In the month of September in 1904, the renowned Sigmund Freud embarked on his annual Mediterranean vacation alongside his brother, Alexander. Their original destination was Corfu, but the extreme heat forced them to change their plans and instead travel by ship from Trieste to Athens. It was during their visit to the Acropolis, a hill above the city, that Freud experienced an overwhelming and perplexing sensation. Despite being physically present at the Acropolis, Freud found it difficult to believe that it truly existed. This was not a typical tourist’s sense of awe and disbelief in the face of famous landmarks like Machu Picchu or the Pyramids. Freud’s experience was characterized by profound incredulity that the Acropolis was a real place. Despite having read about it since childhood and studied engravings and photographs of the Parthenon, he couldn’t shake off the feelings of guilt for his father never having seen it and a powerful sense of disbelief. This experience would continue to perplex Freud for many years.
This fascinating phenomenon is the subject of a captivating exhibition at the Freud Museum in 20 Maresfield Gardens, London. The museum, which served as the last refuge for the Freud family after escaping the Nazis in 1938, now houses this collection. The centerpiece of the exhibition is Freud’s essay “A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis,” in which he attempts to analyze his own experience after 32 years of contemplation. It is a profound exploration of our unique human ability to sometimes be incapable of experiencing joy.
Using postcards, letters, documents, images, and objects from Freud’s personal collection, the exhibition weaves a narrative that transports visitors to the Acropolis. Visitors are greeted by a mesmerizing sepia photograph captured by François-Frédéric Boissonnas in 1907, showcasing the Acropolis at twilight. The exhibit features various depictions of the Parthenon beneath dark storm clouds or in eerie dusk, evoking a sense of mystery and awe.
Freud’s immersion in Ancient Greek culture began at a young age. He studied the language in primary school, maintained a diary in Ancient Greek, and even suggested naming his new baby brother after Alexander the Great. It is both dismaying and somewhat comical to imagine Freud struggling to communicate with an Athens carriage driver in Ancient Greek, only to be met with confusion.
The exhibition takes visitors through the hotel the brothers stayed in, the restaurant they dined at, and the ship they sailed on, all through period photographs and postcards. Marina Maniadaki, the curator who grew up in Athens with the Acropolis always looming overhead, infuses the exhibition with a deep appreciation for the iconic site. A poignant studio photograph of Freud at the age of 10 with his father is included early on, offering a poignant foreshadowing of the journey to come.
Freud’s visit to the Acropolis was unplanned, a result of happenstance as they were originally bound for Corfu. Throughout their trip, Freud kept encountering the numbers 61 and 62, prompting contemplation of his own mortality at that age. He even wore his finest shirt for the climb up the hill, imbuing every detail with heightened significance.
In his famous essay, Freud compares his initial disbelief upon arrival at the Acropolis to stumbling upon the body of the Loch Ness monster and realizing that the mythical creature was indeed real. Serpentine objects, such as bracelets, statues, and votives, are displayed in the exhibition, conveying a sense of the enigmatic and perhaps carrying deeper personal meanings for Freud. Sadly, the museum that housed the statues of Athena, the goddess who fascinated Freud, was closed on the day of his visit, depriving him of a profound encounter.
What Freud ultimately realizes later in life is that his disbelief stems in part from his relationship with his father. He finds it inconceivable that he has surpassed his father in so many ways and distances himself from the notion of going further than him in any way. Freud’s incredulity expands to encompass doubts about the very existence of the Acropolis itself.
An emblematic symbol of this internal-external blur is a tiny clay mold featuring an Ancient Greek head with a concealed face inside. This mold originates from Freud’s personal collection, capturing the intricacies of his internal world.
The exhibition draws to a close with the original essay itself, written as a letter to the French writer Romain Rolland. Freud’s late handwriting resembles a series of ripples, rising from bottom left to top right, mirroring the continuous stream of revelations that emerge throughout the exhibition. It took Freud over 30 years to fully explore and articulate his thoughts, and his final realizations are both astonishing and inseparable from his entire life’s work. Three years later, Freud would pass away from jaw cancer in the very house where this letter now rests. His ashes would be interred in a Grecian urn at Golders Green, completing the poignant connection to Ancient Greece.
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
