“[R]epetition, the re-experiencing of something identical, is clearly in itself a source of pleasure.”[i]

– Sigmund Freud

In 1920 Sigmund Freud published a paper entitled “Beyond The Pleasure Principle”. He observed that repetitive behaviour in the neurotic individual (what we would call someone subject to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) replicated the actions of a child, who repeats an act to satiate a simple need and assert control. This stage is superseded by the capacity to restrain oneself by learning to wait for an anticipated pleasure rather seeking an immediate pleasure: the reality principle.

“Under the influence of the ego’s instincts of self-preservation, the pleasure principle is replaced by the reality principle. This latter principle does not abandon the intention of ultimately obtaining pleasure, but it nevertheless demands and carries into effect the postponement of satisfaction […]”[ii]

The reality principle prevents the unrestrained impulses of the child leading it into disaster. Another term for the reality principle in everyday life is “deferred gratification”. In the neurotic and the traumatised subjects we see the emergence of the initial infantile stage. Emotional or mental injury impairs the proper processing of impulses into forms constrained by ego, super-ego and (at a wider level) by society at large. It is the case of the ego and conscious causing problems rather than the subconscious.

This is a simplification of Freud’s points but it is something I remember when I read art cultural criticism and come across two persistent axioms. Firstly, that sticking to a constant style and content is artistic laziness. Secondly, that rapidly stylistic evolution through multiple cycles is flightiness.

When I think of repetition beyond the point of pleasure but reaching the level of obsession, I think of Alan Charlton (a conceptual artist who makes abstract geometric paintings using grey paint) and On Kawara, the Japanese artist who painted the day’s date on a canvas, using an unvarying format and style. Picasso was repeatedly deprecated by critics of the mid-Twentieth Century for changing his style according to apparent whim. Actually, whilst Picasso’s approach went through multiple forms, his attachment to certain subjects persisted – a curious situation.

If you like Mondrian, you want to see his work again and again, every variation so that you can hone appreciation of subtle differences. Especially when an artist produced little, we yearn more of the same. Whole critical careers are built on identifying previously overlooked paintings by Giorgione and Leonardo. Ask any appreciator of Vermeer (total surviving corpus: 35 paintings) whether of not they would like a see a dozen previously unknown Vermeers and they would reply “Absolutely!”. In these cases – artists at the apex of the canon – we expect and require repetition. Only when we have a modest appreciation for (or an actual dislike of) an artist do we complain about the repetition that is a prominent trait of other artists we admire.

I am currently writing about Renoir, who (during a career of over sixty years) often repeated himself. Warm landscapes, inviting seascapes, rosy-cheeked children and buxom maidens are staples of his 5,000 oil paintings, with barely a surprise among that number. Renoir declared that he would only paint what delighted him. Despite breaking new ground with his technique, he was constitutionally averse to thematic or pictorial innovation. He was obstinately locked into the pleasure principle, refusing to defer gratification or compromise. No one comes to Renoir wanting to be challenged or perturbed. Freud might have diagnosed him as lodged at the earliest phase of self-gratification.

Such is the bind that painters find themselves in. They produce pieces of a style and on certain subjects that are received well; they refine their abilities; they are expected to produce more; they feel constrained to work in this manner to meet expectations. Characteristics they developed to express an inner need become the bars of their cages. Artists begin to doubt they can do anything else. They lose confidence and faith in their art as they become bored by it; they become sick of the sight of art they wish they could turn their back upon. The cause of their celebrity and security is repetition that is no longer overtly pleasurable but drudgery their dealers, collectors, wife and children require of them. Psychologically, even worse, they become afraid of the world outside of their cages.

Consider discussion of sequels in narrative fiction and cinema. The sequel responds to the successful previous iteration of original material by producing a story that develops or re-uses the characters, plot, setting or fictional world. It meets an expressed commercial demand. It can do this well or badly. Broadly speaking, the successful sequel is one that remains faithful to the original story but deepens and expands upon it, enriching the original but having enough character and invention to make the sequel of worth independently. Yet, we all know that sequels tend to be worse – or at least not as important – compared to the original. And the more of them, the worse they get. The failed sequel is seen as exploitative and parasitic. Even when done well, they are often the product of a creator falling back on something of proven worth and thus indicating complacency. At the very least, the criticism of lack of originality (or lack of sufficient uniqueness) is technically correct.

There is a division of responses though. Many members of fanbases of popular franchises want sequels or works that develop an existing fictional world. There is a desire for more content, more stories. The demand is for repetition of production that can elicit the pleasurable experience of consumption. Like an action that induces pleasure – sexual activity, drug consumption, overeating, gambling – it stimulates desire rather than satiating it. It can form a habit or addiction, where desire turns into craving. What we want is not perhaps what does us good.

In the critical and academic fields, narrative sequels are often disdained, condemned as commercial exercises without integrity. The artist is expected to prove himself by evolving or testing himself, which is done less so in sequels. To reach his capacity, he must move out of his comfort zone. He is required to forego the pleasurable repetition so that he be a pioneer rather than a man content to repeat, as an artisan does.

Exceptions are made for genre writers. The crime, horror and comedy writer is expected to make consistent produce, content that fills whole bookshelves. Josephine Tey, H.P. Lovecraft and P.G. Wodehouse are appreciated for their consistency and productivity, within reason. These are the artisans of literature, praised for their craftsmanship and reliability rather than originality. As they do a thing that is regarded as less important (second tier) in terms of genre, they are not subject to demands of originality as long as there is artful variation in individual pieces. They are expected to use not so much a formula but a repertoire of stock devices and use them in ways that are pleasing and not genre defying.

The truth about the pleasure principle is not so much that we are destined to swing between the poles of innovation and repetition but we are predisposed to see these positions as mutually incomprehensible and discrete. The reality is much more complicated, with different unspoken rules applying to different fields and creators.

I also think of my own work and how sometimes I struggle to do something new to me. Fenced in by expectations (actual or imaginary), I too frequently choose the least difficult option. Fear of rejection and the desire to press the pleasure button can become synonymous, with the delayed gratification of an ambitious (and risky) innovation seeming too much of a gamble. That poisonous narcotic of timidity and childish directness is not what I want for myself. That is why I must try new ways of expressing ideas. I hope you will stick with me for the journey over the coming years.

[collages by AA]

[i] P. 308, Sigmund Freud, “Beyond the Pleasure Principle” (1920), in On Metapsychology, Penguin, London, 1991

[ii] P. 278