Anna Fishzon, PhD, Emma Lieber, PhD, and Olga Poznansky, PhD
With Issue 7 — titled “The Candidate, Barred” — The Candidate Journal has a new editorial board. Our editors are a diverse group, comprising psychoanalysts-in-training drawn from the fields of psychology, literature, history, art, and dance. And while we are at very different moments in our analytic formation and represent various analytic orientations, we all share a passion for our field that is animated precisely by an attention to difference — difference being in a sense the subject of psychoanalysis.
This introduction reflects this very in-tension: three distinct editorial voices speaking about the dilemmas of candidacy. Such a maintenance of multiple perspectives is an attempt at working within difference to create an introduction reflective of our own unique relations to our practices as analysts. The analyst’s position, as Lacan reminds us, is one that, by definition, demands a recognition of absolute difference. In writing our introduction, we strove to acknowledge the otherness of the other and find that analytic place in working together.
Aspiring to Office
Issue 7 of The Candidate Journal follows directly from Issue 6 on“Belonging” (2015), as well as from the questions raised and provoked by “The Candidate’s Voice” panel that the journal hosted to celebrate that issue. The “Belonging” issue interrogated the psychoanalyst’s relationship to ideas of membership and surroundings, in all of the polyvalence of those terms. “The Candidate’s Voice” was an appropriate subject to link with those questions. To the extent that the voice exists at the juncture of belonging and unbelonging, or possession and loss — as the instrument of subjectivity that, the moment it is assumed, disperses into the ether — the voice is the index of a radical split. It’s yours without, finally, belonging to you. You can find your voice — through analysis or political engagement or creative adventure or anything else — but the moment you use it, it’s gone. We are constantly losing our voices. Which brings us to the title of Issue 7, “The Candidate, Barred.”
Certainly, this title hearkens to the Lacanian notion of the barred subject: the idea that as subjects who speak — which is another way of saying, as beings who possess an unconscious — we are radically divided. We are determined by the signifiers that precede us and that, even when they proceed from us, also come from elsewhere, and slip away. But it also suggests a certain interrogation of the position of the candidate, particularly with respect to the institutes to which she applies for entry and that name her as such. In this sense the question of the institutionalization of psychoanalysis and the authorization of analysts is a miniature staging of the broader dramas of identity formation and otherness to which psychoanalysts are uniquely attuned. But as a journal run by analysts-in-training, we are in this issue singularly focused on the experience — whether felt or examined — of the early career clinician and candidate.
Where did the signifier “candidate” come from? According to etymological dictionaries, it is a Latin word originating from the seventeenth century, and its root, candere, means “to glow or shine” — like a candle. Candidates for political office in ancient Rome wore white togas, and so literally, “candidatus,” or “one aspiring to office,” meant “white-robed.” There is an interesting exchange between the metaphorical and the metonymic in these linguistic passages, as well as between literal and figurative, and although research into the sartorial choices of ancient Roman politicians is beyond the scope of this introduction, something of the question of candor is at the base of candidacy.
This is not necessarily a personal characteristic. It is not lost on us that much of the preparation for this issue took place during an American presidential election in which white robes were nowhere in sight, or that its publication comes months into an administration whose horrors have inspired many Americans to begin using their voices in new ways. It would be stupid to make a psychoanalytic joke about the polyvalence of the imperative “Resist!” besides to say that its injunction is that we finally overcome other injunctions that urge other forms of resistance, among them the anxiety provoked by the act of speech. In this sense, one of the unintended resonances of the signifier “The Candidate” may be that it registers a protest against a political candidate who is no longer just that. Dee Polyak, in the wake of the election, asked:
How is psychoanalysis pulled towards the neoliberal normal and how does the history of psychoanalysis set up the repressions that make it so difficult to untangle its complicated relation to neoliberalism? These are deep and complex questions that require rigorous individual and collective thought by psychoanalysts and psychoanalytic modes of thinking (2017).
Although only one article here explicitly confronts the contemporary American political landscape and the psychoanalyst’s responsibility within it, the issue as a whole is buoyed by the assumption that psychoanalysts know a good deal about the lifting of repression, as well as by the hope that they will be increasingly attuned to the repressions that psychoanalytic epistemologies and forms of governance have helped promulgate.
But if candor is by no means a requisite behavioral or ethical orientation for a candidate, it is a structural effect. The moment you announce yourself as a candidate at a psychoanalytic institute, for one, you announce all sorts of things about yourself, not least of which is that you are in analysis, that you are part of an analytic legacy — who analyzed whom analyzed whom analyzed whom — with your various transferences on full display. The open secret of course is this is where everyone was at least at some point and to a certain extent in perpetuity, but there is a particular way in which the candidate is buffeted around by this exposure at the beginning, and at the moment of that self-announcement.
Perhaps this is in part why the candidate’s voice is such a contested site. In any training or educational apparatus the position of the student is fraught with power negotiations and transference reactions; but at a psychoanalytic institute, presumably, we all know that we all know what we’re all looking at. There is no necessary reason that this should be particularly inhibiting for a candidate, or a particularly difficult position from which to assert her voice in all its proper candor, but probably it is. “The Candidate, Barred” in another of its valences thus refers to the various forms of institutional and psychic blockage that candidates face, as well as to the ways that institutional life appropriates the taboos and dramas that found subjective experience.
In his contribution to this issue, Richard Brouillette argues that institutional life entombs its candidates and members for these very reasons. A training analysis is necessarily unsuccessful if it erects something of institutional power and loyalty in place of the singularity of symptom and cure, and this is why psychoanalysts frequently manage to remain so surprisingly close-mouthed on social issues outside of the institute: we have not yet learned to speak. As Brouillette writes, “the closure induced by institute training creeps into a tacit prohibition, aimed at candidates and analysts, against engaging a popular audience on theory or addressing sociopolitical issues; and this at a time when the work of psychoanalysts is most needed to address failing institutions in the outside world” (p. 51). This is where Brouillete follows Derrida in “Geopsychoanalysis: ‘…and the rest of the world,’” to which he pays homage throughout, and he thus exhorts candidates to leave their institutes and self-authorize as analysts, incorporating themselves instead into an outside world that surely demands our engagement.
Much like Derrida’s piece, Paola Mieli’s article in this issue interrogates a symptomatic document produced by a psychoanalytic institutional body, in this case, the “Standards of Psychoanalytic Education” drafted in 2001 by The Psychoanalytic Consortium. In returning to her own questions about this report, which she first published in 2003, Mieli indicates the extent to which recent developments in the professionalization of American psychoanalysis — such as the introduction of the license in psychoanalysis in New York — make increasingly manifest long-standing troubles within institutional psychoanalysis in America, where, under the banner of high standards and career quality control, institutes traffic in a distinctly unpsychoanalytic brand of pedagogy, trading conformity for the irreducibility of difference to which psychoanalysis testifies. In psychoanalysis, with its particular form of logical time, the formula of a “candidate” undergoing “training” and “graduating” as a qualified practitioner is “symptomatic of an idea of ‘profession’ that is alien to the very raison d’être of psychoanalysis. Accepting this terminology is tantamount to turning a deaf ear to its implications, to the dangers of the ideology filtering through them” (p. 16).
Yet a critical interrogation of candidacy also potentially yields other conclusions about the position of the candidate, among them that it is precisely the kind of exposure that the candidate faces, or the particular difficulties of her candor, that also lends the psychoanalytic candidate a certain power — one moreover that is antithetical to whatever is sought in political or institutional nominations. This is the very power that is inherent in the image of the robe: the robe which constitutes the scene of exposure precisely in its action of covering, much as analysis reveals the unconscious by addressing the veil of fantasy or the cloak of dreams. In this sense, the candor of the candidate in her robe must have something to do precisely with wearing something on your sleeve. And what we wear on our sleeves of course is our desire to be analysts and our desire for psychoanalysis.
This is what is constitutional of being a candidate, this is what is announced when we become candidates, this is what defines the position or the title of the candidate: we want to be analysts. It is a place of pure desire, and it is the only place from which the candidate can speak. If there is anything correctly named in the title of candidate, it is that candidates want to be something. In the life of the institute — and with a recognition of all of the problematics, Oedipal among them, that the nomination of candidates entails — attending to this desire and the ways it can travel must be the site of opening for the candidate.
The articles in this issue address various questions surrounding the place and the experience of candidates in and recent graduates of psychoanalytic institutes and the institutionalization of psychoanalysis more broadly. They also are written by practitioners at various stages of their careers and with various orientations with respect to institute life: candidates, recent graduates, and institute members, as well as those who have chosen to practice and speak about psychoanalysis from a place outside of psychoanalytic institutes. Yet at all times this issue is powered by the assumption that underlies the founding of this journal: that is, that there may be no one better situated to speak about psychoanalysis than those who are in the structural position of desiring it the most. In this sense we hope that the issue can serve as a provocation to hear more candidate voices in the future.
What Is a Candidate?
This section of the introduction confronts the attribution of the title of candidate to the student of psychoanalysis in order to make manifest the often unarticulated assumptions that underlie the usage and meaning of that word in psychoanalytic institutes. If psychoanalysis confronts us with the irreducibility of difference, the signifier “candidate” stands in opposition to this notion, to the extent that it is employed in training institutes to designate someone who must comply with and accept specific guidelines in order to be nominated into a particular role.
It is indeed a peculiar thing to designate a student of psychoanalysis a candidate — a word the definition of which implies a process toward a certain end or fate, an ending with an outcome already known or expected. It is also a word that denotes a candidate for office, and thus a person with access to certain kinds of political power, privilege and authority. The word “authority” in English comes from the Latin “autoritat” and is associated with legitimization, origin, and authorship. The emphasis thus is on one being an agent, placed in a position of power: a far cry from what a psychoanalyst — who among other things often has to give up and refuse the illusion of authority and power — is supposed to be, at least from the perspective of epistemology. While patients often take for granted the authority of the analyst as a gatekeeper to knowledge — given our need to have someone somewhere who knows and understands — psychoanalysts themselves constantly have to grapple with the limits of knowledge and understanding, by virtue of their encounter with the unconscious. Thus, a psychoanalyst is someone who, by choosing to venture into the depths of the unknown, is always already robbed of the power of knowledge.
The question of What is a candidate? also aims to engage our relationship to the roles we accept and occupy as candidates, as well as to promote a questioning of these roles and their meaning for us. When a student is accepted into a psychoanalytic institute they are assigned the status of candidate along with its associated expectations and traditions, including the promise of becoming a skilled psychoanalyst. It is this promise of expertise, which Freud himself both cultivated and rallied against, that is in need of questioning in the title of candidacy. In accepting to become a candidate one also agrees to participate in the power structure of the institute. What is at stake then is the very notion of an institute that offers a guarantee that, after following certain steps and emulating institute rules, you are going to get what you have been promised, i.e., the power to treat and pass judgment on the suffering of a person. This promise of entitlement and power founded on a pre-established skill is symptomatic of an ideology that treats a psychoanalyst as a professional who sustains his competence through his own authority instead of resisting it. Indeed, such a promise runs counter to the very psychoanalytic project of questioning authority, and especially the authority of given truths.
Psychoanalysis gives us the language to wonder about why this is so. Yet, it has not been sufficiently asked, at least not among American training institutes: why do institutes require students to accept a title that implies a political role with access to power? And what are the implications for the analyst-to-be of proceeding from such a place? These assumptions are often taken for granted even by candidates themselves, yet they have serious structural implications for the practice of psychoanalysis and how one approaches one’s clinical practice. There is an expectation that at the end of one’s training one will be offered entrance into a profession that guarantees one a certain kind of expertise. Yet, the knowledge one gains at the end of completing one’s training often has little to do with the kinds of questions one is confronted with in the practice of psychoanalysis. It is true that a psychoanalyst’s claim to expertise, if it can even be called as such, is a knowledge of how the unconscious works. Yet, at the same time, if the unconscious is something that cannot be anticipated, how can one be an expert in what can only be known in retrospect? At least in so far as Freud envisioned and described it, in accepting to confront the unconscious one also accepts to give up any claims to expertise and authority. How then can psychoanalysts-in-training keep the unknown in the picture in a training system in which they are constrained by a vocabulary that implies and assumes a promise of expertise?
Psychoanalytic practice confronts us with our own terror of not knowing: with our horror at the absence of authority, the recognition of which come from encountering patients whose singularity requires a mode of understanding much wider than a nomination to a role and a certificate of completion can provide. In fact, one of the most difficult things a psychoanalyst has to learn is how not to know what he is doing and yet to go on doing it.
The contributions in this section all address in various ways the question of the authorization of psychoanalysts and ideas around expertise and knowledge. Todd Dean’s essay, “The Impossible Formation,” revisits the author’s training, retracing his relationship to knowledge as a candidate. In a series of “notes to self” that he finds in a long-misplaced notebook, Dean confronts the “horror” of his own previous misunderstanding of psychoanalytic expertise, in which he linked the effects of a “correct” technique to clinical outcome. He writes, “Psychoanalysis, by definition, is a practice based on not knowing, because it is the practice of the unconscious ...What the analyst brings is never the truth, just a way to interrogate truth’s possibility. For precisely this reason, psychoanalysis is also wildly out of step with the knowledge economy and the information age. It’s crazy, being an analyst these days…” (p. 61). Psychoanalysis, Dean argues, offers us a perspective from which to challenge our ever-increasing reliance on expertise and wanting authorities.
What then does psychoanalytic expertise look like? David Lichtenstein’s essay, “The Authorization of the Psychoanalyst,” engages the important distinction between the authorization and the certification of psychoanalysts. He describes how psychoanalysts may determine their own becoming through engaging the paradox of authorization as both authority and authorship: “An author causes something to come into being, whereas an authority exercises power or judgment over those things once they are created. The authorization of a psychoanalyst is rooted in this ambiguity of author and authority. Lacan’s remark that a psychoanalyst authorizes himself — which does not mean by himself — reflects and plays upon this dialectic” (p. 22). In clinical psychoanalysis, writes Lichtenstein, “…this dialectic of authority is ever present … The only true answer to the analyst’s question: ‘What authorizes my intervention’ is the unprepared (unauthorized) speech of the analysand. The author in this exchange is indeed not present in either place” (p. 22). Thus Lichtenstein situates analytic expertise in the transferential space between patient and analyst structured by the emergence of the unconscious in speech.
Finally, Justine Duhr’s essay, “The Making of Meaning in the License Qualifying Candidate: Some Experiential Reflections on Training,” discusses the role of analytic inexperience in the training of license qualifying (LQ) psychoanalysts. Her essay grapples with the role of anxiety in the experience of the LQ candidate, arguing that LQ candidates’ inexperience is qualitatively different from that of candidates who enter training with previous experience in a mental health-related field, and suggesting that the analytic community has a long way to go in acknowledging these differences. In her view, the LQ candidate is thus the figure closest to the terror involved in doing clinical work: the very terror that prompts the demand for expertise that, we would suggest, must be refused. As Todd Dean remarks in his essay, “…it is almost impossible to get one’s bearings in becoming a psychoanalyst” (p. 58).
The Impossible Position
The impossibility of “getting one’s bearings” leads us back to the problematic nature of the candidate as representative of the robe — or, one might say, the veil — a fantastical presence that, as Lacan would have it, fetishistically shields the phallus as signifier of lack. If candidacy is the place of pure desire, an originary moment, it is also the locus of law, love, and refuse. The voice of the candidate or early clinician thus possesses an uncanny aspect and the potential to arouse narcissistic longing, disgust, alienation, and shame.
In the course of his analytic life, Lacan made several attempts to elucidate the birth of the subject, or, in Freudian terms, primal repression and Oedipal resolution. His first and perhaps best-known conceptualization posits that the imaginary register (specular identification) acquires representation through the naming of lack — a naming that enables the metaphoric substitution of the mOther’s illusory object of desire. In the aftermath of signification, the phallus satisfying the Other becomes exchangeable — something one acquires rather than something one is. Put another way, prohibition and symbolic castration ensure that the signifier occupies for the subject the place where she is not; being does not coincide with thinking, as saying “I” requires a distance from oneself. Both lack and its designation emerge from a fissure within which the subject vanishes (Lacan 1957-1958).
In the 1960s Lacan shifted his emphasis from the phallus as signifier of desire/lack to object a. A border concept, object a is that which falls away and functions as a rem(a)inder of primordial loss. Once again, Lacan gestured toward the non-coincidence of truth and knowledge, the impossibility of saying it all. Not everything is subject to language. The Thing, that which eludes signification, persists and circulates, out there. The drives are incarnated in various objects a — the breast, feces, the gaze, and the voice — all of which relate to parts of the body associated with liminality, refuse, or separation (Lacan 1960-1961, 1962-1963, 1964).
Finally, in his last seminars, Lacan located subjectivity in the sinthome, a neologism denoting the unique way in which each subject knots together the Imaginary (the body ego), the Symbolic (language) and the Real (the primordial, the extra-symbolic). The sinthome is a contingent and meaningless fragment of the signifier that partakes in the wild, destructive forces of the drives. It is the stubbornly intruding and mesmerizing element that nevertheless anchors the subject and guarantees the consistency of the symbolic order (1975-1976). In Lacan’s late teachings, the end of analysis is the “identification with the sinthome,” that is, an acceptance of the fact that one’s identity — one’s very being — is held in place by an arbitrary, undecipherable, and self-created fragment of jouissance (Verhaeghe 2002).
During each of these periods in his theorizing, Lacan tried to capture the fleeting operation that simultaneously constitutes and erases the subject — the instant in which void becomes lack, the moment of rupture propelling the search for exquisite and unrecoverable loss. If we consider candidacy as an origin story not unlike the advent of the Lacanian barred subject, it becomes obvious why, whether as robe/veil, the alluring object that both reveals and obscures; as object a, the “glowing” cause of desire that drives and enlivens psychoanalysis; or as the sinthome, an intimately exterior figure and mode of enjoyment that provides structural support for the institute, “candidate” is a precarious identification and difficult position from which to write and to speak.
The question of the “candidate’s voice” is especially vexed as it brings to mind and accentuates the paradoxical duality and in-betweenness of the voice-as-object. Lacan observed that the human voice bears a ventriloquistic quality: it is never simply ours, never a property of us as bodies. Because the voice escapes the mouth and has an independent materiality it is always potentially object a, an organ inside oneself that feels like a foreign intruder. When we hear recordings of our own voices we often are struck by their hideous familiarity and strangeness. If vocalized speech is language, the domain of the Other, it is simultaneously a physical entity that exceeds the system of differences governed by the signifier. Utterance as carrier and product of the speaker’s singularity — inflection, timbre, grain, and pure resonance — acts as a vanishing mediator destined to be subsumed by meaning.
The subjectivity transferred by the candidate’s voice is thus doubly elusive, for the candidate is construed as a placeholder who exists in reference to, and in wait of, the rupture that will eventually produce the analyst. Her statements, evocative of the originary scene, elicit anxiety and shame — an impulse to cover one’s ears and reduce her to silence. Indeed, it seems that in the very moment of enunciation, the candidate vanquishes herself and becomes an authority, the wielder of analytic knowledge: in speaking, the candidate as such disappears. Analysts-in-training speak as proper names, they speak as clinicians, but can they speak as candidates?
One way to speak (and write) from the place of candidacy, even if one is no longer a candidate, is to declare the unspeakable abject, to tell stories from and about failure. This might mean to write performatively, without theoretical blandishments — to write, as Marcus Silverman does in this issue — about mistakes, embarrassment, and shit. Such creative embrace of abjection is also the candid in candidate. Candor is not only the candidate’s desire and transference on display but also her embodiment of proximal alienation, a tension-filled presence connoting the emergence of desire itself. Fittingly, Silverman’s “On Failure” begins with an epigraph from Moses and Monotheism, in which Freud demonstrates through the figure of the Egyptian Moses how a constitutive act of violence — the foundational exclusion and ultimate incorporation of the stranger — unifies and gives shape to collective identity.
Another way, then, to speak about candidacy is to speak about foreignness: the candidate as both the alien and structuring element of the institute, and candidacy as migration and estrangement. Tuba Tokgoz, upon sharing her experience of being a candidate in a foreign land in “Carrying Roots in Mind: On Homeland, Language and Psychoanalysis,” ponders the homology between being in analysis and moving to another country. “[B]oth represent a journey to an unfamiliar, foreign landscape (one is mental, the other is physical) … both involve regression, mourning and separation; and both offer opportunity for psychic rebirth, growth, and integration” (p. 34). For Tokgoz, analysis in a second language is redolent of early mother-infant dynamics, intensifying emotional exchanges and the inventiveness of transitional space.
Karen Dougherty, in “Splitting: the Candidate and the Institutional Unconscious,” points to the candidate’s lowly yet phallicized status: “[candidates] embody the hopes and competencies of their institute; they keep it alive, financially viable, and in a state of renewal … But their power is often disavowed and rarely explicitly exercised” (p. 38). Dougherty experienced this power when she switched in her second year of training from the “progressive” to the more “conservative” institute in her home city, Toronto. She explores the personal and social meanings entailed in such a move, the currency she might have gained (or lost) as a candidate — in her own mind and in the judgment of her analytic community.
A third approach is to interrogate the temporality implicit in candidacy and in psychoanalysis. As Lillian Ferrari notes in her paper, “the candidate exists in a time of expectation of future fulfillment,” and “the condition of candidacy itself” is a space of possibility, a “promise to be met — or not” (p. 25). Ferrari draws our attention to the unique predicament of the psychoanalytic candidate, who might take exams and even earn degrees but nonetheless, in becoming an analyst, must let go of the illusion of systemic completeness — the acquisition of an all-encompassing worldview. It is only through the vacancy left by well-worn beliefs, in the après-coup of her formation, that the analyst can delineate and realize her dreams.
Within the structure of the institute, candidates are located in the slowed-down process of becoming. While the open-ended temporality of candidacy might at first blush seem hopeful and future-oriented, it also holds the potential for muteness and deadening finitude. Non-chronological, extraordinary time can be idealized or become the abyss, for it is not the native temporality of the speaking subject. The candidate is led by degrees to non-existence but must nevertheless find ways to dialectize desire, to forge a moving suspension within her delay.
In the first article of this issue, “Training and Time,” Jared Russell optimistically relates the elastic time of candidacy to that of analysis. When candidates ask at the beginning of training, “How long will it take” and “How much will it cost?” they follow the logic and temporality of consumer capitalism, which mandates pursuit of immediate gratification. But candidates eventually come to inhabit “the reverberating, ecstatic time of the clinic” because to be in training is “to embody the necessary structural openness that transmits psychoanalysis as a tradition, and that symbolically links the professional generations over time” (p. 14).
Russell’s intervention brings us once again to the difficulties of negative ontology, of identifying with a not-yet, an absence. The candidate as such, marked by what she is not (not an expert, not skilled, and incomplete in knowledge), is often screened off, disavowed, forgotten, even as her position of lack is used to support the fantasy of the graduate’s wholeness. But in knowing and acknowledging her function as an object of transference, the candidate can offer this lack as a gesture of love, a place from which the other may feel her own limits and desire.
1 This reading draws on Edward W. Said’s treatment of Moses and Monotheism in “Freud and the Non-European” (2003).
2 The ideas put forth here about time and candidacy are inspired by Kathryn Bond Stockton’s insights regarding queer temporality and twentieth-century childhood in the United States (2009).
Lacan, J. (1957-1958). Formations of the unconscious: The seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book V. J.-A. Miller, (Ed.), (R. Grigg, Trans.). Malden, MA: Polity Press, 2017.
Lacan, J. (1960-1961). Transference: The seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book VIII. J.-A.. Miller, B. Fink (Eds.), (B. Fink, Trans.). Malden, MA: Polity Press, 2015.
Lacan, J. (1962-1963). Anxiety: The seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book X. J.-A Miller (Ed.), (A. Price, Trans.). Malden, MA: Polity Press, 2014.
Lacan, J. (1964). The four fundamental concepts of psychoanalysis: The seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book XI. J.-A. Miller (Ed.), (A. Sheridan, Trans.). New York, NY: W. W. Norton, 1998.
Lacan, J. (1975-1976). The sinthome: The seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book XXIII. J.-A. Miller (Ed.), (A. Price. Trans.). Malden, MA: Polity Press, 2016.
Polyak, D. (2017). What is politicized psychoanalysis? Available from http://www.publicseminar.org/2017/02/ what-is-politicized-psychoanalysis/#.WRhsSSMrKRY.
Said, E.W. (2003). Freud and the non-European. London, UK: Verso.
Stockton, K.B. (2009). The queer child: growing sideways in the twentieth century. Durham: Duke University Press.
Verhaeghe, P., & Declercq, F. (2002). Lacan’s analytical goal: “Le Sinthome” or the feminine way. In L. Thurston (Ed.), Essays on the final Lacan. Re-inventing the symptom (pp. 59-83). New York, NY: The Other Press.
Address correspondence to:
Anna Fishzon, PhD: email@example.com
Anna Fishzon, PhD, is Senior Research Associate in History at the University of Bristol and a candidate at the Institute for Psychoanalytic Training and Research. She is the author of Fandom, Authenticity, and Opera: Mad Acts and Letter Scenes in Fin-de-Siècle Russia (Palgrave, 2013), as well as articles on sound recording, celebrity, and late-Soviet temporality. She is editing The Queerness of Childhood: Essays from the Other Side of the Looking Glass (Palgrave, forthcoming 2017) with Emma Lieber. Dr. Fishzon also cohosts the podcast New Books in Psychoanalysis.
Emma Lieber, PhD: firstname.lastname@example.org
Emma Lieber, PhD, is a psychoanalyst-in-training at the National Psychological Association for Psychoanalysis in New York. She received her PhD in Russian and comparative literature, which she has taught at universities in the New York area. Her work has appeared in The Point Magazine, New England Review, The Massachusetts Review, and The Candidate Journal, as well as in various academic and psychoanalytic publications. She is currently at work editing, with Anna Fishzon, The Queerness of Childhood: Essays from the Other Side of the Looking Glass.
Olga Poznansky, PhD : email@example.com
Olga Poznansky, PhD, is a clinical psychologist in private practice in New York where she works with children and adults. She is an Assistant Attending in the Department of Psychiatry at Lenox Hill Hospital and is on the supervisory faculty of CUNY and New School University doctoral programs in psychology where she supervises post-doctoral fellows and graduate psychology students. Dr. Poznansky is currently an advanced candidate in psychoanalysis at the National Psychoanalytic Association for Psychoanalysis.