations,

  And you are not in this world to live up to mine.

  You are you, and I am I,

  And if by chance we find each other, it’s beautiful.

  If not, it can’t be helped.

  Many people, from Esalen psychologist William Schutz to Laura, a fellow Gestalt therapist, have been quite critical of the Prayer.

  “I’m disappointed that it’s so influential,” said Schutz. “I think it’s had a negative effect as well as positive—a kind of ‘Fuck you’ attitude.”

  Laura finds herself “rather unhappy about it. Particularly the last sentence, for it abdicates all responsibility to work on anything.”

  Such charges have a certain validity. People do hear what they wish to hear and are prone to justify their actions by pointing to authoritative sources. If I wish to be rude and uncooperative, I can always claim that I am doing so because I am simply “doing my thing” and quote the Gestalt Prayer as others would the Bible. And certainly, Fritz did insist upon only doing what interested him.

  Fritz was aware not only of his selfishness, but aware, as well, that the same trait exists in everyone. Admonitions to “stop being selfish” are usually little more than moralistically couched manipulations that have, at their heart, the message “satisfy myself, not yourself.” He would be the last person in the world to deny his self-indulgence. Indeed, he asserted it unapologetically: “I believe that I do what I do for myself,” he wrote in his free-floating autobiography, In and Out the Garbage Pail, “for my own interest in solving problems, and most of all for my vanity.”

  A century ago, a Yankee from Boston expressed sentiments indistinguishable from the German Jew’s Gestalt Prayer. “Trust thyself; every heart vibrates to that iron string,” wrote Emerson, in his essay, Self-Reliance. “I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions, I will seek my own.”

  Like Emerson, Fritz believed that the only thing that made sense, in the end, was to follow your own intuition and interests, as arbitrary or rough-edged as society might judge them. It i
s only by following that path that you can appreciate your authentic self. Each man, in his own way, believed that the intuitive wisdom of the soul was the best instructor. “Trust your inner self,” they both argued, “and not the culturally acquired inner doubter.”

  “I have often been called the founder of Gestalt Therapy,” Fritz said. “That’s crap. If you call me the finder or refinder of Gestalt Therapy, okay. For Gestalt is as ancient and old as the world itself.”

  Gestalt is a German word that implies “wholeness.” It is akin, in many ways, to the Eastern concept of Tao. It recognizes that foreground and background form a complete whole and cannot be separated from one another without either losing their individual meanings or destroying the wholeness that was. Fish make no sense without oceans. Night is meaningless without day. Water may consist of two parts of hydrogen and one part of oxygen, but if you break it down for the purpose of analysis, you are left with two gases and nothing to drink. Gestalt, in this sense, is as old as the appreciation of the ancient Chinese symbol of Yin and Yang—where one shape defines the other, and both are required to complete the whole.

  Fritz saw his new/”old” therapy as a natural outgrowth of his own philosophical existentialism. He was aware of the fact that life—indeed, all of existence—occurs in a perpetual present moment, that all things are transient and ever-changing, and that past and future are concepts that we think of in some present time.

  He was cognizant of the fact that emotional suffering is related to the degree to which people are not sufficiently aware of what is occurring in the ever-present Now; that unmet needs and undischarged tensions cause stress and, in sufficient quantity, are responsible for mental illness. He recognized that some people live perpetually in the past, ruminating about “what I should have done . . . what I should have said,” or blame history (their parents, friends, spouses, or society) for their lack of present-day fulfillment. Others miss out on life’s riches by being future-oriented—always preparing and daydreaming for a tomorrow that never occurs—like the donkey who walks toward a carrot that always remains dangling two feet in front of his head. Anxiety was similarly described by Fritz as “stage-flight,” wherein an anxious, fearful person is speculating about some future challenge instead of savoring the moment.