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The therapy relationship: Developing a sound metaphysical description of personal relations

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The therapy relationship: Developing a sound metaphysical description of personal relations

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Content THE THERAPY RELATIONSHIP:
DEVELOPING A SOUND M ETAPHYSICAL
DESCRIPTION OF PERSONAL RELATIONS
by
Robert Fox Vernon
A Dissertation Presented to
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment o f the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
EDUCATION
(COUNSELING PSYCHOLOGY)
Decem ber 2002
Copyright 2002 Robert Fox Vernon
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UMI Number: 3093927
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UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
The Graduate School
University Park
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90089-1695
This dissertation, w ritten b y
rv)6r\___________
Under th e direction o f h .ls ... D issertation
Com m ittee, an d approved b y a ll its m em bers,
has been p resen ted to an d accepted b y The
Graduate School, in p a rtia l fulfillm ent o f
requirem ents fo r th e degree o f
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
-------------
Dean o f Graduate Studies
D ate __
DISSER TA TION COMMITTEE
C hairperson
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DEDICATION
To M ary Frances M illsaps, for her love and inspiration,
and her many hand-woven quilts. They have warmed me on cold nights.
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ACKNOW LEDGM ENTS
I thank my committee, my family, and many good friends, whose guidance and
support gave me the intellectual and emotional fortitude to push forward and complete my
dissertation, a project o f much labor and— during sporadic epiphanies— much delight. I am
especially grateful to my chair, Dr. Donald Polkinghom e, whose gentle yet challenging
mentorship nurtured my appetite for understanding the therapy relationship and planted me
firmly within the blended soils o f psychology and philosophy, where my scholarly roots
have grown joyfully strong. I thank Dr. Rodney Goodyear for inviting me so graciously into
the academic and social realms o f counseling psychology. Dr. Goodyear continually
challenged me to make my philosophical explorations relevant to current issues in
counseling psychology. He also introduced me to many fine people, who matched
Dr. Goodyear in their fine hearts, strong minds, and welcoming smiles. Dr. Dallas W illard
was trem endously supportive o f my efforts to understand crucial philosophical issues and to
explore the foundational nature o f personal relations. W ithout his genuine interest in my
work and his uncanny ability to winnow convoluted philosophical texts into lucid kernels o f
insight, I m ight never have happened upon my love for metaphysics, nor developed my
appreciation for its far-reaching consequence. I will never forget Dr. W illard’s patient
compassion and reassurance. In one meeting, I deferentially explained my understanding o f
a certain philosopher’s theory, and he nodded his head kindly and replied, “Yes, but I’m not
so much interested in what so and so has to say as I am in what Fox has to say.”
Let me also express a warm thank you to my family. My father introduced me to
both psychology and philosophy. My fascination for both fields, I am sure, owe much to my
fascination and love for him. He is present in all my intellectual questions. M y m other has
let her love for me shine brilliant. This has lit my way, especially when I have traveled more
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dark and onerous paths. She often expressed motherly concern about this or that possible
misstep, but she unceasingly respected and encouraged my own judgm ent. She has shown
me, by her example, how to love and honor others. M y step-father took me in without any
questions, and lovingly challenged me to introduce scientific rigor into my theories. His
interest and care for me helped translate into my own interest and care for myself. My
grandmother, who has thankfully kept herself healthy and thriving, offered many spoonfuls
o f love and adoration. H er pride soaked into my very bones, and I will always feel blessed
that she has been with me at this stage o f life. M y older siblings I thank for their forbearance,
their patient interest, and their love. They gave me a model o f what it means to be good and
inspired me to match that goodness. And finally, let me thank my younger brother, who took
me into his home ju st at the moment that this project was nearing its agonizing completion. I
will always treasure his love and friendship.
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V
TABLE OF CONTENTS
D ED ICA TIO N ..............................................................................................................................................ii
ACKNOW LEDGM ENTS.........................................................................................................................iii
LIST OF FIGU RES...................................................................................................................................vii
ABSTRA CT...............................................................................................................................................viii
Chapter 1: Introduction............................................................................................................................... 1
Chapter 2: Review o f the Literature........................................................................................................ 9
History o f the Therapy Relationship..............................................................................................9
Current Conceptualizations o f the Therapeutic Relationship...............................................27
The Definitional Gap in Relationship R esearch...................................................................... 58
Chapter 3: The Assumptions o f Traditional E m piricism ................................................................ 66
Traditional Em piricism ...................................................................................................................69
The Close Relation Between Traditional Empiricism and Postm odernism ...................... 82
Some Problems with Traditional Em piricism ........................................................................... 83
Traditional Em piricism ’s Influence on the Study o f the Therapy R elationship..............87
Chapter 4: Preliminary Steps...................................................................................................................90
Previous Attempts to Define the Therapy R elationship........................................................ 91
A Preliminary Attempt to Define the Therapy R elationship.............................................. 104
Sum m ary...........................................................................................................................................113
Chapter 5: A N ew A pproach.................................................................................................................114
A Review o f W hat Is N eeded..................................................................................................... 114
H usserl’s Epistemological Journey............................................................................................117
Husserl’s Phenom enology........................................................................................................... 159
Chapter 6: A New Theory for Conceptualizing Personal Relations........................................... 203
Introductory R em arks...................................................................................................................205
Bare Relations.................................................................................................................................216
Consciousness.................................................................................................................................239
Feelings.............................................................................................................................................269
Mutual A w areness.........................................................................................................................284
The Real Relationship: Personal Relations as a Sharing o f W orlds.................................300
Complex Feelings..........................................................................................................................305
The Recognition o f Feelings and A w areness.........................................................................316
Summary R em arks........................................................................................................................327
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vi
Chapter 7: Implications for Counseling Psychology...................................................................... 329
The Importance o f Personal Relations Across Knowledge D om ains.............................. 333
Implications for T herapy............................................................................................................. 334
Implications for R esearch............................................................................................................350
Implications for Training............................................................................................................. 357
Implications for T heory............................................................................................................... 360
The N eed for M etaphysics...........................................................................................................365
Concluding R em arks.................................................................................................................... 379
Bibliography..............................................................................................................................................381
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vii
LIST OF FIGURES
Figure 1. Representationalism ...............................................................................................................143
Figure 2. Constructivism ........................................................................................................................ 145
Figure 3. Presentationalism ................................................................................................................... 148
Figure 4. Presentational Theory with Illustration o f Content........................................................152
Figure 5. Cartesian Presentationalism .................................................................................................163
Figure 6. Presentationalism (with a T ree)....................................................................................... 174
Figure 7. Illustration o f E v id en z.......................................................................................................... 175
Figure 8. The Knower, the Knowing, and the K n o w n ...................................................................267
Figure 9. The W hole that Is “S e lfs Awareness o f the W orld” ....................................................268
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viii
ABSTRACT
This study describes the fundamental nature o f the client-therapist relationship.
Current research has found this relationship to be more predictive o f psychotherapeutic
progress than any specific technique or general theoretical approach. Relationship
researchers, however, have yet to develop a compelling description or definition o f the
therapy relationship. They have focused instead on establishing and perfecting psychom etric
instruments. This study demonstrates that the field’s neglect o f definitional efforts is the
probable result o f methodological procedures that derive, broadly speaking, from the
empiricism o f David Hume. These procedures assume ontological and epistemological
positions that lead to overlooking foundational descriptive analysis. The study explicates an
alternative methodology— the transcendental phenomenology o f Edm und Husserl— and
demonstrates how this method, unlike H um e’s empiricism, provides an objective procedure
for describing the essential nature o f the therapy relationship. Using this methodology, the
study articulates, analyzes, and describes the elemental aspects o f the therapy relationship.
The study delineates the “bonding” or “conjunctive” ontology that underlies personal
relations (such as the therapy relationship). It then explores com plex subjective states that
are inherent in all personal relations. Finally, it offers a look at the ramifications o f the
study’s metaphysical and descriptive findings upon the counseling process, relationship
research, counselor training, and philosophical and therapeutic theory.
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CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
This study attempts to describe the fundamental nature o f the relationship that forms
between client and counselor in the course o f psychotherapy. W ozniak (1992) proclaims that
in the very first conceptualizations o f psychotherapeutic procedure, which he asserts were
put forward in 1784, the relationship between therapist and patient was understood as a
foundational factor in the success o f psychotherapy. In recent decades, this relationship—
which I will refer to, in a most general sense, as the therapy relationship— has emerged as a
central focus in the study o f psychotherapy’s curative factors. It has been the recurring
discovery o f the “Dodo bird effect” that m ay best explain why the therapy relationship has
become a darling o f psychotherapy research. The Dodo bird effect is the relatively consistent
finding that differing therapeutic approaches are equally effective (Luborsky, Singer, &
Luborsky, 1975; "Mental health: Does therapy help," 1995; Smith & Glass, 1977; Stiles,
Shapiro, & Elliott, 1986). This finding first achieved the epithet “Dodo bird effect” when
Luborsky, Singer, and Luborsky— following the cue o f Rosenzweig (1936)— named the
apparent equivalency o f various psychotherapies after the Dodo bird in Alice in W onderland,
who exclaims, “ Everybody has won, and all must have prizes.” (Carroll, 1962, p. 412).
Though some still dispute the Dodo bird effect (Eysenck, 1994; Rachman & Wilson, 1980),
most current research has corroborated it (Bergin & Garfield, 1994; Lam bert & Bergin,
1994; W ampold et al„ 1997).
On the one hand, the Dodo bird effect has been a disheartening revelation, for it
suggests that all psychotherapeutic techniques are equally valuable (or, conversely, equally
valueless). N o one has won the “horse race,” as researchers often put it. On the other hand,
there has been helpful theoretical progress. The Dodo bird effect has led researchers to
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follow up on Ronsenzweig’s (1936) seminal article delineating the common factors that
might underlie all therapeutic treatments and techniques (for example, Hubble, Duncan, &
Miller, 1999). These factors are by no means o f small import. Amongst them, the therapy
relationship may be the most thoroughly studied. This is likely attributable to the simple fact
that the constructs established to operationalize this relationship have proven— in sharp
contrast with most other process and outcome constructs— to be highly predictive o f therapy
outcome (Asay & Lambert, 1999; Gelso & Carter, 1985; Gelso & Hayes, 1998; Horvath &
Greenberg, 1989; Lam bert & Hill, 1994; Sexton & W histon, 1994). On the basis o f this
research, M ahoney makes this optimistic comment about the therapy relationship,
The bottom line here is that humans can, indeed, help other hum ans change. It is the
quality o f their (our) relationships with other humans that most powerfully
influences the quality o f lives and the pace and direction o f developments within
them (1991, pp. 264-265).
M ost studies have found the therapy relationship to be more predictive o f
therapeutic progress than any specific technique or general theoretical approach (Claibom ,
1982; Eaton, Abeles, & Gutfreund, 1988; Horvath & Greenberg, 1989; Levy, 1963; Linehan,
1988; M esser, 1988; Natsoulas, 1988; Spiegel & Hill, 1989; Strupp, 1986; Tichenor & Hill,
1989; W instead, Derlega, Lewis, & Margulis, 1988). The predictive success o f the therapy
relationship has come despite the fact that researchers have employed at least 11 various
measures o f it, many o f which highlight different components (Horvath & Luborsky, 1993).
Greenberg and Pinsof reflect upon what is both encouraging and mildly perplexing about
this research, using the term “alliance” to denote the therapy relationship:
The Alliance seems to have great potential as a potent predictor o f outcome in a
fairly wide variety o f settings and contexts. W hat is particularly impressive is the
capacity for the Alliance to be related to outcome when it is being measured in so
many different ways at different research centers on different types o f therapy. The
robustness o f the findings are unusual in the area o f psychotherapy research. (1986,
p. 11)
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Relationship research has undoubtedly been a general success, but this success has
left doubt in its wake, a doubt that resonates within a confused terminology. The therapy
relationship has been granted many appellations, varying, at least in part, according to the
theoretical leanings o f the particular researcher in question. Most o f these appellations
employ the term “alliance,” sometimes allowing it to stand on its own, but more commonly
introducing it into such combinations as the “working alliance,” the “therapeutic alliance,”
and the “helping alliance.” A second cluster o f appellations have made use o f the term
“bond,” which, like the “alliance,” sometimes stands on its own yet is also commonly
wedded to other terms, as in the “therapeutic bond,” the “helping bond,” and the “emotional
bond.” These two basic terms, “alliance” and “bond,” represent two general ways o f viewing
the relationship. The word “alliance” emphasizes the relationship as a contract or agreem ent
between therapist and client. The word “bond” emphasizes the therapy relationship as an
emotional interaction involving a blend o f trust, warmth, respect, and empathy.
The failure o f researchers to provide a clear differentiation between alliance and
bond may seem to signify merely a slight sloppiness in scholarly communication, and to
some degree this is certainly true. Researchers who employ different term s m any times
intend the same construct, interchanging their words with little concern. But m ore often than
not, the m atter is not so slight. Scholars employ the same term, yet intend entirely different
meanings. W hat one relationship researcher identifies as a bond, another would identify as
an alliance, and vice versa. A growing concern has been whether researchers are truly
measuring the same construct. There are some indications, a study by Tichenor and Hill
(1989) for example, that despite the overlap o f different measures o f the relationship, these
measures are nonetheless not interchangeable.
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Scholars have begun to recognize this problematic state o f affairs, but surprisingly
little has been done to correct it, and no comprehensive effort has been undertaken to define
what a therapy relationship is. Is it a bond or an alliance, or a combination o f the two? In
their recent review o f the literature, Gelso and Hayes comment,
Because the therapy relationship has been given such a central place in our field
over such a long period o f time, one might expect that many definitions o f the
relationship have been put forth. In fact, there has been very little definitional work.
(1998, p. 5)
Gelso and Hayes’s identify a concern that is not limited to the empirical literature. M eissner,
a scholar and practitioner within the psychoanalytic circle, makes this remark about the
therapy relationship: “Though its nature and function in the analytic setting continue to be
debated, there has been little effort to elaborate the concept itself beyond the level o f
understanding provided by Zetzel (1956, 1958) and later by Greenson (1965)” (M eissner,
1996, p. 4). In other words, the seminal works in the field— those o f Zetzel and Greenson—
remain the primary theoretical positions; subsequent scholarship has added little. As a result,
remarks another psychoanalytic scholar, the therapy relationship “is one o f those concepts
that, while generally accepted as a necessary com ponent o f the process, is not fully
integrated into our theory” (Busch, 1994, p. 373).
The present inquiry argues that this definitional neglect and the confusions ensuing
from it are m anifestations o f a deeper problem that has remained unaddressed in the
literature: scholars have adopted an empirical method o f scientific inquiry that imposes a
blindness regarding foundational descriptive analysis. This empirical method— which I label
traditional empiricism— focuses almost entirely on measurement and quantification.
Researchers, lacking careful descriptive analysis, yet employing a m ethodology that treats
operationalization as tantamount to definition, have tolerated confusion regarding the
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meaning o f foundational constructs. The field has leapfrogged the basic question, “W hat is a
therapy relationship?”
The disregard for this question has not ostensibly hindered the advance o f
relationship research, especially if it be measured by the sheer production o f findings.
Indeed, this disregard has likely had the opposite effect. Researchers— in adopting a
methodology that disencumbers them from carefully defining their central construct— have
been “let loose,” so to speak, to generate study upon study. In process and outcome research
generally, Lambert and Bergin report that there has been “an astonishing rate o f growth”
(1994, p. 364). Between 1985 and 1992, the total number o f process and research findings
doubled. But this is surpassed by empirical findings specific to the therapy relationship,
which trebled in the same seven-year span. This proliferation o f findings is largely due to a
body o f research that has blossomed around the study o f the “working alliance,” a construct
conceptualized by a growing number o f scholars to be a primary com ponent o f the more
general “therapeutic relationship” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998). Gelso and Hayes remark about
the working alliance, “From about the middle o f the 1980s onward, it is hard to find a
construct in the psychotherapy field that has been as vigorously investigated” (1998, p. 22).
But after more than two decades o f research, scholars are beginning to wonder— am idst their
abundant findings (a veritable embarrassment o f riches)— “W hat does it all mean?”
One resulting trend within current research has been to discount conceptualizations
o f the therapy relationship that focus on the bond between client and therapist, and to
concentrate efforts on the alliance. The alliance, it turns out, is much more amenable to the
psychometric demands o f traditional empiricism. The contract between client and counselor,
especially the client’s agreement regarding the goals and tasks o f therapy, has proven to be
more stable and more measurable than such phenomena as trust and respect, elem ents o f the
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bond. Thus, researchers have shifted efforts away from accounting for the bond (even from
counting it as crucial), and have invested their energies in analyzing the “contractual”
agreements established between client and therapist. M eissner laments this trend, writing:
“There is considerable confusion over use o f the term therapeutic alliance: in common usage
and even in many technical discussions the term seems to indicated little more than the
patient was collaborating and task-oriented (Olinick, 1976)” (1996, pp. 7-8).
In light o f the tremendous amount o f research being done on the therapy
relationship, and the fact that this relationship has proven to be a stable construct across
theoretical paradigms, the field would be well served by a closer examination o f the nature
o f the construct itself. This investigation proposes to conduct such an examination, w hich is,
in its essence, a construct validity inquiry. The investigation begins with a literature review
(Chapter 2) intended to cover two aspects o f this construct: its historical developm ent within
the field o f psychotherapy and its standing within current research programs. This chapter
will demonstrate how current research efforts have succeeded in operationalizing and
measuring the agreem ent components o f the therapy relationship, but have failed in
developing careful and thorough analyses o f the therapy relationship’s fundamental nature.
Chapter 3 explains how this impasse in the relationship literature arises from the
problematic ontological and epistemological assumptions that ground traditional empiricism.
The chapter explores these assumptions both to identify how they are inconsistent and to
illustrate why they have precluded the development o f an adequate definition and description
o f the therapy relationship. Traditional empiricism is analyzed as explicated by the British
empiricist, David Hume, who established the fundamental empirical philosophy that has
informed, even dominated, most current scientific methodologies, including those o f
positivism in the late 1800’s and logical positivism in the 1930’s.
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Chapter 4 delineates elemental aspects that should be addressed by any adequate
investigation and description o f the therapy relationship. By examining the nascent attem pts
o f relationship researchers’ to define the therapy relationship, the study arrives at the
following elemental aspects: bare relations, consciousness, feelings, and mutual awareness.
The chapter illustrates exactly how the assumptions o f traditional empiricism claim that
these elemental aspects lie outside the realm o f empirical science and thus remove them
from scientific investigation.
Chapter 5 offers an alternative m ethodology that supports an adequate study o f the
elemental aspects o f the therapy relationship. That methodology is the transcendental
phenomenology developed by Edmund Husserl. H usserl’s phenomenology offers several
advantages over traditional empiricism. First, it provides an illuminating critique o f
traditional empiricism, in contrast to which it was intentionally developed, largely as an
attempt to overcome em piricism ’s limiting presuppositions. Second, it offers a m ethodology
that is self-supporting (in a way in which traditional empiricism is not) and that provides the
foundations for a radicalized empiricism. And third, it provides an objective method o f
descriptive psychology that supports this study’s endeavor to analyze the essential nature o f
the therapy relationship. It is indeed the nature o f the therapy relationship that is fundamental
to the core question this investigation addresses: “W hat is a therapy relationship?” In
attempting to describe the nature o f the therapy relationship, this study is essentially
addressing A ristotle’s formal cause.
Chapter 6 analyzes and describes the elemental aspects o f the therapy relationship.
This chapter draws on the prelim inary investigation conducted in Chapter 4, but augm ents it
with the detailed work o f Husserl and other relevant investigators who studied interpersonal
relations. The chapter begins by focusing on the “bonding” or “conjunctive” ontology that
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underlies personal relations (such as the therapy relationship). It then explores more com plex
subjective states that are inherent in most, if not all, personal relations.
Finally, Chapter 7 offers a look at the ramifications o f the descriptive and
metaphysical findings o f this phenomenological study. It surveys issues related to the
counseling process, relationship research, counselor training, and philosophical and
therapeutic theory.
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CHAPTER 2
REVIEW OF THE LITERATURE
History o f the Therapy Relationship
Freud
The therapy relationship was introduced as a prominent factor in psychotherapy
when Freud established the concept o f transference as central to psychoanalysis (Freud,
1905/1959). Transference refers to certain feelings clients’ hold toward their therapists.
Freud defined transference as cliches or stereotypes adopted by clients from their earliest
childhood relations and projected onto new relationships, especially, o f course, the therapy
relationship (Freud, 1912/1953). Freud soon determined that transference was a crucial
component o f his talking cure and instead o f dismissing transferential reactions as obstacles
to therapeutic intervention, he proposed that the clinician purposely create an environment
that induced these emotional phenomena, as they constituted resistances that could be
worked through to the benefit o f the patient’s psychological functioning (Freud, 1912/1953,
Freud, 1915/1958a, 1914/1958d). The environm ent that would produce such reactions,
argued Freud (1915/1958a, 1912/1958c), would be one in which the clinician purposely
avoided the gratification o f the client’s needs (termed the rule o f abstinence) and acted as a
mirror, carefully checking any tendency to impose his or her feelings and values on the
client. Both the rule o f abstinence and the m irror analogy were later interpreted by some
(both within and outside classical psychoanalysis) to mean that the analyst should adopt a
cold, austere posture toward his or her patient. This may have led some analysts to diminish
the importance o f the therapeutic relationship. We will see later how Greenson (1967)
warned against this interpretation o f Freud. Indeed, Freud him self proclaimed that the
analyst’s first order o f business, before offering interpretations o f the client’s psychic
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structure, should be to develop “a proper rapport” (1913/1958b, p. 139) with the analysand,
and that this was best accomplished by adopting an attitude o f “sympathetic understanding”
(p. 140).
In his earliest work directly addressing the concept o f transference (Freud,
1912/1953), Freud suggests that not all transference reactions were resistances to be worked
through, but rather, some transferential reactions were actually o f aid to the clinician (or, as
later theorists put it, were “allies” to the clinician). Freud wrote:
The transference to the physician is only suited for resistance in so far as it consists
in negative feeling or in the repressed erotic elements o f positive feeling. As we
‘raise’ the transference by making it conscious we detach only these two
components o f the emotional relationship from the person o f the physician; the
conscious and unobjectionable component o f it remains, and brings about the
successful result in psycho-analysis as in all other remedial methods. (Freud,
1912/1953, p. 319)
In this brief passage, Freud presaged at least three developments in psychotherapy.
One was the importance o f a productive relationship between client and therapist, that is, a
relationship that “brings about the successful result.” This is what later became known as the
alliance or the “working” alliance. Freud characterizes this relationship as involving
transference reactions that are “conscious and unobjectionable.” Freud also foresaw, quite
interestingly, that this productive com ponent o f the relationship was a common factor “in all
other remedial m ethods.” This, o f course, has been confirmed by recent research. Finally,
Freud classified this productive com ponent o f the relationship as fundamentally
transferential, hinting at (and perhaps causing) the current debate between those who
propose that all relationships are fundamentally transferential and others who contend that
some relationships are, as it is put in the current literature, real relationships. (See, for
example, Gelso & Hayes, 1998; M eissner, 1996.)
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Rogers
Though Freud introduced the concept o f a productive relationship between client
and therapist, it was not until the 1950s, with the advent o f Carl Rogers’s client-centered
therapy (1951), that the therapeutic relationship moved to the forefront o f clinical attention.
To many, Rogers’s theory was a healthy antidote to what was characterized as the cold and
deterministic views o f psychoanalysis and behaviorism. Countering these dominant
orientations, Rogers (1951) emphasized the patient’s role in determining the course o f
therapy, and by so doing introduced a different type o f relationship into psychotherapy
theory, one that was non-directive. But Rogers, being the consummate scientist-practitioner,
did not merely postulate the importance o f the client-therapist relationship, he set about
studying it, and by so doing he placed the relationship not only at the center o f clinical
practice, but also at the center o f empirical research. In his seminal work, Client-Centered
Therapy, Rogers devoted a chapter to the therapy relationship, concluding that chapter with
the following lament:
It will have been painfully evident that the material o f this chapter has been based
upon clinical experience and judgm ent rather than upon any scientific or objective
basis. Almost no research has been done upon the com plex problems o f the subtle
client-therapist relationship. (Rogers, 1951, p. 51)
Rogers’s first step in conducting “scientific or objective” research on the therapy
relationship was to put forth a daring hypothesis in his watershed article on the necessary
and sufficient conditions for therapy. He wrote, “I am hypothesizing that significant positive
personality change does not occur except in a relationship. This is o f course an hypothesis,
and it may be disproved” (Rogers, 1957, p. 96). O f course, Freud had made the same basic
proposition, but he had not placed the relationship at the center o f his theory, as did Rogers,
nor challenged others to disprove him. Rogers’s hypothesis reverberated within the halls o f
scientific research. His article on therapy’s necessary and sufficient conditions inspired a
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wave o f research that reached, by the 1970s, what Gelso and Carter characterize as a
“feverish pitch” (1985, p. 156).
R ogers’s article proposed six necessary and sufficient conditions for therapeutic
change. First, the therapist and client must be in “psychological contact.” Rogers explained
this contact as both the client and therapist making “some perceived difference in the
experiential field o f the other” (1957, p. 96). ^ Second, the client must be “in a state o f
incongruence, being vulnerable or anxious” (Rogers, 1957, p. 96). Third, the therapist must
be congruent, by which Rogers meant being genuine. Fourth, the therapist must feel
unconditional positive regard (or warmth) for the client. Fifth, the therapist must feel
empathy for the client. And sixth, the client m ust become aware o f the therapist’s em pathy
and warmth. Rogers concluded, “No other conditions are necessary. If these six conditions
exist, and continue over a period o f time, this is sufficient. The process o f constructive
personality change will follow” (1957, p. 96).
Interestingly, Rogers’s six conditions were eventually whittled to three by both
Rogers and later researchers, these conditions being the therapist-offered ones and including
congruence, unconditional positive regard (or warmth), and empathy. Rogers’s theory, then,
that at the outset had emphasized the client’s needs and the client’s directiveness, stressed in
the end the importance o f therapist-offered conditions. Initial research supported Rogers’s
contention that these three therapist-offered conditions were sufficient to cause client
improvement (Barrett-Lennard, 1985; Horvath & Luborsky, 1993; Rogers, Gendlin, Kiesler,
& Truax, 1967), but later research rendered more ambiguous findings (M itchell, Bozart, &
1 The Rogers scholar and protege, Peter F. Schmid, claims that Rogers wanted to use the term "relation" instead
o f “psychological contact” in his 1957 article but feared that academics would disapprove o f such unscientific
language (Schmid, 2000).
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Krauft, 1977; Orlinsky & Howard, 1986). Apparently, congruence, warmth, and empathy—
as offered by the therapist— did not always produce change, nor were they always necessary
(Gelso & Fretz, 1992; Gelso & Hayes, 1998; Patterson, 1984). Indeed, current findings have
indicated that more than the therapist’s actual characteristics or behavior, it is the client’s
perceptions o f these that best predict therapeutic outcome (Horvath & Luborsky, 1993;
Horvath & Symonds, 1991; Lambert & Bergin, 1994; Sexton & W histon, 1994). Kolden and
Howard explain: “Our results suggest that what is important is the patient’s experience o f
receiving the conditions offered by the therapist; therapeutic progress is associated with the
patient’s experience o f the therapeutic relationship, not necessarily with what the therapist
offers” (1992, p. 234). M any overlook that Rogers predicted this. He wrote:
The final condition as stated is that the client perceives, to a minimal degree, the
acceptance and empathy which the therapist experiences for him. Unless some
communication o f these attitudes has been achieved, then such attitudes do not exist
in the relationship as far as the client is concerned, and the therapeutic process could
not, by our hypothesis, be initiated. (Rogers, 1957, p. 99)
Bordin
Rogers’s innovative theory influenced clinicians o f all orientations, not just those
who shared his humanistic leanings. O f special interest is its influence on the
psychodynamic thinker Edward Bordin. It was Bordin who in the 1970’s revived
researchers’ interest in the therapeutic relationship, an interest that had dwindled due to
negative and conflicting findings that had emerged around Rogers’s three therapist-offered
conditions (Gelso & Carter, 1985). Bordin was impressed by the client-centered position o f
Rogers. He explained, “The view that the person seeking changes takes an active position in
the change process is a key feature o f my conceptualization” (Bordin, 1994, p. 14).
Nonetheless, he cast the therapeutic relationship in a different mold from that o f Rogers.
That mold was modeled after the productive relationship that Freud had alluded to.
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Several psychoanalytic thinkers, realizing the importance o f less distorted domains
o f the client-therapist relationship, had expanded Freud’s line o f thinking, and had explored
types o f transference that were conducive to therapy. Fenichel (1941), for example, referred
to this productive transference as “rational” transference; Zetzel (1956) introduced the term
“therapeutic alliance;” and Stone adopted the rubric “m ature” transference (1961). It was
Greenson (1965, 1967), however, who most thoroughly expounded on this productive
relationship, and who most clearly expressed the necessity o f it. His term for the
relationship, the “working alliance,” has become widely used today, and Bordin borrowed
this term directly, though altering it in important ways.
In addition to being inspired and influenced by Rogers, Bordin expressed a deep
concern for what he viewed as the contemporary “proliferation o f psychotherapies” (Bordin,
1979, p. 252). By the late 1950s, Harper (1959) had published a book describing the 36
extant schools o f psychotherapy, and within 20 years, Harper had deemed it necessary to
publish a second book to include the many new therapies that had arrived on the scene
(1975). The same year that this second book was published, Bordin (1975a, 1975b)
presented papers at two important conferences to disseminate his new ideas about the
working alliance, a factor he believed to be common to all modes o f effective therapy. He,
like Rogers, considered him self a scientist-practitioner, and he offered up this tantalizing
hypothesis: “I propose that the working alliance between the person who seeks change and
the one who offers to be a change agent is one o f the keys, if not the key, to the change
process” (Bordin, 1979, p. 252). Bordin’s inspiration as a scientist did not end there,
however. He put forward four specific propositions:
1. All schools o f therapy employ the working alliance, and they do so in ways that
can be meaningfully distinguished.
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2. The strength o f the working alliance determines the effectiveness o f treatment.
3. Schools o f therapy differ in the demands that the working alliance places on the
client and the therapist.
4. The closer the match between the demands o f the working alliance and the
personal characteristics o f the client and therapist, the stronger the working
alliance.
B ordin’s conceptualization o f the working alliance came directly from two
foundations within the psychoanalytic literature. The first foundation included the work o f
two thinkers: Sterba (1934), who proposed the necessity o f an alliance between the analyst’s
psychoanalytic ego and the client’s rational ego; and M enninger (1958), who em phasized the
need for a therapist-client contract. The second foundation drew from the work o f Zetzel
(1956) and Greenson (1967), both o f whom proposed the possibility o f a real relationship
between the therapist and client. (Just w hat was m eant by a real relationship we will explore
shortly.)
In drawing from these two foundations, Bordin produced a theory o f the working
alliance that included three equally important elements. The first elem ent was agreement
between client and therapist about the goals o f therapy. In Bordin’s thinking, this included
agreement about the causes o f the client’s problems and the means o f am eliorating those
problems (Bordin, 1979). The second element was what Bordin described as “an assignm ent
o f task or a series o f tasks” (Bordin, 1979 p. 253). M ost later theorists have interpreted this
second element as being “agreement” about the tasks o f therapy, and this may indeed be
what Bordin intended, though his language leaves this unclear. By “tasks,” Bordin m eant the
specific techniques or interventions employed by the therapist. The third element was the
emotional bond. Bordin did not define what he m eant by the emotional bond other than
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16
cursorily referencing the concepts o f trust and attachment, commenting that “our
examination o f such features o f therapeutic work need to be more pointed” (1979, p. 254).
Other theorists, as we shall see, have more fully developed a notion o f the emotional bond.
Bordin, however, was less concerned with the emotional bond itself, and more interested
how the goals and tasks o f therapy, which he believed shaped the bond. He explained:
The goals set and collaboration specified appear intimately linked to the nature o f
the human relationship [i.e., emotional bond] between therapist and patient.... For
example, the kind o f bond developed when a therapist gives a patient a form and
asks him to make a daily record o f his submissive and assertive acts... appears quite
different from the bond developed when a therapist shares his or her feelings with a
patient, in order to provide a model, or to provide feedback on the patient’s impact
on others. One bond may not necessarily be stronger than the other, but they do
differ in kind. (Bordin, 1979, p. 254)
Bordin’s explanation implied that the goals and tasks o f therapy determined the em otional
bond. Though it is doubtful that Bordin was this extreme in his views, his failure to provide
a definition o f the emotional bond did nothing to clear up any possible conflation o f the bond
with goals and tasks.
Indeed, that Bordin spent so little effort in conceptualizing the emotional bond, and
that he so emphasized its relation to the elements o f agreement on goals and tasks illustrates
the degree with which his primary focus was on collaboration. He described his theory as
“the idea that the strength o f collaboration between patient and therapist may have more to
do with the effectiveness o f the therapy than the particular methods chosen” (Bordin, 1979,
p. 255). Even more, Bordin conceptualized collaboration not as a general partnership which
client and therapist naturally develop, but as the specific agreements they establish. Bordin
went so far as to stress that the collaboration between patient and therapist should be
explicitly negotiated, likening the working alliance to a contract between therapy
participants; and he criticized both client-centered and psychodynamic therapy for allowing
the therapeutic goals and tasks to “emerge gradually and ambiguously” (Bordin, 1994, p. 9).
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He explained, “I differ with both the client-centered and psychoanalytic methods in
emphasizing the more explicit negotiation o f detailed aspects of goals and tasks as important
steps in alliance building and attaining the strength to overcome strains and ruptures”
(Bordin, 1994, p. 15). N o doubt many clinicians would agree with B ordin’s stress on the
therapist and client arriving at mutually established goals, but what is interesting is that this
negotiation, this attempt to establish agreement, gains such an extreme position o f
prominence in determining the alliance. The alliance becomes, in essence, the agreem ent
between client and counselor.
Additionally, Bordin’s emphasis on agreement hints, in certain passages, at a
preoccupation with compliance. For example, he explains that the alliance “makes it possible
for the patient to accept and follow treatm ent faithfully” (Bordin, 1980, p. 2, as cited in
Horvath & Luborsky, 1993). Even if Bordin did not intend this em phasis on compliance,
others have interpreted him that way. Sexton and W histon (1994), for example, in their
review o f the literature on the therapeutic relationship, explain B ordin’s theory o f the
alliance in the following way: “The alliance is not viewed as a m echanism for change, but
rather the alliance is viewed as a mechanism that enables the client to comply with treatm ent
(Bordin, 1979)” (p. 36).
B ordin’s tendency to conceptualize collaboration as agreement or compliance,
should not be taken out o f the context o f a sympathetic and genuine relationship. Clearly
Bordin did not believe therapy was solely a m atter o f persuading the client to comply. But he
nonetheless was intent on emphasizing that the emotional bonds formed in therapy are
largely determined by the therapeutic tasks and goals. He wrote:
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The bonding o f the persons in a therapeutic alliance grows out o f their experience o f
association in a shared activity. Partner compatibility (bonding) is likely to be
expressed and felt in terms o f liking, trusting, respect for each other, and a sense o f
common com m itm ent and shared understanding in the activity. Thus, the specific
nature o f the bonds will vary as a function o f the shared activity. (Bordin, 1994,
p. 16)
Two them es emerge in examining B ordin’s conceptualization o f the alliance. First,
his emphasis on a collaborative alliance reveals the influence o f psychodynamic theory on
his view. Psychodynamic theorists— following Freud’s example— commonly utilized
military metaphors to illustrate psychodynamic processes. A client’s neurosis, for instance,
might be referred to as the “enemy” that opposes both client and therapist.^ This enemy is
quite powerful, and stubbornly opposes the efforts o f the analysand. Thus the need for the
therapist to develop an “alliance” with a sympathetic part o f the client’s psyche. Indeed, the
term “alliance” might seem an odd choice o f words for depicting a therapeutic relationship
were it not for the implicit understanding o f the client being under attack. Two prom inent
researchers on the alliance, Horvath and Luborsky, capture this m eaning explicitly: “This
pantheoretical formulation emphasizes the client’s positive collaboration with the therapist
against the common foe o f pain and self-defeating behavior” (1993, p. 563).
A Second them e is Bordin emphasis on therapy relationship not as curative in itself
(which was Rogers’s view), but rather as a mechanism that enhanced the client’s openness to
and compliance with therapeutic interventions. In summary, Bordin had borrowed partly
from Rogers and partly from psychodynamic theorists (such as Greenson, M enninger, Zetzer
and Sterba) to develop a conceptualization o f the therapeutic relationship that focused quite
heavily on the goals and tasks o f therapy. Where Freud spoke o f sympathetic understanding,
2 As specific examples, see either Freud (1966, pp. 423-424) or Greenson (1967, p. 82) for their explanations o f
regression in terms o f an army (that is, the client’s psychological resources) retreating in the face o f the enemy
(neurosis).
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Bordin spoke o f goals, tasks, and a bond. W here Rogers emphasized warmth, empathy, and
genuineness, Bordin emphasized a compact between therapist and client.
It should not be overlooked that Bordin is highly praised by researchers for two
contributions to the literature, both o f which stem from his attempt to address the ever
expanding number o f psychotherapeutic techniques. First, Bordin presented the alliance as a
pantheoretical concept applicable to all modalities o f psychotherapy. He wrote, “Research on
the working alliance should initially be directed at testing the applicability o f these ideas to
all varieties o f psychotherapy” (Bordin, 1979, p. 253). Second, Bordin captured the spirit o f
many theorists and provided a theory that, rather than separating technique (tasks and goals)
from the relationship (emotional bond), intertwined the two and construed both as
interdependent. This trend has continued in the empirical literature, as expressed here by
Horvath and Greenberg: “From the perspective o f the client’s change process, it seems
unlikely that there are actually two distinct mechanisms (a technique elem ent and a
relationship component); it is more probable that these factors are interdependent and
catalytic to each other” (1994, p. 2). By linking the relationship with technique, B ordin’s
formulation o f the working alliance broke with traditional and contemporary attempts to
view the two as separable. This made sense to researchers who were impressed by the
observation that therapeutic techniques were necessarily delivered within the context o f
relationships. It also made sense to clinicians who— even when using therapeutic m odalities
that questioned the necessity and reality o f the relationship— nonetheless believed in its
importance for effective therapy (Gelso & Hayes, 1998). Indeed, many researchers and
clinicians alike were concerned that contemporary m odalities of psychotherapy, such as
classical psychoanalysis and behaviorism, were drifting too far from the human realm and
had paid too little attention to genuine human contact.
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Greenson
The next major contribution to the study o f the therapeutic relationship came from
Charles Gelso and Jean Carter (1985). In the mid-1980s, these two researchers— lamenting
that research on the therapeutic relationship had “dried up”— called for an empirical and
theoretical re-examination o f this construct. Inspired and influenced by the work o f Bordin,
these authors returned to the source o f most o f B ordin’s thinking, Ralph Greenson.
Greenson was a classical analyst by training, and he achieved prom inent status
within the psychoanalytic community (Greenson, 1967). His famous textbook on
psychoanalytic technique, The Technique and Practice o f Psychoanalysis, was not m eant to
be a treatise on psychoanalytic theory (as had been the work o f such giants as Fenichel
[1941]), but was instead intended to be a practical guide for practicing clinicians. Indeed, it
is Greenson’s concern about the practice o f psychoanalysis that likely afforded him his
sensitivity to the pragmatics o f the analytical context, thus helping him formulate his concept
o f the working alliance.
As a practicing psychoanalyst, it was not Greenson’s successes that revealed to him
the importance o f the working alliance, but his failures. Greenson came to realize that there
were certain patients he was unable to help. These clients seemed unable to move beyond the
first phases o f treatment. “[E]ven after several years o f analysis,” he explained, “they were
not really ‘in analysis’” (Greenson, 1967, p. 191). These clients not only failed to make
progress, they failed to become involved in and committed to their treatment. Greenson
concluded that one feature was shared amongst all the clients: “the failure o f the patient to
develop a reliable working relationship with the analyst” (Greenson, 1967, p. 191). Greenson
was not the first to suggest this idea, and he claims that “The notion o f a working alliance is
an old one in both psychiatric and psychoanalytic literature” (Greenson, 1967, p. 192).
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G reenson’s contribution, however, was to claim the alliance as equally important to
transference. He explained:
In order for a neurotic patient to enter into and to work effectively in the analytic
situation it is imperative that he establish and maintain another kind o f relationship
to the psychoanalyst, besides his transference reactions. I am referring here to the
working alliance. It is my contention that the working alliance deserves to be
considered a full and equal partner to the transference neurosis in the patient-
therapist relationship. (Greenson, 1967, p. 191)
Greenson had taken Freud’s fledgling hints o f a productive relationship, developed
this into the concept o f the working alliance, and placed it alongside Freud’s already central
concept o f transference. Though Greenson noted others who had developed concepts similar
to that o f the working alliance (for example, Fenichel [1941], and Sterba [1934], for
example), these theorists, claimed Greenson (with the notable exceptions o f Zetzel [1956]
and Stone [1961]), either considered the working alliance o f secondary importance or failed
to differentiate it from transference reactions. Freud (1953) had been in this latter camp, for
he had described the productive relationship as being transferential, with the qualification
that it emanated from that element o f the patient’s positive transference that remained both
“conscious and unobjectionable” (p. 319).
In describing the working alliance, Greenson wrote o f “the relatively nonneurotic,
rational rapport which the patient has with his analyst” (1967, p. 192). Continuing this line
o f thought, he arrived at the following definition: “It is this reasonable and purposeful part o f
the feelings the patient has for the analyst which makes for the working alliance” (Greenson,
1967, p. 192). Though G reenson’s definition alluded to a certain collaboration between
therapist and client, this collaboration could in no way be reduced to agreem ent in the sense
which is so central to Bordin’s work. Indeed, when many theorists speak o f the term
“collaboration” in reference to the therapy relationship, it is difficult to differentiate whether
they mean to interpret this term more broadly, according to G reenson’s formulation o f the
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working alliance (indicating the willingness to work together, a cooperative, reality-based
rapport), or more narrowly, according to B ordin’s formulation (indicating a specific client-
therapist agreement or agreements regarding goals and tasks). In the literature, the
distinction between the two is seldom drawn.
Greenson’s contention that the working alliance should be considered separate and
equal to transference was a controversial one. There were and are psychoanalytic scholars
who challenge this notion (Brenner, 1979; Curtis, 1979). They contend that the working
alliance is merely a form o f transference-neurosis, and thus is not reality-based but is a
resistance to be worked through (Brenner, 1979; Curtis, 1979). This debate has repeated
itself in the process and outcomes literature also (Greenberg, 1994; Hill, 1994).
In writing his book specifically for practicing clinicians, one o f G reenson’s
concerns— and probably a reason he introduced the concept o f the working alliance— was
what he felt to be a misinterpretation o f Freud’s (1958a; 1958c) advice that therapists should
both abstain from gratifying the client’s wishes and act as a mirror (Greenson, 1967).
According to Greenson, these two guidelines were intended to allow the analysand to
develop transferential reactions that were not inspired (or adulterated) by the therapist’s
feelings, values, or behaviors. Many therapists accepted these statements too literally, wrote
Greenson, and m isguidedly established astringently aloof relationships with their clients.
Greenson cautioned that Freud’s guidelines had been intended to counteract prevailing
analyst’s tendencies to become too emotionally involved with their analysands. He wrote:
W hile it is true that Freud stressed the deprivational aspects o f the analytic situation
in his writings, I believe he did so because at that time (1912-1919) the big danger
was that analysts would permit them selves to overact and to act out with their
patients. (Greenson, 1967, p. 212)
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Greenson supported this contention by referring to Freud’s case histories, which in
Greenson’s view, revealed that Freud adopted ju st the opposite o f a cold and aloof stance
with his clients.
Greenson, then, was concerned that analysts who misinterpreted Freud— and
adopted “wooden” relationships with their clients— would be prone to forfeiting any type o f
productive relationship. He wrote, “I think it is obvious that if we want the patient to develop
a relatively realistic and reasonable working alliance, we have to work in a m anner that is
both realistic and reasonable” (Greenson, 1967, p. 212), and being cold and distant was
certainly not such a manner.
G reenson’s concept o f the working alliance came within the context o f two other
concepts regarding the analyst’s relationship with his or her client. The first concept was the
transferential relationship. This concept, o f course, had been well-established in
psychoanalytic theory and literature. Greenson defined transference in line with
contemporary conceptions o f the term:
Transference is the experiencing o f feeling, drives, attitudes, fantasies, and defenses
toward a person in the present which do not befit that person but are a repetition o f
reactions originating in regard to significant persons o f early childhood,
unconsciously displaced onto figures in the present. (Greenson, 1967, p. 171).
With the doctrine o f transference having been strongly ingrained in the minds o f
most psychoanalysts and with many psychoanalysts believing that all relationships were
based on transference, Greenson was bucking the trend in introducing the working alliance.
W hereas the transferential relationship was, as it has been described by many current
researchers (Bordin, 1994; Frieswyk et al., 1994), distorted and false, Greenson was
positing, in his concept o f the working alliance, a reality-based relationship. Indeed,
Greenson’s confidence in the client’s ability to form reality-based relationships not only led
him to posit the working alliance, but also a third type o f relationship, what he term ed the
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“real relationship.” Such a category o f relationships one would expect to find amongst
humanist writers, not a psychoanalyst, but Greenson’s concern for the reality o f the clinical
situation, rather than a concern for conforming to psychoanalytic theory, made it possible for
him to introduce ideas that might not fit classical analysis. Greenson noted that the real
relationship (like the working alliance) had been suggested by other authors (he discusses,
for example, a personal communication with Anna Freud), but he claimed that these authors
had not clearly defined the term. Greenson defined the real relationship as being real in two
ways. First, it involved some measure o f the client and analyst being reasonable and rational
(that is, in touch with reality). Second, it involved genuineness (as opposed to artifice).
O f course, the working alliance also shared these qualities o f being real. It was, in
Greenson’s conception, based on the reasonableness o f the analysand and it was also a
genuine relationship. How then did Greenson, then, distinguish the working alliance from
the real relationship? Greenson did not offer a concise answer, but instead com m ented upon
this distinction in roundabout ways. For example, he alluded to the working alliance being
an artifact o f the therapeutic context; the working alliance was, in effect, a type o f real
relationship set within analysis. Greenson also subtly differentiated the working alliance
from the real relationship by stressing that it contained this vital element: “the patient’s
capacity to work purposefully in the treatment situation.” The real relationship, however,
would not necessarily carry this quality; it might involve interactions entirely unrelated to
the therapeutic work at hand.
It is important to understand Greenson and other psychoanalysts’ concern that their
client might not be able or willing to be productive. In their view, therapy was, in its essence,
work (the work o f overcoming neurosis), and nonproductiveness and unreasonableness
would directly undermine that work. Indeed, the working alliance, Greenson explained, “can
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be seen at its clearest when a patient is in the throes o f an intense transference neurosis and
yet can still maintain an effective working relationship with the analyst” (Greenson, 1967,
p. 192). Thus, Greenson’s conceptualization o f the working alliance emphasized the client’s
ability to stay in touch with reality, and consequently, in touch with the therapist.
But did Greenson thereby interpret the working alliance to be entirely reality-based?
Greenson hinted that he did not. Rather, he believed that it also involved a degree o f
transference. He wrote, “On a conscious and rational level the therapist offers a realistic
hope o f alleviating the neurotic misery. However, the patient’s helplessness in regard to his
suffering m obilizes early longings for an om nipotent parent.” (Greenson, 1967, p. 207). The
client’s desire to be productive and to maintain touch with reality, then, m ight involve, at
least to some extent, a transferential view o f the therapist rather than a realistic one, and the
working alliance, ju st as it involved some measure o f reality, also would involve some
measure o f transference, a longing for an “om nipotent parent.” Indeed, Greenson
acknowledged that the “differentiation between transference reactions and working alliance
is not an absolute one since the working alliance may contain elements o f the infantile
neurosis which will eventually require analysis” (Greenson, 1967 p. 193). In other words,
what is at one time an ally o f the analysand (transferential aspects o f the working alliance),
will later become ju st the opposite, an opposing force that requires analysis.
We can see then that the working alliance is no simple construct. In G reenson’s
conception, it involves the client’s willingness to work (which may be partly transferential
and partly reality-based) and the client’s actual ability to work, which would involve the
client’s capacity to be in touch with reality and, equally important, in touch with his or her
analysand. It may contain or stem from transferential reactions, but not to such an extent that
the client is out o f touch with reality or with the analyst. Beyond suggesting that the working
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alliance might contain specks o f transference, Greenson also proposed that it must involve a
willingness on the client’s part to let go o f reality and allow transferential reactions to
emerge. He wrote:
The patient’s contribution to the working alliance depends on two antithetical
properties; his capacity to maintain contact with the reality o f the analytic situation
and his willingness to risk regressing into his fantasy world. It is the oscillation
between these two positions that is essential for the analytic work. (Greenson, 1967,
p. 208)
That Greenson developed such a complex, and at times cloudy, concept o f the working
alliance is perhaps justified by the fact that he was attempting to explain the real-life process
o f analysis, a process that in his view was not entirely based on reality. Rather, transference,
as a key concept in psychoanalytic thinking, needed to be addressed in the psychoanalytic
hour, for it provided a key to unlocking the client’s neurosis.
There are at least two important things to note about Greenson’s conception o f the
working alliance. First, as we have ju st discussed, the definition that he provides is
somewhat murky. It involves two extremes. At one extreme, the working alliance is a
reality-based relationship characterized by the client’s ability to w ork productively. At the
other, it is transferentially based, thereby fostering the client’s retreat from reality. These
extremes infuse the concept with an ambiguity that Greenson did not resolve. However,
Greenson does make clear that the tension between reality and regression are necessary for
successful psychotherapy. W ithout this tension— for example, if the client’s relationship is
solely reality-based and the client does not allow regression— then analysis fails. Indeed, in
such a case, the working alliance itself has become an obstacle to treatment. Greenson
comments on this possibility, “N ot only can the transference neurosis invade the working
alliance, but the working alliance itself can be misused defensively to ward o ff the more
regressive transference phenom ena” (Greenson, 1967, p. 193). Greenson cautions the
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clinician to be suspicious o f the working alliance that is too smooth and untroubled
especially if the client fails to make improvements within a reasonable period o f time.
A second characteristic o f Greenson’s conception o f the working alliance is the
degree to which he emphasizes the client’s perceptions o f the therapist. Greenson is very
concerned about being able to comfort and support the client in such a way he or she will be
willing to do the work required in therapy. The client must trust and respect the therapist.
Bordin, too, was concerned with these issues, but Bordin emphasized compliance regarding
tasks and goals, whereas Greenson was more concerned with the emotional bond.
Current Conceptualizations o f the Therapeutic Relationship
Gelso and Colleagues
In 1985, Gelso and Carter’s 1985 published a literature review that marks the current
context o f thought and debate regarding the therapy relationship. In their article, this
husband and wife team put forward a pantheoretical conceptualization o f the working
alliance in the hopes o f reinvigorating investigation o f this concept (Gelso & Carter, 1985).
Inspired by Rogers and B ordin’s work, but largely borrowing from Greenson, the authors
suggest three components o f the therapeutic relationship: 1) the working alliance, 2) the
transferential relationship, and 3) the real relationship. All three o f these concepts are
defined by the authors almost exactly as Greenson conceived them.
Though they largely mirror the thinking o f Greenson, the theoretical
conceptualizations put forward by Gelso and Carter are worth exploring in detail. They
provide an excellent sense o f the current status o f research and theory. Indeed, Gelso has
recently published a book with Hayes that reviews the literature on the therapeutic
relationship, and this book, though it expands on his earlier work with Carter, remains
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entirely consistent with Gelso and Carter’s theoretical formulations (Gelso & Hayes, 1998). I
will refer mostly to Gelso and H ayes’s 1998 publication, because it offers the most
expansive and up-to-date view held by these authors.
Gelso and Hayes begin by distinguishing the two primary components o f therapy.
“Psychotherapy,” they explain, “may be thought o f as consisting o f a technical part and a
relationship part” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 3). This contradicts the tendency o f other
writers to emphasize the interdependence o f these concepts (Horvath & Greenberg, 1994;
Horvath & Luborsky, 1993). It may be that researchers would agree that the technical and
relational aspects o f psychotherapy, though m utually dependent (and, thereby, somehow
inseparable), are nonetheless distinct (that is, not identical). This is, however, unclear in the
literature.
Gelso and Hayes, in the introduction o f their text, provide the following initial
definition o f the relational element o f psychotherapy: “The relationship aspect consists o f the
feelings and attitudes the participants hold toward one another, and the psychological
connection between therapist and client, based on these feelings and attitudes” (Gelso &
Hayes, 1998, p. 3). In referring to the “psychological connection” between therapist and
client, Gelso and Hayes m irror Rogers’s use o f the phrase “psychological contact.”
Curiously, however, Gelso and Hayes omit these words when they present their official
definition o f the therapeutic relationship. This definition, taken word for word from the
earlier work o f Gelso and Carter, reads, “The relationship is the feelings and attitudes that
therapist and client have toward one another, and the manner in which these are expressed
(Gelso & Carter, 1985, 1994)” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 6). Perhaps it is their assumption
that psychological contact is based on feelings that persuades these authors to relinquish
altogether the concept o f psychological contact. It is worthy o f consideration, however, that
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psychological contact and the feelings upon which it is based might be two distinct
phenomena, and it is not clear which concept (if not both) belong as part o f a definition o f
the therapy relationship. It is possible that a client’s feelings toward a therapist determine
that client’s psychological contact with the therapist, or conversely, that the client’s
psychological contact with the therapist determines his or her feelings. Additionally, both o f
these propositions may hold. W hatever the case, these authors, as have most other authors
studying the therapeutic relationship, skirt around the issue o f understanding that aspect o f
the relationship that could be characterized as one person connecting with, touching, or
somehow affecting another, and focus instead on the feelings surrounding such contact.
(Other authors have focused on the behaviors surrounding that contact.)
The second part o f the author’s final definition, which refers to the m anner in which
the client and therapist express their feelings and attitudes has been criticized because it
“muddies the water and opens up the relationship to include everything” (Hill, 1994, p. 90).
The authors, however, defend their inclusion o f this aspect o f the relationship because it
covers the degree to which two participants are forthcoming (open) or indirect (closed) in
their expression, and this, they believe, is a crucial aspect o f the relationship.
The Therapeutic Relationship’s Three Elements
Steeped in the scientist-practitioner tradition, these authors offer several propositions
about the therapeutic relationship, each concerning one o f following three elements: the
working alliance, the transferential relationship, and the real relationship. (The combination
and interaction o f the these three elements are considered by Gelso and Hayes to constitute
the global therapeutic relationship [1998].) 1 will briefly review the authors’ definitions o f
each o f these terms and will then list the propositions put forward regarding each. M any o f
these propositions are supported by current research, but others have yet to be investigated.
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W orking A lliance. Gelso and Hayes propose that “o f all aspects o f the
psychotherapy relationship, the working alliance seems most fundamental” (Gelso & Hayes,
1998, p. 22). The authors follow the thinking o f Sterba (1934) and Greenson (1965, 1967) in
defining the working alliance “as the alignment or joining o f the reasonable self or ego o f the
client and the therapist’s analyzing or ‘therapizing’ self or ego for the purpose o f the w ork”
(Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 23). The authors explain that this definition is influenced by the
idea o f an ego that can split between one side that experiences feelings and another that
observes that experience. They write, “The experiencing side allows the person to
unreflectively feel and experience; the observing side permits the person to stand back from
the experiencing and observe, reason, and understand. Both sides are necessary for effective
therapy” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 23). Greenson and others also identified the necessity for
this split, and much like Greenson, these authors do not clarify the extent to which the
experiencing side (that is, the side that might have transferential reactions) is part o f the
alliance.
Gelso and Hayes offer the following propositions about the working alliance.
1. For therapy to be successful, it is essential that a sufficient working alliance be
formed early in the course o f treatment. This proposition is supported by a meta-
analytical study by Horvath and Symonds (1991) indicating that the alliance as
measured within the first five sessions o f therapy explained as much variance as
the alliance measured near the end o f therapy.
2. In brief therapy, the establishment o f an early alliance is particularly important.
3. In all therapies, the alliance will initially decline, but in successful therapy, it
will return to its early high level.
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4. During the course o f therapy, the alliance will fluctuate in importance, and will
become especially important when ruptures occur in the therapeutic relationship.
5. The strength o f the alliance needed for successful therapy depends on the
difficulty o f the treatment being employed. There has been interesting work in
this area. One study found, contrary to intuitive predictions, that cognitive-
behavioral therapies typically have stronger working alliances (Raue,
Castonguay, & Goldfried, 1993). Another found no differences in the strength o f
alliances across expressive, cognitive, and supportive therapies (Salvio, Beutler,
W ood, & Engle, 1992). In any case, there is wide agreement that the working
alliance is central to effective outcomes regardless o f the type o f therapy being
employed (Gaston, 1990; Gelso & Fretz, 1992; Hartley & Strupp, 1983; Horvath
& Symonds, 1991).
6. Clients vary in their abilities to form working alliances, and this is related to the
following factors: the client’s desire to heal and grow, the client’s willingness to
cooperate, and the client’s predisposing characteristics (such as previous
positive relationships with others, cooperativeness, and a belief in one’s own
capacity to grow).
7. Therapists vary in ability to form alliances and this is affected by therapist
characteristics, including his or her ability to communicate the three facilitative
conditions set forward by Rogers, the therapist’s willingness to take
responsibility for his or her mistakes and misunderstandings, and the therapist’s
past relationship patterns.
8. The type and strength o f the working alliance varies according to the client’s
needs.
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9. The working alliance interacts with the real relationship and transferential
reactions in affecting outcome
This expansive list o f propositions eclipses the six conditions set forward by Rogers as well
as the single proposition set forward by Bordin. It also reflects much o f the current empirical
work in the area o f the alliance. For example, proposition four regarding alliance ruptures
has been the subject o f a burgeoning collection o f empirical findings (Burke, Goodyear, &
Guzzard, 1998; Kivlighan & Schmitz, 1992; Lansford, 1986; Safran, Crocker, M cM ain, &
Murray, 1990; Safran, Muran, & Samstag, 1994).
Transference. Gelso and Hayes add to the initial work o f Gelso and Carter by
suggesting that countertransference should be considered alongside transference. Gelso and
Hayes define transference much as Freud and Greenson had: “the client’s experience o f the
therapist that is shaped by the client’s own psychological structures and past and involves
displacement, onto the therapist, o f feelings, attitudes, and behaviors belonging rightfully in
earlier significant relationships” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 51). Transference has not been
studied to the degree that the working alliance has, though it has its own strong body o f
research. (See, for example, the work o f Luborsky, 1977 and Gelso, Hill, & Kivlighan,
1991.) Consequently, the propositions that Gelso and Hayes put forward regarding
transference are not as indicative o f current research trends as are their propositions
regarding the working alliance. Gelso and Hayes put forward eight propositions:
1. Transference affects the process and outcome o f therapy regardless o f the
m odality o f treatment.
2. It is not necessary to address transference directly for treatment to be effective,
unless it disrupts treatment.
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3. Transference follows a certain course in successful and unsuccessful treatments,
and that course is predictable.
4. The client’s transferential reactions during early sessions is sim ilar to their
general attitudes toward people (that is, their general transferential reactions).
5. In brief therapy, successful treatm ent requires that the early transference be
positive.
6. Transference follows a different course in brief therapy than in long-term
therapy.
7. The level o f insight regarding transference will effect process and outcome.
8. Transference and countertransference influence one another, and the interaction
o f the two influences process and outcome.
Gelso and Hayes define countertransference as the therapist’s transferential reactions
toward the client. They offer the following six propositions regarding countertransference:
1. Countertransference that remains ignored will negatively impact process and
outcome.
2. Countertransference can influence process and outcome positively.
3. Several therapist qualities facilitate the management o f countertransference,
including: “(a) self-integration, (b) anxiety management, (c) conceptualizing
skills, (d) empathy, and (e) self-insight” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 102).
4. Countertransference will affect outcome according to the importance the
therapist attaches to the therapeutic relationship.
5. Countertransference will affect outcome according to the stage o f therapy in
which the countertransference occurs. Countertransferential reactions are more
likely to be damaging in the initial and final stages o f therapy.
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6. Transference and countertransference influence one another, and the interaction
o f the two influences process and outcome.
Real Relationship. The real relationship, write Gelso and Hayes, “has been the most
neglected and least understood com ponent o f the therapy relationship” (Gelso & Hayes,
1998, p. 107). Like Greenson, Gelso and Hayes define the real relationship as involving two
components, the first consisting o f realistic perceptions and reactions, and the second, o f
genuineness. They com m ent that in the main, psychoanalysts have ignored the second
component, that o f genuineness, whereas humanists— many o f whom are influenced by
postmodernism— have ignored the first, that o f realistic perceptions. M any hum anists have
even challenged the possibility o f realistic perceptions on the grounds that all conceptions
and perceptions— because they are based on social constructions, cannot be realistic or
accurate. (Gelso and Hayes put Greenberg [1994] and Hill [1994] in this camp.)
Gelso and Hayes proffer seven propositions regarding the real relationship:
1. The real relationship influences outcome according to its strength and to
whether it is positive or negative.
2. For therapy to be successful, it is essential that a positive real relationship be
established early in treatment.
3. The real relationship becomes deeper as the therapeutic relationship
progresses— that is, its participants become more genuine and develop a greater
number o f realistic perceptions o f the other.
4. Increased depth o f the real relationship reflects the client’s effective progress in
therapy.
5. The real relationship comes to the foreground during the initial and final stages
o f therapy.
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6. The real relationship matters to the client regardless if it m atters to the therapist.
(Indeed, Eugster and W ampold [1996] found that clients’ perceptions o f a good
real relationship was the best predictor o f a session’s quality.)
7. The roles that the therapist and client adopt influence the nature o f the real
relationship.
Im portant Trends in Past and Current Research
The theoretical contributions o f Gelso and Hayes have not only continued the
thinking o f earlier relationship scholars such as Rogers, Bordin, and Greenson, but they have
also encapsulated several current trends in the field. First, research on the therapeutic
relationship is highly influenced by a blend o f humanistic and psychoanalytic scholarship,
with psychoanalytic scholarship being the more prominent. This is revealed by the simple
fact that two o f the three relational elements proposed by Gelso and Hayes— the working
alliance and the transferential configuration— come directly from the field o f psychoanalysis.
The third element, the concept o f genuine psychological contact, is a humanistic concept
fitted into psychoanalytic clothing as the real relationship. Second, this body o f research has
continued to extol the therapeutic relationship as a critical contributor to effective treatment.
This has rallied the support o f an entire community o f investigators who have focused their
energies on the therapeutic relationship. Third, as we shall see, these investigators represent
diverse theoretical orientations. That the therapy relationship should transcended the bounds
o f the many schools o f therapy and become a truly transtheoretical concept is exactly what
Bordin set out to accomplish. Fourth, research on the therapeutic relationship has remained
consistently mindful o f the need to conduct empirical research that emerges from real-life
therapeutic contexts. This represents the best o f the scientist-practitioner paradigm, and
indeed, Gelso and Hayes work continues within the same scientist-practitioner spirit that
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Rogers and Bordin personified.^ Fifth, and most important to this present study, current
research on the therapy relationship, which has been guided, enriched, and nourished by the
scientist-practitioner paradigm, has produced tremendous fruit, bearing a litany o f
propositions, hypotheses, and findings that will likely stimulate and nourish ongoing
empirical research for the next decade, if not longer.
However, it is in relation to the blossoming num ber o f propositions and findings
regarding the therapeutic alliance that we see the first evidence o f a sharp divide between the
current work o f Gelso and Hayes (and their peers) and the seminal scholarship o f Rogers and
Bordin. W hereas Rogers conveyed his theory in six propositions (or conditions) and Bordin
in four, Gelso and Hayes explode this num ber to 29.4 This is an almost five-fold leap. W hat
is the cause o f this proliferation? It m ight be the expected product o f a new science turning
its eye upon a problem and then generating, in due course, not only more findings but more
questions. These questions in turn may well have produced a recognition o f the need for
further research. Further research produced yet more findings and yet more questions, and
this cycle repeated itself, yielding Gelso and H ayes’s plethora o f propositions (a list that will
likely be augmented as research continues). This analysis is supported by the concurrent
outburst o f research on the therapy relationship. As mentioned in the introduction, the
number o f findings in the research domain o f the therapy relationship tripled between 1985
and 1992 (Lambert & Bergin, 1994). It seems reasonable to suppose that ongoing research is
^ It would be a misjudgment not also to credit Greenson for his scientist-practitioner approach, though the type o f
science that Greenson practiced (and he published over 25 papers and at least two books) would be characterized
as a more qualitative approach, consistent with many psychoanalytic thinkers (Freud included), but vastly
differing from the quantitative approach usually employed by scientist-practitioners.
4 This number would be 30 but for the fact that the final proposition regarding transference and the final
proposition regarding countertransference are one and the same. Thes proposition reads: “Transference and
countertransference influence one another, and the interaction o f the two influences process and outcom e.”
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in fact generating propositions, and these propositions are encouraging further research
intended to transform propositions into testable hypotheses.
This activity is, o f course, commendable, but the present study hopes to shed light
on an area o f the inquiry that does not seem to be progressing at an equal pace. That area o f
inquiry has to do with definitional concerns; that is, investigations that address the nature o f
therapy relationship. The most fundamental question within this domain o f investigation
would be, “W hat is a therapy relationship?” With the veritable boom o f research on the
therapy relationship, one wonders why such a fundamental concern has remained
unaddressed. Even if no agreement had yet been reached, one might expect many researchers
to have offered their own definitions o f the therapy relationship, even if these remained
nothing more than the idiosyncratic and inchoate efforts that such fledgling projects often
are.
But the research has not done this. It has generated findings and propositions, but
few definitions. Little clarity has been gained regarding the question o f just what kind o f a
thing a therapy relationship is. As noted in the introduction, Gelso and Hayes (1998) identify
this very weakness in the literature, commenting,
Because the therapy relationship has been given such a central place in our field
over such a long period o f time, one m ight expect that many definitions o f the
relationship have been put forth. In fact, there has been very little definitional work,
(p. 5)
Even while noting the lack o f work on a definition, Gelso and Hayes spend a mere five
pages on this concern in their almost 300-page book. That the research and scholarship on
the therapeutic relationship has failed to provide a clear understanding o f the nature o f the
therapeutic relationship in no way belittles the trem endous amount o f valuable research that
has been produced in this domain. That research stands as an exemplary body o f work, but it
also stands, to speak metaphorically, upon a definitional foundation that has yet to be built.
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This lack o f a definitional foundation is troubling, especially because— as Bordin made so
clear— the field o f psychotherapy is home to a proliferating number o f often contradicting
theories.
Even though this weakness has been commented upon by researchers, it has
remained unaddressed in an otherwise stalwart body o f scientific research. Why is this so?
Let us wait before addressing this question, and first take a look at some o f the most current
research on the therapy relationship. This may offer us some further clues about the omission
we have noted, especially if we attend carefully to how this research attempts to address
definitional concerns, if it does so at all.
Beyond Gelso and Colleagues
The drastic increase in the number o f findings regarding the therapy relationship can
be witnessed across the literature, not just in the work o f Gelso and Hayes. This increase in
findings has occurred alongside a propagation o f psychometric measures designed to gauge
the therapy relationship. In fact, the developm ent o f these measures may explain why
relationship research has blossomed. Gelso and Hayes comment, “From a research
standpoint, in our view, the greatest impetus to interest in the working alliance was the
creation o f measures” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 27).
In the following examination o f the most recent literature, we will look at six
research programs, the first several o f which can be classified according to the particular
psychometric instrument they employ to tap the therapy relationship. Horvath and Luborsky
(1993) identify 11 different measures o f the therapy relationship, all o f which, according to
Horvath and Symonds (1991), cluster around five similar measures. These include the
W orking Alliance Inventory (Horvath, 1981, 1982; Horvath & Greenberg, 1989), the Penn
Helping Alliance Scale (Alexander & Luborsky, 1986; Luborsky, 1976), the Vanderbilt
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Therapeutic Alliance Scale (Hartley & Strupp, 1983), the California Psychotherapy Alliance
System (Gaston & Ring, 1992; M annar, Horowitz, W eiss, & Marziali, 1986; M armar,
Weiss, & Gaston, 1989), and the Therapeutic Alliance Scale (M arziali, 1984; Marziali,
Marmar, & Krupnick, 1981). There is strong evidence that these separate instruments tap a
similar construct. Several psychometric studies, for example, reveal that these instruments,
along with their subscales, are highly correlated (Horvath & Symonds, 1991; Safran &
Wallner, 1991; Tichenor & Hill, 1989). Horvath and Luborsky conclude, “The data suggest
that, at the global level, a generous overlap exists between measures” (1993, p. 564). Despite
this generous overlap, however, there are differences, and many authors— m ost notably
Tichenor and Hill (1989)— warn against viewing the measures as interchangeable. This may
well mean that though researchers have tapped into a similar construct, their measures
capture different parts o f that construct, and no one measure captures it entirely.
All o f these measures have been rigorously tested to ensure that their psychometric
properties are acceptable, and all appear to m eet this standard (Horvath & Luborsky, 1993).
In their meta-analytical study, for example, Horvath and Symonds (1991) reported that
overall, those measures o f the therapy relationship based on therapist ratings were the most
reliable (r « .93), those based on observer ratings were the least reliable (r « .82), and those
based on client ratings fell in-between (r a .85).
We will review the research programs that have utilized the first four scales, each o f
these programs being shepherded by one or two prominent figures in the field: the W orking
Alliance Inventory (spearheaded by Bordin and Horvath), the Penn H elping Alliance Scale
(spearheaded by Luborsky), the Vanderbilt Therapeutic Alliance Scale (spearheaded by
Strupp), and the California Psychotherapy Alliance System (spearheaded by M armar and
Gaston). The fifth instrument, the Therapeutic Alliance Scale, we will not review; it has
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received minimal attention in the literature and is actually a forerunner to the fourth
instrument (the California Psychotherapy Alliance Scale). O f the four scales we will
examine, the W orking Alliance Inventory is by far the most utilized. The other scales,
though not used as often by researchers, nonetheless have rich and revealing histories. The
conceptualizations developed around these latter two scales (the Vanderbilt Therapeutic
Alliance Scale and the California Psychotherapy Alliance System) also evidence a greater
complexity and richness than the W orking Alliance Inventory or the Penn Helping alliance
Scale.
In addition to these four research programs, all o f which evolved around specific
psychometric instruments, we will look at the work o f Orlinsky and Howard and Frieswyk
and associates. Though the efforts o f these authors are less in line with the other four
programs— in that they are not strongly anchored upon psychometrical instruments— they
nevertheless remain influential and provide insight into the current overall state o f the
literature. Orlinsky and H ow ard’s work demonstrates a theoretical richness equal to the
research programs o f Strupp and M armar and Gaston; Frieswyk’s work will serve to shed
light on some o f the special tendencies o f current researchers.
The Research Literature’s Focus on the Alliance
O f the four research programs that are based upon psychometric instruments, each
employs the term “alliance” in referring to the therapy relationship. As m entioned in the
introduction, the therapy relationship has gone by many different names in the research
literature, and it is no accident the psychometric studies have preferred the term “alliance”
over “bond.” These studies refer to the therapy relationship as the “therapeutic alliance”
(M armar et al., 1986; Zetzel, 1956), the “helping alliance” (Luborsky, 1976; Luborsky,
Crits-Cristoph, Alexander, Margolis, & Cohen, 1983), and sometimes simply the “alliance”
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(Horvath & Luborsky, 1993). The prevailing use o f the term alliance reveals important clues
about this literature. First, as we mentioned above, much o f this research is influenced by
psychoanalytic theory (Gelso & Hayes, 1998; Horvath, Gaston, & Luborsky, 1993), for it is
from psychoanalytic theory that the term alliance first emerged. Second, as a corollary to
this, it seems plausible that the blossoming o f empirical research on the therapy relationship
may owe its cause to an interesting historical development. It is beyond the scope o f this
paper to explore and verify this development, but the current literature lends credence to its
occurrence. That scenario involves psychodynamically oriented scholars— who traditionally
had not made great use o f empirical methodologies— becoming more favorably inclined
toward psychometric techniques and practices, and consequently, more expert in their use.
This expertise would have been encouraged by many factors not least o f which were the
widespread adoption o f the scientist-practitioner model in the training o f psychologists and
the desire, especially o f young and ambitious scholars, to test their psychodynamic theories
using empirical methodologies, these being held in much greater esteem (especially by
academic journals) than the case studies so popular in traditional psychoanalytic research.
Third, the predominance o f the term alliance within the psychom etrically inclined
literature reflects the reality that the working alliance has proven easier to operationalize
than the transferential relationship, the real relationship, or the emotional bond. Researchers
have tended to follow where their measures lead, and for those areas less amenable to
measurement, scientific inquiry has faltered.
Finally, the primacy o f the term alliance illustrates the degree to which therapy
relationship research has focused chiefly on the alliance component o f the therapy
relationship, leaving in relative neglect the concepts o f transference and the real relationship
(Gelso & Hayes, 1998). The related concept o f the emotional bond has also been relegated to
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the backburner o f current research. Earlier theories had considered the bond a pre-eminent
concern. Rogers, for example, placed it as the very first condition in his famous article on the
six necessary and sufficient conditions for effective psychotherapy. Even here, though,
Rogers veiled this concept behind what he believed to be the more academically and
scientifically palatable notion o f “psychological contact.” Bordin, too, noted the importance
o f the emotional bond, placing it as the third o f the working alliance’s three elements. In
doing this Bordin initiated what has become a long tradition within the psychoanalytic and
psychometric literature: the conflation o f the bond with the alliance. Influenced by this
tradition, many researchers use the term alliance not ju st in reference to the working alliance,
but in reference to the entire therapy relationship (Gelso & Hayes, 1998). This has led to
much confusion in the field. When researchers refer to the alliance, it is unclear w hether they
are using the term technically, and mean merely the client and therapist’s agreement
regarding goals and task, or whether they are using the term generally, and mean the therapy
relationship with all its possible elements (including transference, the real relationship, and
the related concept o f the emotional bond). One consequence has been the mistaken
assumption that the emotional bond is itself nothing more than an alliance; it is simply the
agreement between client and therapist. M eissner, a psychodynamic scholar who apparently
takes the term alliance in its more inclusive connotation, laments this trend. He writes,
“There is considerable confusion over use o f the term therapeutic alliance: in common usage
and even in many technical discussions the term seems to indicate little more than the patient
was collaborating and task-oriented (Olinick, 1976)” (M eissner, 1996, pp. 7-8).
The W orking Alliance Inventory
There is a host o f research that has been based upon the W orking Alliance Inventory
(WAI). This esteemed instrument is one o f two measures based directly on B ordin’s
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definition o f the working alliance (the other being the Penn Helping Alliance Scale, which
we will review next; Horvath & Luborsky, 1993).^ The WAI was first developed by Horvath
(1981, 1982), and it consists o f 36 items that yield three subscales, each matching a
component o f Bordin’s model. Because this measure is based directly on B ordin’s theory,
we need not review the literature that has emerged around this instrument other than to
comment that it has echoed all the main findings about the working alliance that we have
reviewed above (such as, for example, the notable finding that the working alliance is a
robust predictor o f therapeutic outcome). N one o f this research has added to B ordin’s model,
but it has subtracted from it.
As you will remember, the Bordin model is com prised o f three elements: agreem ent
regarding the goals o f therapy, agreement regarding the assigned tasks, and an emotional
bond. Research has revealed that the first two elements are not significantly differentiated
(Gaston & M annar, 1994; Horvath & Greenberg, 1989; M armar, Gaston, Gallagher, &
Thompson, 1989; Tracey & Kokotovic, 1989), and thus what began as a three-legged
conceptualization now walks on two legs, one being that o f the collaboration between
therapist and client (the alliance per se), the other being the emotional bond.
The Penn Helping Alliance Scale
The Penn Helping Alliance Scale was developed by Luborsky (1976) in very early
studies on psychoanalytic alliances, studies occurring on the heels o f Bordin’s first
presentations regarding the working alliance (1975a, 1975b). Luborsky’s scale com prised 10
Likert-style items used by judges to score 20-minute, audio-taped segments o f therapy.
^ The other measures o f the working alliance, though perhaps not initially based on Bordin’s ideas, nonetheless
incorporated them (directly or indirectly) as they evolved.
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Luborsky theorized two types o f helping alliances, both o f which the Penn Helping Alliance
Scale was intended to measure. The first type (labeled Type 1) he described as the patient’s
experience o f the therapist as supportive and helpful. (Luborsky, 1976, p. 94). The second
type (Type 2) he described as “a therapeutic alliance based on a sense o f working together in
a joint struggle against what is impeding the patient” (1976, p. 94). Luborsky conjectured
Type 2 alliances to be more com plex and more difficult to establish.
Luborsky suggested that his concept o f the alliance was similar to, though more
specific than, Bordin’s model. Indeed, Luborsky’s Type 1 alliance appears similar to
Bordin’s concept o f the emotional bond. His Type 2 alliance (working together in a joint
struggle) may at first appear to match the collaborative elements o f B ordin’s tripartite model,
but I believe this misses a subtle but critical difference. W hat Luborsky seemed to be after
was the partnership that emerged between client and therapist, a partnership that— even
though based on agreement regarding tasks and goals— was not defined in its essence by
those agreements. Bordin, in contrast, focused the partnership element o f his theory on
agreement. Perhaps Bordin, too, was more concerned with the partnership aspect o f the
alliance than with the agreements upon which it was based. If so, he obscured this possible
intent both by highlighting, almost exclusively, task and goal agreement and by insisting on
the explicit negotiation o f a therapeutic contract.
Luborsky’s early study found that Type 1 alliances did occur and were indeed
predictive o f positive treatment outcome (Luborsky, 1976). This would provide evidence for
the importance o f the emotional bond in providing good treatment. Luborsky’s Type 2
alliances, however, seldom occurred within his research studies, and when they did, they
failed to predict outcome. M ore recent research has found a correlation o f .91 between the
Penn Helping Alliance Scale’s two alliances, indicating that this measure taps only one type
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o f alliance (Gaston, 1990). This seems odd, however, given that the two measures are so
disparate in their ability to predict outcome.
The Penn Helping Alliance Scale is not commonly used in current research, being
eclipsed by the more popular W orking Alliance Inventory, but the distinction that Luborsky
conjectured between Type 1 and 2 alliances survives in an altered form. W orking with
Horvath, Luborsky argues for the possibility that there are two phases o f the alliance. The
first phase, being somewhat like a Type 1 alliance, must be established within the first four
or five treatm ent sessions and involves the client feeling helped and supported (Horvath &
Luborsky, 1993). The second phases arises later and involves the reparation o f rifts and
infirmities in the alliance (Horvath & Luborsky, 1993). Horvath and Luborsky go so far as
to suggest that if rifts do not occur, this may indicate a poor alliance, one that is merely
coasting (1993). Here we witness the extent to which these authors are influenced by
psychodynamic theory and the views o f such authors as Greenson, who also cautioned that
clinician should beware o f untroubled alliances.
The Vanderbilt Therapeutic Alliance Scale
This scale was developed by Strupp and the group o f scholars surrounding him
(Hartley & Strupp, 1983). It consists o f 44 Likert-type items that are rated by judges. Strupp
had begun his studies using a measure called the Vanderbilt Psychotherapy Process Scale,
which Gomes-Schwartz (1978) had adapted from the Therapy Session Report (itself
developed by Orlinsky and Howard [1967, 1975]). The Vanderbilt Therapeutic Alliance
Scale was developed out o f this original work.
Strupp seems to have been influenced by the work o f Rogers, and if this is true, his
scholarly developm ent mirrors that o f Bordin, giving us two examples o f psychodynamic
thinkers influenced by the Rogerian tradition. This influence can be noted in Strupp’s
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characterization o f therapy as the “systematic use o f a human relationship for therapeutic
purposes” (Butler & Strupp, 1986, p. 64). Strupp’s research on the alliance developed out o f
his self-confessed bias against conceiving therapy as a “disembodied delivery” o f procedures
(Henry & Strupp, 1994). Indeed, Strupp’s earliest research, dating from the early 1960s,
indicated that therapy was ineffective when therapists were unable to be empathic and warm
(Strupp, 1960).^ (Both empathy and warmth would be most accurately placed within the
realm o f the emotional bond, as opposed to the alliance.)
Though influenced by Rogers, Strupp’s work— much like B ordin’s— still remained
deeply inspired by his psychodynamic outlook. Initially, Strupp theorized that the working
alliance served as a means to effective intervention. Specifically, he developed a model o f
the therapist as a teacher who influenced the patient by offering more adaptive life-
strategies. The patient m ight resist these teachings, due to his or her em bedded defenses, and
the alliance served as a means o f lowering those resistances (Henry & Strupp, 1994). Strupp
wrote, “For therapeutic learning to occur, the most important precondition is the patient’s
openness to the therapist’s influence” (Strupp, 1969, p. 210).
Strupp, however, altered his theory in the mid-1980s (Henry & Strupp, 1994). He
began to draw heavily from the theories o f Sullivan (1953) and Bowlby (1979; 1988) to
build a model o f the alliance as an interpersonal process (Henry & Strupp, 1994). In his
attempts to tap this interpersonal process, Strupp found the Vanderbilt Therapeutic Alliance
Scale lacking in an important respect. From the work o f Benjamin (1974), he borrowed a
new tool, the Structural Analysis o f Social Behavior system, and established this instrum ent
as the centerpiece o f his research program (Henry & Strupp, 1994). Strupp’s newly
^ Strupp is also famous for his study that found caring professors to be equally effective as trained and
credentialed clinicians (Strupp & Hadley, 1979). Commentators on this research— such as Seligman (1996)—
have noted that the clients Strupp’s professors treated suffered only mild psychological concerns.
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developed interpersonal model presented a modern-day reworking o f the concept o f
transference; he writes: “The central theoretical mechanism that underlies an interpersonal
definition o f the alliance is the process o f introjection whereby individuals intrapsychically
represent past interpersonal relationships” (Henry & Strupp, 1994, p. 69). Strupp argued that
the alliance’s powerful link with therapeutic progress was explained by Bow lby’s research,
which demonstrated infants’ need o f a secure base from which to explore and examine
themselves (Bowlby, 1988). He also surmised, along with Sullivan (1953), that the patient’s
self was a reflection o f the appraisals o f others. His new model predicted that the alliance
would serve not merely as a means to patient learning, but as a causal agent itself,
restructuring the patient’s introjections based on the therapist’s warm, genuine, and
supportive interaction with the client.
Strupp’s findings were in agreement with the findings o f other researchers, who had
established that (a) the alliance developed early in the course o f the therapy relationship and
significantly predicted outcome, (b) the patient’s contribution to the alliance was crucial, and
(c) the therapist’s contribution was also crucial (Henry & Strupp, 1994). Strupp also
discovered, however, that in a surprising number o f cases therapists failed to provide
consistently strong conditions o f warmth and empathy. Furthermore, with certain especially
difficult clients, even those therapists who were well trained proved inept at developing
strong working alliances (Henry & Strupp, 1994). Strupp hypothesized, according to his
interpersonal model, that a likely reason for this was the presence o f hostile introjects in
these well-trained but nonetheless relationship-inept therapist. Later research supported this
hypothesis (Henry, Schacht, & Strupp, 1990).
This led Strupp to be concerned about the training o f therapists, so he developed a
system o f training for time-limited therapy that addressed what he felt were many therapists’
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inability to recognize problematic interpersonal processes. W hen he evaluated this training,
however, he was stunned. Data from therapy sessions, he wrote with Henry, “indicated that
after training, therapists were significantly less optimistic, less supportive o f patients’
confidence, more defensive, and more authoritarian” (Henry & Strupp, 1994, p. 67). Strupp
concluded that his training— which included the use o f treatment manuals— was providing
therapists with an intellectual and abstract understanding o f the interpersonal process, but not
with hands-on experience, and it was this latter type o f learning that was needed to
effectively perceive the client-therapist interpersonal process (Henry, Strupp, Butler,
Schacht, & Binder, 1993).
This finding echoed an astute comment by Rogers: “Intellectual training and the
acquiring o f information has, I believe, many valuable results— but becoming a therapist is
not one o f those results” (Rogers, 1957, p. 101). It also echoed tw o important findings in the
alliance literature. The first is that therapists have often been found to overrate the status o f
the working alliance (Horvath et al., 1993). This finding is consistent with other evidence
which has shown therapists ratings o f the alliance to be significantly less predictive o f
outcome than client’s ratings (Gelso & Carter, 1985; Horvath & Symonds, 1991). The
second important finding is the discovery that different therapists— even when trained in the
same theoretical outlook (using well controlled procedures) and even when tightly guided by
manualized treatments— reveal astonishingly diverse levels o f effectiveness (Lambert, 1989;
Luborsky, M cClellan, Woody, O'Brien, & Auerbach, 1985). On the basis o f these findings,
Lambert and Bergin report, “The therapist factor, as a contributor to outcome, is looming
large in the assessment o f outcomes. Some therapists appear to be unusually effective”
(1994, p. 182). Strupp’s research suggests that the cause o f some therapists striking
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effectiveness (or ineffectiveness) might be their ability to intuitively grasp relational
processes.
The course o f Strupp’s research program reveals a deep interest in the therapy
relationship, specifically the interpersonal patterns and dynamics that exist within and
between therapist and client. That Strupp, as he grew more keenly interested in interpersonal
processes, eventually abandoned his original relationship measure (Vanderbilt Therapeutic
Alliance Scale), indicates that alliance measures, though perhaps powerful in tapping certain
aspects o f therapy relationship (specifically the agreem ent aspects), nonetheless evidence
important deficits in tapping other components, such as the emotional bond, transferential
reactions, and the real relationship.
The California Psychotherapy Alliance System
The California Psychotherapy Alliance System, which has been central to the work
o f Marmar and Gaston, has had a intricate history. First introduced as the Therapeutic
Alliance Rating System (M arm ar et al., 1986), it was soon revised as the California
Psychotherapy Alliance Rating System (M armar, W eiss et al., 1989), and finally emerged,
upon the infusion o f Bordin’s ideas, as the California Psychotherapy Alliance Scales
(Marmar, Gaston et al., 1989). This final version included two forms, one with five Likert
items to be completed by the therapist, and another with 31 Likert items to be com pleted by
the client (Gaston, 1990).
M arm ar’s early work suggested that the alliance was not solely a therapist-
determined or patient-determined construct, but rather developed from both therapist and
patient contributions (M armar et al., 1986). Later research has overwhelmingly confirmed
this finding (Orlinsky, Grawe, & Parks, 1994), though some have still argued that the
alliance should be viewed entirely from the patient’s perspective (Frieswyk et al., 1986).
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M armar and Gaston put forward a conceptualization o f the alliance that includes four
dimensions: (a) the therapeutic alliance, which reflects the patient’s affective outlook upon
the therapist; (b) the working alliance (conceived differently than Bordin but similarly to
Greenson), which indicates the client’s ability to maintain a reasonable and purposeful
outlook toward the therapeutic work; (c) the therapists-offered facilitative conditions o f
warmth, empathy, and involvement (sim ilar to Rogers’s conditions); and finally, (d) the
agreement between therapist and patient about the goals and assigned tasks o f therapy,
adopted directly from Bordin’s model (Gaston, 1990; Gaston & M armar, 1994). These
components are theorized to be “complementary and compatible, each representing a
relatively independent dimension o f the alliance” (Gaston, 1990, p. 145). Some research has
supported this contention (M armar, Gaston et al., 1989; M armar, W eiss et al., 1989), but one
important study indicates that the dimension o f therapist-patient agreement regarding goals
and tasks (component d above) can not be statistically differentiated from that o f therapeutic
alliance (component a above; Horvath & Greenberg, 1989). This finding suggest that at least
one aspect o f the emotional bond between therapist and client (the patient’s affective outlook
upon the therapist) is the same as or inextricably bound with the alliance. In this case, at
least, empirical inquiry lends support to the assumption latently made by some researchers
that bond and alliance are one and the same.
Like Strupp, M armar and Gaston suggest that Bowlby’s (1988) attachment theory
provides a sound theoretical framework from which to explain the mechanisms underlying
the healing impact o f the therapeutic relationship. This invocation o f attachment theory
reflects the newfound prominence o f Bow lby’s work on psychodynamic theories. Horvath
and Luborsky also note the influence o f object relation theorists (such as Bowlby) upon
working alliance theorists (1993). They write, “In essence, the object-relationists propose
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that the client, as part o f the therapy process, develops the capacity to form a positive, need-
gratifying relationship with the therapist” (Horvath & Luborsky, 1993, p. 561).
Bow lby’s attachment theory provides an explanation for the emotional bond aspect
o f the working alliance (as conceived by Bordin), and for the transferential configuration
(and perhaps the real-relationship). It does not provide, however, an explanation for the
productive and purposeful aspect o f the Bordin’s concept o f the working alliance, for one is
hard pressed to identify the agreem ent upon tasks and goals o f Bordin’s model with the
infant-caregiver bond o f Bow lby’s. Certainly infant and caregiver collaborate, in some
primordial sense o f this concept, but such collaboration hardly constitutes an agreem ent to
which infant and caregiver assent.
Overall, M armar and G aston’s model handily illustrates the many conceptual strands
that have been woven into current theories o f the alliance, and it accurately summarizes m ost
o f the m ajor themes in current research. The authors use the term alliance in its general
connotation to refer to the whole o f the therapy relationship. O f the four com ponents o f the
alliance they suggest, one o f these includes a Rogerian component o f therapist-offered
conditions (including warmth, empathy, and involvement). In another component, they make
sure to include client-offered conditions. This component is labeled the therapeutic alliance.
The therapeutic alliance, as conceived by M arm ar and Gaston, is remarkably similar to
Luborsky’s Type 1 alliance, which denoted the patient’s sense o f being supported and helped
by the therapist.
Another com ponent o f M armar and Gaston’s model harks back to the
psychodynamic roots o f the alliance concept. This com ponent they label the working
alliance, and they use the term almost exactly as Greenson did. It refers to the client’s
willingness and ability to do the emotional work required in therapy. W illingness refers to
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the client’s level o f motivation to do necessary emotional processing. Ability refers to
whether or not the client is in touch with reality such that they can actually proceed with the
work. Finally, M armar and G aston’s model emphasizes a fourth component, that o f the
agreement between therapist and client regarding the goals and tasks o f therapy. This
component, o f course, represents Bordin’s tremendous influence. Taken together, M armar
and G aston’s four components— representing as they do the various influences o f earlier
theorists— offer a complex view o f the therapy relationship.
Orlinskv and Howard’s Generic Model o f Psychotherapy
Orlinsky and Howard, though not directly affiliated with any o f the four research
programs above, have nevertheless made important contributions to the literature. These are
worth reviewing because they reveal some o f the intricacies of the theoretical conversations
emerging around the therapy relationship. Also, their work has influenced many o f the
authors we have discussed above.
Orlinsky and Howard propose what they call a generic model o f psychotherapy
(1987). In introducing this model, they set out on the same project that Bordin initiated,
attempting to identify common underlying factors associated with most, if not all, schools o f
psychotherapy. Orlinsky and Howard’s project, however, is more am bitious than B ordin’s in
that it demarcates a transtheoretical model o f the whole o f therapy, not merely the therapy
relationship. Though we are not concerned here with their success in identifying such a
theory (albeit, it has developed some empirical support (Kolden & Howard, 1992), two
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dimensions identified by these authors are relevant because these bear directly on the
therapeutic relationship.^
The first o f these dimensions is the therapeutic contract. Orlinsky and Howard
(1986a, 1987) use this term to denote the therapist-client agreement on tasks and goals. This
dimension mirrors M armar and Gaston agreement component, and, o f course, is the very
same as B ordin’s conception o f the working alliance, with the emotional bond removed. The
second dimension offered by Orlinsky and Howard develops the emotional bond aspect o f
Bordin’s theory. Orlinsky and Howard term this dimension the therapeutic bond (Orlinsky &
Howard, 1978, 1986). In contrast to Bordin, who believed that the emotional bond was
largely influenced by the compact between client-therapist agreement, Orlinsky and Howard
sharply distinguish between the agreem ent aspect o f the therapeutic relationship and the
bond aspect. They explain,
By therapeutic bond we mean something more than the concept o f a “therapeutic
alliance” .... The therapeutic alliance is a com pact between the patient and therapist
to cooperate in performing their respective roles. The therapeutic bond, on the other
hand, extends beyond patient and therapist roles to include certain personal qualities
o f the relationship that forms— or fails to form— between the participants. (Orlinsky
& Howard, 1987, p. 10)
In agreement with Bordin and Greenson, these authors argue that the therapeutic
bond is primarily reality-based though it may sometimes be distorted by transferential
configurations (Bordin, 1994; Greenson, 1967; Orlinsky & Howard, 1986). This has been a
rather consistent theoretical stance o f most psychoanalysts who study the therapeutic bond.
These psychoanalytically inclined theorists (Strupp being the possible exception [Henry &
Strupp, 1994]) hold that transferential reactions will naturally arise in the course o f therapy
^ To measure the therapeutic relationship, Orlinsky and Howard em ploy a modified version o f the Therapy
Session Report (an instrument developed by these same authors [Orlinsky & Howard, 1967; Orlinsky & Howard,
1975; Orlinsky & Howard, 1986b]).
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and may even invade the therapeutic bond (Bordin, 1994; Greenson, 1967; Luborsky, 1976;
Orlinsky & Howard, 1986). “If the therapeutic bond is sufficiently strong,” explain Orlinsky
and Howard, “it may permit these transferences to be turned to therapeutic advantage”
(Orlinsky & Howard, 1986a, p. 313). Indeed, turning transferential reactions to therapeutic
advantage is one o f the key techniques o f many psychodynamic therapies.
Orlinsky and Howard, providing a much more thoroughgoing conceptualization o f
the therapeutic bond than does Bordin, suggest three constituent elements: role-investment,
empathic resonance, and mutual affirmation (Orlinsky & Howard, 1978). The role-
investment aspect o f the bond is explained by Orlinsky and Howard as being “the degree to
which each participant puts him self (or herself) into therapy” (Orlinsky & Howard, 1986a,
p. 313).^ Role-investment is not unlike what other authors have described as the
collaborative element o f the working alliance, and indeed Orlinsky and Howard refer to role-
investment aspect o f the therapeutic bond as being the working alliance^ aspect (Orlinsky &
Howard, 1987). This may seem confusing at first, and this confusion arises around the use o f
the term “collaborative” in describing the working alliance, which as we have discussed
above, can be interpreted m ore broadly (as in Greenson’s work, where it refers to a
willingness to work together), or more narrowly (as in B ordin’s emphasis on agreem ent and
compliance).
Orlinsky and Howard, in referring to role-investment, are interpreting the concept o f
collaboration in Greenson’s more broad sense. This interpretation is reminiscent o f
^ Interestingly, these authors apparently adopt the term “role-investment” in homage to Erving Goffm an’s work
on symbolic interactionism. Orlinsky and Howard cite two o f Goffm an’s works directly (Goffman, 1961, 1967).
Additionally, Orlinsky being at the University o f Chicago (where Goffman once taught) and Howard being at
Northwestern (no more than 20 m iles away) suggests the possibility that Orlinsky and Howard’s may have had
personal contact with Goffman. Orlinsky and Howard cite another prominent sociologist from the University o f
Chicago, George Homans (1961). Perhaps Orlinsky and Howard at some point dabbled in sociology.
9 The working alliance, that is, as defined by Gelso and Hayes.
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Luborsky’s Type 2 alliance, in which client and therapist develop “a sense o f working
together in a joint struggle” (1976, p. 94). It is also similar to M armar and G aston’s
definition o f working alliance (a com ponent o f their overall alliance construct) which they
interpret as the client’s ability to maintain a reasonable and purposeful outlook tow ard the
work o f therapy. With these comparisons in mind, the role-investment com ponent o f
Orlinsky and H ow ard’s therapeutic bond construct should be carefully differentiated from
contractual elements invoked by Bordin to characterize the working alliance in term s o f
agreement and compliance.
Orlinsky and Howard define the empathic resonance component o f the their
therapeutic bond construct as consisting in mutual comfortableness, trust, and genuineness
(1978). They also characterize this aspect as involving both client and therapist being “on the
same wavelength” and having “good personal contact” (Orlinsky & Howard, 1978, 1986).
When Orlinsky and Howard speak o f personal contact, it is reminiscent o f Rogers’s first
condition for therapeutic change, which called for psychological contact between client and
therapist. Orlinsky and H ow ard’s notion o f empathic resonance also displays sim ilarities to
Rogers’s conditions o f empathy and genuineness and Gelso and H ayes’ conception o f the
real relationship (which, o f course, owes much to Rogers’s work). Finally, Orlinsky and
Howard’s empathic resonance component m ight also be likened to the com bination o f two o f
M armar and G aston’s constructs: the “therapeutic alliance” (by which they mean the
patient’s affective outlook on the therapist), and the therapists-offered facilitative conditions
o f empathy and involvement (ideas, yet again, borrowed directly from the work o f Rogers).
The third aspect o f Orlinsky and H ow ard’s model is mutual affirmation, which is
characterized as involving acceptance, good will, strong affirmation, respect, and a basic
care for other’s well-being. This aspect also emphasizes the therapist’s encouragement and
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support for the client’s autonomy. It strongly hints o f Rogers’s unconditional positive
regard— that is, the therapist’s warm acceptance o f the client— though it self-consciously
adds the client’s reciprocation o f these feelings.
There have not been extensive empirical evaluations o f Orlinsky and How ard’s
model, although general reviews o f the relationship and the process and outcome literature
have found that its three constituent elements (role-investment, empathic resonance, and
mutual affirmation) are moderately reliable predictors o f successful treatm ent (Kolden,
Howard, & Maling, 1994; Orlinsky et al., 1994; Orlinsky & Howard, 1986). One study that
did directly appraise their model found the element o f mutual affirmation to be redundant in
relation to the other two components (Saunders, Howard, & Orlinsky, 1989). This is hardly
surprising; indeed, in a later unveiling o f this model, Orlinsky reduces therapeutic bond to
two elements rather than three (Orlinsky et al., 1994). These two elements include a task-
instrumental side, comprising role investment and “interactive coordination” (which seems
to be conceptualized along the lines o f G reenson’s working alliance) and a social-emotional
side comprising empathic resonance and mutual affirmation (which seems to be
conceptualized in terms o f Greenson’s real relationships and Rogers’s necessary and
sufficient conditions o f effective therapy).
Orlinsky and How ard’s theory has demonstrated an evolutionary path similar to
B ordin’s, shrinking with successive waves o f scientific investigation.. B ordin’s model, for
example, began with a bifurcated notion o f agreem ent that teased out a distinction between
goal agreement and task agreement. W ith the weight o f sophisticated psychometric analysis,
researchers collapsed these two concepts into one construct, what might be termed the
therapeutic contract. Similarly, in Orlinsky and Howard’s theory, the triadic concept o f the
therapeutic bond, broken into the components role-investment, empathic resonance, and
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mutual affirmation, has been reduced in later research to a dyadic concept o f task-
instrumental element and the social-emotional element.
In an important respect, Orlinsky and How ard’s work represents a reversal o f
emphasis when compared to B ordin’s work. B ordin’s conceptualization o f the alliance
highlighted the contractual agreement between client and therapist and viewed this
agreement as the dog that wagged the tail o f the emotional bond. Orlinsky and Howard, in
contrast, view the contractual component o f the therapy relationship as being on equal
ground with the bond component. Orlinsky and Howard develop a rich theory o f the
therapeutic bond that includes both task-instrumental and social-emotional elements.
Frieswvk and Associates
The work o f Frieswyk— who has published with several co-authors (Frieswyk et al.,
1986; Frieswyk, Colson, & Allen, 1984)10— is worthy o f consideration not because it
represents mainstream thought, but because it offers some insight into researchers’ quest to
define the therapeutic relationship. Confirming trends we have already discussed, Frieswyk
writes that “psychoanalytic perspectives on the therapeutic alliance are crucial to
psychotherapy research” (Frieswyk et al., 1986, p. 33). As a psychoanalytical thinker
himself, Frieswyk is concerned with the criticism from some purists that the working
alliance cannot justifiably be separated from the client-therapist transference configuration.
Indeed, we have already noted that several non-purists blur the distinction between
transference and the working alliance (the most notable being Greenson [1967]). To prevent
this cloudiness, Frieswyk develops measures o f the alliance that remove all traces o f
transference (these traces being, to a large extent, what might be thought o f as constituting
I® A notable coauthor o f Frieswyk’s is Howard (o f Orlinsky and Howard’s work). Interestingly, Howard’s view s
would likely contradict Frieswyk’s, but he appears as a coauthor nonetheless. Perhaps this reflects the ability o f
relationship researchers to tolerate diverse theoretical points o f view.
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the emotional bond component o f the alliance). Frieswyk writes, “Transference-based
dimensions (i.e., trust, acceptance, optimism, and affect expression) were separated out as
mediating variables with separate scales” (Frieswyk et al., 1986, p. 56). Frieswyk is left with
a construct that he believes reflects the patient’s collaboration in therapy, though Friesw yk’s
version o f collaboration is entirely defined by the patient’s compliant and purposeful
behaviors (Frieswyk et al., 1986), this being very much in agreement with B ordin’s
contractual interpretation o f the alliance.
Frieswyk’s conceptualization has been criticized by many theorists (Gaston, 1990;
Henry & Strupp, 1994), and it has had minimal impact on the field. M ost view the alliance
as a combination o f contributions from both client and therapist and as com prising such
“transferential” elements as trust, warmth, and empathy (Gaston, 1990; Gelso & Hayes,
1998; Henry & Strupp, 1994; Lambert & Bergin, 1994; Orlinsky & Howard, 1978, 1986).
However, Frieswyk’s work illustrates at once two common currents in the field: one, the
concern over the lack o f clarity regarding the definition o f certain concepts (especially the
working alliance, which seems a hybrid o f the working alliance and the real relationship);
and two, the tendency when faced with these unclear constructs, to resort to behavioral
indices, in the hope that terminological cloudiness will dissipate as the emotional-laden
elements are eliminated. ^
The Definitional Gap in Relationship Research
The therapy relationship— as hinted at by Freud, as expounded upon by Rogers,
Greenson, and Bordin, and finally, as investigated and measured by recent scholars— has
* * Though a psychoanalytic theorist at heart, Frieswyk’s m ethodology has forced him into a quasi-behavioristic
definition o f the working alliance.
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proven a robust concept indeed, being a most potent predictor o f psychotherapeutic outcome.
Research on the therapy relationship has provided a wealth o f findings. Throughout its
development it has been informed by clinical experience, and it has informed that clinical
experience— not an altogether common occurrence in psychological research. But despite
the success o f the therapy relationship as a predictive construct, and despite the litany o f
findings its study has produced, it nonetheless remains a concept whose fundamental nature
scholars have neglected to define. No research project has embarked upon describing the
therapy relationship in substantial detail.
W hat explains this neglect? In attem pting to answer this questions, we will not only
identify important characteristics and tendencies shared by current avenues o f investigation,
but we will find new avenues o f inquiry that are worthy o f pursuit. W hy has research on the
therapy relationship devoted so little scholarly dialogue and scientific effort to establishing a
foundational understanding o f what a therapy relationship is?
It has done this, the current study proposes, because the method o f scientific inquiry
that has dominated research has been a traditional empirical approach, and such an approach
is based on philosophical assumptions that conceptualize observation— which has long been
the foundation o f science— to be the very same thing as measurement. To observe— this line
o f thinking goes— is to measure, and to measure, observe. Observation, apart from
measurement, is mere opinion. M easurement is, after all, public and verifiable. And
measurement provides the consistency (or reliability as statisticians prefer to say) that is so
necessary for scientific inquiry.
There can be little doubt that measurement is a kind o f observation. W henever we
measure something, we have certainly observed it. But is it equally true that the only form o f
observation we have at our scientific disposal is that which is based on m easurem ent? Is
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there no form o f scientific observation that reaches beyond the bounds o f measurability? If
there is not, and if it is indeed true that measurement and observation are identical, or nearly
identical, then we have no reason to be concerned with our current state o f knowledge
regarding the therapy relationship, for the presumption o f identity between measurem ent and
observation reverberates within most o f the scientific investigations o f the therapy
relationship.
We need not provide a further definition o f the therapy relationship— according to
traditional empiricism— or o f any other o f the relationship concepts for that m atter (neither
the real relationship, the transferential reaction, nor the emotional bond), for such definitions
are provided by the psychometric tools we use to measure these concepts. A concept that is
operationalized, that is, and thus has been transform ed into a psychometric construct is—
according to present scientific belief and practice— adequately conceptualized and
appropriately defined. Furthermore, we do not need to understand our constructs in order to
study them. Rather, a concept need only be operationalized and measured, and this is
precisely what our psychometric instruments accomplish.
Now, is it the case that research psychologists make such claims boldly and proudly.
Yes, some have, and some still do (strict behaviorists providing the most convenient and
noteworthy example), but this number has diminished. Rather, the conflation o f
measurement and observation, and the corollary conflation o f operationalization and
understanding, has continued as a quiet truth, one that m any may be aw are of, but few speak
of, and even fewer attempt to remedy.
Indeed, if one simply observes the actions o f current researchers and reads their
findings, one would be hard pressed to argue that this research has not been guided by the
tacit (and sometimes overt) conflation o f measurement and observation. We need only
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observe the proliferation o f psychometric tools within the domain o f relationship research to
witness the idolatry o f measurement at work. As noted above, Horvath and Luborsky (1993)
identify 11 instruments, but there are likely many more. Also, as we have already noted,
Gelso and Hayes themselves comment on the fact that it was the measurability o f the therapy
relationship that attracted researchers to its study. I repeat their comment: “From a research
standpoint, in our view, the greatest impetus to interest in the working alliance was the
creation o f measures” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 27). The proliferation o f instruments led
naturally to the proliferation o f findings. As the science o f psychology improved its ability to
measure, it improved— so it was thought— its understanding. Indeed, four o f the six research
programs that we have explored— and these are the forerunners in the field— all anchor their
research upon psychometric instruments. And the two additional programs, though they did
not create their own measures, nonetheless base much o f their research on psychom etric
analysis.
The swift development o f psychometric instruments has not in itself been a
problematic trend. Such tools have proven invaluable for psychology and especially for the
advancement o f research on the therapy relationship. But the great boons attributable to the
development o f measurement technology— expansive research programs and an outpouring
o f research findings— has concealed a disturbing atrophy in the literature, the dim inution o f
any significant concern or interest in advancing the development o f a foundational
understanding o f therapy relationship. A fair summary o f the present state o f our research
must acknowledge that along with the impressive am assm ent o f data, we have mobilized
only meager efforts to describe and define the therapy relationship. Relationship research has
concentrated on psychometric conquests, and has left unattended its theoretical and
conceptual underpinnings.
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M eissner comments upon this inattention, paying special notice to the working
alliance’s conceptual development. "Though its nature and function in the analytic setting
continue to be debated,” he writes, “there has been little effort to elaborate the concept itself
beyond the level o f understanding provided by Zetzel (1956, 1958) and later by Greenson
(1965)” (M eissner, 1996, p. 4). M eissner is correct in his assessment. Those conceptual
underpinnings that relationship research can currently boast are remnants o f the work o f
three o f its earliest thinkers: Rogers, Greenson, and Bordin. Rogers bequeathed the field an
appreciation for the psychological “contact” between client and counselor, and though he
struggled throughout his career to describe and explain that contact, he never fully defined it.
W hat he did provide was his famous triadic conditions for psychotherapeutic change:
unconditional positive regard, empathy, and genuineness. Greenson later developed our
present day understanding o f the working alliance as that part o f the therapy relationship that
includes client and counselor’s m utually productive and collaborative stance within therapy.
Rogers’s conditions o f unconditional positive regard and empathy m ight reasonably be
considered to fall within the sphere o f G reenson’s working alliance, though this remains
somewhat cloudy under Greenson’s formulations. Greenson also introduced the idea o f the
real relationship between client and therapist— a rather maverick concept within
psychoanalytic circles— and this contribution seems directly attributable to Rogers’s
influence, especially in terms o f Rogers’s emphasis on his third necessary and sufficient
condition, that o f genuineness.
B ordin’s contribution was his reformulation o f G reenson’s working alliance so that
it melded a collaborative component (what Greenson had considered to be the entire territory
o f the working alliance) with the real relationship, which Bordin referred to as the em otional
bond. In melding these two components, Bordin’s accomplished two perhaps unintended
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aims. First, he redefined collaboration as the agreem ent between counselor and therapist,
rather than as the more broad spirit o f cooperation and partnership that Greenson had
envisioned. The collaborative component, now more narrowly defined, was much more
amenable to psychometric measures. Second, Bordin placed the emotional bond as
subsidiary to the working alliance. It thereby became easier for subsequent researchers to
confuse the two (taking the alliance to be the bond, and the bond, the alliance) and to place
much less emphasis on the bonding element.
Today, research on the therapy relationship involves little more than iterations o f the
original ideas o f Greenson, Rogers, and Bordin, buttressed by painstaking psychometric
analyses. The W orking Alliance Inventory, for example, which is the measure most often
used to study the therapy relationship, is modeled explicitly upon B ordin’s triadic
formulation o f the working alliance. Luborsky’s Type 1 and Type 2 alliances are reminiscent
o f Rogers’s empathy and warmth (Type 1) and G reenson’s formulation o f the working
alliance (Type 2). Strupp’s work is perhaps an exception. Though his earlier contributions
relied on his Vanderbilt Therapeutic Alliance Scale, he discarded this instrument in favor o f
Benjam in’s Structural Analysis o f Social Behavior system, which he found to be more
sensitive to the interpersonal dynamics between therapist and client. Strupp also went on to
liken the therapy relationship to the bond between care-given and infant, and he used
Bowlby’s to conceptualize this bond. M armar and G aston’s work on the alliance involved
the development o f four key components. One o f these, focusing on the agreem ent between
client and therapist, directly mirrored Bordin’s first two elements o f the working alliance. A
second component, what M armar and Gaston termed the therapeutic alliance, reflected
Bordin’s emotional bond as experienced by the client. A third component, w hat they term ed
the working alliance, honored the earlier work o f Greenson and his more broadly understood
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conception o f the working alliance as collaborative partnership. And the final com ponent
reflected Rogers’s concepts o f warmth and empathy. Orlinsky and How ard’s work also
honored B ordin’s contribution, establishing the “therapeutic contract” as central to effective
therapy. Orlinsky and Howard also elaborated upon B ordin’s notion o f the emotional bond,
but they expanded B ordin’s work and borrowed from Greenson and Rogers’s concepts o f the
real relationship and genuineness to establish three elements o f the emotional bond: role-
investment, empathic resonance, and mutual affirmation. The work o f Frieswyk and
associates attempted to refine B ordin’s work by taking his contractual conceptualization o f
the working alliance and stripping it o f the emotional bond.
Taken together, current contributions to therapy relationship research have focused
on the same components, even though they often refer to them with differing names. These
components can adequately be reduced to the following: a contractual com ponent (which
emphasizes the explicitly negotiated agreem ent between client and therapist); a productive
component (usually— though not necessarily— affiliated with the term “working” and
referring to the willingness and ability o f client and therapist to engage in the therapeutic
work at hand); and finally an emotional com ponent (which refers to the “psychological
contact” between client and therapist, and the feelings often associated with that contact,
such as warmth, acceptance, empathy, and caring). O f these three components, the first two
have been studied far more than the emotional bond. Lambert and Bergin explain that
research on the therapeutic alliance has focused mainly on “the client’s ability to participate
productively and collaboratively in therapy” (1994, p. 165). The emotional bond has
remained relatively unexamined.
These three components— the contractual, the productive, and the emotional—
though they do provide the beginnings for a conceptualization o f the therapy relationship, do
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not provide a foundational definition. They were not intended for this purpose. Rather, they
have been conceptualized and studied in their current psychometric formulations according
to their amenability to psychometric analysis. Indeed, it has been the difficulty o f m easuring
the emotional component that has rendered its demise as a fruitful area o f study. W hat is
missing from the literature, then, is an adequate conceptualization o f the nature o f the
therapy relationship, especially its emotional component— that bond which develops
between client and therapist. This deficiency in the literature cannot be addressed by
developing a further list o f components, for if we do not know what a certain entity is, we
can hardly speak, in a reasonable way, about the elements it may (or may not) contain. It
also cannot come in the form o f further psychometric analysis, at least not if that
psychometric analysis continues as it has in the past, for our current mode o f research allows
for the development o f psychometric tools that hand us constructs that can be measured, yet
remain elusive once we attempt to understand them. The continued am assm ent o f findings
will not be enough to further our understanding o f the therapy relationship. Current findings
need to be buttressed by a robust conceptualization o f their referent. The phenomenon which
they purport to be about— the therapy relationship— needs to be adequately defined.
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CHAPTER 3
THE ASSUMPTIONS OF TRADITIONAL EMPIRICISM
In the previous chapter we explored the fact that relationship researchers have
devoted m eager scientific efforts toward establishing a foundational understanding o f the
therapy relationship. Scientists have instead channeled their collective energies toward
constructing psychometric measures in the belief that m easurement will bring understanding.
In this chapter we will explore why scientists have been so eager to pursue the developm ent
o f psychometric measures, and why they believe— some explicitly, but most implicitly— that
such measurement will provide an adequate understanding o f the therapy relationship.
This belief is not necessarily an unreasonable one, and it has not emerged
unthinkingly, or due to the mere whim o f psychological researchers. Rather, it has em erged
from its original roots as an assumption embedded in a type o f empirical scientific
methodology that first rose to prominence within psychology in the 1920s and 1930s, and
has remained pre-eminent since. This m ethodology has several off-shoots (logical
empiricism and logical positivism perhaps being the most widely known). For the sake o f
clarity, I shall refer to it as traditional empiricism, owing to the fact that it has remained
virtually unchanged— in terms o f its foundational assumptions— since first explicated by
David Hume in the 18th century. W hat I refer to as traditional empiricism, however, is quite
commonly labeled in the theoretical literature as positivism or— with a much broader, socio-
historical connotation— modernism. M uch o f the analysis below will focus on empiricism as
explicated by Hume. This is because, as Staloff explains, “Hum e’s historical significance is
that he brought to full fruition the empiricist epistemology and phenom enology” (Staloff,
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1997). 12 Hum e’s aim was to become the Newton o f the moral or social sciences, and he
intended to do this by basing his philosophy on scientific observation.
Over the last three decades, traditional empiricism has come under considerable
scrutiny within psychology. Some o f that scrutiny has sprouted from the frustrations o f
practicing positivists, who have grown less tolerant o f the immobilizing assumptions o f their
modernistic methodology (as a recent example, Fishman, 1999). The majority o f this
scrutiny, however, has originated from the criticisms o f theoretically engaged psychologists
(often glossed as “postm odem s”). These theorists have attempted to overturn the hegemony
o f traditional empiricism in the hopes o f encouraging and welcoming marginalized research
programs, such as grounded theory, phenomenology, ethnography, and case study. W ithin
mainstream academic circles, the ripples o f anti-empiricism (and a more general anti
m odernist trend) have not gone unnoticed, but most empirically minded psychologists (even
today, such a phrase m ight well be considered redundant) have not altered their research
regimen, neither in practice, nor in their teaching, nor in the refereeing o f scientific journals.
These psychologists have not adopted alternative methodologies, even if they have become
more tolerant to them.
W ithin theoretical psychology, however, anti-empiricism is widely accepted.
Positivism is viewed as a failed methodology that, at worst, should be abandoned altogether,
and, at best, should be relegated to a more proper status as one o f a plurality o f equally
effective investigative stances. But as traditional empiricism has lost its hegemonic stature
for theoretical psychologists, the proliferation o f methodologies has itself become a
troubling phenomenon. An anti-foundationalism has emerged that sweeps away not only
Sorley also comments, “Hume is commonly, and correctly, regarded as having worked out to the end the line
o f thought started by Locke” (p. 367, 1913). This “line o f thought” is o f course empiricism.
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traditional empiricism, but any method that would claim absolute or foundational truth.
While most scholars have applauded this trend (for example, M artin & Sugarman, 1999,
2000), there has been the opposing concern that the science o f psychology will fragm ent into
a cacophony o f disconnected and incommensurable research languages. Frederick W ertz, for
example, explains “The methodological pluralism that developed as a needed antidote to
positivism has become a disciplinary nightmare” (W ertz, 1999, p. 140). W ertz attem pts to
defend the need for a foundation for psychology, but without a retreat to traditional
empiricism. This foundation, he believes, would require explicitly stated philosophical
assumptions. He writes,
The methodolatry o f psychology’s positivist phase should be left behind and creative
innovations in method are to be encouraged. However, it is also true, as Yanchar
says, that without a clear ontology and epistemology, these methods can yield
incoherent and even irrelevant or not properly psychological results.(W ertz, 1999,
p. 151)
It is not the aim o f the present study to provide a thorough analysis o f the pro
positivism and anti-positivism positions, nor to explore in detail the historical and theoretical
failings o f traditional empiricism. Such analyses has been provided most adequately
elsewhere. (See, as a start, the following excellent historical and theoretical critiques:
Danziger, 1990; Koch & Leary, 1994; Kvale, 1992; M artin & Sugarman, 2000;
Polkinghorne, 1983; Slife & W illiams, 1997). The goal o f this study, instead, will be to
explore the rudimentary assumptions o f traditional empiricism in the hope that the reader
will grasp not only what has been convincing within its tenets, but w hat has been deeply
problematic. The best way to accomplish this is not to trace the history o f traditional
empiricism, nor examine how and why it has been adopted by mainstream psychology,
though an understanding o f such matters is o f great benefit. Instead, this study will focus on
a careful, though brief, analysis o f the assumptions o f traditional empiricism, and explore
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how these have hindered psychological research, especially in the domain o f the therapy
relationship.
W ith an adequate understanding o f traditional empiricism ’s assumptions in hand, w e
can then explore an alternative, corrective methodology, one that reforms traditional
empiricism and frees it o f its problematic ontological and epistemological assumptions
without annihilating its foundational aim o f securing scientific truth. This reformational
paradigm will be the philosophy o f Edmund Husserl, which has been labeled both
transcendental phenomenology and phenomenological psychology. O f course, this new
paradigm will entail its own ontological and epistemological assumptions. The goal is not to
eschew such assumptions, nor to eschew scholarly consideration o f them, but rather to put
them forward as carefully and explicitly as possible (a goal that Husserl worked strenuously
to accomplish), with the hope that these assumptions are at once congruent with the
scientific goals o f psychological investigation and conducive to the developm ent o f a
foundational definition and understanding o f the therapy relationship.
Traditional Empiricism
The Primacy o f Epistemology
A key assumption o f traditional empiricism, one that we will attend to briefly in the
present chapter and at greater length in the 5th chapter, is that epistemology should eclipse
ontology. Epistemology is the project o f understanding the nature o f knowledge. In essence,
it is the philosophical attem pt to determine what should count as true and what should count
as false. Ontology, which is also often called metaphysics (I shall use these terms
synonymously), is the project o f specifying the difference between what is real and w hat is
not, and determining what is real and what is not. It is, in other words, the project o f
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explaining the very nature o f existence (or being) and determining what exists (the real) and
what does not (the unreal).
In modern philosophy and m odem science, epistemology has been conceived as the
search for a method or criterion that will reliably distinguish truth from falsity. The search
for an adequate method is, o f course, no small matter. Though it has always been important
to philosophy, it was Descartes, with his famous method o f doubt, who set epistemology—
and the concern with method— at the center o f W estern philosophical and scientific
discourse, thereby carrying philosophy across the threshold o f modernism. Epistem ology
came to be synonymous with method itself, and method became the concern o f all concerns.
Once addressed, all other matters o f knowledge would resolve them selves in due time, or so
it was thought, with a bravado and optimism so characteristic of the early Enlightenment.
The initial motivation to set epistemological matters before ontological ones is no
doubt due, at least partly, to the reactionary posture o f Descartes and other modem
philosophers toward scholasticism. This medieval philosophy, having reigned for several
centuries, placed enormous emphasis on the metaphysical writings o f Aristotle. It is
Aristotle, in fact, who gave us the term “m etaphysics.” It is the title o f one o f his treatises
and means literally “after or beyond physics.” Scholasticism not only placed extraordinary
emphasis on metaphysical concerns, it also established an epistemology that honored
authority, especially the authority o f the church, and those thinkers— also “authorities”—
sanctioned by the church, Aristotle being chief among them. (He was often reverently
referenced in scholastic writings as “the philosopher.”) Due perhaps to the reformation and
the consequent split in the church, which naturally caused there to be competing authorities,
Descartes and the m odem philosophers that followed him came to search for a method that
would supplant the authority o f the church. In application, this translated into the project o f
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constricting knowledge, such that mere opinion and superstition would be discarded.
Descartes attempted to limit knowledge by imposing a method o f reason, in which the “clear
and distinct” served as his epistemological touchstone. The British empiricists, and Hume
especially, would impose the touchstone o f sense experience.
Empiricism is commonly opposed to rationalism, the doctrine— adopted by
Descartes and others— that reason or mere thought provides the param ount path to
knowledge. Rationalism had been the leaning o f the scholastics, and though Descartes
attacked the scholastic tradition o f authority, he adopted their approbation o f reason.
W hitehead characterizes this rationalism and the em piricists’ revolt against it:
By this rationalism I mean the belief that the avenue to truth was predominantly
through a metaphysical analysis o f the nature o f things, which would thereby
determine how things acted and functioned. The historical revolt was the definite
abandonment o f this method in favour o f the study o f empirical facts o f antecedents
and consequences. (W hitehead, 1925, p. 39)
Indeed, this study is an attempt to return the “metaphysical analysis o f the nature o f
things”— in this case the therapy relationship— to the center o f scholarly research and
inquiry, where it should stand side by side with empirical inquiry, not as its subsidiary.
To our m odem ears, the preeminence o f epistemology over metaphysics is not
disconcerting. Behind every statement o f fact— that a certain vegetable, for example, might
cause cancer— we naturally detect the question, even when we do not voice it, “How do you
know that?” We might resort to authority to establish our claim, rejoining, “I know this
because scientists say so,” or we might resort to reason and explain the complicated
physiological mechanisms we have learned in our most recent physiology lecture. But the
real way to settle this question, we believe, the course o f the true scientists, is to perform an
empirical study.
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What, then, might be so wrong about placing epistemology before ontology? After
all, is it not quite ridiculous to claim anything about cancer’s existence— i.e., its ontology—
before examining it! To understand what is so wrong about this, we will first review several
core tenets o f traditional empiricism, paying heed to any impositions that its m ethodology
places upon m odem research and scholarship. In the following chapter, we will then explore
the ontological issues that lie at the core o f any epistemology.
The Reduction o f Experience to Sense Experience
It seems a proposition which will not admit o f much dispute that all our ideas are
nothing but copies o f our impressions, or, in other words, that it is impossible for us
to think o f anything which we have not antecedently fejt either by our external or
internal senses. (Hume, 1999, p. 652)
Hum e’s words express the essence o f traditional empiricism, which in its simplest
formulation is the doctrine that “experience has primacy in human knowledge and justified
b elief’ (W olterstorff, 1995, p. 224). It can hardly be denied that experience plays an
important role in the acquisition o f knowledge. W hat becomes a crucial issue, however, is
the question o f what exactly constitutes experience. Traditional empiricism, as it was
initially established by the British empiricists, especially Hume, passes over this question
rather hastily and makes a series o f stunning errors that have shaped the course o f
psychological inquiry.
The first stunning error has been to assume that experience is tantam ount to sense
experience (or, as it is sometimes called, sensation or sense data). This view holds that our
experience o f the world is limited to the knowledge that comes from internal and external
senses, internal senses including proprioception and external sense including sight, smell,
touch, hearing, and taste. If we cannot see, smell, touch, hear, or taste it, then we cannot
experience it, and thus can know nothing o f it. But if we reflect upon this m atter (and I
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suggest the reader do ju st that at the present moment), then there are several veritable
experiences we can claim that are not tantam ount to sense experience. For example, we can
have thoughts, desires, and beliefs, and these are certainly not sense perceptible. N o one has
seen, smelled, touched, heard, or tasted a thought, desire, or belief.
Traditional empiricism, then, disallows any knowledge o f th o u g h t,^ and upon this
basis one well understands why it is so distrusting o f the rationalism presented by Descartes
and the scholastics. Thought is slippery, for it cannot be grasped by one’s sense experience.
It cannot be seen. It is invisible. And thus, one cannot really know thought! But if we take
issue with this claim o f traditional empiricism, and simply attend to our experience, it seems
plain that we do have thoughts. And if we allow thought to be a com ponent o f our
understanding o f what constitutes experience— that is, if we expand experience to mean
more than mere sense experience— then we will have solved a glaring philosophical
contradiction o f empiricism. For traditional empiricism is, after all, a theory o f knowledge,
and as such is a way o f thinking about knowledge, but if it is true that we cannot study
thought (because thought is not sense perceptible), then we then have a theory o f knowledge
that we have accepted on no justifiable ground. We cannot accept it owing to reason
(because reasons are not sense perceptible) nor owing to a theory that sense experience gives
knowledge (because theories are not sense perceptible). Traditional empiricism, then, by
denying thought and thus reason, denies itself the very philosophical grounding it attem pts to
claim as its birthright. This seems an irredeemable contradiction. If we question the
assumptions o f traditional empiricism and expand the conceptualization o f experience to
include more than mere sense experience, we can allow thought and reason to be
Locke did attempt to include knowledge o f thought within his “ideas o f reflection,” but Hume abandoned any
such ambition.
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experienced, and thereby they can be investigated and allowed to serve as verifiable
grounding.
W ith the recognition that experience is not tantam ount to sense experience, comes a
sampling o f the dire consequences that come from placing epistemology before ontology. If
we mistake experience for sense experience, then the ontology we grant ourselves will only
allow for the existence o f entities that we can see, smell, touch, hear, or taste. Thus, our
ontology (what types o f things exist) is determined by our epistemology (our theory o f what
is true). Also note that the very assumption that experience is tantam ount to sense experience
is a ontological one, not an epistemological one. That is, when we claim that sense
experience is the same as experience, we are making claims about the nature o f an entity,
and this is not an epistemological move but an ontological one. W e will return to this
important issue later.
The Reduction o f Sense Experience to Isolated Perceptions
Even if one were to accept, for the sake o f argument, that sense experience is the
only kind o f experience that exists, there are further damaging assumptions that British
empiricism makes. Hume spoke o f sense experience as “perceptions” or “im pressions.” He
developed a precise line o f thought about the nature o f our impressions (i.e., our experience),
and this line o f thought is crucial to our current understanding o f the therapy relationship.
Hume proposed that our impressions, that is our sense experience o f the world, consist in the
succession o f isolated perceptions. About our minds, for example, he writes, “The mind is a
kind o f theatre, where several perceptions successively make their appearance; pass, re-pass,
glide away, and mingle in an infinite variety o f postures and situations” (Hume, 1967,
p. 253). Hume, with his impeccable prose, is absolutely emphatic about the isolated nature o f
our perceptions:
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W hatever is distinct, is distinguishable; and whatever is distinguishable, is separable
by the thought or imagination. All perceptions are distinct. They are, therefore,
distinguishable, and separable, and may be conceiv’d as separately existent, and may
exist separately, without any contradiction or absurdity. (Hume, 1967, p. 634)
At this point, we can recognize a striking misperception in H um e’s theory. His view
that perceptions are neatly separable is arguable, and has indeed been challenged by many
philosophers; chief among them is W illiam Jam es who described consciousness as the
“stream” o f thought (1950). The Gestalt School o f psychology, which may have been
influenced by Jam es’s work, is also famous for its challenge o f the conception o f perceptions
as the “atoms” o f sense-data. The Gestalt School argued, much as James did, that we
perceive the world in wholes, not merely in parts. Husserl, too, developed a non-atom istic
analysis o f wholes and parts, an analysis that was central to his phenom enological method.
(W e will look at this in some detail in Chapter 6.) Hum e’s conception o f sense experience as
a succession o f atomistic perceptions that “pass, re-pass, glide away, and mingle in an
infinite variety o f postures and situations” (Hume, 1967, p. 253), is difficult to match with
our everyday, moment-to-moment experience o f the world, even that experience which we
derive by means o f our bodily senses. Sense-experience seems to be o f a continuous world,
one that not only evidences a context o f connections and conjunctions within a single
moment, but that evidences such connective integration across moments. Jam es’s stream
metaphor seems quite appropriate, for it honors the fact that our perceptions flow into and
overlap one another, almost never appearing disconnected, except perhaps in the most
extreme cases. James, criticizing H um e’s atomistic empiricism, concludes:
Now, ordinary empiricism, in spite o f the fact that conjunctive and disjunctive
relations present them selves as being fully co-ordinate parts o f experience, has
always shown a tendency to do away with the connections o f things, and to insist
most on the disjunctions. (James, 1912/1938, pp. 42-43)
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The Nonexistence o f Relations
Traditional empiricism ’s tendency “to do away with the connections o f things” is in
essence a philosophical assertion that relations do not exist (a problematic assertion indeed if
one is attempting to understand the relation between therapist and client). That relations and
all manner o f connection are merely a fabrication o f sorts follows quite naturally from
Hum e’s contentions that we can only experience (and thus know) isolated perceptions.
Hume explains, “If perceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole only by being
connected together. But no connexions among distinct existences are ever discoverable by
human understanding” (Italics added; Hume, 1967, p. 635). Hume may begin this quotation
with the qualification, “If perceptions are distinct existences,” but this is merely rhetorical.
Hume explicitly and emphatically states that perceptions are isolated, and he is equally
certain that “the mind never perceives any real connexion among distinct existences” (Hume,
1967, p. 636).
Hum e’s assertion that we cannot discover relations is stunning. It challenges our
everyday experience o f the world, for this world seems to comprise a multitude o f
“connexions.” H um e’s assertion, however, may at first seem consistent with his belief that
experience and sense experience are one and the same; for indeed, one seems hard pressed to
come up with a sensuous theory o f relations. Do we see, smell, touch, hear, or taste the
relations that hold between numbers or within logic? Or, take the example o f an apple that is
both red and round. W e do indeed have distinct impressions o f redness and roundness, but
we do not have what might be called a sense impression o f the relatedness or
“connectedness” o f this redness to the roundness. Yet, upon further reflection, we do seem to
have sensate awareness o f certain relations; for example, we can smell the differences and
similarities between aromas, we hear the harmony or discord amongst musical pitches, and
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we taste the difference or similarity o f the food we eat. Such experiences seem to directly
contradict H um e’s contention that relations are not sense perceptible.
The Fall o f Cause and Effect
M odem conceptualizations o f science— which have adopted the doctrines o f British
empiricism, reformulating them into the 20th century schools of logical positivism, logical
empiricism, and naturalism— has found H um e’s denial o f relations to be no small matter.
This is because one o f the most famous relations which Hume disproved was the necessary
connection between cause and effect. W rites Hume,
It appears that in single instances o f the operation o f bodies we never can, by our
utmost scrutiny, discover anything but one event following another, w ithout being
able to comprehend any force or power by which the cause operates or any
connection between it and its supposed effect. (Hume, 1999, p. 657)
W ithout the relation o f cause and effect, however, the entire program o f science m ight seem
to fail. Hume was troubled by this difficulty, and strove to overcome it, but he was never
able to do this to his own satisfaction. He concludes,
[T]here does not appear, throughout all nature, any one instance o f connection which
is conceivable by us. All events are entirely loose and separate. One event follows
another, but we never can observe any tie between them. They seem conjoined, but
never connected. (Hume, 1999, p. 657)
In essence, traditional empiricism denies the very possibility o f scientific knowledge
o f cause. All that we can know is that one event correlates with another, or follows it in mere
succession. But can we even know this? If we adhere strictly to H um e’s theory, we are hard
pressed to define what might constitute a correlation, for correlation seems to incorporate the
very concept o f relation. After all, for two events to be correlated, w e m ust note a
conjunction between them, even if that conjunction is merely temporal. For instance, how
might I know that event A follows event B, if I take “following” to be a relation, and
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relations to be imperceptible? Yet again, traditional empiricism has led us into an
irredeemable contradiction.
One might inquire o f Hume how it is that we believe “connexions” (causal and
otherwise) to exist in the world when we do not, according to him, experience them. H um e’s
answer to this— and it is an important answer indeed, one that permeates much o f philosophy
today— is that the “custom” or “habit” o f “human understanding” (i.e., our mind) constructs
relations where none are to be found. Thus, though our world consists o f “entirely loose and
separate” impressions, we link these together through some kind o f mental faculty. The
connections that we believe to be true, such as that between eating supper and finding that
our hunger wanes, are not true causal relations, but rather are “fictions” o f my human
understanding. Hum e’s theory granted the mind powerful abilities.
The Fall o f Identity (and the Self)
Hume identifies two relations in addition to that o f cause and effect that he believes
human understanding imposes upon our perceptions. He writes, “To me there appear to be
only three principles o f connection among ideas, namely, resemblance, contiguity in time or
place, and cause or effect” (Hume, 1999, p. 636). W e have already explored the implications
o f declaring that the relation o f cause and effect is mere illusion. The philosophical and
scientific implications o f denying the relations o f resemblance and contiguity are ju st as far
reaching, for to do so is to deny the possibility o f any form o f unity, bond, or cohesion
within or between entities. Hume believes that when we perceive an apple, we do not
perceive it as being red, round, and tasty. Rather, we experience all o f these perceptions as
independent, and only the habits o f thought deriving from “laws o f association,” deceive us
into believing that the apple is a unified entity that can be at once, red, round, and tasty.
Hume even denies an object’s relation to itself through time. Thus, the apple I perceive in
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the current instance is not related to (and, thereby, cannot be the same as) the apple I
perceive in antecedent or subsequent instances. He explains, “ [‘T]is a false opinion that any
o f our objects, or perceptions, are identically the same after an interruption; and
consequently the opinion o f their identity can never arise from reason, but must arise from
the imagination” (Hume, 1967, p. 209).
The relation o f unity through time, the belief in continued existence, is referred to by
philosophers as identity (or sameness). Hume has proclaimed identity to be mere illusion— a
fancy o f our mind that is unknowable in our actual experience o f the world. It is on this
bases that Hume is able to make his famous case against personal identity— that is, against
the existence o f the self. He writes,
If any impression gives rise to the idea o f self, that impression m ust continue
invariably the same, thro’ the whole course o f our lives; since self is suppos’d to
exist after that manner. But there is no impression constant and invariable. Pain and
pleasure, grief and joy, passions and sensations succeed each other, and never all
exist at the same moment. It cannot, therefore, be from any o f these impressions, or
from any other, that the idea o f self is deriv’d; and consequently there is no such
idea. (Hume, 1967, p. 247)
Note H um e’s assertion that “there is no impression constant and invariable.” This is
a restatement o f his belief that all perceptions are discreet and that no connections hold
between them. Here again we see the inclination o f traditional empiricism to highlight the
disjunctions and differences o f the world (that is, its variations), without attending to the
continuities and similarities. We have no impressions o f such conjunctive relations, Hume
believes, and thus any entity we believe to be invariable, to have an identity through time—
whether it be the identity o f a self or an apple— is a mere construction o f an overreaching
mind.
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The Reduction o f Isolated Perceptions to M athematical Qualities
Having witnessed H um e’s dism antling o f our apparent reality, we might suppose
that there is little more damage to be wrought, but this is far from the case. Hume goes
beyond denying the relations we have examined above, to denying several types o f sense
experiences themselves. He does this by borrowing directly from the recently developed
philosophy o f such renowned scientists as Galileo, Newton, and Boyle. He summarize this
“modem ” scientific m ovem ent in the following words:
The fundamental principle o f that philosophy is the opinion concerning colours,
sounds, tastes, smells, heat and cold; which it asserts to be nothing but impressions
in the mind, deriv’d from the operation o f external objects, and without any
resemblance to the qualities o f the objects. (Hume, 1967, p. 226)
Hume supports this philosophy on the basis that “colours, sounds, tastes, smells, heat and
cold” vary within the same object. That is, an object can be cold to my right hand yet hot to
my left. This apparent variability (which we would now perhaps enter under the term
“subjectivity”) is the basis upon which Hume asserts that such sense perceptions are not o f
the real world, but instead are creations o f our active imaginations. Variability, after all,
implies differences, and differences cannot exist, according to Hume, within the same entity.
When one subtracts these “variable” sense experiences from one’s full repertoire o f
experience, what remain are primary qualities. Says Hume,
For upon the removal o f sounds, colours, heat, cold, and other sensible qualities,
from the rank o f the continu’d independent existences, we are reduc’d merely to
what are called primary qualities, as the only real ones, o f which we have any
adequate notion. These primary qualities are extension and solidity, with their
different mixtures and modifications; figure, motion, gravity, and cohesion. (Hume,
1967, p . 227)
Alfred North W hitehead summarizes and satirizes this m odem philosophy when he writes,
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Thus the bodies [in the world] are perceived as with qualities [sounds, colors, scents,
and so on] which in reality do not belong to them, qualities which in fact are purely
the offspring o f the mind. Thus nature gets credit which should in truth be reserved
for ourselves; the rose for its scent; the nightengale for his song; and the sun for his
radiance. The poets are entirely mistaken. They should address their lyrics to
themselves, and should turn them into odes o f self-congratulation on the excellency
o f the human mind. Nature is a dull affair, soundless, scentless, colourless; merely
the hurrying o f material, endlessly, meaninglessly. (W hitehead, 1925, p. 54)
It is important to keep in mind that the distinction between primary and secondary
qualities does not come from an unbiased view o f our perceptions. Rather, it comes from the
presumption that what is stable must be primary to what is variable. One m ight ask why
stability held such pre-eminence in the minds o f the great scientists and philosophers of
Hum e’s time. The answer is readily available. It so happens that any stable, prim ary quality
“lends itself to the purposes o f description and calculation” (Taylor, 1961, p. 129). Thus, this
distinction between primary and secondary qualities is in result (if not, indeed, in purpose) a
distinction between qualities that can be characterized m athematically (such as length,
height, weight, motion, and so on), and qualities that cannot (such as color, taste, scent, and
so on). But why this emphasis on numerical properties?
This is best understood in terms o f the impressive gains in mathematical theory that
were made the century prior to the arrival o f British empiricism. In that Century, Descartes
discovered analytical geometry, and calculus was invented concurrently by N ewton and
Leibniz. Math was the proverbial engine propelling 17th century science. W hitehead
explains,
Apart from this progress o f mathematics, the 17th century developm ents o f science
would have been impossible. M athematics supplied the background o f imaginative
thought with which the men o f science approached the observation o f nature. Galileo
produced formulae, Descartes produced formulae, Huyghens produced formulae,
N ewton produced formulae. (W hitehead, 1925, pp. 30-31)
It would have been troubling, indeed, had Hume allowed his empiricism to fail the test of
mathematical stability (even if this stability contradicted Hum e’s underlying assumption o f
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the variability o f n a tu re ^ ). Hume thus had powerful incentives for declaring that the
mathematical qualities we perceive are pre-em inent to non-mathematical qualities. It is no
small irony that British empiricism, which was in large part a revolt against rationalism,
nonetheless adopted a mathematical rationalism with which to shape its empirical
standpoint. Essentially, empiricists sifted out o f experience those perceptions deemed
mathematically characterizable, and declared the remainder dross. This ontology counted
“mathematical experience” as real, with the rest to be discarded as superstition and opinion.
Indeed, in the final paragraph o f An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, in which
Hume has laid forth his empirical principles, he concludes:
When we run over libraries, persuaded o f these principles, what havoc m ust we
make? If we take in our hand any volume; o f divinity or school metaphysics, for
instance; let us ask, Does it contain any abstract reasoning concerning quantity or
number? No. Does it contain any experimental reasoning concerning m atter o f fact
and existence? No. Commit it then to the flames: for it can contain nothing but
sophistry and illusion. (Hume, 1748/1999, p. 696)
The Close Relation Between Traditional Empiricism and Postmodernism
In contemporary debates regarding m odem science— and, in our special case,
m odem psychological science— the camps o f empiricism and postm odernism have
frequently been viewed as entrenched in bitter opposition. However, no m atter how far apart
these two philosophies lie in certain regards, it cannot be overlooked that they both adopt a
common conception o f experience: it is fundamentally a constructive act, in which
perceptions and events are connected by externally imposed relations. Hume, for example,
posited that the “human understanding” produces the fiction of relations between isolated
perceptions. To witness how impressed Hume was by the constructive capacities o f the
14 This contradiction explains another way in which Hume’s philosophy undermines science, a problem he was
well aware of.
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human understanding, an impression that postmodernism often shares, one need only view
his many proclamations o f their power. In one telling passage, he writes,
Nothing is more free than the imagination o f man, and though it cannot exceed that
original stock o f ideas furnished by the internal and external senses, it has unlimited
power o f mixing, compounding, separating, and dividing these ideas, in all the
varieties o f fiction and vision. It can feign a train o f events with all the appearance o f
reality, ascribe to them a particular time and place, conceive them as existent, and
paint them out to itself with every circumstance that belongs to any historical fact
which it believes with the greatest certainty. (Hume, 1748/1999, p. 646)
Thus, Hume held no view that the mind was merely a passive observer o f reality. Rather, he
well understood (and aptly documented) its constructive capacities, and his philosophy
echoed the famous dictum o f Protagoras that “man is the measure o f all things.”
Later philosophers have added little to H um e’s constructionistic epistemology. Kant,
in his Critique o f Pure Reason, proposed that the faculties o f human observation were active
judgm ents that fundamentally altered reality in order to make it perceivable. In K ant’s view,
m an’s observations (or the observations o f “the Trascendental Ego”) construct the world as
we know it. Postmodernism has followed in the footsteps o f both Hume and Kant, merely
substituting language where Hume or Kant would instead have supposed the mind to be at
work. In essence, both empiricism and postmodernism assert that relations do not exist in the
world. They only differ in that empiricism supposes these relations to be imposed by human
understanding, whereas postmodernism (being appropriately pluralistic) proposes a
smorgasbord o f constructive agents, including not only language but also text, culture,
history, economy, politics, and social structure, to mention only the more prom inent ones.
Some Problems with Traditional Empiricism
Having examined the underlying presuppositions o f traditional empiricism, let us
examine their logic. First, traditional empiricism presupposes that experience is tantam ount
to sense experience (that is, sensations). As we have already discussed, this is problematic
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for the simple reason that we seem able to have experiences, such as thoughts, desires, and
beliefs, that are not sense perceptible. Second, traditional empiricism presupposes that sense
experience is o f isolated “perceptions.” This, too, appears problematic for the reason that our
actual sense experiences appear to occur as connected, related wholes, not as isolated events.
In other words, when I perceive an apple, I perceive it as being red and round at one and the
same time. I do not experience, as traditional empiricism suggests, roundness and redness
only to later (by a fiction o f human understanding) connect the two. Contrary to the tenet o f
traditional empiricism, experience seems to contain unity and conjunction, and any true
theory o f experience, as James so vehemently argues, “does full justice to conjunctive
relations” (James, 1912/1938, p. 44). Such an empiricism, continues James, “is fair to both
the unity and the disconnection. It finds no reason for treating either as illusory” (James,
1912/1938, p. 47).
Third, even if traditional empiricism were to grant unity in specific instances, it
would still assert that those instances separated by time are in no way connected. That is, the
perception o f an apple I see before me now is unconnected with the perception o f the apple I
see before me in the next instance. The connection o f identity (or sameness) that I
experience is, according to traditional empiricism, the product o f my mind. However, our
actual experience o f entities as they appear to us through time does not at all seem
disconnected in this way. Rather, entities do appear the same across time, and it would seem
that only a presupposition would lead one to describe experience otherwise, as Hume has.
Additionally, experience itself does not appear nearly as fragmented as Hume suggests.
Rather, consciousness, as James and others have described it, seems to flow as a stream
might. Indeed, what is stunning about consciousness, is how connected each moment is, and
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one o f the greatest challenges for the science o f consciousness has been to explain and
understand this connectedness, rather than deny it, as is the course o f traditional empiricism.
Fourth, Hume proposes that we see sameness in the world because our
“imagination” links events and perceptions that resemble one another. However, a
resemblance is a relation, and Hume has denied the existence o f relations. If relations do not
exist, then they cannot be created by the mind. Hume has left him self with the impossible
task o f explaining a relation by using an ontology that denies the existence o f any relations.
This is, o f course, an absurd task. The same holds true, o f course, for the relations o f
contiguity and cause and effect, which Hume has also stated to be products o f the mind. If
Hume does not allow for relations to exist anywhere, how can he suppose that they exist “in
the m ind.” He cannot even mount his explanation o f how we come to project (or construct)
relations where he says they are not. He certainly has not, according to his philosophy,
experienced these relations, and if he has not experienced them, he can hardly suggest that
they exist. Yet again, H um e’s philosophy is self-contradictory. He is claim ing som ething to
exist (even if only in the mind) that we have no experience of.
Fifth, the very doctrine that serves as the spine o f traditional empiricism, the
doctrine that “it is impossible for us to think o f anything which we have not antecedently fe]t
either by our external or internal senses” (Hume, 1999, p. 652) is not a sense perceptible
entity, for the simple reason that doctrines are not sensible. I can have a sense experience o f
an apple, but I cannot have a sense experience o f the proposition that apples can only be
sense experienced. Such a proposition is simply not the type o f phenom ena that are sense-
experienced. Such phenomena may be ideas or concepts, but they are not sense experiences!
How can he defend the notion that “only that which is observable should be counted as
knowledge” when this very notion has never been observed. No one has ever seen, smelled,
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tasted, heard or touched the fact that “only that which is observable should be counted as
knowledge.”
Taken in sum, the above objections illustrate the degree to which traditional
empiricism imposes an ontology that subtracts from the world most o f the things scholars are
interested in studying and knowing about. This ontology, which admits only the sense-
perceptible and measurable as truly real, abandons our theories about the world, the relations
in the world, the identities o f the world, and the selves o f the world. As W illard comments,
Very few o f the things in which human life has a knowledge interest, and very few
o f the things studied in the university, can be sensuously comprehended, though
most involve some element o f the sense-perceptible. And least o f all, perhaps, are
knowledge and knowing them selves sense-perceptible. (W illard, 1994, p. 11)
The destructive ontological stance o f traditional empiricism, a stance that defies our
everyday, lived experience, is handsomely caricatured in the following commentary:
The fate o f destiny o f Empiricism as a cultural form arising historically out o f
reaction to authority and rationalism is nicely captured by a cartoon published in the
British periodical Punch some decades ago, when vacuum cleaners were first
coming into vogue.
In the first frame the householder, intrigued but sceptical, stands contem plating his
newly purchased machine. In the second he has reaped a noble heap o f dust. Then,
sucking superbly and far beyond its advertised powers, the cleaner absorbs the
carpet and various articles o f furniture. The delighted owner rushes out into the
street and easily collects several vehicles and a troop o f cavalry. Finally, his face
alight with the eternal curiosity o f mankind from Pandora to the sorcerer’s
apprentice, he peeps over the edge o f the funnel and vanishes. (M ure, 1958, pp. 55-
56)
If it is to follow the course previously set by traditional empiricism, science in
general, and psychology in particular, will find itself on difficult ground. N ot only is it
unable to provide a foundation for its own tenets (because these tenets are inescapably non-
empirical), but it must accept ontological proclamations that severely limit its realm o f
inquiry. Because only that which is sense perceptible and measurable is real, any mention o f
entities that do not conform to these dictates are either reformulated, such that they do
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conform, or are eliminated entirely from scientific discourse (usually as mere metaphysical
conjecture). As Sorley explains o f H um e’s empiricism: “The logical result o f his analysis is
far from leading to that ‘complete system o f the sciences’ which he had anticipated from his
‘new m edium ’; it leads, not to reconstruction, but to a sceptical disintegration o f knowledge”
(1913, p. 375).
Traditional Em piricism ’s Influence on the Study o f the Therapy Relationship
Traditional empiricism as philosophy and traditional empiricism as practice may be
very different from one another. Indeed, as the anthropologist Clifford Geertz suggests,
[I]f you want to understand what a science is, you should look in the first instance
not at its theories or its findings, and certainly not at what its apologists say about it;
you should look at what the practitioners o f it do. (1973, p. 5)
When one does examine the practices o f relationship researchers, one witnesses two main
ways in which the footprint o f traditional empiricism has left its mark. First, contem porary
research o f the therapeutic relationship is as much driven by measurem ent concerns as it is
by observational ones. Indeed, math and observation are intimately linked. Observations are
considered unreliable if not built upon a solid foundation o f math. This math is based on a
sophisticated version o f what I have described above as the reduction o f experience to
“mathematical experience.” The only properties regarded as worthy o f study are those that
are measurable— that is, only those qualities that can be characterized mathematically. In
Hum e’s day, these mathematically characterizable properties were deemed to be material
properties such as length, height, width, motion and so on. In contem porary psychological
science, intricate statistical methods have expanded these properties to include sense
perceptible realities that are less stable correlations (for example, speech or responses to a
questionnaire), but these nonetheless remain m athematically procurable by means o f
complex psychometric instruments. Today, stability serves a function similar to what it
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served in Hum e’s day, when it distinguished between primary and secondary qualities.
Today, stable qualities (such as the agreem ent between client and counselor) are pre
eminent, and unstable ones (such as warmth, empathy, and other interpersonal phenomena)
are ancillary.
Second, contemporary research on the therapy relationship has faltered in its
attempts to study phenomena that are not sense perceptible. The list o f these entities— which
lie at the heart o f the therapy relationship— is not short, and in the next chapters we will
explore the most essential ones in great detail. To start, we would at least include Rogers’s
concept o f “psychological contact.” This concept seems to incorporate such phenom ena as
feelings, selves, and consciousness. M any steadfast empiricists would question— in the
interest o f science— whether such entities even exist. Indeed, phenom ena such as feelings,
selves, and consciousness— when they are studied— are formulated in term s o f their sense-
perceptible and m athematically characterizable qualities, regardless whether these aspects
are central to their nature. This has usually m eant that a feeling, a self, or a consciousness is
reduced to a physicalist interpretation, because what is physical is, by its nature, sense-
perceptible and measurable. Take as an example, emotions such as trust, empathy, or
genuineness. These are either conceptualized as states o f the body (i.e., for example, eye
contact, breathing rate, and so on), or as being what I report (that is, those items I endorse on
a psychological instrument). That what I report may actually exist somewhere (other than in
a physical location, such as a marking on a piece o f paper) is either treated agnostically (we
study, after all, hypothetical constructs) or as non-existent, a creation o f my mind, language,
or culture. No wonder, then, there are so few theoretical attempts to understand what
constitutes a therapy relationship beyond its “empirical” manifestations. Psychologists who
have pursued the therapy relationship have been limited by the m ethodology they have
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adopted, a methodology founded upon the constrictive epistemological and ontological
assumptions o f traditional empiricism.
Traditional empiricism, by insisting on an ontology that consists only o f those
entities (or qualities o f entities) that are sense perceptible and numerically characterizable,
has led researchers to believe that operationalization, with its inherent mathematical and
statistical rendering o f constructs, is the sole means o f laying out definitional foundations.
These researchers have tended to study those aspects o f the therapy relationship that best
lend them selves to numerical analysis. These aspects are the contractual aspects o f B ordin’s
classical triad— that is, agreement about goals and agreement about tasks.
If psychology hopes to provide a convincing descriptive and definitional foundation
for its empirical research on the therapy relationship, it must begin to recognize, analyze, and
hopefully improve the epistemological and ontological foundations it takes for granted,
foundations that play a m ajor role in directing the investigations and conceptualizations o f
researchers. If relationship research does not embark on this project, it will have taken the
gamble o f adopting an epistemology and ontology without first evaluating the consequences
o f that such system o f thought, and the consequences may be grave indeed, allowing for only
those qualities that are measurable and sense-perceptible. Such qualities m ight never
adequately explain personal relations such as occur between client and counselor. In
disallowing non-numerical qualities, conceptualizations o f the therapeutic relationship have
remained somewhat anemic and unconvincing. The very emotional bond that is believed to
exist has yet to be comprehended, and remains instead a hypothetical construct.
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CHAPTER 4
PRELIMINARY STEPS
With a firm understanding o f traditional em piricism ’s limitations, we can begin the
search for an alternative scientific approach that will avert these limitations and thereby
expand our investigative purview, with the hope that our inquiry can pursue a foundational
understanding o f its central object, the therapy relationship. In setting out on this search, we
seek a methodology that will add to our knowledge, not one that will subtract from it. Thus,
from the outset o f our analysis we have no reason to discard current psychom etric measures,
nor their attendant findings. We will no doubt want, at some point, to reconsider those
findings that have emerged as the fruit o f these measures, especially in light o f the new
methodology we have developed, but unless this methodology were to indicate that previous
measures were in some way unreliable or invalid, our hope would be to retain them.
As preparation for our quest to identify an appropriate methodology, let us pursue
two preliminary tasks, both o f which will help frame our decision about the m ethodology we
choose. The first task will be to review several fledgling efforts within the current empirical
literature to define the therapy relationship. Though these efforts have indeed been meager,
they have nonetheless been made, and a brief review o f several examples o f definitions will
give us guidance regarding what remains to be accomplished. Secondly, let us begin, in a
most preliminary fashion, to outline the types o f phenomena that appear, at least at the
outset, to be crucial to grasping the complexity o f the therapy relationship. W ith these tasks
accomplished, we can then judge the appropriateness o f any prospective methodology.
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Previous Attempts to Define the Therapy Relationship
Gelso and Haves
Gelso and Hayes preface their brief effort to define the relationship with this caveat:
“Things are never as easy to define as they might seem at first glance, and the psychotherapy
relationship is no exception” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 6). They continue on, as we have
quoted in Chapter 2, to provide the following definition o f the therapy relationship: “The
relationship aspect [of psychotherapy] consists o f the feelings and attitudes the participants
hold toward one another, and the psychological connection between therapist and client,
based on these feelings and attitudes” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 3). Gelso and Hayes provide
little explication o f this definition, other than to curiously alter it, as we shall review shortly,
by retreating to a previous, more formal definition. But before analyzing this retreat, let us
examine the present definition. Note that it does not state what a relationship is but w hat it
“consists of.” Here we witness the tendency to define the relationship by identifying its
components (which, in turn, are seldom accorded the courtesy o f definition). The two
components that Gelso and Hayes identify are the “feelings and attitudes” and “the
psychological connection” between the participants. We should rightly be concerned over
what each component itself is. W hat in fact are feelings and attitudes, and what is a
“psychological connection”? But certainly the authors have nonetheless hit upon key
constituents o f the therapy relationship (or, in fact, o f any personal relation).
Two points should be carefully noted at this juncture. First, even if we were to
excuse this definition its failure to define what feelings and attitudes are, we should not fail
to attend to the commonly accepted fact that both are phenom ena tied to individuals. That is,
I have my feelings and you have yours, and my feelings are not yours, nor yours mine. If this
is so, what about feelings and attitudes creates a relationship? Could we not have feelings
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toward one another and also not be in relation? And this leads to a second point. If we
construe the relationship in terms o f feelings and attitudes, we still have not accounted for
the “psychological contact” or bond that such feelings are intended to imply. Somehow, two
people are linked in a relationship, but in what way? W hat is the linkage? W hat is this
“contact?” Notice that Gelso and Hayes suggest that this contact between client and therapist
is “based on these feelings and attitudes.” Here we can again ask further questions: Do the
authors mean that the bond between client and therapist occurs because o f the feelings and
attitudes, or do they mean that it is the feelings and attitudes. If it is the former, then the
bond is something separate and worthy o f definition as a phenomenon apart from feelings
and attitudes (though perhaps dependent upon them). If it is the latter, then the bond is not a
separate phenomenon, but is somehow constituted by the feelings o f two individuals. This
latter explanation demands a further conceptualization o f attitudes and feelings such that
their bonding capacity be explicated, for if this is not done, then it is hard to determine why
feelings and attitudes would bring two people together, even if they be m utually held. To put
this concern another way, it is difficult to describe or explain what it m ight be about my
feelings that attaches me to you. Is it simply that I feel attached? If so, would feeling
attached necessarily mean that I was? That is, would we consider it a “psychological
contact” if I felt bonded to you, but you did not reciprocate these feelings. And to push these
concerns yet further, what if, in fact, we both felt mutual affection and attachment toward
one another. Could we not both be deluded? And if we could, would we consider this a true
bond, a veritable point o f “psychological contact?” This harks back to the concern,
especially within the psychoanalytic literature, o f whether the working alliance can be
distinguished from transferential (and countertransferential) feelings. That is, is there such a
thing as genuine contact beyond transferential relations, for transferential configurations can
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only allow for apparent contact, because, in experiencing transference, I am not in relation to
the real you, but to the fantasy I project upon you.
In raising these intricate considerations, I have, o f course, pressed Gelso and
H ayes’s preliminary definition into philosophical com ers that the authors did not intend it to
fit. M y point is not to criticize the author’s preliminary work, but rather to dem onstrate ju st
how preliminary it is. One sees how such words as feelings, attitudes, and psychological
contact become astonishingly slippery, and one appreciates, too, the tendency o f empirical
researchers to operationalize their terms, for this at least clarifies one’s investigative
trajectory, even if it offers only minimal advancem ent in one’s understanding.^
Gelso and Hayes, in their more formal definition o f the therapy relationship, write
the following: “The relationship is the feelings and attitudes that therapist and client have
toward one another, and the manner in which these are expressed (Gelso & Carter, 1985,
1994)” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 6). This definition is notable both for w hat it omits and
what it adds, but neither the omission nor the addition contribute substantial definitional
ground. Gelso and Hayes’s omission involves the elimination o f “psychological connection,”
and though this notion would itself demand further clarity, it nonetheless seems like a
component that any good definition o f the therapy relationship should incorporate. Perhaps
the author’s would agree on this point, but leave o ff the notion o f psychological contact
because they believe that the participants’ feelings and attitudes them selves constitute
psychological contact. This would be fine, o f course, but would simply require further
refinement, as we have mentioned above, o f what feelings and attitudes are and how they
provide a linkage between two people.
^ A reasonable fear that some empiricist hold is that once their constructs and variables are submitted to
philosophical dissection, no useful, “living and breathing” term will remain. But such destructive or
“deconstructive” consequences are by no means the purpose o f this inquiry.
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Gelso and Hayes’s addition to their definition is the “manner in which these
[feelings and attitudes] are expressed.” But this com ponent scarcely constitutes a definition
o f a relationship. Certainly, how two people express themselves indicates the quality and
nature o f their relation, but it hardly ]s their relation. For example, would a client’s trusting
disclosure o f affection itself be considered a relationship? Or would the em pathic response
o f a therapist be a relationship? Or, to complicate the argument, would a series o f such
expressions or communications constitute a relationship? It would seem not. True, one might
argue that these expressions (and the manner in which they are conveyed), though not the
relationship in its entirety, nonetheless represent an important aspect o f the relationship. But
this begs the following essential question: what is this thing or phenomenon that they are a
part of? An even more important consideration comes to mind: are these manners o f
expression really part o f the relationship, or are they, more accurately, indicators o f the
relationship. The two are not the same, and whereas it is conceivable that patterns o f
expression or communication might indicate something about a relationship, it seems odd to
conclude that they are the relationship itself.
Orlinsky and Howard
In attempting to define the therapy relationship, Orlinsky and Howard provide a
helpful advancement by distinguishing the alliance from the bond. They explain, “By
therapeutic bond we mean something more than the concept o f a ‘therapeutic alliance’....
The therapeutic alliance is a compact between the patient and therapist to cooperate in
performing their respective roles” (Orlinsky & Howard, 1987, p. 10). Their concept o f the
bond itself, however, offers little definitional substance. They continue: “The therapeutic
bond, on the other hand, extends beyond patient and therapist roles to include certain
personal qualities o f the relationship that forms— or fails to form— between the participants”
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(Orlinsky & Howard, 1987, p. 10). To say, as Orlinsky and Howard do, that the bond entails
“certain personal qualities o f the relationship” is a rather circular definition, with the one
benefit that it does, no doubt, define the bond as a type o f relationship. This, however, we
likely already knew.
In dividing the therapeutic bond into the three constituent com ponents o f role-
investment, empathic resonance, and mutual affirmation, Orlinsky and Howard outline the
specific qualities o f the relationship that make it a bond. These qualities, which derive
mostly from the latter two components, include “being on the same wavelength,” “good
personal contact,” comfortableness, trust, genuineness, acceptance, good will, and strong
affirmation. It would be hard to disagree that these qualities characterize a positive
emotional bond between client and therapist. But do they define its essential nature? Is it
enough to say, for instance, that a bond is a relationship that involves comfortableness, trust,
and so on? Such a declaration misses the m ark in not defining what a relationship itself is.
And additionally, Orlinsky and Howard provide no definition o f what these qualities
themselves are. M ost o f these qualities seem to be feelings o f some sort, and if so, we have
the very same question that Gelso and Hayes’s definitions leave us with— namely, what are
feelings such that they cause (or constitute) a bond. Even with those identified qualities that
do imply something more than feelings— such as “being on the same wavelength” or “good
personal contact,” we are left wondering exactly what the authors are talking about. True, the
metaphorical phrase, “being on the same wavelength,” is provocative, but it is in no sense
definitive. And “good personal contact,” which is reminiscent o f Gelso and Hayes’s
“psychological contact” (itself, o f course, a page from Rogers’s book) suggests m ore than it
clarifies. W hile we m ight appreciate the authors’ struggle to point us in the right direction,
they nonetheless do not succeed in securing our arrival.
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In another o f their works, Orlinsky and Howard provide the following attem pt to
define the therapy relationship:
Therapeutic interventions are made in the context o f a relationship between two (or
more) persons. Those persons are linked to one another through their respective
roles as patient and therapist. The roles per se are defined and connected by the
reciprocal rights and obligations implicit or explicit in the therapeutic contract.
(Orlinsky & Howard, 1986, p. 336)
In this description Orlinsky and Howard suggest that the relationship involves a linkage o f
roles. This reflects the role investment com ponent o f their model o f the therapeutic bond.
The authors then go on to qualify this definition by explaining that the two therapy
participants are much more than their respective roles; it would be fair to assume that the
authors also believe the therapy relationship is much more than its roles. Though our social
roles— including those that arise between therapist and client— certainly connect us through
their implicit and explicit obligations, scripts, rituals, and so on, we would hardly assert that
such roles link us in the same way that emotional bonds do. We might w ell imagine
scenarios in which we have no emotional bond toward a person with whom we nonetheless
share complementary and inextricable social roles. The contractual and ritual bonds that
inhere in social roles and the personal bonds that arise between two interacting human
beings seem quite distinct (neither necessitating the other, even if both usually appear side
by side). Indeed, Orlinsky and Howard improve upon B ordin’s work when they argue so
strongly for defining these two types o f bonds under separate concepts, role investment and
the social-emotional bond.
Using yet another metaphor to clarify the therapeutic bond, Orlinsky and Howard
write:
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Our conception o f the therapeutic bond is intended to be analogous to a chemical
bond. Some elements form very strong and stable combinations; others react with
explosive energy; others do little more than prevent each other from occupying the
same space at the same tim e.... In term s such as these, we w ould say that a truly
therapeutic bond between patient and therapist feels solid, resonant, and warm to
them. (Orlinsky & Howard, 1986, p. 336)
This description is more suggestive than definitive, but it does provide helpful hints about
how we might begin to conceive the therapy relationship. Like a chemical bond, it involves a
contact o f sorts, what has been called a “personal” or “psychological” contact. But this we
have already stated, though admittedly it is a m atter worthy o f further exploration. But an
additional allusion within this metaphor has not been mentioned before. Like a chemical
bond, a therapy relationship involves both participants having an impact on one another.
That impact, that coming together o f two people, may lead to stable combinations or
explosive ones, but regardless, it is a happening o f sorts, a meeting that affects each
constituent, and thereby joins them in some manner. Orlinsky and Howard describe this
joining as feeling “solid, resonant, and warm .” These feelings, as we have made clear, need
to be defined and understood. They are certainly inextricably involved in relationships; they
are subjective states that cannot be overlooked, but as such, how do they link us with others?
And underneath these feelings, the contact itself needs to be explored. W hat is this impact
that two people can have upon one another? The impact o f two chemicals upon one another
is physical. Is the therapy bond a physical contact o f sorts? Certainly it contains physical
aspects (feelings themselves, after all, contain physical aspects), but is the emotional bond
entirely a physical connection? We hardly seem to mean this when we speak o f it, for if we
did, the m etaphor o f a chemical bond, would be less a m etaphor and more a graphic model.
Rather, it seems to be some other type o f contact, one that involves one person affecting, or
“touching” another (even if such pairs do not literally, physically make contact). If an
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emotional bond does involve some fashion o f “touching,” what is this strange happening?
These questions we will explore more fully below.
Sexton and W histon
In their review o f the empirical literature, Sexton and W histon offer definitions o f
the therapy relationship that illustrate further troubles encountered by em pirical researchers.
These authors write, “Our operational definition o f the counseling relationship is those
aspects o f the client and counselor and their interaction that contribute to a therapeutic
environment, which in turn may influence client change” (Sexton & W histon, 1994, p. 8).
This definition obscures matters rather than clarifies them, for it embraces much more than
we might normally include in a definition o f the therapy relationship. Indeed, it is difficult
to conceive o f the therapy relationship as any aspect o f the client, the counselor, or their
interaction that might contribute to the therapeutic environment. W ould this mean, for
instance, that the very space in which client and counselor meet, the chairs they sit upon, the
clothes they wear, the light that illuminates them— would all these be “aspects” that
contribute to the therapeutic environment. And what, one well wonders, is a “therapeutic
environment?”
Later, these authors define the real relationship (in G reenson’s sense o f the word) as
“those perceptions and interpretations o f another’s behavior that are appropriate and
realistic, in which the feelings are genuine and the behaviors are congruent” (Sexton &
W histon, 1994, p. 8). Here again important difficulties are raised. Is a relationship the
perception two people have o f one another? It would seem not. Such perceptions though no
doubt involved in relational processes, by no means define them. And similarly, are
behaviors (whether they are congruent or not) what relationships are built from? Yes,
behaviors are certainly involved in relations, but one could see how they do not define such
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relations. Even if one attempts to label these behaviors as “interactions,” would these
constitute a bond? Again, it would seem not, for w e might well interact with others yet have
no personal attachment to them, and it is precisely this personal attachment we mean to
explain.
W hen we speak o f perceptions, behaviors, and interactions— and additionally, when
we speak o f communication, which is a form o f interaction— we face similar problems to
those we faced in speaking o f feelings. Yes, these phenomena seem to be part o f w hat a
relationship is, but they do not constitute either the whole o f the relationship nor its essential
nature. M oreover, when we say that they are a “part” o f the relationship, we seem to really
mean that they are either caused by, and thus indicative of, the relationship (I interact with
you a certain way, for example, because I feel connected to you) or that they facilitate it
(Your behavior draws me toward you). W e hardly mean, however, that these phenom ena—
taken separately or as an integrated whole— are the same as the relationship. Indeed, it seems
that it is the relationship which explains how these phenomena— feelings, perceptions,
behaviors, and communications— are integrated, not these phenomena which explain the
relationship. We demonstrate this point when we say such things as this: “I feel close to you
when you are kind to m e” or “ ...when you give me your attention,” or “ .. .when you
understand what I am feeling.” Certainly such actions as being kind, displaying attention,
and being understanding all indicate a good relationship, but in themselves, or even taken
together, they do not constitute the relationship. In a word, the relationship is something
more.
Bowlbv
One avenue many relationship theorists have pursued in conceptualizing the therapy
relationship is that o f Bowlby’s attachment theory. At first, this m ight appear to be a
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promising course for defining the therapy relationship, but if one probes Bow lby’s work and
the work o f such prom inent attachment theorists as Ainsworth, one does not find definitions
with any greater explanatory power than the ones we have already reviewed. If we conceive
o f the relationship as attachment, we must quite naturally pursue a definition o f attachment,
and neither Bowlby nor Ainsworth have provided this. Rather, attachment has been
operationalized in terms o f a range o f behaviors. Ainsworth’s taxonomy, for instance,
categorizes infants according to three attachment styles: secure, avoidant, and anxious-
ambivalent. These styles, o f course, are carefully delimited in terms o f the types o f behavior
they include, but such operationalizations o f varying styles o f attachment do not constitute a
definition o f the infant-caregiver relationship. O f course, for the purposes o f scientific
measurement and observation, we may well w ant to limit the term attachment to its reference
to behaviors, but if this is the case, we have removed from the term attachment the
associated meanings o f closeness and intimacy, the very bonding elements that w e were
hoping to define by means o f attachment theory. As Carter explains,
Given the focus o f the attachment literature on intimacy and closeness, it is striking
that it pays little attention to what this “closeness” is. We are left with no idea how it
is to be defined, how various people experience it, or what about the experience
m akes some people anxious and not others. Instead, the focus is on the behavior
patterns for managing this closeness. The is not surprising when the behavioral
origins o f attachment theory are considered. (Carter, 2000, p. 11)
Attachment theory, then, offers us little aid in our aim to define the therapy relationship
beyond operational behaviors.
Barrett-Lennard
Barrett-Lennard, a contemporary person-centered theorist and a disciple o f Rogers,
has provided a com plex definition o f the therapy relationship, one that has received praise
from the likes o f Gelso and Hayes (1998) and Horvath and Luborsky (1993). It is well worth
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quoting Barrett-Lennard to do justice to the many layers and intricacies he attempts to
integrate in his conceptualization. He writes:
One may think o f a relationship as being centered on the qualities and contents o f
experiencing o f the two participant individuals with, and toward, one another. This
covers a lot o f territory but it does not fully encompass the ways in which the
participants communicate with each other, the messages that are passed back and
forth, the moment-by-moment or generalized image that A has o f B ’s awareness o f
A, or o f B ’s feeling toward A, and likewise in respect to B ’s image o f A ’s
interperceptions. N either o f these levels fully encompasses “a relationship” as an
emergent entity that develops a life and character o f its own, existing in intimate
interdependence with the single-person components, a “w e” in the consciousness o f
m ember persons and a distinctive “you” or “they,” or the like, as seen from the
outside. Any o f these levels o f relationship can be viewed in terms o f what is present
or typical at a given time in the life o f the relationship, or from a developmental
standpoint; and interest may center on the interior process o f the relationship or on
the ways the relationship system maintains itself or is altered under the influence o f
external forces. (Barrett-Lennard, 1985, p. 282)
Many ideas are compressed into this definition o f the therapy relationship. These ideas are
neither explored nor explicated by Barrett-Lennard or other theorists, but they are well worth
a careful examination. This will serve as an excellent transition into our own preliminary
task o f outlining the types o f phenomena that appear crucial to defining the therapy
relationship.
One striking ingredient in Barrett-Lennard’s conceptualization is the use o f the term
“experiencing” in the first sentence. This is followed later by such term s as “aw areness” and
“consciousness.” Taken together, these term s suggest a new element in coming to
understand the therapy relationship, one that has been alluded to when researchers have
suggested the importance o f a client’s “perception” o f the therapist, but that nonetheless
seems to be more than mere perception. The term, perception, when used in the relationship
research, is often metaphorically intended to denote a participant’s beliefs or interpretations
regarding another person. (It is used, for example, to speak o f a client’s perceptions o f—that
is beliefs about or interpretations of—the therapist-offered relationship variables.)
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Experiencing, awareness, and consciousness, however, imply more than mere belief or
interpretation. They denote a subjective attention to the flow o f lived-through moments,
which may indeed include perceptions (that is, beliefs and interpretations), but which also
includes other “internal” elements (feelings and attitudes, for instance) and many “external”
elements (our sense experiences o f the physical objects around us, for example). W hen
researchers have implied the idea o f experiencing per se— as do Sexton and W histon when
they mention perception and Gelso and Hayes when they mention feelings and attitudes—
they have not focused explicitly on the aspect o f experiencing itself. We will want to do this.
For the sake o f clarity, let me note that I will use several terms interchangeably when
referring to this concept; these will include the following terms: consciousness, awareness,
experience, and— when we arrive at Husserl’s work— cognition and intuition.
In addition to introducing the activity o f consciousness, Barrett-Lennard makes use
o f a subtle preposition that is worth examining. In the first sentence o f his conceptualization,
he refers to participants experiencing “with, and toward, one another.” W hat is m eant by
participants having experiences toward one another I am not sure. Perhaps this is clarified by
substituting the word awareness, giving us “awareness tow ard” another, which I would
presume the author means as synonymous with one’s “experience of” another. But our
special interest should not be piqued so much by the prepositions “toward” or “of,” but
rather by the preposition “w ith.” To say that two individuals can have experiences “w ith”
one another (rather than merely “o f ’ one another) is to perhaps suggest a special
relationship. “W ith” implies a certain sharing that neither “o f ’ nor “toward” imply, and that
sharing invokes a second consciousness. That is, though I can have an experience o f a rock
(or any other physical object), it would be rather odd to state that I have an experience with a
rock, unless o f course, I mean that I have a certain expertise in working with this rock in
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some way. But when we speak o f experiences with people, and similarly when we speak o f
relationships with them, we seem to mean something more than an expertise. That something
more presupposes a consciousness inhering within me and within the other, and it seems
reminiscent o f Orlinsky and How ard’s phrase “being on the same wavelength.” We will
want to explore and explain the nature o f this w ithness.
Another prominent aspect o f Barrett-Lennard’s definition is his description o f “the
generalized image that A has o f B ’s awareness o f A ...and likewise in respect to B ’s image
o f A's interpreceptions.” W hat the term “interperception” means— perhaps the perception o f
interrelation— is unclear. But Barrett-Lennard introduces a very important concept—
consciousness o f consciousness. In relationships, not only are we aware o f the other, we are
also— at least to a certain degree— aware o f the other’s awareness o f us. This awareness o f
awareness is not ancillary, it is not a mere by-product o f awareness. Rather it seems central
to the relationship itself, and this is illustrated by the concept o f empathy, which has long
been considered crucial to therapy relationships. Empathy denotes one person’s awareness o f
another’s awareness— the experiencing o f another’s experiencing. O f course, in
relationships, empathy can occur within both participants, and thus a mutual awareness can
occur. Just as a therapist may empathize with her client, so too may a client em pathize with
his therapist. This phenomenon o f awareness o f awareness, which can lead to mutual
awareness, seems to be a crucial ingredient within some relationships, one that seems to
enhance “psychological connection,” and thus should be explored.
A final idea offered by Barrett-Lennard is his depiction o f the relationship as “an
emergent entity that develops a life and character o f its own.” Here, the main point seems to
be that though the relationship is composed o f two participants, it is something more than
these two individuals taken separately. Participants “inside” the relationship witness its “we-
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ness,” and those “outside” witness the “they-ness.” Gelso and Hayes com m ent on this,
explaining:
Among other things, what Barrett-Lennard reminds us is that when considering what
constitutes the psychotherapy relationship, the “we” o f the relationship must be
taken into account, as well as the two separate “I’s,” or the two individuals. Thus, a
third force is present in a relationship, and it transcends or at least is different from
the individuals who are involved. (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 7)
In attending to this “third force” that transcends a relationship’s participants, Barrett-
Lennard and Gelso and Hayes are emphasizing a point that is parallel to an idea introduced
above regarding feelings, perceptions, behaviors, and communications. These phenomena,
though certainly involved in the relationship in significant ways, do not in them selves
represent the wholeness o f the relationship. As argued by Friedman— a theorist similar to
Barrett-Lennard in his Rogerian leanings: “a relation with another cannot be reduced to what
goes on within each o f the two persons” (Friedman, 1985, p. 159). Rather, the relationship
seems to be something more, a transcendent phenomena that influences feelings,
perceptions, behaviors, and communications and is in turn influenced by them, but which, in
the final analysis, cannot be reduced to these elements.
A Preliminary Attempt to Define the Therapy Relationship
Now that I have analyzed several definitions o f the therapy relationship, let me
distinguish those phenomena that stand out as most fundamental to my project o f describing
the nature o f therapy relationship. Let me begin by saying that I have purposely used the
term “therapy relationship” rather than “therapeutic relationship.” Though this second term
is commonly used by relationship scholars, it focuses too narrowly on the healing aspects o f
relationships. Clearly, what is healing about the therapy relationship is an important aspect
o f its study and one that researchers have rightly pursued with vigor. But it is nonetheless not
necessarily central to defining the relationship between client and counselor, and the quest to
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define the relationship between client and counselor is the central concern o f the present
study. Indeed, it is the assumption o f the present study that researchers will not truly identify
and understand what is therapeutic about the therapy relationship, until they have developed
at least a rudimentary definition o f what that relationship is.
W hat then are the phenomena m ost fundamental to the therapy relationship. In
addressing this question, we should not assume that the therapy relationship is m arkedly
different— at a fundamental level— from other personal relations. True, the therapy
relationship has been characterized as a “working alliance” o f sorts, and certainly the roles o f
therapist and client— as Orlinsky and Howard wisely suggest— have their impact on the
character o f this relationship. But we have also realized that much o f what constitutes the
working alliance between client and counselor is more than mere alliance or agreement; it
involves some form o f emotional bond. Indeed, in its earliest formulation by Greenson, the
working alliance was not strictly detached from the real relationship, and the real
relationship refers to the personal relation that m ight exist between any two people.
Additionally, the roles o f therapist and client do not in themselves fully explain the therapy
relationship, as even Orlinsky and Howard make very clear. Thus, there might be great
benefit in casting the investigative net somewhat wider, and taking personal relations in
general as the object o f study. We may actually find that the therapy relationship is sim ilar to
other personal relations in more ways than it is dissimilar.
Bare Relations: Identity. Terms, and “Betweenness”
Let me now address the question o f what phenom ena are m ost fundamental to
personal relations. One such phenomenon is that o f relations themselves, for certainly all
personal relations are, in some way or another, types o f relations. W hat, however, are
relations? (I will refer to relations proper as “bare” relations.) This is no easy question to
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answer. Some philosophical traditions— m ost notably the very one we have spent
considerable time examining, traditional empiricism— have asserted that all relations are
illusory. But if we were to assume, at least for the moment, that relations indeed exist (and
thus were to grant them a preliminary home within our ontology), what would we say o f
them? We would have to say, at the very minimum, that bare relations necessarily involve
two or more terms. Immediately, one might object that only one term should be needed for
some relations, those in which a term is related to itself. This would hold for relations o f
identity, which we discussed above. There does seem to be truth to the idea that some
relations need only one term. But even in such relations, there seems equal merit to the idea
that a comparison is being drawn between a term and itself, and this in some fashion splits
this single term into two, whether that be a temporal split (the term at tim e A being
compared with the very same term at time B) or one o f perspective (the term as viewed from
this angle being compared to the very same term as viewed from that angle). But in splitting
terms in this way, we have highlighted what Hume found so troubling about relations o f
identity: if a term at time A is different than the supposed same term at time B (even if that
difference is only in regard to time), then do these terms in actuality have any sameness or
identity about them? Hume concluded that they do not; James, that they do. In any case, this
special relation o f sameness, or identity, is apparently one very much worthy o f our special
attention at some point in our inquiry. W ithout it, our ontology can only adm it differences as
being truly existent, yet such an ontology contradicts our most m undane experiences, in
which sameness seems so apparent. We need, then, an account o f identity.
But let us return to our contention that bare relations demand at least two term s o f
comparison. Relations are linkages between terms. In the relation o f love, one participant
loves another, and is thereby linked to that other. In the relation o f “being next to,” object A
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“is next to” object B, and is thereby linked to it. But this supposed linkage grants us a
“betweenness” that is philosophically troubling. Issues soon arise as to how one might
determine where this betweenness resides. Leibniz— being the first in m odem philosophy to
raise these issues— was quick to note this. W hen he tried to determine the location o f the
relation that links two terms, he realized— as paraphrased by Sprigge (1995)— that “it cannot
just be in one o f them, for it would not then link them, nor can it be in some kind o f void
between them ” (p. 756). This parallels the difficulty we noted above in reviewing Barrett-
Lennard’s definition o f the relationship. Relations, by their very capacity to link terms, seem
to be something transcendent to these terms. But what is the nature o f this transcendent
phenomenon? Does it itself somehow affect or even cause its terms, is it determined by its
terms, or is their a reciprocity o f causal influence?
Even at this most preliminary stage o f our inquiry, w e have raised philosophical
difficulties that will linger into later discussions. W hat is the nature o f a bare relation? Is it a
“betweenness” with certain causal capacities, or merely the effect o f its constituent elements,
or both. Where do relations reside? Are they physical entities of some sort, for some
relations can clearly can be described as m easurable and sense perceptible, at least to a
certain degree. For example, the relation between two coins on a desk can be described in
terms o f inches, such that we may find the penny on the right is five inches away from the
penny on the left. The pennies may be said to have the relationship o f being five inches
apart, and no doubt we can sense perceive and measure these five inches. But are all
relations like this? It would seem not, for there is a large class o f relations, logical relations
for example, that are in no way measurable or sense-perceptible, yet if one were to deny
these relations, one would have to deny the very foundation o f any system o f thought, in so
far as a system o f thought m ust to some extent hold logical relations. Relations, then, present
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important philosophical difficulties that our descriptions o f personal relations will need to
address.
Personal Relations
Let me step beyond the very rudim entary question o f what constitutes a relation and
move into a brief examination o f personal relations. W hat are the qualities that distinguish
personal relations from all other kinds o f relations? At least three qualities stand out that
seem unquestionably significant. These derive from our above consideration o f previous
definitions, and they include consciousness, feelings (and other subjective states), and the
awareness o f awareness.
Consciousness
First, personal relations not only involve two terms— or participants, as one is more
likely to call them— but each o f these has the capacity for consciousness. That is, unlike tw o
pennies positioned side by side which have no awareness o f one another (though they may
indeed hold the relation o f being five inches apart), two similarly situated people can be
quite aware o f one another. Consciousness, as I mean the term here, is synonymous with
experience and awareness, 16 and it is distinguished within philosophy by its intentionality.
The word “intentionality” derives from the Latin root, “intentio,” which means “reaching or
stretching toward.” Intentionality is the quality o f consciousness that it reaches toward or is
directed at something. That is, it is always “o f ’ or “about” something. Rogers seemed to
imply this quality o f intentionality when he spoke o f the “psychological contact” between
client and counselor. He described the client and therapist making “some perceived
The psychiatrist and neurophysicologist Hobson writes: “A simple definition o f consciousness is awareness:
awareness o f the world, the body, the s e lf’ (Hobson, 1999, p. 2).
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difference in the experiential field o f the other” (Rogers, 1957, p. 96). Personal relations thus
involve both participants having the capacity to direct consciousness upon one another. For
example, we would not consider my relation with a penny to be a personal one, and this is
largely due to the fact that though I can be conscious o f the penny, it cannot (so far as we
know) be conscious o f me. Indeed, when we think o f personal relations, we assume that
consciousness is present, for we would hardly assert there to exist a personal relation
between two sleepwalkers (at least, not in the present moment), or even between one awake
person and another sleepwalker.
To provide an adequate understanding o f personal relations, then, we must also
provide an understanding o f intentionality. Indeed, intentionality will turn out to be a
concept that provides rich material o f philosophical and psychological concern, for not only
is it important to this inquiry as an essential object o f study, but it will prove fundamental as
our means (or method) o f study.
Feelings (and Other Subjective States)
Second, personal relations involve feelings and other subjective states. Very few
relationship researchers have failed to include feelings as an important com ponent o f the
therapy relationship. Rogers, for example, speaks o f unconditional positive regard (or
warmth). Gelso and Hayes speak o f the feelings and attitudes that client and therapist hold
toward one another. M armar and Gaston speak o f the patient’s affective outlook upon the
therapist. Orlinsky and Howard speak o f comfortableness, trust, affirmation, acceptance,
good will, respect, and care. Scholars outside the domain o f relationship research have also
noted the importance o f feelings. Frank and Frank (1991), for example, describe healing
relationships as “emotionally charged.”
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Subjective states other than feelings are also implicated in theories o f the therapy
relationship. Sexton and W histon, for example, mention the “perceptions and interpretations
o f another’s behavior” (1994, p. 8). Perceptions and interpretations are, o f course, subjective
states. Furthermore, personal relations certainly involve participants’ beliefs, desires,
thoughts, and needs, and these are all subjective states. It is often difficult to identify certain
types o f emotions, such as trust or respect, as merely a single type o f subjective state. Rather,
they seem to be complex amalgamations o f thoughts, feelings, perceptions, beliefs, and
more. Furthermore, personal relations also involve behaviors and communications, and these
are often most notable for the subjective states they signify.
Subjective states involve two notable characteristics. One, they involve
intentionality. For example, I may like you, trust you, or care about you. Liking, trusting,
and caring, whatever else they might contain (and this may be much), m ust at least contain
an entity onto which my liking, trusting, or caring is directed. This directedness is
intentionality. Two, these subjective states and their intentionality have the following special
quality in regards to personal relations: the person we like, trust, or care for is unique and
irreplaceable. In relations that are not personal, such as my relation to a penny, the object is
replaceable. For example, if I see a penny in my hand, it is o f little m atter to me if you
replace that penny with a new one. One m ight object that some pennies might hold
sentimental value for me, and thus become irreplaceable. This is very true, and there is
something about the penny’s sentimental value that is very similar to the sentimental value
we can hold towards others whom we care. When an object or a person become valued to us
in this way, their uniqueness becomes essential to our valuing. If I trust you or if I care about
you, for example, I could not replace you and have a new person mean the very same to me.
For the sake o f clarity, let me call this type o f valuing, “mattering” (in the sense that a
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certain person can “m atter” to us). In mattering, there is a uniqueness about you that non-
sentimental objects do not have. ^ 7
Mutual Awareness
A third unique aspect o f a personal relation is mutual awareness. By mutual
awareness I mean the ability o f participants to be conscious o f each other’s consciousness.
Barrett-Lennard identified this ability in his definition o f the therapy relationship. It includes
not only the awareness that the other is aware o f me, but also an awareness o f the subjective
states through which the other’s awareness occurs. That is to say, I can discern whether I am
liked or disliked, trusted or distrusted, and so on. (True, I can be incorrect in such judgm ents,
but it seems equally true that I can sometimes be correct.) Here again, part o f my feelings
toward the other include that I care about the other’s awareness o f me. If the other likes me,
for example, or is angry with me, not only am I aware o f these subjective states (and how
they color the other’s experience o f me), but I have reactions to these states. Also, the
“mattering” we spoke o f above seems to be in effect. I not only care that you like me or that
you are angry with me, but it matters to me that you, and not another, likes me or is angry.
Interhuman relations that lack mutual consciousness would hardly be taken as
personal relations at all. Where I am conscious o f you, for instance, but you were oblivious
to me (even if you might be quite capable o f intentionality), then we would hardly be said to
be in a personal relation. In personal relations, w e care about the other’s intentionality, and
we can ascertain if the other is paying attention to us or not. In fact, it is perhaps this quality
o f mutual awareness that is invoked when researchers describe a relationship as
“m eaningful” as opposed to superficial. Asay and Lambert, for example, explain that in their
Here, I rely heavily on Brook (1973).
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research “the patients who had successful outcomes appeared more willing and able to have
a meaningful relationship with the therapist” (Asay & Lambert, 1999, p. 32). Certainly what
determines the meaningfulness o f personal relations includes not only the subjective states
we hold toward another, but also our own awareness and valuing o f each other’s subjective
states.
M utual awareness is also invoked when relationship researchers note— in their
theories and their findings— that the therapy relationship is facilitated not merely by the
therapists offered conditions (such as Rogers’s triad o f empathy, warmth, and genuineness),
but by the client’s awareness o f these conditions (Horvath & Luborsky, 1993; Horvath &
Symonds, 1991; Lambert & Bergin, 1994; Sexton & W histon, 1994). Empathy provides a
good example o f this. Certainly empathy is a subjective state toward another, a type o f
awareness o f their awarenesses. That a therapist may feel and express em pathy does not in
itself imply an emotional bond with the client, for the client may be inattentive to this
feeling. But the client’s recognition o f the therapist empathy does imply a bond, a certain
psychological connection.
Indeed, it may very well be mutual awareness that bestows upon personal relations
the notable quality that they consist o f more than the participants’ subjective states toward
one another. Boszormenyi-Nagi, for example, speaks o f relationships as “more than the sum
total o f two persons' subjective experiences" (as quoted in Friedman, 1985, p. 107). M utual
awareness, then, may be central to what Gelso and Hayes describe as the “third force [that]
is present in a relationship, and [that] transcends or at least is different from the individuals
who are involved” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 7).
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Summary
I have now explored several definitions o f the therapy relationship and have culled
from these four central aspects that should be accounted for in any adequate definition.
These include bare relations, consciousness, feelings (and other subjective states), and
mutual awareness. Let me note that current research on the therapeutic relationship has not
explained or conceptualized any o f these four phenomena. It has no account o f what bare
relations are; it has no account o f what consciousness is; it lacks any account o f what
feelings and other subjective states are; and it has not explained mutual awareness.
Furthermore, these four aspects o f relationships stand outside the purview o f traditional
empiricism. This is because they are not necessarily measurable or sense perceptible
phenomena. For example, I cannot see, smell, touch, hear, or taste another consciousness.
But am I thusly unaware o f that consciousness? It would appear that to investigate and
understand these fundamental phenomena, we need a new methodology, one which will
provide an ontology and epistemology o f nonsensate entities.
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CHAPTER 5
A NEW APPROACH
A Review o f W hat Is Needed
Current empirical research, as I reviewed in Chapter 2, has operationalized the
therapy relationship and has produced many findings about its correlation with therapeutic
variables, the most prominent being outcome. But this research has failed to provide a
convincing definition o f the relationship. This failure is due to fundamental philosophical
assumptions inherent within current scientific methodologies. In Chapter 3 we examined
these assumptions and traced their roots in traditional empiricism, especially as expressed in
the work o f Hume. These assumptions include the following: the reduction o f experience to
sense experience, the reduction o f sense experience to isolated perceptions, the refusal to
admit the existence o f relations, and finally, the reduction o f isolated perceptions to
mathematically characterizable qualities. These assumptions have led scientists to develop a
panoply o f psychometric instruments for measuring the therapy relationship while ignoring
the project o f defining that relationship. Relying so heavily on the tools o f measurement,
theorists have tended to reduce the therapy relationship to its collaborative and task oriented
components, these being the most suitable to operationalization. Current researchers have
nonetheless made incipient attempts to define the relationship, and in Chapter 4 we
examined these, identifying their weaknesses and strengths. From these, we identified four
aspects o f the therapy relationship that seem essential to its nature as a personal relation.
These included bare relations, consciousness, feelings (and other subjective states), and
mutual awareness. In the present chapter, we will explore a new m ethodology that will
facilitate scientists’ attempts to define and understand these four phenomena.
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Choosing a N ew Methodology
Researchers who work within the context o f the methodological pluralism o f
postpositivist science cannot assume the validity o f their particular tools for inquiry.
They need to begin their work at a deeper level where the assumptions and
relationships o f the systems o f inquiry themselves are examined. This deeper level
provides a much broader range o f choice in the use o f particular methods and
designs, but it also places a responsibility on researchers to understand and explain
the assumptions they have incorporated into their approaches. (Polkinghom e, 1983,
p. 9)
If traditional empiricism has led researchers astray in their endeavors to
conceptualize the therapy relationship and has encouraged these researchers to offer
explanations that do not explain and definitions that do not define, what can be done to
correct this situation? W hat can be done is to adopt a methodology that will allow us to study
the very things that traditional empiricism has turned our attention away from. Such a
methodology would need to be multifaceted, not only providing a means o f investigating the
therapy relationship (with its many aspects), but also providing a means o f examining and
securing the very methodology it employs in the course o f that examination. Traditional
empiricism has failed to accomplish either o f these tasks.
Foundational Concerns
Examining Traditional Empiricism
As a first step, if we are to start our investigation afresh without making unwarranted
assumptions, as are made by traditional empiricism, then our new methodology m ust allow
us to confirm our criticisms o f traditional empiricism. That is, we need a reliable way o f
closely examining the assumptions o f traditional empiricism to verify that they are
unjustified. Is it perhaps the case, for example, that all experience includes only that which is
sense perceptible and measurable? We must address this question on rigorous grounds. But
our inquiry must not stop there. Regardless o f what we find to be contained within
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experience, if our study is to be philosophically thorough, it must get “to the bottom o f
things,” and must strike at the heart o f experience itself and question the very assumption
that experience— whatever it proves to contain— is a proper or even possible foundation for
knowledge.
Consciousness
To question the very assumption that experience is a proper foundation for
knowledge, we must develop a comprehensive understanding o f what constitutes experience
and what kinds o f knowledge claims such experience can grant us. Experience, as I am using
the term here, includes any type o f consciousness o f the world, and thus any com prehensive
understanding o f what constitutes experience will necessarily provide an understanding o f
what constitutes consciousness. It is the very nature o f consciousness, then, that will take
center stage in our initial examination o f traditional empiricism, which is the first stage o f
our inquiry regarding the therapy relationship.
But I need to provide an analysis o f consciousness not only because I desire to
question traditional empiricism and offer up a new methodology. I also need an
understanding o f consciousness because o f the central function it plays in the therapy
relationship, for the therapy relationship is, as I have discussed, a personal relation between
two conscious entities, and thus, consciousness is fundamental to it. M y new methodology,
then, must not only defend consciousness (that is, experience) as a source o f knowledge, but
it must also— in an reflective approach— utilize consciousness in a way that will allow me to
study the very nature o f consciousness itself, especially as it is m anifested in personal
relations. I want to comprehend the capacities and limits o f consciousness and understand
how consciousness shapes the therapy relationship and how (or even if!) two
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consciousnesses can be aware o f one another. In other words, the object o f our study,
consciousness, will also be the means by which we conduct our study.
M atters That Are Neither Sense Perceptible N or M easurable
Finally, once we have the above m atters under our philosophical belt, we will need
to study the components o f the therapeutic relationship— in addition to consciousness— that
we enumerated in Chapter 4, our brief but nonetheless informative prelim inary study. These
components include “bare” relations, feelings, and awareness o f awareness.
At this point, it is well worth remarking that the methodology w e establish m ust be
able to account for entities (or phenomena) that are neither sense perceptible nor measurable.
Take for instance our initial concern about the claim that experience is (or is not) limitable to
the sense perceptible or the measurable. This very claim is not one that is sense perceptible.
That is, we cannot touch it, hear it, see it, and so on. It implies another way o f knowing. The
same holds for our inquiry into consciousness, which we also cannot touch, hear, see, and so
on (though some may challenge this, a challenge which we will take up presently). And the
same holds for our inquiry into “bare” relations, feelings, and awareness o f the other. All o f
these are not sense-perceptible entities. Our methodology, then, must be able to provide us
with a means o f studying that which is neither sense-perceptible nor measurable. Indeed, if it
fails to do this, we are left ju st where we began: with a methodology that cannot produce
definitions, for definitions are not sense-perceptible and measurable, that is, “touchable” and
“tastable” definitions are hard to come by.
Husserl’s Epistemological Journey
A method which promises to accomplish all o f the demanding tasks we have
established is phenomenology. N ot only will phenomenology allow us to examine the tenets
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o f traditional empiricism, but it will provide the foundation for a “radical” empiricism that
will set us on our way in examining consciousness and the other aspects o f the therapy
relationship that our initial study deemed worthy o f investigation. Phenomenology has had
many famous adherents during the 20th century, especially within continental philosophy.
These have included such luminaries as M artin Heidegger, Jean-Paul Sartre, M aurice
M erleau-Ponty, Emmanuel Levinas, and Paul Ricoeur. These men have generally followed
the path o f hermeneutical or existential phenomenology, though each has pursued
idiosyncratic philosophical interests which have shaped his rendering o f phenomenological
doctrine. In this study, I argue for a return to the roots o f phenomenology, and for the
examination (and eventual adoption) o f H usserl’s transcendental phenomenology.
I have chosen Husserl’s transcendental phenomenology over other similar
philosophies for several reasons. The overarching reason is that only H usserl’s approach to
phenomenology, as compared to the alternatives o f hermeneutical and existential
phenomenology, addresses all the concerns we have heretofore identified. Indeed, H usserl’s
phenomenology was in many cases developed expressly to address these philosophical
concerns. At its very core, it examines the assumptions o f traditional empiricism, and it
provides the most complete (and, I will argue, accurate) analysis o f consciousness to date. It
also provides a sound, consistent, and non self-contradicting methodology for describing that
which is not measurable and not sense-perceptible.
Even m ore important, however, is that Husserl’s phenomenology was developed as a
means o f providing a foundation for knowledge. Husserl, unlike hermeneutical and
existential phenomenologists, wanted to secure a presuppositionless base that would provide
certain knowledge. He was not interested in contextual truths but absolute ones. And his
theory begins with strong arguments against a foundationless knowledge. To both a m odem
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and postmodern audience, this proclamation, this attempt to establish realism, may seem
overly ambitious if not absurd and doomed. But it is the hope o f the present study that we
might indeed gain certain knowledge about what a therapy relationship is. For this to be
possible, the more primary possibility o f knowledge m ust be granted, else all is lost, and if
all is lost, then all that can be forwarded are “bottomless” theories— theories, that is, with no
means o f support.
The Scientific Spirit o f Husserl’s Phenomenological M ethod
Another important consideration I have taken into account in adopting H usserl’s
phenomenological method is that this method can be used to supplant traditional empiricism.
Traditional empiricism, having been the touchstone o f psychological research for alm ost a
century, is an immense monolith to challenge, and it has prospered largely owing to
widespread acceptance o f its assumptions as the foundation o f any true and proper science.
Husserl’s phenomenology strikes at the heart o f these assumptions, not in the attem pt to
upend science (as has been the aim o f many m odem and postmodern philosophers), but
rather in an attempt to overturn a form o f skepticism that he believed was bom from science
as traditionally conceived, but that in the end served to overturn science. Husserl viewed
phenomenology as a foundation upon which a true science could be built. He wanted to
build that science by radicalizing the traditional empiricism that had been so unquestioningly
accepted. Indeed, it was Husserl’s deep affection for science (and the m athematics that
underlie it) that motivated him to question its very roots. In his famous Encyclopaedia
Britannica article on phenomenology, Husserl explains that phenomenology is “a science
which is intended to supply the basic instrument (Organon) for a rigorously scientific
philosophy and, in its consequent application, to make possible a methodical reform o f all
the sciences” (Husserl, 1973b, p. 48). Husserl phenomenology— this new “Organon” put
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forward much as Aristotle had put forward a seminal theory o f logic and Francis Bacon a
new theory o f experimental science— was to provide an understanding o f how science could
provide knowledge. He wanted to establish certainty where many before him (and after) had
offered skepticism and relativism.
Husserl’s Attack Upon Skepticism
Husserl was, by his own admission, obsessed with the need for certainty and clarity,
a need that skepticism declares impossible to fulfill. By skepticism, I m ean doubt o f the most
radical kind: the doubt that knowledge, and thus certainty, can ever be achieved. W illiams
offers this definition: “By ‘radical scepticism ’ I mean the thesis that one is never justified in
believing anything at all” (W illiams, 1999, p. 4). Such a radical skepticism can be broadly
applied or focused upon a specific domain o f knowledge. Williams explains, “ [W]e can also
talk about radical scepticism about such and such— say, other minds, or the external world.
Then we have more limited theses to the effect that one is never justified in believing
anything about the minds o f others or the external world or whatever” (W illiams, 1999, p. 4).
Husserl was very troubled by radical skepticism, especially as broadly applied. This
quote from his diary gives a penetrating understanding o f the motivation that urged him on
as he developed his transcendental phenomenology: “I have been through enough torm ents
from lack o f clarity and from doubt that wavers back and forth.... Only one need absorbs
me: I must win clarity, else I cannot live; I cannot bear life unless I can believe that I shall
achieve it” (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 5). Phenomenology, then, was intended to provide
clarity, and with it a certainty that would rise above radical skepticism.
It was this need for clarity that caused Husserl to first become a philosopher, for he
was a mathematician by training, having received his doctorate in m athem atics from the
University o f Vienna. As a mathematician, he became concerned about how m athem atics
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could claim what it claimed, and how m athematicians knew what they knew. On the one
hand, mathematics was considered to be the most secure domain o f knowledge; on the other,
how could this be so when it was so abstract a science. How, he wondered, did the theory o f
numbers relate to the real world o f numbers? Was there even such a thing as a real world o f
numbers? This concern led Husserl to question the very notion o f science and knowledge
(whether that science and knowledge be o f mathematics or o f any other domain), and once
Husserl began demanding clarity and certainty in this area, it was not long before he was led
to his theory o f phenomenology. Velarde-M ayol writes, “Husserl's first interest in
phenomenology was as a method o f establishing a foundation for the most abstract sciences,
viz., m athematics and logic. Later, his phenomenological interest shifted into the subjective
life o f cognition and its correlative objects" (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 15).
Transcendental phenomenology, then, was Husserl’s means o f fending o ff
skepticism and achieving certainty. But recent philosophy, in all its postmodern renditions,
might be characterized as having an affinity with uncertainty, indeterminism, and relativism
(or contextualism). It has held in disdain any notion that there can be certainty or absolute
clarity. Take, for example, this summary o f postpositivism:
W ittenstein's later work (and W inch's interpretation o f it for social science), W horf s
hypothesis, and Gadamer's [and H eidegger’s] hermeneutics all propose that
apodictic [that is, certain] knowledge is impossible, because human beings cannot
stand outside their language systems and cultures and obtain an absolute viewpoint.
All o f our knowledge is conditional knowledge, constructed within our conceptual
systems, and thus knowledge is a communal achievement and is relative to time and
place. One need not retreat to a complete relativism, however.... Between the
extremes o f absolute certainty (with no relativity) and absolute uncertainty,
statements o f knowledge can be judged against each other, and some o f them can be
accepted and used as the base for action while others can be rejected. (Polkinghome,
1983, p . 13)
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Given this affinity, in postpositivistic com ers, for indeterminancy and contextualism, what
would explain Husserl’s attempt to achieve certainty? Was he merely a misdirected idealist,
as many postpositivists have supposed?
Skepticism: “The W heel” o f Epistemology
To understand Husserl’s concern for clarity and his desire to overcome skepticism, it
is most helpful to explore and untangle— even if briefly— the most basic issues o f
epistemology. Skepticism is, after all, an epistemological stance, as are both positivism and
postpositivism. That is to say, all o f these are theories o f knowledge. In his brief treatise, The
Problem o f the Criterion, Roderick M. Chisholm (1973) succinctly set forward the basic
problems o f epistemology. The most basic issue is this: what is true and how do we come to
know this truth. When one faces this issue, commented Chisholm, one cannot help but
realize “how unappealing, in the end, each o f the possible solutions is” (1973, p. 1). W hat
are the possible solutions to this epistemological challenge? Chisholm identified three, o f
which skepticism is one. The other two he labels “particularism” and “m ethodism.” To
explicate exactly what these positions entail, and why each is unsatisfactory in some way or
another, Chisholm examined two philosophical questions that epistemology attem pts to
answer, questions A and B. Question A is “W hat do we know?” and Question B is “How
are we to decide whether we know?”— that is, “W hat are the criteria o f knowledge?”
(Chisholm, 1973, p. 12). These two questions give us what Chisholm described as the
problem o f “the wheel” or “the vicious circle.” (1973, p. 2). Summarizing M ontaigne— who
addressed the issue o f the wheel in his Essays— Chisholm wrote:
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To know whether things really are as they seem to be, we must have a procedure for
distinguishing appearances that are true from appearances that are false. But to know
whether our procedure is a good procedure, we have to know w hether it really
succeeds in distinguishing appearances that are true from appearances that are false.
And we cannot know whether it does really succeed unless we already know which
appearances are true and which ones are false. (1973, p. 3)
The problem o f the wheel, then, is that questions A and B our inextricably linked.
Any answer to question A (“W hat do we know?”) presumes an answer to question B (By
what criteria did we decide this?); and any answer to question B (“How are we to decide
whether we know?”), requires and answer to question A (“What do we know?”). In other
words, a response to Question A, begs question B, and vice versa. The fact that both
questions beg one another is precisely what is unappealing about any epistem ological system
that m ight be forwarded.
Given the conundrum o f the wheel, one senses why skepticism is so alluring, for it
asserts: given that any epistemology must answer Questions A and B, and that Questions A
and B cannot be answered separately (but rather each depends on the other), then knowledge
is impossible to attain. We cannot justify any o f our beliefs. Because we cannot get our
epistemological system “o ff the ground,” so to speak, skepticism asserts that we can never
be certain o f anything. Knowledge is futile. But this is a troubling statement for two related
reasons. First, skeptics, as noted by Chisholm, are philosophers “who claim ... to know a lot
less that what in fact they do know” (Chisholm, 1973, p. 4). As W illiams writes, “The
important point to bear in mind is that radically sceptical theses are stated in term s o f
justified b elief...” (W illiams, 1999, p. 6). In other words, there are some things that we do,
in fact, seem to know. From a common sense perspective, for example, I seem to know that I
exist. Husserl makes a similar argument, one that follows Descartes line o f reasoning, except
that H usserl’s argument is that we know consciousness exists for the simple reason that we
are conscious o f our consciousness— that is, we know at the very least that we are conscious
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even if we remain skeptical o f the objects “held” in consciousness. But we will return to
Husserl’s argument later. The second and more condemning obstacle that skepticism
encounters entails a refinement o f our first objection that skepticism claims to know less that
it in fact knows. Skepticism, after all, is either merely an opinion or it is a full-fledged
knowledge claim. If it is mere opinion, then it offers no reason that it should be granted
credence. The very opposite opinion might ju st as well be the case. But if skepticism is a true
knowledge claim, then it m ust be evaluated as such. Yet its very claim— or to put it
differently, what it purports to “know”— is that we cannot know. If we cannot know, how
could we ever know that we cannot know. Thus skepticism has placed itself into the absurd
positions either o f knowing something it cannot know or o f not knowing something it does
know. Skepticism, then, when it is taken at face value as a knowledge claim, is self-refuting.
This is the reason— as has been commented upon by many great philosophers (Hume
perhaps being the most well-noted)— that no one really believes it, especially when one steps
away from philosophical polemics and returns to the everyday world. If a philosopher were
truly to hold fast to skepticism, that philosopher would have to deny the possibility o f any
knowledge, and thus a theory o f anything, and without theory, where would a thinker be left,
what would such a thinker have to say? Yet philosophers— even postpostivistic ones— seem
quite fond o f saying things, and thereby o f proposing theories about things, such that if they
were true skeptics, they have necessarily refuted their own position.
In summary, one can see why skepticism is both alluring (for it avoids the problem
o f the wheel) and why it is problematic (for it contradicts itself). Husserl, like Chisholm, was
quite aware o f both the allure and the trap o f skepticism. Husserl, however, wanted to avoid
skepticism for the simple reason that he aspired to offer a science o f science, and to do so
would be, o f course, to offer a theory. Skepticism, however, would demolish any possibility
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o f theory, for theory is nothing more than a claim to knowledge. Skepticism, then, would end
Husserl’s project— as well as that o f any other philosopher.
Alternatives to Skepticism
Husserl, realizing the philosophical paralysis involved in any skepticism, needed a
solution to the problem o f the wheel. W hat would be an acceptable, perhaps even convincing
alternative? Chisholm, quoting the thinking o f his mentor, Cardinal Mercier, offers three
conditions that any reliable epistemology should meet:
If there is any knowledge which bears the mark o f truth, if the intellect does have a
way o f distinguishing the true and the false, in short, if there is a criterion o f truth
then this criterion should satisfy three conditions: it should be internal, objective.
and immediate.
It should be internal. N o reason or rule o f truth that is provided by an external
authority can serve as an ultimate criterion. For the reflective doubts that are
essential to criteriology can and should be applied to this authority itself. The mind
cannot attain to certainty until it has found within itself a sufficient reason for
adhering to the testimony o f such an authority.
The criterion should be objective. The ultimate reason for believing cannot be a
merely subjective state o f the thinking subject. A man is aware that he can reflect
upon his psychological states in order to control them. Knowing that he has this
ability, he does not, so long as he has not made use o f it, have the right to be sure.
The ultimate ground o f certitude cannot consist in a subjective feeling. It can be
found only in that which, objectively, produces this feeling and is adequate to
reason.
Finally, the criterion must be im m ediate. To be sure, a certain conviction may rest
upon many different reasons some o f which are subordinate to others. But if we are
to avoid an infinite regress, then we must find a ground o f assent that presupposes
no other. We must find an immediate criterion o f certitude. (Chisholm, 1973,
pp. 6-7)
As I mentioned above, Chisholm outlined three possible solutions to the wheel, all
o f which he described as unappealing to some degree. Skepticism, the first o f the three, is
unappealing, as we have reviewed, because it is self-refuting and self-contradictory. W hat
might be said for its alternatives, “m ethodism” and “particularism?” Both alternatives derive
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from questions A and B, as posed by Chisholm. M ethodism rejects skepticism by m eans o f
putting question B forward as primary. That is, it establishes a m ethodology or procedure
and then determines knowledge according to that procedure. Particularism rejects skepticism
by means o f putting question A forward as primary. It asserts that we do, in fact, have
knowledge, and that we can come to understand what knowledge is by observing these cases
in which we indeed know something. Either solution, methodism or particularism, involves a
declaration o f certainty or apodictic knowledge. M ethodism makes that declaration
according to a given methodology, particularism makes it according to what is “self-given.”
The Failure o f M ethodism
M ethodism faces a perplexing problem. Any criterion it selects will necessarily be
arbitrary. As Chisholm explained, the person who has chosen methodism “leaves us
completely in the dark so far as concerns what reasons he may have for adopting this
particular criterion rather than some other” (Chisholm, 1973, p. 17). The only m eans o f
offering such “reasons” is to assume an answer to Chisholm ’s question A (“W hat do we
know?”), but to assume an answer to question A is to be a particularist, not a methodist. One
might suggest that we choose a criterion for determining criteria, but this merely begs the
question yet again, and throws our methodism into a never ending regress. It is this
arbitrariness o f any methodism that makes it unappealing as an epistemological foundation.
Traditional empiricism, as we have explicated it above, is exactly this kind o f
methodism. It arbitrarily asserts that sense experience should be the criterion o f knowledge,
for it cannot provide a criterion for this criterion. But traditional empiricism, as a form o f
methodism, is unappealing in a further, most condemning way. It adopts a criterion, that o f
sense experience, that denies its very criterion. If we are to choose methodism, we w ould at
least hope for a criterion that was not self-contradictory (after all, this is a problem that
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skepticism itself faces, and one o f the reasons we may well have turned away from
skepticism to methodism). An example o f a non-contradictory methodism m ight include
rationality— that is, the belief that reasonableness is the criterion knowledge. This
rationalistic methodism— even though arbitrary— is nonetheless internally consistent. It sets
forth a criterion, reasonableness, that can be fairly said to be reasonable. But traditional
empiricism does not do this. Rather, it sets forth a criterion— that all knowledge is sense
perceptible— which it cannot fulfill. The very criterion that “all knowledge is that which is
sense perceptible” is not— as we have discussed previously— sense perceptible. It cannot be
touched, heard, smelled, and so on. Consequently, if we were to abide strictly by our
position o f traditional empiricism, we would be forced to jettison traditional empiricism.
Hume would have likely been chagrined to realize that the flames he wished to set to all non-
empirical theories would necessarily consume his very own, non-empirical theory.
Though traditional empiricism may be self-condemning, if we were nonetheless to
adopt it (for whatever arbitrary reason we may have), we would face exactly the problem
that current research on the therapeutic relationship faces. We would have constrained
knowledge to that which is sense perceptible and measurable. It is this restriction that
Husserl criticized as the “one-sided” rationality that had caused the “crisis o f European m an”
(see Philosophy and the crisis o f European man. [1965]). If one adopts traditional
empiricism, knowledge becomes so anemic that “ ...w e seem to throw out, not only the bad
apples but the good ones as well, and we are left, in effect, with ju st a few parings or skins
with no m eat behind them ” (Chisholm, 1973, p. 18). For example, “you cannot know
whether there are any physical things— whether there are trees, or houses, or bodies...”
(Chisholm, 1973, p. 18). Even more, “You cannot know whether there is any you who
experiences those sensations” (Chisholm, 1973, p. 18). All you can know is that there are
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sense experiences. Hume explains, “The identity, which we ascribe to the mind o f man, is
only a fictitious one, and o f a like kind with that which we ascribe to vegetables and animal
bodies” (Hume, 1967, p. 259). That is, no such “identities” exist, but are mere fictions o f
our imagination. With such a limited rationality, there is little hope o f understanding
personal relations. And, in the end, traditional empiricism questions the very logical relations
(such relations not being sense perceptible) upon which it stands.
Psychologism
It was the arbitrary nature o f methodism, and— more specifically— the self
contradictory nature o f traditional empiricism, that motivated Husserl (along with other
factors) to turn away from methodism toward some form o f particularism as a proper
epistemological foundation. But this did not come to pass until Husserl, being the
consummate mathematician he was, encountered a peculiar form o f traditional empiricism
that challenged his beloved field o f mathematics. That form o f traditional empiricism was
p s y c h o lo g is m . Psychologism is the view that numbers and logic are constructions o f a
person’s “psychology”— that is, their mind. This view was widely held by Husserl’s
contemporaries— mathematicians, scientist, and philosophers alike— and it survives rather
vigorously today, in the works o f such philosophers as Quine and Goodman, despite the best
efforts o f Husserl. 1^
Philosophers might arrive at their psychologism by means o f at least two routes,
both o f which are founded on the tenet o f traditional empiricism (that all reality is made up
18 Formalism (also known as logical formalism) is a second form o f traditional empiricism that opposed
Husserl’s phenomenology. Formalism conceptualizes mathematics as merely the manipuation o f sym bols using
rules that apply to the shape and order o f symbols. We will not explore Husserl’s attack upon formalism.
19 For a detailed introduction to the current debates surrounding psychologism, see Nottum o (1989).
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o f sense-perceptible entities). The first route proceeds somewhat like this: numbers and logic
are either sense-perceptible or they are illusory in some way. Seeing that numbers and logic
are not sense-perceptible (how, after all, can one taste or smell the number three), then they
must be constructions o f our mind, not unlike the fictions proposed by Hume. The second
route, though related, proceeded differently: numbers and logic are part o f nature, thus we
can study nature to understand them, one place we find numbers and logic are in the mind, if
we study how the mind works, this will tell us how numbers and logic work. This second
route has recently been revived in the work o f Lakoff and Nunez, who write:
M athematics as we know it has been created and used by human beings:
mathematicians, physicists, com puter scientists, and economists— all members o f
the species Homo sapiens. This m ay be an obvious fact, but it has an important
consequence. M athematics as we know it is limited and structured by the human
brain and human mental capacities. The only mathematics we know or can know is a
brain-and-mind-based mathematics. (2000, p. 1)
Ironically, Husserl’s first work, Philosophy o f Arithmetic. (1891), was famously
criticized by Frege for its psychologism. This criticism led many philosophers to dismiss
Husserl’s first work as immature and flawed. That this work indeed represented a form o f
psychologism has been contested by current philosophers. Velarde-M ayol, for example,
writes that “a better study o f this work reveals that the accusation o f psychologism is
inaccurate...” (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 16). Regardless o f what Husserl believed in his
earliest work, by the time o f his second m ajor work— the first volume o f Logical
Investigations (1900)— he was recognizably against psychologism.
In his Logical Investigations. Husserl focuses mainly on the question o f logic, and
he attacks psychologism by clarifying that the laws o f logic are o f a different sort than the
laws o f nature. Natural laws can be found in nature by observing what philosophers have
called “matters o f fact.” M atters o f fact are simply the contingencies o f the world that we
witness. For example, when a m arble and a feather are dropped in a vacuum, I w itness them
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to fall at the same speed. That they fall at the same speed is a natural law. This natural law is
derived from generalizations based on specific experiences (such as seeing the m arble and
the feather fall at the same speed). The important property o f note is that natural laws could
be otherwise than they are, and thus, they can be labeled contingent or accidental. As such,
they are also refutable. We m ight observe, for example, that marbles and feathers indeed fall
at different speeds. Husserl writes,
Individual being [i.e., any m atter o f fact], o f every kind is, to speak quite generally,
‘accidental.’ [italics in original] It is so-and-so, but essentially it could be other than
it is. Even if definite laws o f nature obtain according to which such and such definite
consequences m ust in fact follow when such and such real conditions are in fact
present, such laws express only orderings that do in fact obtain, which might run
quite differently. ... [italics added] (Husserl, 1962, p. 47)
Logical laws, however, are com pletely unlike this. They are, as philosophers would
put it, absolute or universal. They must hold true in all cases, and could not be witnessed to
fail to hold. “For example,” writes Velarde-M ayol, “the principle o f contradiction [a logical
law] claims an absolute validity in all circumstances, and a case that is not under the
principle o f contradiction is unthinkable” (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 18). Another example is
the relation o f contrariety, which describes the logical relation that holds between such
statements as “The paper is white,” and “The paper is green.” W hereas both propositions can
be false (for example, the paper may in fact be brown); they cannot both be true (for how
could the paper be both white and green at once).20 Such logical principles as the relations
o f contradiction and contrariety are simply irrefutable. To deny them is, quite literally,
unthinkable. As W illard writes, “They obtain or do not obtain between propositions
regardless o f what any individuals or groups may feel or think about them ” (W illard, 2000,
p. 41).
20 I am assuming, o f course, that the paper is not striped or polka dotted, but is entirely o f one color.
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M athematics perhaps provides the most famously regarded set o f logical relations
that oppose psychologism ’s contention that logic is a product o f the mind. Hardy, a famous
English mathematician, expresses this in his emphatic words:
It may be that m odem physics fits best into some framework o f idealistic [read,
psychologistic] philosophy. I do not believe it, but there are some em inent physicists
who say so. Pure mathematics, on the other hand, seems to me a rock on which all
idealism founders: 317 is a prime, not because we think so, or because our minds are
shaped in one way rather than another, but because it is so. because mathematical
reality is built that way. (Hardy, 1940, p. 130)
One way to appreciate H ardy’s and H usserl’s objections, a way that illustrates the skepticism
residing within psychologism, is to highlight its inherent relativism. If we understand logic
to be the way in which propositions must follow one another— the study, that is, o f what
should follow what— then to assert that logic is contingent, and might vary between you and
me, or between this moment o f history and the next, is to say precisely this: anything can
follow from anything, for the logic that holds for you may be in stark contrast to that which
holds for me, yet both are logical, or true. From this we must conclude that anything can be
true. We thereby have a relativism, and as such, one that necessarily contradicts itself, and
undermines any theory that might be established, for theories— whatever else they may be—
are logically ordered (else we could not criticize one theory for making more sense— that is,
being more logical— than another). Psychologism, then, negates the laws o f logic that it and
any other coherent theory must presuppose.
Particularism
H usserl’s route out o f the philosophical inconsistencies and contradictions o f
skepticism and traditional empiricism was to develop a form o f particularism, transcendental
phenomenology. Particularism must begin with an answer to the question, “W hat do we
know?” Once we have answered this question, Chisholm explained, “We start with
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particular cases o f knowledge and then from those we generalize and formulate criteria o f
goodness...” (Chisholm, 1973, p. 24). That is, from the knowledge we have, we learn by
what criteria or methodology we have arrived at this knowledge (and, if applied to additional
cases, might grant us further knowledge). Now, in choosing particularism, and having
provided an answer to question A (“W hat do we know?”), we have not avoided the problem
that this answer presupposes a response to question B. That is, our epistemological
foundation still begs the question, “By what criteria have you chosen this case as
knowledge?” Both the skeptic and the m ethodist will be sure to point this out to us, and
rightly so. But if we are to entertain the criticisms o f the skeptic and the methodist, then, as
Chisholm comments, “I am afraid, we will be back on the wheel” (Chisholm, 1973, p. 37).
To escape the wheel, we must make a choice between our three alternatives: skepticism,
methodism, or particularism. Particularism holds advantages over both skepticism and
methodism. Over skepticism it has the advantage o f not being self-contradictory. It also has
the advantage o f allowing us to begin our quest for knowledge about the therapeutic
relationship, for if we were to choose skepticism, we would be forced to term inate our
endeavors at their commencement, upon the basis that knowledge is unattainable. Over
methodism, particularism holds the advantage o f not imposing arbitrary criteria that would
restrict the scope o f our knowledge.
Certainty
Because the problem o f the wheel is embedded in any epistemology, be it
methodism or particularism, any epistemology will carry within it a degree o f what m ight be
characterized as uncertainty. It is this fact that led Chisholm to com m ent on “how
unappealing, in the end, each o f the possible solutions is” (Chisholm, 1973, p. 1). Likewise,
any demand that our epistemology be absolutely certain will cripple our initial efforts, and
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might likely impel us to throw up our hands in frustration and declare ourselves skeptics who
willingly forsake the quest for knowledge from the outset.
However, if we wish to push forward (and this study is certainly an effort to push
forward in the realm o f knowledge about the therapy relationship), then we must move
beyond this initial uncertainty— which can only be tackled by working through the riddle o f
the wheel— and adopt a point o f view other than skepticism. Indeed, any view that lapses
into skepticism (as happens with psychologism), must be set aside, for skepticism is a self-
aborting epistemology.
But once we have risen above our initial epistemological concerns, we should not
relinquish a subsequent concern for certainty, at least to the extent that any particular case o f
knowing should reasonably be considered certain. It is this subsequent concern for certainty
which has mistakenly come under attack by postpositivists. Polkinghome, for example,
writes, "The positivist conception o f science has its roots in a definition o f knowledge which
holds that only those things o f which we are absolutely certain can be counted as
knowledge" (Polkinghorne, 1983, p. 1). Here, the quest for absolute certainty (or “apodictic
truth”) is criticized as unworkable. There is good reason to be sensitive to such
postpositivist’s critiques, for if they are applied to our initial epistemology, they are quite
right. The positivist cannot achieve certainty in this initial realm. For, as we have revealed in
our inquiry o f the problem o f the wheel, there is a certain level o f uncertainty harbored in
any methodist or particularist epistemology. But if this critique is extended to subsequent
concerns for certainty— that is, a concern for certainty that arises once one has selected
either methodism or particularism— then the postpositivist criticism is overextended. That is
to say, can the m ethodist (such as the positivist or the traditional empiricist) be rightly
criticized— at this stage o f their inquiry— for seeking certainty? It seems that with one’s
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initial epistemology set forth, the concern is not that the methodology wrongly attempts to
achieve apodictic truth. Indeed, achieving truth should be its very aim. The rightful criticism,
rather, returns to one o f the initial problems inherent in choosing methodism: that doing so
limits the scope o f one’s knowledge and— in the case o f positivism and traditional
empiricism— offers a self-contradictory epistemology.
The debilitating degree to which positivism limits its scope o f inquiry— positivism
as it was first forwarded in the 19th century by Ernst M ach in his The Analysis o f Sensations
(Mach, 1886) and Richard Avenarius in his Critique o f Pure Experience (Avenarius, 1888-
1890)— cannot be overemphasized. This critique o f positivism has been widely noted, as
witnessed in a recent excerpt from the Atlantic M onthly:
Superficially, the positivist message appeared to be an optimistic one, concerning
the perfectibility o f science and the inevitability o f progress. It taught that reason
was a liberating force and faith mere superstition; the advance o f science would
eventually produce a complete understanding o f nature. But positivism also taught
that all the accumulated nonscientific knowledge o f the past, including the great
religions and philosophies, had been at best merely an expression o f "cultural
mores" and at worst nonsense; life had no purpose and morality no justification.
(Chase, 2000, p. 50)
The term superficial is perhaps an appropriate one for positivism and traditional empiricism.
Though both offer great hope for acquiring knowledge, when one delves beneath their
surface, one quickly realizes that not only have important areas o f human understanding
(such as religion, the self, personal relations, and so on) been stricken from the realm o f
science (that is, the realm o f knowledge), but even the very domain purportedly under
review— that o f nature— has been desiccated, in the very same way that Chisholm described
above: we are left throwing out the good apples with the bad. As Polkinghom e explains,
positivism asserted: "It is only sensation that is certain and indubitable, and thus a science
built on sensation has a foundation o f certainty" (Polkinghome, 1983, p. 18). But o f course,
as we have discussed, sensate science has no such foundation.
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The postpostivist response to positivism has been clearly voiced: "[P]ostpositivism
challenges the tradition that knowledge actually is apodictic truth. Postpositivism holds that
we do not have access to indubitable truths” (Polkinghome, 1983, p. 2). But this response,
unless rightly interpreted, is a troubling one. If it means (according to a more generous
interpretation) that indubitable tm ths, at the initial stage o f developing our epistemology, are
unattainable, then it is right on the mark. But if it means (according to a more strict
interpretation) that indubitable truths are unattainable once we have chosen a particular
answer to the riddle o f the wheel, then it proffers the following grave consequence: it sets us
back to skepticism. For if we cannot have any truths— and what is a truth if it is not
indubitable (that is, as one example, noncontradictory)— then we cannot have knowledge. A
strict interpretation o f postpositivism, then, would fling us from the wheel into skepticism;
we would not be able to exit to methodism (i.e., positivism and traditional em piricism ) nor—
even more importantly— to particularism .
H usserl’s Initial Skepticism
The main objective o f Husserl’s philosophy was to establish the foundation for a
radical and universal knowledge in confrontation with the growing scepticism that
manifested [in] scientific positivism and its philosophical derivations. Philosophy
was for Husserl a science that began from the ultimate foundation. Philosophy is a
radical science because it is a science o f the roots o f all our knowledge (radical
comes from the word "root"). Husserl tried to radicalize the foundations o f human
knowledge to make it immune to scepticism. (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, pp. 11-12)
H usserl’s aim was to gain a grounding or foundation for knowledge, but as we have
realized in our discussion o f the problem o f the wheel, such a grounding w ould not elim inate
the initial uncertainty inherent in any epistemological system. Husserl simply could not
tolerate the alternative o f skepticism because this would relinquish any quest for knowledge
before even its inception. He also could not tolerate methodism, for it would, at worst, lapse
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into a self-contradicting skepticism, and at best would rest upon arbitrary and restrictive
criteria. Thus, he chose particularism.
Particularism demanded o f Husserl that he answer the question, “W hat do we
know?” Husserl’s approach to this question is an intricate one that delves into complex
epistemological and metaphysical questions. In a compilation of introductory lectures on
phenomenology, entitled The Idea o f Phenomenology (Husserl, 1973a), Husserl set forth his
approach to particularism as would be appropriate to someone new to philosophy and
phenomenology. Husserl began his quest, ironically, in a skeptical mode. He asked, “How
can we be sure that cognition accords with things as they exist in them selves, that it ‘gets at
them ’?” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 1). This questioning o f the possibility o f cognition, and with it,
o f knowledge, Husserl labels a “critique o f cognition.” Husserl was here using the term
cognition in precisely the way we have been using the terms consciousness, experience, and
awareness. Upon challenging the possibility o f knowledge, Husserl then proclaimed, “The
method o f the critique o f cognition is the phenomenological method, phenom enology as the
general doctrine o f essences, within which the science o f the essence [that is, the nature! o f
cognition finds its place” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 1). But as soon as Husserl had offered his
method, he doubted it, offering this flurry o f probing questions: “W hat sort o f method is
this? How can a science o f cognition be established if cognition in general, what cognizing
means and can accomplish, is questioned? W hat method can here reach the goal?” (Husserl,
1973a, p. 1). One can almost hear within H usserl’s doubts the very problems we posed
about methodism: how can any method, even a phenomenological one, be established? On
what basis?
It is important that Husserl raised these issues, for they get the reader to the core o f
the philosophical m atter at hand, and they lead to the confusion and self-doubt that one
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naturally feels when taking on such profound philosophical questions. Husserl personalized
his concern in this way: “How do I, the cognizing subject, know if I can ever really know,
that there exist not only my own mental processes, these acts of cognizing, but also that
which they apprehend? How can I ever know that there is anything at all which could be set
over against cognition as its object?” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 16).
A possible response to these questions might be to become a solipsist; that is, to
proclaim that cognition cannot reach a world transcendent to it, and thus the circle o f one’s
ideas cannot be penetrated. But Husserl declared, “This is a hard requirem ent” (Husserl,
1973a, p. 16). He asked, “Shall I, with Hume, reduce all transcendent objectivity to fictions
lending them selves to psychological explanation but to no rational justification?” (Husserl,
1973a, p. 16). But this, too, is a hard requirement, for even Hume, as Husserl correctly points
out, does not abide by it. He explains: “By working with such concepts as habit, human
nature, sense-organ, stimulus and the like, is it not working with transcendent existences
(and transcendent by its own avowal), while its aim is to degrade to the status o f fictions
everything that transcends actual ‘im pressions’ and ‘ideas’? (Husserl, 1973a, p. 16).
H usserl’s doubt does not end here. He has directed us to the contradiction that lay
beneath the veneer o f H um e’s supposed anti-transcendental views, but he then calls into
question H um e’s very ability to identify contradictions. “But what is the use o f invoking the
specter o f contradictions,” he proclaims, “when logic itself is in question” (Husserl, 1973a,
p. 16). If we are to question cognition, Husserl is asserting, then we m ust also question logic,
for logic comes to us by means o f our cognitions. Husserl then raises the parallel questions
o f psychologism. “Cognition is, after all, only human cognition, bound up with human
intellectual forms, and unfit to reach the very nature o f things, to reach the things in
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them selves” (Husserl, 1973a, pp. 16-17). But o f this psychologism, Husserl raises yet further
doubts:
Can the cognitions by which such a view operates and the possibilities which it
ponders make any sense themselves if the laws o f logic are given over to such
relativism? Does not the truth that there is this and that possibility implicitly
presuppose the absolute validity o f the principle o f non-contradiction, according to
which any given truth excludes its contradictory? (Husserl, 1973a, p. 17)
At this juncture, Husserl relents, and declares “these examples should suffice,” for they
illustrate ju st what happens when we attem pt to critique cognition:
We become entangled in patent difficulties and even self-contradictions. We are in
constant danger o f becoming sceptics, or still worse, we are in danger o f falling into
any one o f a number o f scepticisms, all o f which have, sad to say, one and the same
characteristic: absurdity. (Husserl, 1973a, p. 17)
Husserl wanted to show us the difficulties and nearly unavoidable
misunderstandings that arise upon any inquiry into a theory o f knowledge. These must be
unearthed, he believed, in order to refute both concealed and overt skepticisms that
inevitably lead to absurdity. But having shown us these absurdities, and the contradictions o f
Hume an others who attempted but failed to avoid mention and use o f transcendencies,
Husserl has still not provided us with an answer to the particularism. W e still m ust ask,
“W hat can we know?”
M etaphysics
Before presenting his answer to this question, Husserl em phasized the role of
metaphysics in matters o f knowledge. He wrote o f his ruminations upon the theories o f
Hume and others: “The playground o f these unclear and inconsistent theories as well as the
endless quarrels associated with them is the theory o f knowledge, and m etaphysics which is
bound up with it historically and in subject m atter” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 17). Husserl had this
concern: any theory o f knowledge that we develop will necessarily provide us with a
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complimentary ontology, that is, a theory o f being. W hy is this? For the simple reason that
the development o f any theory o f knowledge will address the relation between cognition and
its object. In so doing, “there is the problem o f explicating the essential m eaning o f being a
cognizable object or, what comes to the same thing, o f being an object at all” (Husserl,
1973a, p. 17). The question o f what it means to be an object at all, is a metaphysical
question, not an epistemological one. Thus Husserl argued that metaphysical issues needed
to be addressed alongside epistemological issues. He wrote:
[The] confusions o f the theory o f knowledge into which we are led by natural (pre-
epistemological) reflection on the possibility o f cognition (on the possibility o f
cognition’s reaching its object) involve not ju st false views about the essence o f
cognition, but also self-contradictory, and therefore, fundamentally m isleading
interpretations [italics included] o f the being [that is, metaphysics; italics added] that
is cognized in the sciences o f the natural sort. (Husserl, 1973a, p. 18)
In our examination o f traditional empiricism, we have already explored an example
o f the type o f confusions Husserl is criticizing. Traditional em piricism ’s answer to the
critique of knowledge is to assert a methodism which posits only sensations as having
ontological status, and thus its theory o f knowledge has granted a metaphysics constituted
solely o f sensations (i.e., sense perceptible “things”). Clearly, in the present study’s attem pt
to comprehend the therapy relationship, we have— at least by indication o f our preliminary
study— all intentions o f protecting an ontology that might at least include the following: bare
relations, consciousness, feelings, a self, and mutual awareness. If we remain unable to
defend such an ontology, then we will need to erase from our inquiry our initial
understanding o f ju st what a therapy relationship is.
The Inadmissibility o f the N atural Sciences
In addition to demonstrating the inextricable link between epistem ological and
metaphysical issues, Husserl makes yet another crucial observation. In questioning the
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possibility o f cognition, we have questioned all knowledge, and we must thus question the
fruits o f science, for the only means o f acquiring those fruits is cognition itself. Husserl
explains,
In the sceptical mood which critical reflection about cognition necessarily begets ...
every science o f the natural sort and every method characteristic o f such a science
ceases to count as something we properly possess. For cognition’s reaching its
object has become enigmatic and dubious as far as its m eaning and possibility are
concerned, and exact cognition becomes thereby no less enigmatic than inexact,
scientific knowledge no less than the pre-scientific. (Husserl, 1973a, p. 20)
Thus, science— in any o f its varieties— can have nothing to offer our inquiry at this juncture,
for all it is still under the shadow o f our skeptical gaze. Our inquiry “cannot tie itself to the
conclusions that any natural science has reached about what is” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 4). We
could not turn to neurological or cognitive science, for example, to determine whether, in
fact, cognition can reach its object, even if such sciences purport to establish this fact. Such
sciences, however proud they may be, nonetheless depend upon cognition reaching its object
to establish any knowledge they may boast, and the very possibility o f cognition reaching its
object we have put in question. Husserl was absolutely emphatic about this point because it
has so often been overlooked, and because it lies at the center o f his project. Traditional
science, he contends, has ignored the problem o f cognition or has solved it inappropriately.
Husserl intended his phenomenology to correct this error and to provide a “science o f
science.” He explained that “A new science, the critique o f cognition, is called for” (Husserl,
1973a, p. 25). And this science, which questions whether cognition can reach its object, is at
pains to even begin, because, explained Husserl, “That which a science questions it cannot
use as a presupposition” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 25).
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The Speciousness o f Representational ism
Before we analyze H usserl’s answer to the question, “W hat do we know?” we must
first explore yet another issue that stands in our way, and that is the doctrine o f
representational ism. It will help us to understand that H usserl’s critique o f cognition must
not admit o f any representationalism. Let us, then, clearly define what is m eant by
representationalism, a term that has been taken by philosophers to mean different things at
different times. Representationalism is the general epistemological contention that cognition,
in its attempt to comprehend the world, necessarily attends to an intervening object. Theories
vary as to what precisely this intermediary object is. It may an idea, event, image, copy,
percept, construct, word, sign, phenomenon, or what have you. But whatever it is, it does not
reside outside o f consciousness, but necessarily within in. Thus, when we experience the
world, or attempt to know anything, we do not experience or know the world as it is, but
instead we merely know its representation. Under such an account, we cannot come “face-to-
face” with the world, nor with one another; for when we think we see the world (or when we
think we “see” true ideas), we do not. We instead merely witness their representations.
Lovejoy (1960) quite appropriately gave the name “epistemological dualism” to
representationalism, and he did so for this reason: it posits the dualism o f a world as it is (the
noumena, to borrow K ant’s words) and a world as we know it (the phenomena). In
Lovejoy’s words, epistemological dualism posits that “all knowing is m ediated through the
presence ‘before the m ind’— as the traditional phrase goes— o f entities which m ust be
distinguished from an ulterior reality which is the true objective o f knowledge” (Lovejoy,
1960, pp. 19-20).
Let me introduce two additional terms that are often employed to denote this
dualism: immanence and transcendence. To be immanent means to exist within cognition,
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or to exist in the world as we know it. Immanent objects are phenomena. To be transcendent
means to exist outside cognition, or to be in the world as it is. Transcendent objects are
noumena. According to representationalism, we can know the immanent (representations
themselves being immanent), but we cannot know the transcendent. “Orthodox
representational theories,” Findlay explained, “make the object o f an idea something wholly
immanent in that idea” (Findlay, 1963, p. 10). That is, the object that an idea is directed upon
exists within the very idea. Thomas Reid was one o f the earliest and most vocal antagonists
o f representationalism, which he believed to be the cornerstone o f Descartes’s^ 1 and
Hum e’s philosophies. Reid wrote:
M odern philosophers ... have conceived that external objects cannot be the
immediate objects o f our thought; that there must be some image o f them in the
mind itself [i.e., they are immanent], in which, as in a mirror, they are seen. And the
name ‘idea’, in the philosophical sense o f it, is given to those internal and immediate
objects o f our thoughts. The external thing is the remote or m ediate object; but the
idea, or image o f that object in the mind, is the immediate object, without w hich we
could have no perception, no remembrance, no conception o f the m ediate object.
(Reid, 1896, p. 226)
Reid objected to this view on the grounds that it sheds no light on the problem o f knowledge
(or cognition), but rather, raised questions about its veiy possibility. He explained that this
view “hath some original defect; that [a] skepticism is inlaid in it, and reared along with it”
(Reid, 1896, p. 103). Reid was correct to be concerned.
One crucial flaw o f representationalism is that it necessitates solipsism, or, as it has
been otherwise put, it encloses us within the circle o f ideas, traps us behind a “veil o f
21 Representationalism, as such, has been famously attributed to Descartes by many who have follow ed Reid’s
line o f thinking, not least o f whom is Richard Rorty. Though certainly Descartes can be interpreted as a
representationalist, others have also argued that he can be interpreted more accurately as a presentationalist.
Nadler discusses this in detail in his book, Amauld and the Cartesian philosophy o f ideas (1989), where he
protests, “[I]t is, nonetheless, important to dispel the long- and widely- accepted belief that Descartes was, in fact,
responsible for a theory o f ideas [representationalism] thought by many to be so problematic and unacceptable”
(Nadler, 1989, p. 10).
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images.” To see how this is so, we need merely think through the diagram below, which
illustrates the essential nature o f representationalism.
Figure 1. Representationalism
In Figure 1 we can see that a conscious act (that is, cognition) can only be “o f ’
representations, not the actual object. Because this model declares that we never see objects
as they are, but only as they are represented, we can never verify that real (or transcendent)
objects exist at all. We can only verify our own representations. In essence, we can only
know ourselves (representations being a piece o f us or a piece o f our minds). This is
solipsism.
Solipsism, however, is not philosophically condemning. The world m ight be such
that we cannot know anything other than the circle o f our own ideas. But representationalism
faces a larger problem, one that is irremediable and strikes at the roots o f knowledge.
Representationalism— in asserting that we must have representations in order to know—
produces this puzzling and crucial question: can we even know our representations?
Certainly the theory o f representations asserts that we can, for it asserts at least the
following: though we cannot know transcendents (that is noumena), we can know the world
as it appears (that is, phenomena). But— and here is where representationalism crumbles into
preposterousness— to know even representations, we must have representations o f
A conscious act is of this representation of this object
►
I
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representations, and to know representations o f representations, we must yet have
representations o f these. There is no point at which we can relent from this regress, and
representationalism fails to even account for its own account!
Constructivism
An important and popular type o f representationalism— constructivism— posits that
conscious acts involve transformational, or constructive, processes. Constructivism, as
defined by two recent constructivist scholars, M ascolo and Pollack, asserts “that m eaning is
a constructed product o f human activity rather than an innate characteristic o f the mind or an
inherent property o f objects or events in the world” (1997, p. 1). A central tenet o f
constructivism is that we cannot know the world as it is, but instead know it according to
how our ideas, concepts, thoughts, or what have you, construct it for us. That is, the object to
be known (the noumena) is interpreted, transformed, constructed, or otherwise altered, and
this gives us the object as known (the phenomenon). In m any constructivist attempts to
overcome representationalism, an activity is used to replace the static image or
representation, but this activity is still seen as a transformational one, that is, one in which
the object o f knowledge is changed by the process o f knowledge. O r perhaps the knowing
process is characterized as a “shaping” o f what is known, such that the known is somewhat,
though not completely, altered. W hether this process is a completely transform ational one, or
merely provides only a m inor alteration, it can be considered what I will call a constructivist
view o f knowing, and all such views are still representational. Dallas W illard has labeled this
transformative approach the “M idas touch tradition o f epistemology” (1993, p. 126). This
tradition presupposes that at the heart o f cognition lies a constructive m echanism that, much
like the touch o f king Midas, has the power to transform the stuff o f the real world into those
“golden” images, ideas, or words that our minds are only then able to comprehend. Figure 2,
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below, illustrates the constructivist paradigm. It is, in its essential components, much the
same as Figure 1. The important differences are that we now have a constructive conscious
act, and this is represented in Figure 2 by two lines, one dotted and one solid. The dotted line
illustrates that transformative activity o f the mental act. This part o f the mental act interacts
with the noumenon (though many constructivist theories would put this differently, claiming
that the world somehow impinges upon our neurological system) and converts it into a
representation. Another part o f the mental act, represented by the solid line, presents us with
the representation o f the world (the phenomenon), which we mistakenly take, according to
the theory, to be the world as it really is.
Figure 2. Constructivism
A conscious act interacts with this object to “re”-present this object
(the noumenon) (the phenomenon)
\
The constructivist or M idas Touch theory has serious problems, all o f which are
related to the pitfalls o f representationalism. A t first, constructivism m ay seem to have rid us
o f the solipsism that our initial theory o f representationalism caused. But have we really
escaped this solipsism? That which we think we know (that is, that which we think about,
feel about, perceive, sense, and so on) is still not the real world (that is, the world o f
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noumena), but is instead the constructed world (that o f phenomena). And further troubling is
the fact that this theory itself, by its very nature o f being a theory, claims to know something,
that is, to reach a noumenal object (that the theory itself is true). But by the very tenets o f its
constructivist grounding, the noumenon (that is, how the theory “really” works in the real
world) cannot be known. W e can only know the phenomenon (that the theory appears to be
true), so one is left with nothing to say but that the theory itself (which proclaims we cannot
know) cannot be known. The constructivist theory is thus self-negating, and lapses into the
skepticism we have tried to avoid.
Presentationalism (Direct Realism)
The only way out o f the problems inherent in representationalism, and its variant the
constructivist (or M idas Touch) view, is to dismiss it altogether, and to provide an account o f
knowledge (and thereby o f cognition) that allows direct access to objects. Such a view,
dispelling as it would the intermediaries that stand between the conscious act and its object,
might accurately be termed epistemological monism (in contrast to the epistemological
dualism o f representationalism). This doctrine, in the words o f Findlay, would assert the
following: “The true object o f an idea or a judgem ent is not the mental image o f that object,
but the object itself.” (Findlay, 1963, p. 9). It would, in other words, take the prefix “re” out
o f “representation” and offer us a theory o f “presentation,” that is, o f the transparency o f the
knowing process. The possibility o f direct or immediate perception would replace the
untenable notion o f mediated perception. We could then make sense o f Husserl’s conviction
that his phenomenology presents “the things them selves.” Indeed, if he is to avoid
skepticism, as he so longs to do, then he necessarily m ust avoid representationalism, and
must provide us with such a theory, a “presentationalism” if you will. This is also exactly the
argument Reid made. Only a presentational view o f cognition makes any sense at all, for
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without it we can make no sense o f how representations are presented. W e can see how
representationalism, as it is normally forwarded, presumes direct perception o f the
representations; that is, it presumes that representations are themselves presented, not
represented! As Husserl wrote, “It is thus a fundamental error to suppose that perception
(and every other type o f intuition o f things, each after its own manner) fails to come into
contact with the thing itself’ (Husserl, 1962, p. 122). W hatever the “thing itself’ is, it must
be the thing thought about, and only a presentational theory will adequately account for this.
The representational theory will necessarily force us to think not about the thing thought
about, but some intermediary. Husserl’s aim, then, is to provide a justification for
presentationalism, or what m ight be called direct realism.
A Preliminary Theory o f Cognition
Let us now take at least a brief look at what a presentational theory o f cognition
must look like at an elemental level. This will allow us the opportunity to slowly introduce
terms that otherwise can confound one’s initial attempt to understand cognition and the
knowing process. These terms will also help us comprehend Husserl’s initial answer to the
question, “W hat do we know,” and his subsequent, intricate analysis o f cognitive acts. A
presentational view o f cognition will require two things: a mental act (that is, an act o f
knowledge, cognition, experience, intuition, or awareness) and an object that is available to
this mental act. Figure 3, below, illustrates this theory. It is nothing more than our original
representational model o f cognition (from Figure 1) with the representational element
extracted from it.
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Figure 3. Presentationalism
A conscious act is of this object
►
U
u
►
In a presentational theory, there is no intermediary representation. An act o f consciousness is
simply o f what it is of, and that is that. Often, the m ost pressing difficulty inherent in
presentational theories o f cognition is the difficulty o f comprehending the possibility that we
perceive external (and internal) objects directly, with no intermediary objects. To suggest
that there are no intermediary objects obviates the cumbersome tendency to speak o f external
as opposed to internal objects. There are simply objects.
But we should clear up a confusion that often exists in presentational theories o f
cognitive acts, a confusion that may cause such theories to be mistaken for representational
theories. This mistake can happen when these theories, and the theorists who espouse them,
actually use the term “representation” or “representing” when speaking o f cognitive acts.
(For example, presentational theories, such as that o f Am auld, might still claim that mental
acts provide representations o f the world [Nadler, 1989].) When presentational theorists do
this, however, they do not mean (and by the nature o f their theory, cannot mean) that these
representations act as intermediary objects, objects that are the term inus o f our cognition.
Rather, they mean by the terms “representation” and “representing” what is also called the
content o f an act. But the term content itself has been variously used by philosophers, such
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that some interpretations o f this term are m eant as representational analyses o f cognition,
and other uses o f the term are meant as presentational analyses.
The confusion that lies behind the two various interpretations o f what the content o f
thought is is no small matter.22 Adler lists it as one the 10 most important m istakes o f
m odem western philosophy (Adler, 1985). He comments that it “may prove to be the most
puzzling, even baffling, to readers because not only m odem philosophers, but most other
people are prone to making it” (Adler, 1985, p. 4). This mistake has been, in the words o f
Lovejoy,
facilitated and complicated by the curious neglect o f many generations o f
philosophers and psychologists, following Descartes’ example, to distinguish
sharply in their terminology between the — ings and the — eds (to adopt an
expression o f Professor S. A lexander’s)— between the term s “sensation,”
“perception” or “thought” as signifying the event, function or act o f sensing,
perceiving, thinking, etc., and the same terms as signifying the items sensed,
perceived or thought. (Lovejoy, 1960, pp. 7-8)
In other words, philosophers have long confused the mental act (the “ing,” as in
sensing or perceiving) with the object o f that act (the “ed” as in the sensed or perceived).
This very same confusion has caused philosophers to interpret the term s “idea,” “concept,”
and “thought,” (and most all o f their synonyms, such as sensation and perception) both as the
act o f consciousness (the conceiv-“ing”) and the product o f consciousness (the conceiv
e d ”). The former interpretation is called the “act” theory o f cognition, the latter the “object”
theory o f cognition (Nadler, 1989). The crucial distinction to make is that between the
process “by which” we apprehend objects (the “by w hich” being referred to as the “ing” or
the act) and the “that” which is thought o f (this being the “ed,” or the object o f thought).
Philosophers, when they have used the term sensation, for example, have m eant in certain
22 it concerned Husserl so, that he chose to call it by another name, “matter,” though this appellation carried with
it its own confusions (Findlay, 1963).
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paragraphs that which is sensed, yet in other paragraphs, that which is sensing. Lovejoy
comments about this perpetuated confusion: “The result o f this was that characteristics
which could at least plausibly be ascribed to the — ings were often, without any feeling o f
incongruity transferred to the — eds, to which they appear (when the distinction is made)
manifestly inapplicable.” (Lovejoy, 1960, p. 8). An example o f Lovejoy’s point is this:
W hat if I were to claim that I am thinking o f or seeing red. Which is the idea, the process o f
thinking by which I apprehend the red (that is, the thinking or the seeing), or the red itself,
the object that is apprehended? The act theory o f cognition states that it is the “by w hich” or
the thinking, and the object theory that it is the object. The act theory is actually a
presentational theory which posits that the object o f thought can be (at least in principle)
apprehended by the act. The object theory is a representational theory, which claims that our
thoughts are o f objects which are immanent in thought, not transcendent to it. This question,
o f whether an idea is an act (that is, the means by which we have access to the world) or an
object (that which comes before our minds), was not new to m odem philosophy. St. Thom as
Aquinas took it up, and asserted that an idea must be that “by which” we know the world. As
Adler comments, “Our ideas have the special characteristic and function o f placing objects
before our minds. It is always the idea’s object o f which we are directly conscious, not the
idea itself’ (Adler, 1985, p. 4).
One could see how confusion might arise if I were to meld the two theories. I might,
for instance, begin in the object theory and declare that when I say “I see red,” red is the idea
or concept. But if I unthinkingly switch into the act theory, I would then say that it is the idea
“red” which allows me to see red. W hat is troubling about this confusion— and this is
Lovejoy’s point— is that the properties that red holds when it is the object o f thought (it can
be bright red, or light red, or have various hues, for instance) are not the same type o f
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properties that it can hold as an idea “in my mind,” for it is hard to imagine ideas being the
actual color red, with its various brightnesses and hues. To clear up this confusion, the term
“content” is often used in contrast with the term object.
Let us return, then, to this term content. Even this term, if used unthinkingly, can
confuse matters. The content o f a conscious act can be interpreted as belonging either to the
act o f consciousness (the act theory) or to the object (the object theory). We can ask, for
instance, what is the content o f a another’s thoughts. And if this person answers, “The
content o f my thought is the apple before m e,” we assume the person to mean that he is
thinking o f this content. It would be absurd, would it not, to assume that the person actually
has an apple inside his head? Here, then, the person has assumed that the content o f an idea
is its object. But other philosophers do not intend the term content to denote an object o f
thought. Rather, for these philosophers, content denotes a part o f the act o f thought, and as
such, it is a property o f thought. Indeed, this is the way I intend to use the word content in
the present study. In this usage, because a thought has a certain content, it is thus about a
certain thing; It is the content, then, that allows a thought to be o f a certain thing. In this way
o f speaking, if I were to ask you what was the content o f your thoughts, you would never
answer, “a red apple,” for you would not possibly believe that you literally had a red able in
your thoughts. Rather, you would answer, the content o f my thought is that “by w hich” I am
thinking at the moment, and you would likely be at a lost to describe exactly what this
content is, though you might know what it is not (and surely it is not an apple!). A dding the
concept o f content to our model o f presentationalism, we arrive at the model depicted in
Figure 4 below.
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Figure 4. Presentational Theory with Illustration o f Content
(adapted from N adler [1989, p. 170])
This conscious act is of this object
The content of the act
N ote that this content is an intrinsic part o f the conscious act. It differs radically
from— though it is easy to confuse with— the extrinsic representation or construction posited
by the representational and constructivist approaches. Again, the use o f the word “content”
can cause confusion here. I do not mean content in the sense that consciousness holds an
“immanent object” or an image, idea, construct, or sign within its grasp. Rather, the content
o f an act is a part o f consciousness itself, what about the act makes it o f this object. It can be
thought o f as a process, activity, or property o f consciousness, and that process, activity, or
property directs the act toward the world, giving it its specific intentional character, that is,
it’s “aboutness” and “ofness” toward a certain object. This differs fundamentally from the
constructivist approach in that it does not proffer an intermediary construction or
representation that stands as a screen between ourselves and the world. Instead, it posits that
consciousness is a type o f act, which— by the very nature o f its structure (which includes its
content)— grants us access to the world.
It is ju st this difficulty o f describing and understanding the m eaning o f content that
has perhaps led philosophers (and certainly laypersons) to confuse the “ing” and “ed” o f
mental acts. It is also the project o f describing and understanding the m eaning o f content that
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is at the center o f H usserl’s phenomenology. In summary, then, the presentational theory o f
consciousness is the view that consciousness can directly know or apprehend the world. This
view is the very same as what I have called the act theory o f consciousness (as contrasted
with its opposite, the object theory). The act theory posits ideas to be the “ing” side o f the
“ing” versus “ed” dyad. That is, an idea is that which allows us to apprehend the world, not
that which is apprehended. These matters have been important to attend to, for the reason
that the object theory o f consciousness is a form o f representationalism, a
representationalism that is fatally flawed (because it is both solipsistic and self-
contradictory). Only a presentationalist view, a direct realism can lead us out o f this
problem. Findlay explained, “Realistic theory has strengthened our insight in one most
important respect: we are no longer tem pted to confuse the experiences which we live
through with the objects, physical, mental, or idea, which are presented to us by their m eans”
(Findlay, 1963, p. 1).
The Inadmissibility o f Experiential Monism
The confusion we have explored above has not been deplored by all philosophers.
Some— most prominently W illiam James— have argued that it is this confusion which would
lead us to a more perfect understanding were we to develop it more assiduously. Thus, Jam es
would sharply criticize Findlay for claiming the following intellectual victory for realism:
“An ‘idea’ as an inner process, as something which happens to us, has once and for all been
distinguished from an ‘idea’ as the term which stands before our thought” (Findlay, 1963,
p. 1). A more perfect understanding, to James, is the notion that experience is monistic in the
following way: that which knows or is knowing (the act half o f our dichotomy) is the same
as that which is known (the object half). Jam es’s writes:
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Experience, I believe, has no such inner duplicity [between act and object]; and the
separation o f it into consciousness [act] and content [object] comes, not by way o f
subtraction, but by way o f addition— the addition, to a given concrete piece o f it, o f
other sets o f experiences. (James, 1912/1938, p. 9)
But if this is the case, if experience is both consciousness (the act) and content (the object o f
that act), then how can we explain the seemingly sound assumption that the two are indeed
distinguishable. James defends his position thusly:
My thesis is that if we start with the supposition that there is only one primal stuff or
material in the world, a stuff o f which everything is composed, and if we call that
stuff ‘pure experience,’ then knowing can easily be explained as a particular sort o f
relation towards one another into which portions o f pure experience may enter. The
relation itself is a part o f pure experience; one o f its ‘term s’ becomes the subject or
bearer o f the knowledge, the knower, the other becomes the object known. (James,
1912/1938, p. 4)
Jam es’s experiential monism goes directly against the dualistic conception o f
consciousness (as consisting o f an experiencing and an experienced) that we illustrated in
Figures 3 and 4 above. He collapses idea as act (the “by which”) with idea as object (the
“that which”), and because he believes our experience warrants this, he celebrates the
confusion o f the two— introduced, he believes, by the British empiricist. He writes,
The entering wedge for this more concrete way o f understanding the dualism was
fashioned by Locke when he made the word ‘idea’ stand indifferently for thing
[object] and thought [act], and by Berkeley when he said that what common sense
means by realities [objects] is exactly what the philosopher means by ideas [acts
melded with objects]. Neither Locke nor Berkeley thought his truth out into perfect
clearness, but it seems to me that the conception I am defending does little more
than consistently carry out the ‘pragm atic’ method which they were the first to use.
(James, 1912/1938, p. 10)
Jam es’s work is commendable. He is attempting to eradicate two dualisms: firstly, that
between the representation and the represented, and secondly, that between act and object.
Lovejoy characterizes the problem to be solved: “The perceived object is by hypothesis ‘out
there,’ yet it is also in some fashion ‘in’ the mind; and the problem thereupon arose how an
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identical thing could occupy both positions” (Lovejoy, 1960, p. 56). And Jam es similarly
writes:
Throughout the history o f philosophy the subject and its object have been treated as
absolutely discontinuous entities; and thereupon the presence o f the latter to the
former, or the “apprehension” by the former o f the latter, has assumed a paradoxical
character which all sorts o f theories had to be invented to overcome. Representative
theories put a mental “representation,” “image,” or “content” into the gap, as a sort
o f intermediary. (James, 1912/1938, p. 52)
[T]he whole philosophy o f perception from Democritus’s time downwards has been
just one long wrangle over the paradox that what is evidently one reality should be
in two places at once, both in outer space and in a person’s mind (James, 1912/1938,
p. 11)
Representationalism attempts to answer this question by allowing for the dualism o f
an object seen (phenomenon) and a real object in the world (noumena). The phenom enon is
dubbed a “representation” for the simple reason that it is supposed to “re”-present the
noumena. James correctly realized that representationalism could not suffice, not only for
the reasons we have reviewed above (its solipsism and skepticism), but also because “the
reader’s sense o f life, which knows no intervening mental image, but seems to see the room
and the book ju st as they physically exist” (James, 1912/1938, p. 12). But in eradicating the
epistemological dualism inherent in representationalism, Jam es’s view also eradicates the
“act-object,” “knower-known,” or “subject-object” dualism inherent within
presentationalism, and this latter result is what is so troubling. Jam es’s dism issal o f this
dualism seems unwarranted. We will later touch upon Jam es’s experiential monism from a
phenomenological perspective as suggested by H usserl’s philosophy, but for the m ean time,
Jam es’s view is worth some preliminary examination.
In his attem pt to explain his experiential monism, James com pares the knowing and
the known o f consciousness to two lines which intersect and thereby become one at the point
o f intersection. He then invites his reader to imagine entering a room. I enter the room, he
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argues, and experience it not as a “knower” or an “I” that knows or experiences a room, but
rather as an experience (my consciousness) that intersects with another experience, (the
experience o f the room). He explains, “As a room, the experience has occupied that spot and
had that environment for 30 years. As your field o f consciousness it may never have existed
until now” (James, 1912/1938, p. 14). But this is hardly an intuitive account. It asserts that in
every moment that I enter the experience which is the room, I and the room intersect to
become one and the same. But if we are one and the same, then I must therefore be the room,
and the room me, and if this is the case, the room could ju st as well walk away from me, as I
from it. Certainly this proffers a bizarre metaphysics, one that hardly matches our everyday
experience o f rooms. But also reflect upon this result o f Jam es’s theory: my room must be
able to experience me, as I experience it, and this is not an attribute that any sound-minded
person would be willing to grant to rooms. O f course, Jam es’s theory would not be true ju st
o f rooms, but also o f pencils, clouds, specks o f dust, and so on. All o f us, in Jam es’s odd
universe, intersect into the same “being” when we cross one another’s paths. Thus, we
might— on Jam es’s account— walk away from the experience o f an object as that very
object. James has no answer for why this does not happen.
James him self is not unaware o f this troubles with his theory. He remarks that
though he has collapsed the knowing and the known, there still seems to be a difference
between the two. Calling the knowing that which is mental, and the known that which is real,
James comments:
M ental fire is what w on’t burn real sticks; mental water is what w on’t necessarily
(though o f course it may) put out even a mental fire. M ental knives may be sharp,
but they w on’t cut real w ood.... W ith “real” objects, on the contrary, consequences
always accrue; and thus the real experiences get sifted out from the mental ones, the
things [the known] from our thoughts o f them [the knowing]. (James, 1912/1938,
p. 33)
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In this passage, James seems to have adm itted a dualism. In another essay, however, he
argues that knower and known, act and object are “the self-same piece o f experience taken
twice over in different contexts” (James, 1912/1938, p. 53). If indeed act and object, mental
and real, are the same, how could it be that mental water does not have the same attributes as
real water? If act and object are truly identical, the “self-same” as Jam es’s has argued, then
mental water should be quite the same— in all its attributes— as real water. But James—
perhaps realizing the absurdity o f his own claims, though never adm itting this— flatly states
that mental water has very different properties from real water. Lovejoy remarks,
The final outcome o f Jam es’s reasoning on the m atter is thus a com plete relapse into
the dualism from which he set out to escape. But o f this he does not seem to have
been clearly aware; he apparently continued to believe that by means o f the simple
analogy o f the point at the intersection o f two lines he had justified the belief in the
numerical identity o f percepts and concepts with the physical objects they disclose.
(Lovejoy, 1960, p. 59)
Jam es’s experiential monism, then, is untenable. If it tries to remain a monism, it
requires a fantastical metaphysics in which knowers and rooms merge into the self-same
beings. Yet if it admits o f the distinction between mental and real water, it reverts to the very
dualism it attempted to escape. We can now appreciate Husserl’s position on the matter. He
wrote, "It is then evident that intuition and the intuited, perception and the thing perceived,
though essentially related to each other, are in principle and of necessity not really (reel!)
and essentially one and united" (Husserl, 1913/1962, p. 117).
A Comment on Dualism
In dism issing Jam es’s experiential monism, we return to the act-object dualism o f
presentationalism or direct realism as illustrated in Figures 3 and 4 above. Though there
indeed may be some dualisms that we best avoid— for example, that o f epistemological
dualism (i.e., representationalism)— it does not follow that all dualisms are inherently
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problematic. This may seem a controversial assertion considering the philosophical climate
o f our century, which in Lovejoy’s words can be characterized by “a sort o f general
dyophobia” (Lovejoy, 1960, p. 33), that is, fear o f dualism. W hat has engendered this
antipathy toward dualism may be explained by many causes, one o f which is the justifiable
affinity o f science for explanatory elegance. Writes Lovejoy,
The primary, and almost conclusive, objection to dualism ... for many men o f
science, is simply that it is dualistic. It is, on its face, a negation o f that assumption
o f the eventual unifiability o f our understanding o f things, the continuity and
fundamental homogeneity o f nature.... (Lovejoy, 1960, p. 43)
But science surely cannot be justified in demanding the numerical identity o f that which is
distinguishable. Collapsing categories is only helpful if observations affirm that the
categories in question can truly be collapsed!
Another likely cause o f contemporary “dyophobia”— one more central to our
inquiry— is the morass o f confusions that dualisms have generated, these confusions being o f
the very sort we reviewed above. Philosophers and scientists, failing to distinguish between
varying types o f dualisms, have believed that in being opponents o f the one, they are equal
opponents o f the others. But we should be careful not to confuse our dualisms, and it might
be wise that we distinguish at least three o f them immediately. Two o f these three have
already come under our scrutiny: act-object dualism (often referred to as subject-object
dualism) and epistemological dualism (or, as we have named it, representationalism).
The third dualism, probably the most infamous, has been confusingly described as
that between mind and body. This Cartesian dualism, which asserts a dyadic world o f
psychical (i.e., mental or immaterial) and physical substances, is often confused with
epistemological dualism, for the simple reason that proponents o f it— Descartes being the
most regarded— often associate mental representations with the immaterial and objects with
the material. But such associations are not logically necessary. The tw o dualisms—
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representation-represented and immaterial-material— might operate separately, and should
thus be judged independently. In other words, representations might be immaterial or they
might be material, but traditional empiricism theory o f epistemological dualism does not
assert one over the other. Lovejoy explains,
It is important to bear in mind that the argument for the one sort o f dualism is thus
independent o f the other.... The historical fact that both dualisms converged in
seventeenth-century philosophy in the hypothesis o f “ideas” (in the Cartesian and
Lockian sense) has blurred the distinction between the two issues, and has caused
attacks upon both doctrines to be often made with weapons effective (if effective at
all) only against one or the other o f them. (Lovejoy, 1960, p. 32)
Our initial concern in reviewing experiential monism was not to make any assertions
about mind-body (i.e., immaterial-material) dualism, but rather to argue that Jam es’s
monism is a counterintuitive and philosophically troubling attack on act-object dualism.
W hat is most troubling about it is that it denies an apparently fundamental observation, as
here expressed by Gabriel Marcel: “Every kind o f awareness is essentially awareness o f
something other than itself’ (Marcel, 1950). M arcel’s words are carefully chosen, and they
are a pithy, even poetic, rendering o f the essential disunity between act and object.23
Husserl’s Phenomenology
W e are now prepared, having reviewed several preliminary concerns, to return to
H usserl’s response to the philosophical inconsistencies and contradictions o f skepticism and
methodism, especially as instanced in traditional empiricism. This response was, in its first
move, a self-conscious exit from the epistemological problem o f the wheel, made through
23 Jean-Paul Sartre, one o f Marcel’s brethren existentialists, was alluding to the same observation about
awareness when he wrote that man is a being “who is what he is not and who is not what he is” (emphasis added;
as quoted in the translator's introduction to Sartre, 1956, p. xxii). O f course, Sartre’s language was intended to
deteriorate the disunity between act and object made clear by Marcel, for Sartre wanted to re-entertain James’s
monism. In the end, Sartre seems to be in agreement with James, believing than man is at once awareness and
what that awareness is of.
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the portal o f particularism. The threshold o f this portal demands a response to the question:
“W hat do we know?” Husserl, as we discussed in our initial examination o f his method,
formulated this question in term s o f the possibility o f cognition. He asked, “How can we be
sure that cognition accords with things as they exist in themselves, that it ‘gets at them ’?”
(Husserl, 1973a, p. 1). Having raised this question means that we are in no position to make
any statements o f knowledge. N o arguments are justified. And, o f course, this means that all
o f the preliminary concerns that we have reviewed must be themselves questioned, to be
taken up only after we have answered the preliminary and originary challenge: “W hat do we
know?” We must, for example, excuse from the realm o f the known H usserl’s statements
about metaphysics and its relation to epistemology. We cannot yet agree with him that the
natural sciences are inadmissible. We cannot be certain that representationalism, nor the
kindred doctrine o f constructivism, are fatally flawed; and we cannot be sure that direct
realism, that is, presentationalism, is our only path to knowledge. Husserl writes,
At the outset o f the critique o f cognition the entire world o f nature, physical and
psychological, as well as one’s own human self together with all the sciences which
have to do with these objective matters, are put in question. Their being, their
validity are left up in the air. (Husserl, 1973a, p. 22)
We must set all aside and return to the concerns we have introduced only after Husserl has
convincingly asserted, “This we can know.”
A Cartesian Genesis
What, then, did Husserl propose that we know? W hat is indubitable? In the grip o f
his critique o f cognition, and the skepticism o f all knowledge that obtains from it, Husserl
invoked Descartes. “Here,” he asserted, “the Cartesian method o f doubt provides a starting
point.” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 1). Indeed, Husserl relied so heavily on Descartes initial
philosophical moves that he dubbed his methodology “a neo-Cartesianism” (Husserl, 1960,
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p. 1)24 |-[e explained, “Reflecting on the m ultifarious possibilities o f error and deception, I
might reach such a degree o f sceptical despair that I finally say: Nothing is certain,
everything is doubtful” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 23). All appeared to be lost, but inspired by
Descartes, Husserl reflected upon ju st this state o f affairs, this bottomless doubt, and
responded:
But it is at once evident that not everything is doubtful, for while I am judging that
everything is doubtful, it is indubitable that I am so judging; and it would be absurd
to want to persist in a universal doubt. (Husserl, 1973a, p. 23).
Husserl had provided, at long last, the genesis o f his particularism: We can know that we
doubt, and this is indubitable. But Husserl was not merely asserting the logical conclusion
that to doubt one must, quite obviously, doubt! Yes, this is true, but even though it is (and in
fact, we might doubt its truth if we are indeed holding cognition itself up to question), this
logical conclusion, this seeming tautology— that to doubt requires doubting— does not
establish that we are, in fact, doubting. The true essence o f Husserl’s phenomenological
finding is this: we directly witness that we are doubting, and this direct witnessing is
indubitable. Two observations are included in this deceptively simple particularism: one, we
directly observe that we doubt (or one m ight say, we observe that we doubt); and two, we
observe that we observe this. This statement is paralleled by the following com m ent from
Hobson, a neurophysiologist:
From the crucial point at which my brain has an entirely self-contained but
externally referrenced vision, it is but one small step for my brain to step back and
contemplate its own activated state. In doing so, not only is my brain seeing things,
it is seeing that it is seeing things. It is fully conscious. (1999, p. 12)
24 Husserl clarifies, however, that he does not adopt Descartes’s philosophy in his entirety. He writes, “[0 ]n e
might almost call transcendental phenomenology a neo-Cartesianism, even though it is obliged— and precisely by
its radical development o f Cartesian motifs— to reject nearly all the well-known doctrinal content o f the Cartesian
philosophy” (Husserl, 1960, p. 1). He also warns that in the process o f developing his “quasi-Cartesian”
philosophy, “Seductive aberrations, into which Descartes and later thinkers strayed, will have to be clarified and
avoided as we pursue our course” (Husserl, 1960, p. 6).
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And, I m ight add, it is fully consciousness that it is fully conscious. It is, indeed, the
observing o f the observing that gives us the indubitability that we have been so tediously
searching for. It is this very “seeing” that proves to us, against the threat o f radical
skepticism, that cognition can reach its object, for in the case o f doubt, we witness that we
doubt, and— even more importantly— we witness the witnessing o f the doubt.
It is not merely the cognitive act o f doubting that we can now admit to our
metaphysics (and I use the term metaphysics simply to point out that our particularism now
admits o f at least two kinds o f entities: doubting and the witnessing o f doubting). All
cognitive acts can be admitted. Husserl writes,
Howsoever I perceive, imagine, judge, infer, howsoever these acts may be certain or
uncertain, whether or not they have objects that exist as far as the perceiving itself is
concerned, it is absolutely clear and certain that I am perceiving this or that, and as
far as the judgm ent is concerned that I am judging o f this or that, etc. (Husserl,
1973a, p. 23)
We thus now have grounds to admit into our epistemology and m etaphysics at least a
nascent presentationalism (i.e., a nascent direct realism) as illustrated in Figure 3. Let us
review that diagram below, but add to it precisely w hat our investigations have revealed to
this point: that we “see” doubt (and all other mental acts) and that we “see” that we “see”
these.
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Figure 5. Cartesian Presentationalism
A conscious act is of this object
--------------- ► ( the act o f doubting )
--------------- ► ^ ► the act o f doubting )
Husserl has finally achieved a definitive answer for the skeptic who asks, “How can
we know that we know?” His elegant response, along Cartesian lines, is this: in doubting, we
know that we doubt, we “see” or witness this. That we doubt, then, is indubitable, and
likewise for all mental acts. Husserl writes: “Every intellectual process and indeed every
mental process whatever, while being enacted, can be made the object o f a pure ‘seeing’ and
understanding, and is something absolutely given in this ‘seeing’” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 24).
And if the skeptic retorts, “But it is precisely the “seeing” that is in question, so how can you
trust that you have seen?” To this, Husserl can only repeat himself: “We can ‘see’ that we
‘see,’ or, to put it differently, we witness directly, self-evidently, and indubitably that our
cognition reaches its object.” If our skeptic does not remit, then Husserl is left only to throw
up his hands. He explains this response in detail, as it is not at all uncommon for those who
have attempted to refute the skeptic:
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[T]o deny self-givenness in general is to deny every ultimate norm, every basic
criterion which gives significance to cognition [knowing]. But in that case one
would have to construe everything as illusion, and, in a nonsensical way, also take
illusion as such to be an illusion; and so one would altogether relapse into the
absurdities o f scepticism. However, it is obvious that the only one who can argue in
this way against the sceptic is the man who ‘sees’ the ultimate basis o f knowledge,
who is willing to assign a significance to ‘seeing,’ inspecting evidence. W hoever
does not see or will not see, who talks and argues, but always remains at the place
where he accepts all conflicting points o f view and at the same time denies them all,
there is nothing we can do with him. W e cannot answer: “obviously” it is the case.
For he denies that there is any such thing as “obviously.” It is as if a blind man
wished to deny that there is any such thing as seeing, or still better, as if one who has
sight wished to deny that he him self sees and that there is any such thing as seeing.
How could we convince him, assuming that he has no other mode o f perception?
(Husserl, 1973, p. 49)
Husserl has shown, by means o f a Cartesian genesis, that we can witness the mental
act, the act o f cognition or o f knowing, and in this witnessing, we “see” that cognition— at
least in the limited instances o f intellectual activities— reaches its object. Husserl has finally
achieved the clarity he has yearned for. With absolutely certainty he can answer his initial
concern: “How can we be sure that cognition accords with things as they exist in themselves,
that it ‘gets at them ’?” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 1). We can be sure, because we can actually
witness its occurrence. Husserl writes, “Phenomenology, as a disclosure o f the world, rests
on itself, or rather provides its own foundation" (Husserl, 1973b, p. 87).
Evidenz
With this Cartesian move, Husserl has addressed the particularist question: W hat do
we know? We can now examine the o f knowledge we have attained and attem pt to
understand its character. One crucial character o f this knowledge is that it carries a sense o f
certainty to it, which arises not from dogmatic theorizing, but from the witnessing o f a
presence that appears obvious and unquestionable. Repeated inspection confirms this
obviousness. Indeed, the “obvious” character resides in the witnessing itself, it is “lived
through.” Husserl employs several terms and phrases to convey the obvious character o f this
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experience o f knowing. He speaks, for example o f “pure intuition;” he points to the
“primordial dator act,” the “self-evident,” the “given,” or the “purely self-given.” Husserl is
not original in attempting to characterize this quality o f witnessing the obvious. Descartes
spoke o f “clear and distinct” ideas, and Hume o f “vivid impressions.”
All o f these terms refer to the same type o f experience. The main term Husserl uses
to depict this experience is “Evidenz,” a German word meaning nearly the same as the
English “evidence.” Sokolowski refines this rough translation,
In phenomenology, however, “evidence” takes on the sense o f the verbal form,
“evidencing.” It is the bringing about o f truth, the bringing forth o f a presence. It is a
performance and an achievement. Evidence is the activity o f presenting an identity
in a manifold, the articulation o f a state o f affairs, or the verification o f a
proposition. It is the achieving o f truth [emphasis added]. (Sokolowski, 2000,
p . 160)
One can see straight away that in H usserl’s phenomenology, Evidenz is o f m ajor import. It is
the establishing o f a truth, but not one that m ust be accepted on dogmatic grounds. Rather, it
is a truth open to anyone willing to experience it— that is, live through it— and it can be
made present as obvious only upon this simple process.
M einong also employed the term Evidenz in a way similar to Husserl. Findlay
explains M einong’s usage, and where Findlay speaks o f judgm ents, we could ju st as well use
the phrase “mental acts:”
The evidence which accompanies certain judgm ents, e.g., the judgm ents passed on
our own contemporary mental states, or on certain ideal objects, such as numbers, is
clearly a property o f experiences, not o f their objects. To describe this property is
very difficult; one may regard it, rather unsatisfactorily, as a sort o f compulsion
which certain circumstances exercise upon our judgm ents, or we may say that
something leuchtet uns ein. ‘bursts on us with a flood o f light’. In whatever the
essence o f evidence may lie, it is clearly something which we live through, and
which is ultimately the only testimony by which a fact can show us that it is a fact.
(Findlay, 1963, p. 33)
O f utmost importance in adequately comprehending the notion o f Evidenz is the realization
that it demands and justifies a presentational or direct access theory o f consciousness. The
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object is there before us, unfiltered, unadulterated. We “see” that we doubt. It is simply there
in its “fullness.” One can understand why Husserl spoke o f it as “prim ordial,” “self-evident,”
and “purely self-given.” All o f these phrases insist upon the direct presence o f the truth, and
upon the ability o f our mental acts to reach that truth. “[I]ntuition,” writes Sokolowski, “is
simply having the object actually present to u s ...” (Sokolowski, 2000, p. 35). This is also
what could be called apodictic knowledge. As Ihde explains Husserl’s phenomenology,
"Apodictic here means simply that, that which is present, is present in such a way that it
shows itself as certainly present" (Ihde, 1986, p. 33). We can know such objects, then, as
they really are. And as we have repeatedly stated, we witness that we know them in this way.
To deny this, is to feign a certain “blindness.” It would be, to repeat H usserl’s words, “ .. .as
if one who has sight wished to deny that he him self sees and that there is any such thing as
seeing” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 49).
From Particularism to a M ethod That Is N ot M ethodic
W e have so far achieved an answer to the question, “W hat do we know?” W e have
realized that we can witness certain truths (the truth, for example, that we doubt) and that
this witnessing contains the quality o f Evidenz, a way that it “bursts on us with a flood o f
light” (Findlay, 1963, p. 33). We can now take up the second question o f Chisholm ’s wheel,
“How are we to decide whether we know?”— that is, “W hat are the criteria o f knowledge?”
(Chisholm, 1973, p. 12). Our first criterion is simply that to count as knowledge, an
experience must have this quality o f “Evidenz.” Husserl writes,
The “existence” o f the cogitatio [Latin, for a particular mental act] is guaranteed by
its absolute self-givenness. by its givenness in pure evidence (Evidenz). W henever
we have pure evidence (Evidenz), the pure viewing and grasping o f something
objective directly and in itself [i.e., as a presentation, not a “re”-presentation], we
have the same guarantees, the same certainties. (Husserl, 1973a, p. 6)
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Thus, any prospective truth which we hope to establish as knowledge must be “self-given.”
In essence, then, we must be able to “view” and “grasp” that truth. We must be able to
examine it, and in so doing bring it forth as fully present such that we directly and
incontrovertibly “see” it. All prospective truth which is unexamined or which fails to m eet
this standard because it cannot be brought into the grasp o f our “seeing,” must be set aside,
and we can only remain agnostic toward it. This, then, is our method or procedure, as it
stands in its infancy. It is simple, yet certain. This is how we can address the riddle o f the
wheel in its dual-pronged challenge: W e have something we know, and from that we have
established a criterion for knowing.
The criteria we have established, this procedure o f “pure seeing,” must not be
mistaken as a rationalism, that is, as a call for reason and logic to determine knowledge.
True, our newfound procedure does not preclude reason and logic (and in a mom ent we will
explore whether reason and logic can them selves be “purely seen”), but for the m eantim e our
foundation does not rest upon these grounds. Rather, our procedure is an experiential one
that calls for us to “live through” our mental acts and to determine whether they indeed reach
the truth, the realm o f Evidenz. I emphasize these points for two reasons. One, I wish to call
into question the charge o f idealism that has so often been brought against Husserl. As we
shall see later in our inquiry, there are yet other reasons for Husserl to be labeled an idealist,
but at least up to our current juncture, such a label is unwarranted. Two, I want to distinguish
the procedure or method that Husserl has established from the m ethodologies that are today
taken for granted in the natural and social sciences. Those methodologies, though often self-
proclaimed as “empirical,” nonetheless proceed along rationalistic lines. Their evidence is
less that which is lived through, as we have here established it, and m ore that which is given
by procedures such as experiments, surveys, and so on. The results o f this research are then
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used, much as a geometer would use the axioms o f geometry, and thereby proofs are
established. Sokolowski characterizes and criticizes this position:
In this view, we do not know anything until we have proved it; we demand a proof
for everything. Evidencing alone, therefore, does not present truth. To put it another
way, there is no such thing as evidencing. The only source for truth is proof.
This claim reflects the belief that truth is reached by means o f methodic procedures.
Nothing is directly presented to us, but we can reach truths by reasoning to them.
Descartes appealed to such method at the beginning o f modernity, and he thought
that method could replace insight The confidence in m ethod is part o f the
rationalism o f modernity. It lies behind the trust we have in large-scale research
projects that promise to discover the truths we need to make life easier and better.
The authority o f the wise or intelligent person is replaced by the method-driven
project sponsored by government, industry, or the academy. (Sokolowski, 2000,
p. 165)
Though Husserl has established a procedure, it is not, to use Sokolow ski’s words, a
“methodic procedure.” A methodic procedure would be a criterion or set o f criteria
established along the lines o f what Chisholm described as methodism. Traditional
empiricism is such a methodic procedure, for it asserts a criterion— that knowledge is that
which is sense perceptible and measurable— but does so arbitrarily, with no grounds for this
criterion. (And worse, as we have observed, the criterion is embarrassingly self-negating.)
H usserl’s phenomenology, however, first seeks grounding in something we know,
and finds that grounding in our awareness (that is, our knowledge) o f our own mental states.
True, this provides a given o f sorts, but it is a given that is lived through, that is directly
experienced, rather than one arbitrarily determined or merely reasoned about. Traditional
empiricism believes that the givens it asserts— those that derive from empirical studies— are
equally nonarbitrary. In a certain sense empiricism is correct, but empiricism has not
challenged itself thoroughly. Though its givens, as found through empirical methods, are not
arbitrary (in the sense that they are based on a certain method or criterion), that criterion
itself is arbitrary, and thus all that is discovered or found by means o f it, is tainted with
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arbitrariness and dubiousness. W hat Husserl claims to discover and find as knowledge (that
we can witness our own mental states) is not subject to a methodic procedure, but rather is
present in our direct observation, in our lived intuition o f the immediate moment.
"Phenomenology,” explains Lauer, “is what it is because it neither seeks nor accepts
evidence other than that offered by consciousness itself' (Lauer, 1965, p. 68).
A Review o f Our Progress
We have now arrived at our new methodology, Husserl’s phenomenology. Certainly,
we have passed only through the entryway o f Husserl’s entire program, and there is much
more to explore, not least o f which is the possibility that cognition can transcend itself (for
we have heretofore established only that it can surely find itself). But before we pass into the
further reaches o f phenomenology, let us first reflect upon what has been gained, for it is no
small advancement.
Traditional Empiricism and Conscious Awareness
In setting out to find a new methodology, we introduced three main goals as our aim.
First, we were in need o f a methodology that would allow us to confirm our suspicions
regarding traditional empiricism, whose assumptions are largely responsible for the failure
o f modem psychological research to provide an explanation o f what a therapy relationship
is. Concurrent with our concerns regarding traditional empiricism, we set a second goal o f
discovering a methodology that would allow us to get “to the bottom o f things,” that is, to
question the very assumption that experience (taken as awareness, consciousness, or
intentionality) m ight be a proper or possible foundation o f knowledge. If a m ethodology
were able to address these two challenges, then we would continue onward to our third goal,
that o f examining the several constituents o f personal relations as identified in our
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preliminary study in Chapter 4. These included consciousness itself, “bare” relations,
feelings, and the awareness o f awareness.
It is our first two goals which I have satisfactorily attained and the third whose
achievement I will postpone until 1 have further developed our phenomenological method.
Let us quickly review exactly how we have secured these first two goals. In doing so, I must
begin with the second o f these two goals, for our first goal— that o f scrutinizing traditional
empiricism— can only be embarked upon once we have achieved a reliable method o f
scrutiny. Our second goal, to our great fortune, has been carefully secured by our invocation
o f Cartesian doubt. We have established that at least in some limited realm, experience can
be trusted. There are some things we know, and these most certainly include (1) that we have
mental acts and (2) that we are able to witness or “evidence” these mental acts in “pure
intuition,” in self-evident “seeing.” With this established, we can now scrutinize the four
assumptions o f traditional empiricism as we identified them. They included first, the
reduction o f experience to sense experience; second, the further reduction o f sense
experience to isolated perceptions; third; the refusal to admit o f the existence o f relations
(and thereby the existence o f identity, the self, and intentionality); and fourth, the yet further
reduction o f isolated perceptions to perceptions o f mathematically characterizable qualities.
If we take as veritable the evidence that our Cartesian path has granted us— that is,
the mental acts that are self-given in our reflections— then we most definitely m ust annul the
four assumptions o f traditional empiricism. The first assumption we can eliminate on the
grounds that our awareness o f mental acts (such as doubt) is not a sense experience. It cannot
be touched, heard, smelled, felt, or seen. The second assumption succumbs to our reflections
that awareness o f mental states does not proceed as a progression o f isolated events. Rather,
that awareness flows, such that one thought passes into the next, and that into the next, and
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no disjunction is apparent between them. James, criticizing the predilection o f traditional
empiricism “to do away with the connections o f things, and to insist m ost on the
disjunctions” (James, 1912/1938, p. 43), describes this continuity that is apodictically
present when we reflect upon our mental states. Our mental acts follow one another and vary
as we progress through changing states o f mind, but these states are hardly isolated or
discontinuous. James explains, “change itself is one o f the things im mediately experience.
‘Change’ in this case means continuous as opposed to discontinuous transition. But
continuous transition is one sort o f a conjunctive relation” (James, 1912/1938, pp. 47-48).
Traditional em piricism ’s third assumption collapses on the grounds that in
witnessing ourselves witnessing, we thereby are aware o f the relation between our m ental act
and its object. It would be absurd, then, to doubt the existence o f relations. The fourth
assumption we must abolish for the reason that we are simply unable to measure our
thoughts, yet as we have discussed, they indubitably fall within the field o f our experience.
In this brief evaluation o f traditional empiricism, we have rescinded four o f its main tenets,
and in so doing have dismantled the whole o f traditional empiricism.
M etaphysics, the Natural Sciences, and Representational ism
Before launching H usserl’s phenomenology, I reviewed several concerns that we
wished it to address, including the necessary relation between metaphysics and
epistemology, the inadmissibility o f natural science, and the speciousness o f
representationalism. All o f these we took up before we had yet affirm ed a grounding for our
methodology, but at this juncture, with our prefatory foundation confirmed, we should
review each o f these matters to confirm or deny our original proclamations. W ith regards to
representationalism, we have already addressed this in passing when we discussed the
nascent presentationalism available in Husserl’s Cartesian genesis. Representationalism
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argues that all knowing occurs through intermediaries, but as we depicted in Figure 5 above,
we now know o f at least one kind o f knowing that is not representational: the knowing o f our
own mental acts. With regards to metaphysics, we asserted that any theory o f knowledge
would necessarily provide a complimentary theory o f being. This has been confirmed by our
Cartesian genesis. We have discovered, in the course o f establishing our epistemology, an
ontology comprised o f at least three existents: mental acts, the objects o f such acts, and the
relations that hold between them. W ith regards to the natural sciences, I forewarned that in
critiquing cognition, we necessarily could not adm it any o f its proclaimed truths. W hat
natural science has vaunted as its findings could not pierce our Cartesian skepticism, for we
had yet to affirm cognition’s powers. But having now affirmed its powers, at least in terms
o f a preliminary ontology (o f acts, objects, and relations), we find natural science to be
curiously lacking. W hether or not the reality contains measurable and quantifiable things we
have yet to establish, but that it certainly contains more than these we have. To establish this,
we need merely examine our ontology, containing, as it does, mental acts, the objects o f
mental acts, and the relations between these, none o f which are quantifiable or measurable.
The Transcendent
Our phenomenological method, still in its embryonic stage, has granted us an
ontology o f the immanent. W e have affirmed the existence o f cognition, and have done so by
looking “inward” to find, in pure “seeing,” the acts which exist within cognition. We have
thus affirmed that cognition can reach itself. It is self-transparent, and through a certain
performance o f introspection can make itself known. This known realm o f the immanent,
which our inquiry has confirmed, is the realm o f appearances, that is, o f objects that appear
to our awareness. The Greek word for appearance is “phainomenon,” and thus we derive the
term “phenomenon.” Our methodology, then, is the study o f phenomenon, and thereby
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dubbed “phenomenology.” This study is welcoming o f subjective states. W hereas in
traditional empiricism such ghosts were ostracized, in Husserl’s phenom enology they are
cordially invited in for examination. M urray writes that “at the turn o f the century, there
existed considerable controversy over whether subjectively experienced states o f
consciousness should be integrated into a scientific framework and, if so, how” (M urray,
Kilgour, & W asylkiw, 2000, p. 423). This problem does not remain for us. Indeed, we find
our situation reversed. W hat natural science has so doubted— the subjective realm— we
have witnessed indubitably, and what it has so treasured— the physical world— we have yet
to witness and affirm.
We have, in essence, H usserl’s acclaimed phenomenological reduction, whereby we
adopt an agnostic attitude toward all objects o f study outside the realm o f immanence.
Toward phenomena— the appearances within our cognition— we discard any such
agnosticism (though traditional empiricism would be against us in this), and we study our
appearances adopting the standards o f rigor that any reputable science would. Our foremost
standard o f rigor, the one we have established by means o f our Cartesian reflections, is that
o f Evidenz. We adm it to knowledge anything that we experience as self-evident or purely
given in our witnessing o f phenomena. It is crucial to understand exactly what counts as
Evidenz, for it is not difficult to confuse matters at this point in our inquiry.
Let us, then, employ our very method o f phenomenology— as we have established it
to this point— for a brief phenomenological “experiment” to see if we might clarify what
counts as Evidenz and what does not, while also gaining some insight into understanding the
realm o f immanence (that is, the real o f the phenomenological reduction). One m ight be
tempted to believe that having made the phenomenological reduction, w e can now assert that
all phenomenon are real, but we have not actually established this, for the simple reason that
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it does not appear as self-evident that this is case. I invite the reader to attempt this feat at the
present moment and judge whether he or she agrees with me.
But to further illustrate this concern, we need merely reflect upon what a
phenomenon is. A phenomenon is an appearance— that is, that which appears to
consciousness (or cognition, or perception, or whatever mental act we m ight suggest). A
phenomenon, then, is also that which consciousness is “o f ’ or “about.” Let us take the
example o f thinking o f a tree. In this example, the phenomenon would be the tree, that is,
what is thought “o f ’ or “about.” A phenomenon, then, is an object o f consciousness, and as
such is the famous object which we reviewed both in our discussions o f the act and object
theories o f consciousness and our explication o f presentationalism (especially as depicted in
Figure 3 above). If we take Figure 3 and add to it our example o f consciousness o f a tree, we
have the following illustration.
Figure 6. Presentationalism (with a Tree)
W hat is evident to us, we m ight ask, in this phenomenological experience o f the tree,
o f which we are thinking? Or, to put it differently, what could count as Evidenz? According
to Husserl, what is self-evident, what is obvious or purely given, is that we are having the
A conscious act is o f this object
►
►
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experience o f thinking o f a tree. But what is not self-evident is that the tree actually exist.
Thus, to our body o f knowledge we can add the phenomenon o f “thinking o f a tree,” but we
cannot add that o f a tree. It is helpful here to examine the two experiences we are reviewing
(depicted in the Figure 7 below) and reflect upon the absence o f Evidenz in the first
experience (number 1 below) as compared with the presence o f it in the second (num ber 2).
Figure 7. Illustration o f Evidenz
W ith this experiment o f comparing conscious acts 1 and 2, above, we can contrast
an experience that contains Evidenz with one that does not. Now, though we have been
examining a conscious act o f “thinking o f ’ something (a tree), we could perform the same
phenomenological experiment using other conscious acts, such as that o f perceiving,
judging, hearing, touching, and so on. W hat we learn is not that all the objects o f our
consciousness are necessarily veridical, but that all the acts o f our consciousness are. We
know that conscious acts are veridical because o f their self-givenness, that is, their Evidenz.
Let me repeat what Husserl said on this point:
Howsoever I perceive, imagine, judge, infer, howsoever these acts may be certain or
uncertain, whether or not they have objects that exist as far as the perceiving itself is
concerned, it is absolutely clear and certain that I am perceiving this or that, and as
far as the judgm ent is concerned that I am judging o f this or that, etc. (Husserl,
A conscious act is of this object
1973a, p. 23)
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The point o f this experiment is to make clear not just what Evidenz is and is not, but also to
show that all phenomenon are not equally real. The objects o f our consciousness are not
granted existence merely because they are objects o f our consciousness. Even within our
phenomenological reduction— that is, within the realm o f the immanent— such phenomenon
may not exist! W hat do exist— and this our experience o f Evidenz has confirmed— are
conscious acts themselves. Other phenomenon, such as trees that we think of, see, touch,
judge, and so on, may or may not exist. Our experience o f them does not necessarily carry
with it Evidenz, and thus we may reasonable doubt their veracity.
We should have arrived, by this stage, at a clearer understanding o f what the realm
o f immanence contains. It certainly contains conscious acts. This we have affirmed. But it
does not certainly contain trees. In essence, then, we have affirmed the existence o f
experiences, but not the existence o f what our experiences are o f (except, o f course, when
our experiences are o f experiences). One might reasonably ask, what is this tree we think of,
then, if it does not exist? It must exist— this line o f argument continues— in some place or
another. This is an important matter, but is not yet essential to our inquiry. Suffice it so say,
that at our present juncture, we can neither affirm nor deny the existence o f such imagined
trees. O f the imagining, however, we are certain.
We now have a realm o f the immanent that we know to exist. We know that this
realm includes our conscious acts, but is there anything more within it? Furthermore, it is our
main goal to reach the objects that transcend this realm. These transcendentals are the things
that we wish to know about, for is not the therapy relationship one o f them, seeing that such
a relationship is not solely the experiencing that goes on within a single individual, however
important that experiencing may be. Though we have begun by establishing objects within
the immanent realm o f the phenomenological reduction, it is our true quest to affirm objects
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with the transcendent realm. Indeed, the transcendent realm is the true subject o f
phenomenology (thus its name, transcendental phenomenology). Many, however, have
misunderstood this and assumed that Husserl’s phenomenology remains within the circle o f
our ideas. Husserl him self explicitly stated: “[Tjranscendence is both the initial and the
central problem o f the critique o f cognition.” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 28). To understand how, or
if, transcendence is possible, we must fully explore the realm o f immanence to examine a
constituent o f that realm that is not a conscious act. That constituent is the essence. Husserl
posited essences as elemental to both immanence and transcendence.
Essences
The essence is the linchpin o f H usserl’s theory, for his phenom enology is the
“science o f the essential structures o f consciousness" (Polkinghome, 1983, p. 41). W ithout
essences, Husserl’s phenomenology disintegrates into rubble. This explains why he w ent to
such lengths to convince us o f the existence and importance o f essences, a feat which is
especially difficult because o f traditional science’s prejudice against essences. This prejudice
is also central to most postmodern and postpositivist scholarship, such that any theory that
hints o f “essentialism” (and the “foundationalism” it purports) is disregarded as m anifestly
problematic. Husserl’s phenomenology has been discounted on these grounds, and on the
grounds that in being founded on essences, it suffers the fate o f any rationalism or idealism
(Polkinghome, 1983; Velarde-M ayol, 2000). The existence o f essences is also central to this
dissertation, which is— in its core aspiration— an inquiry into the essence o f the therapy
relationship.
What, then, are essences, and do they in fact exist as possible objects o f our
phenomenological inquiry. The American Heritage Dictionary (19941 gives the following as
its first definition o f essence: “The intrinsic or indispensable properties that identify
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something” (p. 290). The Oxford American Dictionary ( 1980) offers this definition: “all that
makes a thing what it is, its nature” (p. 218) These definitions call to mind the ancient
distinction between essence and accident. Essences are those properties that make an entity
what it is. They are, so to speak, the defining marks o f an entity. “The essential properties o f
a thing,” explains Cleve, “ .. .are those o f its properties that it must have so long as it exists at
all; they are the properties that the thing would have in any possible world” (1995, p. 136).
The phrase “in any possible world” alludes to the mental and physical worlds, am ong other
things. “The accidental properties o f a thing, by contrast, are those o f its properties that it
could exist without” (Cleve, 1995, p. 136).
But this definition o f essence— though often the first to come to mind and the first
listed in many dictionaries— is not what Husserl means. Rather, his conception o f essence is
more fundamental, referring not to the essential/accidental dichotomy found between
properties, but to the properties themselves. Essences, then, are the very properties that
entities have, their qualities, the way that things can differ or agree, and thus accidental and
essential properties equally fall— in H usserl’s terminology— under the category o f essence.
In this usage, then, an essence is a universal as opposed to a particular. Essences are thus the
same as the universals that Plato referred to with such words as “forms” and “ideas.” As
such, an essence is an identity that can be shared by two individuals. A simple example is the
color red, which can be a constituent o f many objects at the same time, say a red piece o f
paper and a red soccer ball. The redness is common to both objects, it is a shared property
which grants the two objects a similarity (rather than a difference). The similarities and the
samenesses that universals (that is, essences) are able to grant particular objects thus allow
these objects to be grouped into categories or species. This explains why Husserl often uses
the words “category” or “species” to mean the very same thing as an essence or universal.
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Also, the quality o f universals that they are not, by their very nature, inextricably linked to
particular objects (or “individuals”), has granted them the appellation o f “ideas.” Ideas or
“ideal forms” are terms often used in contrast to the “real.” Here— at least in H usserl’s
usage— the term ideal does not denote a lack o f metaphysical existence, but rather is m eant
to distinguish that which is universal from that which is particular. The “real” then, is the
particular and individual, or what often is called the “empirical” or the “m atter o f fact.” The
“ideal” includes properties that can be shared by many particulars.
Nominalism
In scholastic philosophy, those who held, as Husserl does, that universals exist, were
labeled realists, and those who argued contrarily, were nominalists. The term nom inalism is
derived from the Latin “nom inalis,” meaning “pertaining to names.” Scholastic nominalism
(that is, “name-ism”) argued that the commonality (or universality) attributed to universals
existed not in the actual world but by means o f names, which are “capable o f referring to
many particular things” (Eberle, 1995, p. 358). In medieval philosophy, Roscelin and
Ockham held nominalistic position, asserting that “members o f a species had nothing in
common except the species-name that referred to each member” (Eberle, 1995, p. 359).
British empiricism, too, has been famous for its nominalistic leanings, which have basically
arisen out o f a tendency to reject abstract ideas— i.e., universals— and argue that these are
merely fictions arising from the terms we use, not from our empirical experience. “Hum e,”
explain Eberle, “held that particular ideas become ‘general’ due to associations o f term s with
similar stimuli” (Eberle, 1995, p. 360). Traditional empiricism, too, has adopted the view
that universals are not “o f the world,” but rather are the products o f the general term s we use,
or the categories we impose upon our sense experience. Interestingly, the lingual turn o f
postmodernism has adopted this very stance from traditional empiricism.
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H usserl’s Radical Empiricism
At stake in the realist-nominalist debate are two competing theories o f
consciousness. Realists claim that universals exist in the world and that human
understanding is quite capable o f grasping these objects. Nom inalists claim that universals
are mind-dependent, and thus exist as a product, or construction, o f our thinking, not as a
consequence o f a person-independent world. Nominalism, then, is a form o f
representationalism. It posits that when we experience a commonality between two objects
(say that both are horses, or that both are red), this commonality is a false object that stands
before the mind, not a real one present in the particulars before us.
The realist-nominalist debate speaks directly to phenomenology because it addresses
the nature o f our experience. Adler cogently summarizes the opposing views presented by
realism and nominalism:
Is the human mind a single cognitive power, however complex, one that involves the
functioning o f our senses and whatever follows from their functioning, such as
memory and imagination [essentially the position o f nominalism], or should the
human mind be divided into two quite distinct cognitive powers— sense and
everything to which sense gives rise, on the one hand, and intellect, able to
understand, judge, and reason, on the other hand? [essentially the position o f
realism] (Adler, 1985, p. 32)
Husserl believed that these opposing views could be tested by m eans o f his
phenomenological method. In its skeletal form, his argument was quite simple, and rested
upon his understanding o f Evidenz, as we have reviewed it. For the sake o f em phasis and
clarity, let me restate that view as given by tw o phenomenological theorists. "A
phenomenologist.” writes Velarde-M ayol, “only accepts what is given immediately to his
consciousness, which is the sphere o f evidence" (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 43). Cairns, a
student o f H usserl’s, explains, “No opinion is to be accepted as philosophical knowledge
unless it is seen to be adequately established by observation o f what is seen as itself given ‘in
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person’” (Cairns, 1973, p. 32). W ith this understanding o f the phenomenological method
clearly in mind, it is a small step to the observation that "what is im mediately given is not
only empirical experience but also intellectual experience” (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 44).
This simple but convincing argument deserves to be explored in detail because o f its
import for phenomenology. But before we do this, it is worthy to note that this argument
bears the “reformational” claims that Husserl described as inherent in his methodology. It is
the impetus for his radical break with traditional empiricism. Husserl may well have been
influenced by William Jam es in his proclamations (Taylor, 2000). James wrote: “To be
radical, an empiricism must neither admit into its constructions any element that is not
directly experienced, nor exclude from them any element that is directly experienced”
(James, 1912/1938, p. 42). Husserl believed his empiricism was radical exactly as Jam es had
suggested, for the reason that phenomenology— in including the witnessing (i.e., Evidenz) o f
universals— was more true to experience than traditional empiricism. Husserl, in his vision
o f a radically empirical phenomenology, was strongly influenced by his teacher, Brentano.
Brentano’s famous treatise, Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint, begins with this
statement:
The title I give to my book characterizes its subject m atter and its method. My
standpoint in psychology is empirical: Experience alone is my teacher. But I share
with others the conviction that a certain ideal intuition can be com bined with such a
standpoint. [Brentano, 1874/1973 #271]
Husserl very much intended to emphasize the fact that his revolutionary phenom enology
penetrated to the roots o f awareness and knowledge. Indeed, the word radical— coming as it
does from the Latin word “radix,” meaning root— can mean that which is fundamental and
basic.
Velarde-M ayol explains this same radicalization in terms o f positivism, a term
Husserl used synonymously with empiricism:
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Positivism is usually characterized as a radicalization o f hum an knowledge, by
which only sense experience is accepted as valid. But Husserl claims that
phenomenology is a more radical positivism than the classical one This idea
leads Husserl to claim that he is the most radical positivist. (Velarde-M ayol, 2000,
p. 43)
Husserl him self explained, “If by ‘Positivism ’ we are to mean the absolute unbiased
grounding o f all science on what is ‘positive,’ i.e., on what can be prim ordially apprehended
[as in Evidenz], then it is we who are the genuine positivists” (Husserl, 1962, p. 78).
Logical Investigations into Essences
In his Logical Investigations (Husserl, 1900/1970a), Husserl developed four
arguments for the existence o f universals. These arguments are worth reviewing briefly
before we examine one o f them in detail, because o f its special relevance to the realist-
nominalist debate. With these discussions in hand, we will then review H usserl’s firm and
steadfast defense o f essences as presented in Ideas: General Introduction to Pure
Phenomenology (Husserl, 1913/1962), where Husserl intends to demonstrate the inextricable
link between the empirical and the ideal (i.e., essences).
In understanding H usserl’s four arguments for the existence o f essences, it is greatly
helpful to understand that essences are identities. We have spoken briefly o f identities in our
Chapter 3 review o f the assumptions o f traditional empiricism. A most damaging
assumption o f traditional empiricism was the refusal to admit o f such relations as identities.
An identity is an entity that is numerically one. Thus, when we speak o f the white horse and
the white house, the white to which we refer is an identity which is the same in both
instances. To declare that they are the same, is not to mean that they are similar or that they
resemble. Rather, it is to mean exactly this: the white that we witness as a constituent o f the
horse is exactly the same, or numerically identical to the white that is a constituent o f the
house. This gives universals precisely that quality o f being in more than one place at the
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same time, a quality which grants them their name, “universal.” Individuals, unlike
universals, cannot be in two places at the same time. That is, this individual horse must be
here in front o f me, and only here in front o f me. It cannot also exist in other places
concurrently. An identity is, o f course, a type o f relation, a very fundamental type indeed. To
repeat what we have already asserted with regard to essences and the realism -nominalism
debate, whereas Husserl’s phenomenology radically asserts that we witness such ideal
entities as identities, nominalism— such as that found in traditional empiricism— claims that
identities are the products o f our minds or our words.
The first argument that Husserl puts forward in establishing the existence o f
universals, W illard labels the “argument from predication” (W illard, 1998). W illard explains
this argument: “Things which are not individuals nonetheless have, ju st like individuals,
pred icates;^ and they therefore also have, like individuals, being. They cannot be such and
such, e.g., colors, numbers, plane figures, etc., without being.” Descartes essentially made
the same argument when he wrote in his Principles o f Philosophy, “o f nothing there are no
attributes, properties, or qualities” (as quoted in [Willard, 1998]). Descartes here m akes his
argument negatively. M ade positively it would simply assert: to say that something has
certain properties or qualities necessitates that something exists. W e cannot affirm the
existence o f a property without also affirming the existence o f that which has the property.
Thus, to say that the number four is a square number, or that triangularity is a shape, or that
“Two is an even number” (Husserl, 1970, p. 341) is to necessarily imply the existence o f the
essences known as the number four, triangularity, and the number two. Essences, therefore,
exist.
25 The term “predicate” com es from logic— the theme, o f course, o f Husserl’s Logical Investigations— and
means that which can be affirmed or denied. In other words, a property or an essence. A s an example, in the
simple proposition “Men are mortal,” mortal is the predicate.
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A second argument that Husserl advances to establish the existence o f universals is
the “argument from similarity” (W illard, 1998). Husserl’s contention is that similarity,
together with resemblance and alikeness, can only be explained in term s o f identity (that is,
essences). He writes, “We find in fact that wherever things are ‘alike’, an identity in the
strict and true sense is present” (Husserl, 1970, p. 342). In other words, when we say that
two things resemble one another, there m ust be some “exact” way in which they in fact
resemble, and that exact way is a universal. Husserl explains,
Each exact likeness relates to a Species [that is, an essence], under which the objects
compared, are subsumed: this Species is not, and cannot be, merely ‘alike” in the
two cases, if the worst o f infinite regresses is not to become inevitable. (Husserl,
1970, p. 343)
As an example o f Husserl’s argument, suppose I were to argue that a m iniature doll o f a
fireman resembles an actual fireman. To make sense o f this statement, I must mean more
than a vague resemblance. I must mean that something exact is similar. For example,
perhaps the doll is wearing a firem an’s coat or a firem an’s hat and these “resem ble” the
similar items that a real fireman wears. One might argue, that we only have a resemblance
here. True, but if one presses the argument further, one must analyze how the doll’s hat and
coat are similar to the real firem an’s apparel, and that similarity cannot be vague, it m ust be
exact. For example, the doll and the real fireman may share “similar” coats that are both red.
In this case, the red is exactly the same, and this identity gives us the similarity. Husserl
contended that if not all, then at least the great majority o f “similarities” could be reduced to
identities.
Nominalism is a theory that very much wants to replace identities (because they are
essences) with similarities. We have reviewed H usserl’s dismissal o f this claim above, but it
is worthy o f further review to witness the actual results o f this nom inalist undertaking.
Husserl hints at these when he mentions, in the quote above, “the worst o f infinite
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regresses.” Bertrand Russell is most famous for undermining nom inalism ’s account o f
resemblance. Russell argued, in his essay “The W orld o f Universals” (Russell, 1912), that
resemblance theory “cannot be made coherent without admitting one genuine universal:
resemblance itself’ (Armstrong, 1995, p. 503). To understand why this is so, we need merely
take up the proposition that A, B and C are all red. If we argue along nom inalist lines, then
this redness cannot be the same in the cases o f A, B, and C, but rather must resemble. This
gives us three relations o f resemblance: that between A and B, B and C, and A and C. But
these three relations o f resemblance cannot be identical (for nominalism rejects identities),
and must themselves be resemblances if we are to unity A, B, and C as red. But this regress
to higher-order resemblances offers no redress, because higher-order resemblances, if they
cannot be identities, cannot offer unity. We are left, then, either with no means o f unifying
A, B, and C or with the awkward admission, as Russell argues, that resemblance itself is an
identity.
The third o f Husserl’s argument for the existence o f universals is the “argument
from the character o f mental acts” (W illard, 1998). This is the only phenom enologically
grounded argument for universals from the Logical Investigations, and it asserts the
following: “There are ideal objects or universals or one-in-the-m any’s because there are
different acts o f presentation in which the same thing is apprehended, but the same
individual is not present” (W illard, 1998). In other words, when I see the whiteness as
presented on the page o f the book I am reading and also the whiteness presented on the
previous and subsequent pages, I “apprehend as an ideal unity the attribute which constitutes
the respect in which the things are alike or are compared” (Husserl, 1970, p. 344). That is, I
apprehend there whiteness. If this were not true and the presentations o f white that I
apprehended were not a “one-in-the-many” (this being a very descriptive title for universals),
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then each presentation would be a different color, each whiteness a veritably individual
whiteness, independent o f all other whitenesses. To reject H usserl’s argument is to suppose a
nominalism which forbids any two things to have the same color. But, as W illard explains,
this “implies that there are as many colors or hues as colored things” (W illard, 1997, p. 107).
W illard asks, “Are there really as many colors (or even hues) associated with, say,
blackness, as there are black things?” (W illard, 1997, p. 107). His answer condemns the anti-
universalistic view:
Just think o f all the black words, letters, and spatially discriminable parts o f letters,
printed in all the books, newspapers, libraries, newsstands, recycling bins, dumps,
and storage areas in all the world at each moment in time, or only in recent times.
(W illard, 1997, p. 107)
Nominalism, positing as it does “these billions and billions o f alleged blacknesses,
bluenesses, etc.” (W illard, 1997, p. 107) is simply unfathomable.
Husserl’s fourth defense o f universals is the “argument from classes or extensions”
(Willard, 1998). This argument, also forwarded by Frege, reduces to the following canon o f
philosophy: intension precedes extension. In lay terms, this argument asserts that it is
universals (or “intensions”) that give us our categories or classes (that is, “extensions”). For
example, blueness is the universal (or intension) that allows us to place all blue objects
within the class o f blue entities (the extension). This argument is an attem pt to explain the
unity o f all forms o f classes, such as categories and species, by means o f the universals that
apply to its constituents. Nominalism asserts that classes are determined not by universals,
but by the names (or terms) that we give the members o f a class. “Thus what unites the
group o f blue entities, on its account, is the fact that they all have a relation to the name or
predicate ‘blue’” (W illard, 1997, p. 108). Even if this were acceptable— for nominalism has
a difficult project ahead o f it if it truly wishes to establish that words or concepts determine
objects— there is a further confounding problem. How is it that all the utterances,
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inscriptions, or conceptions o f the word blue are themselves unified as the identical entity: as
the word blue. By the very dogmas o f nominalism, they cannot be. The word “blue” I here
write, is thus separate and apart from thus second word “blue” that I write. If the various
instances o f the word blue do not constitute a unity (that is, not a single name), then it is
inconceivable how this lack o f unity would impose a unity on the extensions within a class.
Only if the word blue is a universal, and thus unified in all its utterances, could we begin
developing a sensible nominalism, but this very starting point runs counter to the premises o f
nominalism.
Empiricism and Abstract Ideas
Adler offers a helpful critique o f traditional em piricism ’s account o f abstract ideas,
an account which must, o f course, rely on nominalism. Though A dler uses essentially the
same arguments that Husserl advances— especially the argument from predication and the
argument from classes— he employs them in a way that will help provide a further
understanding o f traditional em piricism ’s inconsistencies and its inherently limited view o f
human experience. Adler asks, “Do we or do we not have abstract ideas (i.e.. concepts) as
well as sense-perceptions and images?” (Adler, 1985, p. 40). By the term s abstract ideas and
concepts, Adler means mental acts by which we comprehend universals. This ability to have
abstract ideas Adler classifies as the intellectual ability afforded by one’s intellect. It is
through the intellect, he claims, that awareness is able to apprehend the “intelligible” world
(as opposed to the sensate world)— that is, the world o f universals. Traditional empiricism,
as we have reviewed, denied that humans have intellectual capacities, and posited that all
knowledge is derived from sensations. “The mistaken view o f mind,” writes Adler, “taken
without qualification by Hobbes, Berkeley, and Hume, can be stated simply as follows: the
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mind, so far as it functions as a cognitive instrument, is entirely a sensitive faculty, without
any trace o f intellectuality about it” (Adler, 1985, p. 37).
To support their argument, traditional empiricists typically raise what they believe to
be the obvious observation that our experience is never o f general or abstract universals, but
is always o f particular individuals. W rote Hume,
Let any man try to conceive a triangle in general, which is neither Isosceles nor
Scalenum, nor has any particular length or proportion o f sides; and he will soon
perceive the absurdity o f all the scholastic notions with regard to abstraction and
general ideas. (As quoted in Adler, 1985, p. 41)
The argument is at first convincing, for if we reflect upon our experiences, they seem always
to be about this or that triangle, this or that number, this or that tree, not o f triangles,
numbers, or trees in general. But, Husserl m ight retort, what o f general names, which do in
fact enter our experiences, names such as “triangles,” “numbers,” and “trees.” Indeed,
Husserl might employ his argument from predication and ask, “W hat are we to mean when
we say that triangles have three sides?” This is not a statement about a particular triangle.
Rather it is a seemingly obvious statement about a property held by triangles, in general.
Traditional empiricism answers H usserl’s retort with nominalism. It claim s that
“Only our words (...th at we call ‘common nouns’) are general” (Adler, 1985, p. 41). Words,
then, hold a “general significance” such that they can refer to “this” tree and “that” tree. But,
if the traditional empiricist is to be consistent, then she must be concerned by the
pronouncement o f a “general significance” held in words. This is tantam ount to claiming
that words act as universals, and this is precisely what the traditional empiricism denies. The
traditional empiricist might argue that words do not have “general significance,” but rather
we simply use them habitually in the same way, referring to this and that object by the same
term. But again, to use something in the same way and to refer to something with the same
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term, necessitates that there exists the same ways and the same terms whereby to perform
these same acts, and this talk o f samenesses verifies the need for universals.
But what if we are to let the traditional empiricism slip through this concern and
grant that samenesses can exist within words, though not within objects. Still, the traditional
empiricist must explain how we are able to label this and that object as “tree.” M ight I not
just as well name them “pickle” and “cup?” That I do name them “tree” m ust mean that there
is some quality about them that makes them sim ilar to or the same as other objects that to
which I have applied the term “tree,” and if this is so, then these objects share a
commonality. To argue in this manner for commonalities is tantam ount to arguing for
universals. On the one hand, the traditional empiricism has argued that w e cannot
comprehend what is common in objects, on the other the theory dem ands that we are able to
do this. Adler concludes, “nominalism is an inherently untenable doctrine..., repugnant to
reason and common sense” (Adler, 1985, p. 42).
Eidetic Intuition
W hen we first introduced Husserl’s conception o f essences, we briefly reviewed his
contention, much like A dler’s, that we indeed have the intellectual capacity to apprehend
such entities. There are basically two ways in which realists— those who believe in the
existence o f universals— have construed these universals. Writes Armstrong, “First there are
the views that take universals to be transcendent entities, standing apart from physical
objects in space and time. It is generally thought that Plato held a view o f this sort”
(Armstrong, 1995, p. 504). It was this Platonic conception o f universals that so concerned
the traditional empiricists and which they took such delight in ridiculing. But H usserl’s
account o f essences does not proceed along Platonic lines. Rather, his theory advances an
alternative approach, again as explained by Armstrong: “Second, there are those theories that
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admit universals, but try to bring them down to the world o f particulars. Some com m entators
think that this was Aristotle’s position, although others see him as a (moderate) N om inalist”
(Armstrong, 1995, p. 504). Husserl’s universals, then, m ight be classified as “Aristotelian”
as opposed to “Platonic.”
H usserl’s account o f essences is Aristotelian in this way: it posits the “inseparability
o f fact and essence” (Husserl, 1913/1962). This truth is so essential to Husserl’s
phenomenology, that it is the focus o f his first chapter in Ideas: General Introduction to Pure
Phenomenology. Agreeing with the traditional empiricists, Husserl wrote, “Individual being,
o f every kind is, to speak quite generally, ‘accidental.’ It is so-and-so, but essentially it could
be other than it is” (Husserl, 1962, p. 47). But Husserl straight away initiated his
radicalization o f traditional empiricism, presenting the following claim:
But the import o f this contingency, which is there called m atter-of-factness
(Tatsachlichkeif). is limited in this respect[,] that the contingency is correlative to a
necessity which does not carry the mere actuality-status o f a valid rule o f connexion
obtaining between temporo-spatial facts, but has the character o f essential necessity.
and therewith a relation to essential universality. (Husserl, 1962, p. 47)
Facts or “individuals,” Husserl has argued, are certainly “accidental” or “contingent” in that
they could be otherwise than they are, but this very property o f facts, this very contingency,
is itself a universal, that is, a way that all facts are, and as such illustrates that facts are
inseparable from universals. Husserl explained,
Now when we stated that every fact could be “essentially” other than it is, we were
already expressing thereby that it belongs to the meaning o f everything contingent
that it should have essential being and therewith an Eidos to be apprehended in all its
purity. (Husserl, 1962, p. 47)
“Eidos” is a Greek word m eaning essence. Husserl employs the term “Eidetic
intuition” to mean our ability to apprehend an Eidos, or universal. Eidetic intuition is thus
the same as the “intellectual” capacity defended by Adler. Husserl wrote, “The essence
(Eidos) is an object o f a new type. Just as the datum o f individual or empirical intuition is an
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individual object, so the datum o f essential intuition is a pure essence” (Husserl. 1962,
P- 49).
To clarify what he meant by Eidetic intuition, Husserl launched an attack against
what he calls “Empiricistic Naturalism ” (that is, traditional empiricism). He explained,
Empiricistic Naturalism springs, as we must recognize, from the most praiseworthy
motives. It is an intellectually practical radicalism, which in opposition to all “idols,”
to the powers o f tradition and superstition, to crude and refined prejudices o f every
kind, seeks to establish the right o f the self-governing Reason to be the only
authority in matters that concern truth. (Husserl, 1962, p. 74).
Husserl’s reverence for traditional empiricism is noteworthy, for he was not attem pting to
dismantle empiricism. Rather, he aimed to rid it o f the very prejudice it claimed itself to be
rid of. Traditional em piricism ’s most salient prejudice, Husserl argued, is the dismissive
stance it holds toward that experience which is not sense experience. He stated:
N ow to pass rational or scientific judgm ent upon facts (Sachen) means being guided
by the facts them selves, getting away from talk and opinion back to the facts,
questioning them in their self-givenness [Evidenz], and laying aside all prejudices
alien to their nature. It is only another wav o f expressing the very same thing— so
the empiricist thinks— to say that all science must spring from experience [here,
Husserl is using the term experience in its adulterated sense o f denoting sense
experience], that its mediated knowledge must be grounded in immediate [sense]
experience. Thus to the empiricist genuine science and the science o f [sense]
experience mean ju st the same thing. “Ideas,” “Essence” as opposed to facts, what
else might they be than scholastic entities, metaphysical ghosts? To have saved
mankind from such philosophical spooks as these is precisely the chief service o f the
natural science o f m odem times. (Husserl, 1962, p. 74)
Husserl has most adroitly identified traditional em piricism ’s error. Lovejoy echoes H usserl’s
characterization o f natural science, and provides, in the same stroke, a sense o f its historical
development:
A generation o f scientifically trained persons ... could hardly fail to find something
antipathetic in a philosophy w hich proclaimed ... that the system o f nature is
composed o f ... such ‘ghostly’ things as ‘ideas’ or ‘mental contents’— entities
plainly alien to the categories and laws o f the reputable and successful sciences and
inaccessible to a rigorously experimental method o f investigation. (Lovejoy, 1960,
p p .43-44)
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This prejudice against ideas— by which Husserl m eant essences— cannot be accepted
without examination, if we suppose we are establishing a true science, one that accounts for
the entirety o f “the system o f nature.” Husserl summarized his opponents’ bias:
The fundamental defect o f the [traditional] em piricist’s argument lies in this, that the
basic requirement o f a return to the “facts them selves” is identified or confused with
the requirement that all knowledge shall be grounded in [sense] experience.
(Husserl, 1962, pp. 74-75)
Science, if it is to be true to nature— that is, to the world as it is— must not merely be a
science o f fact, nor that o f sense experience. Rather, if it is to be a true science, one that
includes all that appears to awareness, it must include a science o f essences. Husserl
explained:
But facts (Sachen) [of sense experience] are not necessarily facts o f nature, the fact-
world in the ordinary sense [that is, facts o f sense experience, or “m atters o f fact”],
not necessarily the fact-world (W irklichkeit) in general [facts o f all kinds], and it is
only with the fact-world o f nature that the primoridal dator act [the source o f
Evidenzl which we call experience is concerned. To trace identifications [that is,
universals] here, and to take them for granted as matters o f course, is simly to wave
aside unnoticed distinctions in respect o f which the clerarest insight is available.
Thus the question arises, On which side do the prejudices lie? (Husserl, 1962, p. 75)
Indeed that is the question: W ho is prejudiced, the traditional empiricist who claims
that we cannot “see” such ghosts as universals, or the Husserlian phenom enologist who
claims we can? Husserl believed, as should we, that this question can be resolved quite
easily if we simply approach, unbiased, the phenomenon o f our mental acts. If we do this,
then the process o f Evidenz, as we have both witnessed and described it above, will lead us
to the truth. Husserl commented, “Immediate ‘seeing’ (Sehen), not m erely the sensory seeing
o f experience, but seeing in general as primordial dator consciousness o f any kind
whatsoever, is the ultimate source o f justification for all rational statements” (Husserl, 1962,
pp. 75-76). This methodology for apprehending the truth, Husserl believes, undeniably
grants us essences.
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In other words, when we examine our experience, essences are prim ordially given.
We initially recognized this truth in our Cartesian genesis, though we overlooked it. Let us
recapitulate that genesis, but this time not with the intent o f apprehending acts o f
consciousness, which we have already established. Rather, we have the intent o f
demonstrating the essences that we necessarily apprehend within our apprehension o f mental
acts. When we introspect, through our phenomenological method, and witness— as we have
illustrated in Figures 6 and 7 above— that our mental acts are directly present to us, that we
can think o f a tree and directly “see” that we are thinking o f a tree, then we have establish
Evidenz for this mental act. We can do the same for all our mental acts. As we have already
reviewed, Husserl wrote: “Every intellectual process and indeed every mental process
whatever, while being enacted, can be made the object o f a pure “seeing’ and understanding.
and is something absolutely given in this ‘seeing’ (Husserl, 1973a, p. 24). That this is indeed
the verifiable truth— that we see directly that “every mental process w hatever. . .can be made
the object o f a pure ‘seeing’— this itself is a property o f mental acts, and as such it is o f their
nature. We have thus apprehended a universal, an essence, in regards to our own mental
processes. In witnessing this universal, we have disconfirmed nominalism, and all the
various attacks upon universals that traditional empiricism musters. Again, let me repeat
H usserl’s explanations:
The “existence” o f the cogitatio [a particular mental act] is guaranteed by its
absolute self-givenness. by its givenness in pure evidence (Evidenz). W henever we
have pure evidence (Evidenz). the pure viewing and grasping o f something objective
directly and in itself [such as when we view our own mental processes and their
essential nature], we have the same guarantees, the same certainties. (Husserl,
1973a, p. 6)
Thus, essences must exist, for they are apparent in our “pure evidence,” that is, our direct
apprehension o f our own mental acts.
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But this “pure evidence” does not limit itself to our cognitions. We have this
evidence also within any and every mental act that is an apprehension o f m atters o f fact. Is
this really true? Indeed it is, and to realize this we need only reflect once again upon what
Husserl said when wrote, “Individual being, o f every kind is, to speak quite generally,
‘accidental.’ It is so-and-so, but essentially it could be other than it is” (Husserl, 1962, p. 47).
Here, we “see” that empirical matters o f fact have the universal character o f being
contingent. We have thus witnessed universals as present within m atters o f fact.
We can see specific cases, then, in which universals are directly given to our
awareness. In this process, we have relived, through our phenomenological “experim ents,”
experiences o f Evidenz. “the pure viewing and grasping o f something objective directly and
in itself’ (Husserl, 1962, p. 6). Indeed, the experience o f Evidenz itself is a universal, a
quality inherent in certain ways o f grasping entities. When we apprehend Evidenz, we are
given the world as it is, at least in terms o f essences within it. Therefore, we would do well
to reform traditional empiricism and purge it o f the biases it contains.
Pure Logic
The affirmation o f essences as a veritable m ember o f our ontology (which, in its
totality, now includes mental acts and essences) is especially important to science. If our
science is to have any logic whatsoever, then it must profess universals, for what is logic
other than a claim regarding the essence o f reason. And the laws o f logic, if we are to
confirm their reality, must be accessible to our direct apprehension. Husserl wrote,
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[I]t is easy to see that he who supports this identification [of science in general with
the mere science o f sensations] and contests the validity o f pure eidetic thinking is
led into a scepticism which, genuine, cancels itself through its own absurdity. It is
sufficient to question empiricists concerning the source o f the validity o f their
general thesis (e.g., that “all valid thought has its ground in [sense] experience as the
sole object-giving intuition”) to get them involved in demonstrable absurdities.
Direct [sense] experience gives only singular elements and no generalities, and is
thus insufficient. It can make no appeal to the intuition o f essence, since it denies
such intuition; it must clearly rely on induction, and so generally on the system o f
m ediate modes o f inference [i.e., logic] through which the science o f [sense]
experience wins its general propositions. How fares it now, we ask, with the truth o f
m ediated conclusions, be these deductively or inductively inferred? Is this truth
(indeed, we could even say, the truth o f a singular judgm ent) itself something
[sense] experienceable, and thus in the last resort perceptible? And how fares it with
the principles on which modes o f inference depend, to which w e appeal in cases o f
doubt or conflict, as, e.g., with the principles o f the syllogism, the law o f “m ediated
equality,” and so forth, upon which as to ultimate sources, we here fall back for
justification o f all modes o f inference? Are these them selves in their turn empirical
[i.e., sense perceptible] generalizations, or is not the very conception o f such a thing
involved in radical absurdity? (Husserl, 1962, pp. 76-77)
Denying essences denies not only the logic inherent in all theories (even empirical ones) but
also the self-evident axioms upon which all theories are based. Explained Husserl,
[T]he language o f the natural scientists is not always that o f natural science itself,
and is assuredly not so when they speak o f “natural philosophy” and the “theory o f
knowledge o f natural science.” And it is above all not so when they would have us
believe that general truisms such as all axioms express (propositions such as a + 1 =
1 + a, that a judgm ent cannot be coloured, that o f every two sounds that differ in
quality one is lower and the other higher, that a perception in itself is a perception o f
something and the like) are expressive o f facts o f [sense] experience, whereas we
know in the fullness o f insight that propositions o f this type bring to developed
expression data o f eidetic intuition. (Husserl, 1962, p. 78)
A strict traditional empiricism then, one yet to be liberated by Husserl’s radicalization,
erases from the world the very essences— such as we mean by the term s logic and axiom—
with which we build coherent theories. It also erases, explained Husserl,
the tone-quality c, which is a num erically unique m ember in the tone-scale, or the
digit 2 in the series o f numbers, or the figure o f a circle in the ideal world o f
geometrical constructions, or any proposition in the “world” o f propositions.
(Husserl, 1962, p. 80)
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In H usserl’s phenomenological philosophy, such an eradication o f things which are
so self-evident amounts to an imposed blindness. He commented:
Blindness to ideas [essences] is a kind o f psychic blindness, which through
prejudices renders us incapable o f bringing into the field o f judgm ent what we have
already in our field o f intuition. O ur critics in truth see, and so to speak continuously
see, “ideas,” “essences”— make use o f them in thought, formulate judgm ents
concerning essences— only from their epistemological “standpoints” they explain
the same away [as fictions, in the case o f Hume, or constructions in the case o f many
postmodern thinkers]. Self-evident data are patient, they let theories chatter about
them, but remain what they are. (Husserl, 1962, p. 80)
Husserl took to task the imposed “blindness” o f traditional empiricism in its common
attempt to explain numbers as “mental constructs,” a theory which is little more than a
reworking o f the nominalistic arguments we have already criticized. Husserl decried the
confusion and absurdity o f such a theory, writing,
One may read in a treatise that the number-series is a series o f concepts, and then a
little farther on: concepts are mental constructs. Thus the num bers themselves, the
essences, were being referred to at the outset as concepts. But, we ask, are not the
numbers what they are whether we “construct” them or not? Certainly I perform the
counting, I construct my number-presentations, “adding unit to unit.” These number-
presentations are now such as they are, but even when I repeat their constructions
identically, they are something different But in saying this we have already (and
how could we avoid it?) drawn a distinction; number-presentation is not num ber
itself: it is not the digit Two, this unique m em ber o f the num ber series, which like all
such members, is a nontemporal being. To refer to it as a mental construct [a
nominalism] is thus an absurdity, an offence against the perfectly clear m eaning o f
arithmetical speech which can at any time be perceived as valid, and precedes all
theories concerning it. If concepts are mental constructs, then such things as pure
numbers are no concepts. But if they [numbers] are concepts, then concepts are no
mental constructs. (Husserl, 1962, pp. 81-82)
On completing his attack upon traditional empiricism, Husserl proclaimed— perhaps
because o f his success: “But enough o f such topsy-turvy theories!” (Husserl, 1962, p. 83).
He the reiterated the methodology by which he had established the existence o f both mental
acts and essences, and by which he believed he could ground all knowledge:
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No theory we can conceive can mislead us in regard to the principle o f all principles:
that very primoridal dator Intuition is a source o f authority (Rechtsquelle) for
knowledge, that whatever presents itself in “intuition” in prim ordial form (as it were
in its bodily reality), is simply to be accepted as it gives itself out to be, though only
within the limits in which it then presents itself. (Husserl, 1962, p. 83)
Transcendence
We have now explored several entities that can be included in the realm o f the
immanent, having added essences to our ontology o f mental acts. This immanent realm
defines the domain left to us upon the phenomenological reduction (a reduction we shall
further discuss in our next chapter). But having established the immanent realm, and having
verified its existence in the Evidenz presented to us, what have we to say o f the
transcendent? M ust we abstain from proclaiming that we can know a transcendent universe.
M ust we accept that it is inaccessible to our cognitive facilities? M ust we thereby excuse
Husserl— as perhaps evidencing an overextended enthusiasm for his project, as any great
founder o f a philosophical system is apt to do— when he declares, “ [Tjranscendence is both
the initial and the central problem o f the critique o f cognition” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 28). If
Husserl means what he has said, then we must relinquish our critique, for we have failed to
arrive at such a place— at any universe that transcends consciousness.
But Husserl did not make this declaration in a fleeting moment o f passion. So
careful a philosopher would not overlook so bold a pronouncement without diligently
examining its possibility. Husserl indeed was intent on addressing this concern: “How can
the pure phenomenon o f cognition reach something which is not immanent to it? How can
absolute self-givenness o f cognition reach something not self-given and how is this reaching
to be understood?” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 5).
To accomplish this, Husserl drew a distinction that has as yet remained obscure to
our project. That distinction resides within two interpretations o f the immanence-
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transcendence dyad. Husserl explained this distinction by delineating two ways in which a
phenomenon— an appearance— might be immanent. One such way would be for the
phenomenon to occur within consciousness. A second way for a phenom enon to be
immanent is for it to be fully given in its presentation. It is extremely important to recognize
that these two interpretations o f immanence are not identical. The former, w hat Husserl dubs
“genuine immanence,” means to exist within the cognitive act; the latter, what Husserl
described as an “immanence in the sense o f self-givenness as constituted in evidenz
(Evidenz)” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 3), means to be eideticly self-evident. These two
understandings o f immanence have their counterpart in the term transcendence, which can
also be understood in two ways. We have, that is, the “genuinely transcendent” or that which
stands outside o f consciousness as something apart from it. And we have transcendence in
terms o f self-givenness, meaning that which is not fully given to us in Evidenz.
Now we are prepared for the decisive moment in Husserl’s phenomenology, in
which he asserts the capacity for consciousness to transcend itself. In his Cartesian genesis,
Husserl had argued that we witness our own cognitive acts. These were immanent in both
senses o f the word. That is to say, our mental acts were both located within consciousness
(i.e., “genuinely immanent”) and fully given to us. But the same does not hold for some,
perhaps even most, essences. These essences— which include, for example, the contingency
o f matters o f fact; the property o f the number two that it is an even number, and axioms such
as, “if 1 = a then a = 1 ”— are not “doubly” immanent as are our mental acts. Rather, these
essences though immanent in the second sense (that is, are certainly fully given) are not
immanent in the first sense (that is, they are not part o f our consciousness). Husserl
explained: “The universal itself, which is given in evidence (Evidenz) within the stream o f
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consciousness is nothing singular but just a universal, and in the genuine (reel lent sense it is
transcendent [emphasis added]” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 7).
Husserl then clarifies what is m eant by the “phenomenological reduction:”
Consequently, the idea o f phenomenological reduction acquires a more immediate
and more profound determination and a clearer meaning. It means not the exclusion
o f the genuinely transcendent (perhaps even in some psychologico-empirical sense),
but the exclusion o f the transcendent as such as something to be accepted as existent,
i.e., everything that is not evident giveness [Evidenz] in its true sense, that is not
absolutely given to pure “seeing.” (Husserl, 1973a, p. 7)
The phenomenological reduction, then, does not exclude all that is transcendent, as we had
originally supposed. Rather, it excludes only that which is both genuinely transcendent (i.e.,
outside o f consciousness) and not purely self-given. Those phenomena that are genuinely
transcendent, but nonetheless are purely self-given, remain within the phenomenological
reduction and can be the objects o f our knowledge. These transcendent truths can be known
to us because they are indeed immanent (that is, self-evident). They include the essences we
discussed above: the contingency o f matters o f fact; the property o f the num ber two that it is
an even number, and axioms such as, “if 1 = a then a = 1.” They also include such seeming
tautologies as the fact that “ 1 = 1” and “A is A.” If we reflect on such truths, they are
“absolutely given” to us. These truths are also inherent in all the phenom ena we apprehend.
In other words, these apprehended phenom ena that come before our awareness have a
necessary logic, a structure so to speak, and without this structure, these phenom ena would
be senseless. Thus, our phenomena have a certain nature (a certain essence), and we are able
to apprehend that nature. Indeed, we apprehend it absolutely, as necessarily present and as
inescapably experienced. We can witness this structure anytime we wish, by simply turning
our awareness to the phenomena we apprehend.
There is a corollary to this fact that the phenomenological reduction does not
exclude all that is genuinely transcendent (i.e., outside o f consciousness). The corollary is
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that all that is genuinely immanent (i.e., inside consciousness) is not necessarily absolutely
given. Much o f our internal experience is not immediately given to us. And thus, this realm
o f our “internal” experience cannot be unreflectively claimed as Evidenz. Rather, it m ust be
brought under close examination to see if there m ight lie within it phenom ena that are indeed
self-evident and thus worthy o f inclusion within our phenomenological reduction. Indeed,
much o f the work o f Husserl’s phenomenology is to closely inspect phenom ena to uncover
all that is self-evident. It is important to recognize, then, that being self-evident does not
mean that we necessarily see it. In fact, we can overlook much that is self-evident, ju st as
many m athematicians overlooked the Pythagorean Theorem. When we closely examine
these matters, however, or when someone draws them to our attention, we can im mediately
apprehend their absolute self-givenness. This is the hope o f Husserl’s method— that
knowledge will come as we expand our awareness, and indeed, it was this hope that caused
Husserl to be so concerned with traditional empiricism, for it— though many o f its followers
believed otherwise— had the inherent tendency o f excluding much that is self-given, without
first tending to “the things them selves.”
The Phenomenological Project
We have now established our methodology, that o f Husserl’s phenomenology. This
scientific method assures us through its demonstrations that cognition can indeed reach all
that resides within the realm o f immanence. That realm, we have clarified, is not merely that
which belongs to consciousness but includes all that is “self-given,” and thus embraces
objects both “inside” and “outside” o f consciousness (the genuinely immanent and
transcendent), so long as those objects are absolutely given. We em barked upon our
explication o f Husserl’s phenomenology because o f our dissatisfaction with traditional
empiricism, and beginning at the very beginning, we established H usserl’s method,
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compared it to the failings and limitations o f traditional empiricism, and brought under view
the mental acts and the essences that appear to our consciousness. Husserl believed his
methodology to be the science o f all sciences. Explains Velarde-M ayol,
Husserl claims that there is no philosophical problem outside the scope o f
phenomenology because before becoming a problem it has to be given to my
knowledge as a phenomenon for my consciousness, and phenom enology is precisely
this, a descriptive analysis o f what is given (a phenomenon) to our knowledge.
(Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 13)
But Husserl’s “science o f all sciences” does not remove itself to some abstract, obscure, or
esoteric domain. Rather, it does ju st the opposite, laying bare all its truths as findable to
anyone who might be so moved as to pursue and evaluate them. The evidence o f
phenomenology is there for all to review. Ihde explains our phenomenological method:
At stake is a radically different framework within which the question o f what shall
count as evidence takes its place. As a preliminary, it can be stated that
phenomenology demands that its evidence must be 'intuitable,' which means, in its
proper context, that what is given or accepted as evidence must be actually
experienceable within the limits o f and related to the human experiencer. (Ihde,
1986,p . 21)
Phenomenology as such is a descriptive endeavor. It does not attempt to build abstract
theories or explanations. Rather, it involves careful “looking” into “the things them selves,”
and then provides descriptions o f what is witnessed. Description, o f course, has often been
asserted as the preliminary stages o f any good science. It is strikingly odd, then, that the
science o f the therapy relationship has failed to offer much in the way o f describing the
therapy relationship.
With our phenomenological method established and defended, we will proceed to
examine the therapy relationship and see what we find. We have established a foundation for
our study, one that at once radicalizes traditional empiricism and, in the worlds o f Wertz,
forges ahead “against popular post-modern opinion” (W ertz, 1999, p. 151). This descriptive
psychology advocates “a return to the primacy o f the lifeworld or existence itself, with all its
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m ultifaceted ambiguity and m ystery” (W ertz, 1999, p. 151). But it differs from
postmodernism in this main respect: “M eaning is inherent in experience and not only
attributed subsequently” (W ertz, 1999, p. 151).
We can now move forward with our inquiry in a phenomenological spirit much as
Ihde describes it:
A phenomenological analysis (or description, as it is technically called) is more than
mere analysis. It is a probing for what is genuinely discoverable and potentially
there, but not often seen. Phenomenology is the door to the possible, a possible that
can be experienced and verified through the procedures which are, in fact, the stuff
o f experimental phenomenology. (Ihde, 1986, p. 26)
We will also perform the phenomenological reduction and attend only to that which is self
given. In doing this, we will discard all biases, for Husserl designed his method to be
presuppositionless. For Husserl, presuppositionless meant:
(i) not to take authority as a presupposition, (ii) not to take cultural tradition,
scientific tradition, and scientific theories as presuppositions, that is to say, freedom
o f theories, including metaphysics, and, as an important consequence, (iii) not to
take the results o f positive science as a presupposition. (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 42)
In contrast to such biased practices, we will adopt the following guiding principle o f
phenomenology: “To claim nothing that we cannot make essentially transparent to ourselves
by reference to Consciousness and on purely immanental lines” (Husserl, 1962, p. 160).
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CHAPTER 6
A NEW THEORY FOR CONCEPTUALIZING
PERSONAL RELATIONS
Now that I have laid the foundation for our methodology and have established our
guiding principle— to claim only that which is given fully to our experience— I will begin to
apply this method to an examination o f the therapy relationship. One should be aware that
there are many possible misunderstandings o f the phenomenological method, m ost o f which
naturally arise through the due course o f its application and are the result o f the fact that
traditional empiricism has been so imprinted upon our normal way o f conducting science. As
Brennan writes in his comprehensive history o f psychological systems:
[E]mpiricism has become the dom inant perspective of contem porary psychology,
gaining alm ost universal acceptance. There seems to be widespread agreement that
scientific advances are optimally produced and conveyed under the procedures o f
empirical verification; other forms o f inquiry do not appear to offer the compelling
attraction o f empiricism. (Brennan, 1998, p. 346)
It is this “compelling attraction” that I have attem pted to dismantle in Chapter 3, but
though traditional empiricism may be proven ineffective and highly problematic by
argument, the status o f its ontological and epistemological claims are not easily removed
from the climate o f current thinking. It is this climate that has led relationship researchers to
focus their efforts on the measurement o f the therapy relationship without paying heed to the
equal necessity o f defining exactly what a therapy relationship is. In my attem pt to define the
therapy relationship, I will necessarily be describing it, and I have adopted the methodology
o f phenomenology for the precise reason that it offers a means o f description that is free o f
the presuppositions present in traditional empiricism. However, these presuppositions,
because o f their long and esteemed history, will tend to seep back into one’s thinking.
Additionally, the phenomenological method— partly because o f the omnipresence o f
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traditional empiricism and partly because o f the unfamiliarity o f phenom enology (especially
as expressed in H usserl’s thinking)— can at times seem counterintuitive. This study will
thus benefit from several brief but necessary clarifications and explications o f the
phenomenological method, which I will offer as necessitated by the sequence o f our
explorations.
Let me provide a preliminary outline o f the analysis to follow. After clarifying some
important m isconceptions regarding the phenomenological method, I will attempt to provide
an accurate description o f several foundational properties o f personal relations, especially as
manifested in the therapy relationship. One o f these foundational properties is the unity
present in experience. Traditional empiricism presumes a disunity between successive
experiences, a disunity that I will argue is fatally damaging to an accurate portrayal o f
personal relations. H usserl’s phenomenological method, however, attends not only to the
disjunctions o f our lived experience, but also its conjunctions. I will examine conjunctions as
they are manifested in the presence o f two types o f identities, universals and substances. I
will then examine conjunctions as they are manifested in terms o f the parts and wholes that
make up all relations. Once I have established the ontological reality o f universals,
substances, parts, and wholes— not due to theory, but to phenomenological observation— I
will turn to matters specific to the conjunctions we know o f as personal relations. These
matters include consciousness, feelings, and mutual awareness. In exploring these, I hope to
provide a foundational description o f what it means for two people to be united in
relationship.
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Introductory Remarks
Subjectivity
A common misunderstanding o f the phenomenological method, made especially by
proponents o f traditional empiricism, has been to characterize it as a subjective approach.
This characterization has a measure o f truth to it, which grants traditional em piricists initial
fodder for their criticisms, yet gives phenomenologists great aggravation in their attem pts to
reveal the evident falsity o f this characterization. A large measure o f difficulty lies in the
ambiguity o f term subjective.
Defining Subjectivity
The ambiguity lies here: the word “subjective,” as it is usually understood, means
occurring within the mind, but it can also mean accessible to the m ind. These two meanings
may at first seem the same, but they are not. The former meaning is well expressed in The
American Heritage Dictionary (19941. which gives the following definition o f subjective:
“Proceeding from or taking place within a person's mind such as to be unaffected by the
external world” (p. 808). The American Heritage Dictionary (1994) offers a second, similar
definition o f subjective as “particular to a given person; personal” (p. 808). W hen scholars
apply the term subjective as here explicated, they usually intend to convey that subjective
knowledge claims are inherently biased and are limited to one person’s personal perspective.
The phenomenological method, as developed by Husserl, would not be considered
“subjective” according to this understanding. Rather, it would be considered subjective
according to the second way o f construing the term— that is, as accessible to the mind. We
use the term in this way, for example, when we denote our personal, lived-through
experience o f phenomena. This second way o f understanding the term subjective— that is,
when it is understand as roughly synonymous with the term s “experiential” or “consciously
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experienced”— is not at all the same as the first. The first interpretation understands
subjectivity as solipsistic; that is, as occurring only for me. The emphasis in this definition is
on the word “only.” That some experiences happen only for me is no doubt the case in
certain circumstances, such as dreaming and hallucinating. M y dreams and hallucinations
occur only within my mind or my experience, and they are— for the most part— “unaffected
by the external world.” However, it would be difficult to assert that certain other subjective
experiences occur only for me. For example, experiences o f the axioms o f geometry (say, for
example, the Pythagorean theorem) occur not only in my mind or experience but also in
yours. Indeed, these readily occur in whoever has a mind capable o f reason.
Subjective experiences that are shared can only be explained by our second
definition o f subjectivity, by which we mean phenomenon that are indeed accessible to the
mind, but not merely contained within it. According to this second, non-solipsistic
interpretation o f subjectivity, I can have the same experiences as you, and these experiences
are not restricted to our respective mental or “internal” realms. Rather, we are quite able to
experience an external world. For example, you and I can experience the same tree, the same
room, the same book, or the same Bach Concerto. In this sense, then, phenom enology is not
a subjective endeavor (if we understand subjectivity according to our first definition), but
rather, is an objective one: that is, the knowledge established by phenom enology does not
accrue from the whims or preferences o f individuals, but rather is true independent o f
individuals (and their minds). That knowledge— which is subjectively apprehended
(according to our second definition o f subjectivity)— can be examined by anyone to verify
its objective validity.
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Representationalism as a Form o f Subjectivism
A common reason for misconstruing phenomenology as subjective (in our first sense
o f the word) is that scholars have adopted a representational view o f consciousness such as
we discussed in Chapter 5. This representational view asserts that consciousness is not o f the
world, but is instead o f the mental objects that represent or copy the world. W ithin this line
o f thinking, phenomenology w ould be viewed as the examination o f individual’s experiences
o f their own representations, and these representations (or “constructions” as they are often
called) occur only within our minds. This naturally leads to the mistaken view that
phenomenology is a subjective endeavor because it reveals individuals’ idiosyncratic
understandings and experiences o f the world. In our above explication o f phenomenology,
however, I have attempted to illustrate not only the falsity o f representationalism (a falsity
that is evident in its self-contradictoriness) but also the proofs, as set forward by Husserl,
that our experience is about the world as it is. One helpful way o f understanding Husserl’s
view and o f not regressing to the representational perspective, is to understand that Husserl
basically established that we can be subjectively aware o f objective phenomena.
In having subjective experiences o f objective phenomena (objective phenomenon
being entities that exist as they are independent o f our experience o f them), my subjective
experience is nonetheless my experience and mine alone, if we mean by experience, the act
or process o f experiencing. You, for example, cannot have my act o f experience, nor can I
have yours. This is to say little more than that I cannot have your mental acts, nor you mine.
But you and I can share the same experience— we can have the same thoughts— if we take
experience to mean that which is experienced (such as colors, trees, and geometric axioms).
By a representationalist account, you and I cannot have the very same thought, because you
and I have different representations. Even though our representations m ight be o f the same
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article, our experience— being o f the representation and not the article— cannot be the same.
In Husserl’s view, because our experience can be o f the article, you and I can experience the
same article, and thus we can have the same experience.
The Puzzle o f Subjective Experiences o f Objective Entities
There remains the somewhat puzzling result o f Husserl’s view that you and I,
though we live through two numerically distinct experiences, nonetheless have experiences
o f the same thing. Here we encounter a distinction between that through which experience
occurs (the act o f intentionality) and that which is experienced (the object o f intentional ity).
This distinction we have already discussed above (page 150) in term s o f the object theory o f
intentionality and the act theory. Husserl’s view has it that the object experienced (w hether
that object be an “ideal” one, such as a geometric axiom or the principal o f contrariety, or a
physical one, such as a tree or a sheet o f paper) is num erically identical (as opposed to the
representational view) but that the act o f experiencing is numerically distinct. But the puzzle
is, o f course, how can two different things (or processes) be o f the same phenomenon. To
unravel this puzzle, we will need to develop an adequate account o f what constitutes
sameness and difference. Husserl’s theory o f sameness employs his theory o f essences or
universals. We will shortly take up an explanation o f sameness (or identity) in order to
clarity Husserl’s position. For now, however, we need only take note o f the fact that
Husserl’s phenomenology is not subjective, if by this term we mean relativistic or mind-
dependent, but it is subjective, if by this term we simply mean accessible to one’s experience
or consciousness. In the remarks to follow, I will employ the term subjective in this second
sense.
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Constructivism
A related criticism o f phenomenology, one often made by certain types o f
phenomenologists, has been the contention that the phenomenological method inherently
involves the imposition o f human ideas upon experience. I have labeled this view
constructivism or the M idas Touch approach (See page 144), and it is an updated version o f
representationalism. It differs from its forebear primarily in introducing the notion that by
actively engaging our world, we somehow construct our experience o f it. This construction
o f the world, then, is inherent in our experience o f that world. We do not experience the
world, it is asserted, but we experience the categories, ideas, and other such schemes which
we impose upon the world. Gendlin, for instance, contends that “the phenom enologist has
set him self a seemingly impossible task, that o f examining and describing lived experience
without imposing schemes upon it. But to ‘exam ine’ and to ‘describe’ are activities which
inherently involve schemes” (Gendlin, 1973, p. 287). Husserl would agree with Gendlin that
the activities o f examining and describing necessarily involve schemes, but he would
disagree with Gendlin that these activities necessarily impose schemes. Rather, Husserl
would argue, these activities involve schemes precisely because experience itself is
inherently ordered, and thus inherently schematic.
Husserl claimed that in examining consciousness, he had discovered a certain
structure o f experience. Gendlin asserts, however, that he had not. Gendlin explains: “That
we cannot grant Husserl such a claim is shown by the fact that other phenomenological
philosophers set out ‘the’ structure o f experience quite differently” (Gendlin, 1973, p. 288).
Gendlin’s argument is little more than the subjectivist critique o f phenomenology that we
have critiqued above. It is a faulty one. That other phenomenological philosophers have
proposed alternative structures to explain or describe experience does not indicate that
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Husserl failed to find the one structure o f experience. It may be that these other philosophers
were incorrect. Indeed, we will come to discuss below a way in which many
phenomenologists have been incorrect, both in their interpretations o f Husserl, and in there
consequent interpretation o f experience and its relation to the world as it is. But furthermore,
even if Husserl were incorrect, his argument that there must be one way that experience is
cannot be refuted. Husserl simply contended that experience is o f a certain nature, and being
so, it must have a essence. Husserl may have been fully or partially incorrect in his
description and explanation o f that essence, but this in no way denies his fundamental tenet,
a tenet he adopted not as a presupposition, but by examining his very experience. We
examined this tenet in Chapter 5, and found for ourselves that experience has at least the
following nature: it is “o f ’ things. Is this not itself a scheme? A way experience is? W ould it
not be absurd to argue that we have imposed this scheme upon experience? W ere it true that
we had imposed “ofness” upon our experience, then we would thereby be placed in the
unpalatable stance o f relinquishing all knowledge, even that knowledge claiming we had
imposed “ofness” upon our experience. It is precisely these types o f absurdities which
Husserl explicated and avoided.
Husserl’s Epistemology
In response to the misdirected criticism that phenomenology is subjective (in either a
relativist or constructivist sense), let us note that Husserl’s method meets the three
conditions for a reliable epistemology as set forth by Cardinal Mercier. (See page 125.) The
Cardinal writes:
If there is any knowledge which bears the mark o f truth, if the intellect does have a
way o f distinguishing the true and the false, in short, if there is a criterion o f truth
then this criterion should satisfy three conditions: it should be internal, objective,
and immediate. (As quoated in Chisholm, 1973, p. 6)
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Husserl’s method is internal in that it allows us to reflect upon our own experience and
determine what is and is not the case. W e need not trust nor apply an external method or
body o f knowledge. Any authority can only be deemed an authority once we have examined
its proclamations for ourselves. This method is objective in that it is not subject to personal
preferences or whims, but rather can be established as truth beyond my own or your own
particular experience. In other words, whatever I claim as true is demonstrable— you too
should be able to witness it as truth. If you cannot, then we must re-evaluate our claims.
Finally, Husserl’s method is immediate in that truths can be demonstrated as self-evident or
obvious to each and every individual willing to examine these claims.
The Reductions
In the course o f our phenomenological investigation o f the therapy relationship, we
will be employing two reductions that Husserl famously explicated. One o f these, the
phenomenological reduction, we have discussed at some length. The other, the Eidetic
reduction, we have not directly described (though we have alluded to it in our Chapter 5
remarks on Eidetic intuition). It is worth making a brief comment about both o f these
reductions before we begin our analysis. H usserl’s use o f the term reduction is confusing,
implying a complexity for what in truth is relatively simple. W hat Husserl means by his two
reductions— phenomenological and Eidetic— we need not explore in great detail for the
simple reason that our discussions in Chapter 5 have already covered most o f this ground.
However, because these reductions are so commonly referred to in the literature, it is at least
helpful to define and differentiate them. We, too, may refer to them as we make our way
through the course o f this study.
To begin, we must clarify what Husserl meant by the term reduction, for this is often
misunderstood. The technique o f reduction, for Husserl, consists in setting certain m atters
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aside in order not to confuse those matters with the object we mean to study. The reason
these matters can be set aside is that they have no bearing on the m atter or phenomenon
under investigation. The reduction enforces a rigorousness upon our phenomenological
method by preventing us from imposing assumptions that have to do with one m atter (say,
the existence o f an object) upon those matters that concern us (say, the qualities o f a
particular object).
The Phenomenological Reduction
For example, the phenomenological reduction involves the bracketing o ff from one’s
investigation all transcendental matters and considering only one’s experience as it is self-
evident. The term transcendent here means that which is not self-evident. It does not mean
that which lies outside o f mental or conscious activity. (See the discussion o f the two
possible definitions o f both transcendence and immanence on page 197.) The
phenomenological reduction, then, can well include that which lies outside o f consciousness,
but this phenomenon must be directly given in consciousness. A different way o f expressing
the same meaning is to say that the phenomenological reduction enforces an agnostic attitude
toward all objects o f study lying outside the realm o f immanence, the realm o f immanence
here meaning the realm o f that which is self-evident (not merely the realm o f the mental).
Claims o f physical existence are precisely non-im m anent matters. The phenomenological
reduction serves to prevent us from mistakenly applying assumptions about existence upon
our observance o f psychic acts. We want to employ this reduction because regardless
whether or not the phenomenon exists, it still has a nature as evident within our experience,
and that nature is our foremost concern.
Husserl also used the words “epoche” and “bracketing” to denote his reductions. The
Greek word epoche translates as “suspension o f judgem ent” or “abstention.” The word
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bracketing suggests that we have placed certain issues within brackets. This term denotes
Husserl’s intention that his reductions should set certain matters aside (as if bracketed). The
phenomenological reduction, as an epoche, is an abstention from making any knowledge
claims beyond what is evident in experience itself. As an abstention, then, it does not make
proclamations o f denial or affirmation with regard to the physical existence o f objects. As
Velarde-Mayol clarifies, “Husserl uses epoche in the original sense o f the Greek sceptics,
but for Husserl, epoche is a method and not a conclusion” (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 47).
Velarde-Mayol continues, “It does not put in question what is in suspension (as Descartes
does), but what is suspended is only separated without rejecting it in order to have
immediate and evident access to the data o f consciousness" (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, pp. 47-
48). Thus, making the phenomenological reduction does not strip the object o f consciousness
o f any o f its properties. Rather, it prevents us from inserting unwarranted assumptions into
the understanding o f our experience. “ [T]he phenomenon contains the same characteristics
as the real thing; nothing is m issing but the existence” (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 65). Yet
even the existence o f the object cannot be said to be missing. It simply is not taken up as a
matter o f our investigation. W hat is taken up in our investigation is everything that is self-
evident (or immanent, in the second definition o f this term, as found on page 197). In
phenomenology, w hat is crucial is the description o f what is experienced, not assumptions
about objects’ material existence.
The Eidetic Reduction
Falling within the domain o f the phenomenological reduction is the eidetic
reduction. This reduction corresponds to the eidetic intuition, which we explored at length in
Chapter 5. (See page 189.) The eidetic reduction limits inquiry to essences (eidos) or
universals. This reduction is crucial because Husserl believed that universals are the most
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important objects o f knowledge. In the phenomenological reduction, we attend only to that
which is given in our experience (and thus is self-evident); within this reduction, that which
is self-evident may very well be a singular or particular event or phenomenon. The eidetic
reduction sets aside the singularity o f mental events, and attends to their universality. It does
not proclaim singularity to be nonexistent; it simply proclaims that knowledge about the
singularity o f an event will tell us nothing about the universality o f that event. Husserl
believed it was extremely important to distinguish the description o f universals from the
description o f particulars, and the eidetic reduction, as compared to the phenomenological
reduction, insures that we do this. Husserl thought that one o f the problems o f philosophy
had been the failure to make this distinction. Science, if it is to be true to nature— that is, to
the world as it is— must not merely be a science o f m atters o f facts (that is, o f particulars),
but must also be o f essences. The eidetic reduction assures that we pay careful attention to
these essences, and that we are not m isguided in our observations o f them by assum ptions
about particulars.
A technique that Husserl developed for the study o f essences is imaginative
variation. This technique involves the use o f our imagination to learn about essences. We
can do this because essences, being non-material entities, exist within our imaginations as
they do in the material world. Thus, in studying a cube, we might notice, by m eans o f our
imaginative faculties, that it has sides, and necessarily so. We can change the color o f the
cube, even its size; but we cannot change the property o f having sides. W e cannot imagine a
cube otherwise; and from this exercise o f imaginative variation, we have identified an
invariant structure o f cubes: they have sides. This invariant structure is precisely the same
thing as an essence. It is a fact that is necessarily so. It m ust be. Unlike m atters o f fact, which
are contingent, essential facts are apodictic. They could not be otherwise. They are a priori.
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It cannot be overemphasized that these essential structures are a type o f intellectual
knowledge that Husserl contended accompany all matters o f fact. Let us again review
H usserl’s pronouncement that “it belongs to the meaning o f everything contingent that it
should have essential being and therewith an Eidos to be apprehended in all its purity”
(Husserl, 1962, p. 47). That this is the nature o f all m atters o f fact— that is, o f all o f singular
experiences and all material existents— is the reason that the identification o f essential
structures serves as the core o f H usserl’s phenomenological method.
The Phenomenological Attitude
A word might be said at this point in explanation o f the common difference drawn
between the phenomenological attitude and the natural attitude. The natural attitude is the
one we take up in the course o f our everyday lives. W ithin this attitude, we attend to the
world without concern for how our attending occurs. Rather, we simply and naturally
involve ourselves in the experiences we have. W e drink coffee, drive to work, and consort
with our colleagues. The phenomenological attitude, however, requires a shift into a
reflective stance that involves no more than the recognition that our awareness o f the world
is itself an awareness. N o knowledge or experience comes to us outside o f our
consciousness, and the phenomenological attitude, realizing this, simply attends to
consciousness along with the objects o f consciousness. The natural attitude takes this for
granted, and pays it no attention. The phenomenological attitude does not take this for
granted, and adds to our awareness o f the world our awareness o f the awareness itself.
The phenomenological attitude involves at least the first o f the two reductions we
have discussed above. Indeed, the phenomenological reduction and the phenomenological
attitude are one and the same. If we turn our attention to the our psychic acts (and set aside
concerns about material existence), then we have performed the phenomenological reduction
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and in doing so have entered the phenomenological attitude. In this attitude, were we to
investigate our daily lives— say our drinking o f coffee in the morning— we would not simply
talk about the drinking o f coffee as if a third-party were engaged in this activity, but we
would attend to the experiences involved in the process o f drinking coffee. W hether or not
the coffee existed would not be an important question to us (though if it were, we would
assert that it did). Rather, the important questions would be what is coffee, and what is the
nature o f our experience o f coffee. Again, to adopt this attitude, to invoke the
phenomenological reduction, is not to enter into a sphere o f subjective speculation. As
Sokolowski explains, “When we so bracket the world or some particular object, we do not
turn it into a mere appearance, an illusion, a mere idea, or any other sort o f merely subjective
impression” (Sokolowski, 2000, p. 49). Rather, by becoming more rigorous in our
investigation, we study not only the object o f our experience, but also the experiencing itself.
That is, “we consider it [the object] as correlated with whatever intentionality targets it”
(Sokolowski, 2000, p. 49). Because o f its inherent self-reflectiveness and rigorousness,
Husserl described the phenomenological attitude as a philosophical attitude. When we adopt
it, “We look at what we normally look through.” Doing this allows us to describe accurately
what we overlook when we are in the natural attitude, and it is the product o f this description
that is the fruit o f the phenomenological reduction.
Bare Relations
W ithin Chapter 4, in our prelim inary attempt to define the therapy relationship, we
identified bare relations as the phenomenon most fundamental to the therapy relationship (as
well as to all personal relations). We determined two branching concerns regarding bare
relations: first, what is the nature o f identity (that is, the relation that an entity or term holds
with itself); and second, what is the nature o f the linkage or betweenness that is
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characteristic o f relations. We will now explore both o f these concerns, and this exploration
will inform and guide our later investigation o f personal relations.
The “Rise” o f Identity
Identity, as it is taken up in philosophy, is not quite the same as identity as it is
commonly taken up in psychology. In psychology, identity is often equated with self-
identity, and means roughly, “who I take m yself to me.” Sometimes the term “self
construct” is equated with identity. We m ight speak o f a person’s personality, or their ethnic
identity, or their public as compared with their private presentations. When we speak o f
identity in this way, we tend to construe it as a construct o f sorts. A mask that is placed upon
us. But within philosophy, identity can have a somewhat different, though related meaning,
especially within phenomenological philosophy, where it plays a central role. Identity in
philosophy, and as we shall use the term here, is simply sameness, and phenomenologically
speaking, identity is the sameness that we witness within all o f our experiences. Hume
pronounced the “fall” o f identity (see page 78), and claimed sameness to be a mere fiction
imposed upon the world by our mental faculties. Phenomenology proclaim s the “rise” o f
identity. Unlike traditional empiricism, it discovers identity to be a veritable com ponent o f
experience. W hen we drink our cup o f coffee, for instance, we may notice that it tastes the
same as it did yesterday, or that we are drinking from the same cup we used yesterday. Both
o f these samenesses are identities, and all o f our experiences contain these samenesses.
Indeed, if they did not, then our experience would be nothing but a buzz o f unrelated and
disconnected events.
Sameness, or identity, is a type o f relation. W e see this when we speak o f our cup o f
coffee as tasting the same as yesterday’s cup. Clearly, the two cups o f coffee are related in
this proposition. But this is not merely a m atter o f words. It is not ju st that we say that the
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two cups o f coffee are the same. We have the experience that they are. This is also true when
I say that the cup I drink from today is the same as the one I drank from yesterday. These are
not mere figures o f speech, they are actual experiences o f objects in our world.
These two examples o f the relation o f sameness illustrate two types o f identities. A
crude differentiation o f these two types, which in a moment we will refine, is that one type
o f identity involves two terms (two poles o f a relation), whereas the other type involves only
one term. When we experience that our W ednesday cup o f coffee tastes the same as our
Tuesday cup, we are experiencing the former type o f identity. Such identities involve the
properties or qualities o f things. My cup o f coffee today, for example, has the quality o f
tasting the same as it did yesterday. I am not, however, drinking the very same cup o f coffee.
Rather, I have fixed m yself a new brew, and this new brew tastes the same as that which I
prepared yesterday. This type o f identity is sometimes called the one-in-the-many, because it
involves the same property existing in two or more individuals. The way in which many
separate things can be the same is also called a universal or an essence. W hat is peculiar
about such universals is precisely their nature o f being present in many places at once.
However, when we experience that the cup we drink from today is the same as that
which we drank from yesterday, the sameness we experience is o f the same object. True, it
may involve qualities or essences (that is, the color o f my cup, its ceramic surface, its
weight, and so on) that remain the same, but there is something else that we are referring to.
We do not merely experience that this cup is o f the same quality as the one we drank from
yesterday. In that case, it may actually be a second cup, but one with all the same properties.
Rather, we experience this cup as the very same cup we drank from before. Now, it is true
that someone may have broken our cup after we used it, and replaced it with a new one that
is alike in all respects. But again, in such a case, we would not be drinking from the same
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cup. Rather, we would be drinking from a new cup with the same properties. The sameness
that a cup has between Tuesday and W ednesday is called substance, and it differs, in an
essential way, from the sameness that two different cups can have. The sameness or identity
that is substance is sometimes called the many-in-the-one. It is called this because o f its
individuality. Individuality is what distinguishes this cup from any other. Even another cup
that had all the same properties would not be this very cup. It would be a second cup, or that
cup. The thisness and thatness o f the two cups is their substance. Substance, as here defined,
does not determine whether the object in question is a physical object or not. Rather,
substance is simply the sameness or identity which is present in the world and grants a thing
its individuality. Universals cannot grant things individuality, because universals are
precisely the kinds o f things that can in many places at once. Individuals, however, can only
be in one place at once.
Let us now compare the two types o f identities that we have illustrated and view
how they interrelate. One type o f identity, the universal, can exist across time and space.
That is, it can be in the same place across time, and— even more importantly— it can be in
various places at the same time. My coffee cup, for example, can be the same as yours, and
can be the same as a million other coffee cups existing in a million other places. It can also
be the same as a coffee cup that existed a million years ago, or that will not exist until a
million years hence. That this is so is not an empirical matter. We can simply imagine these
possibilities, and in doing so, we realize that it must be. This is an essential structure or fact
o f universals. It is how they are and how they must be.
The identity o f a substance, however, is strikingly different. It can exist across time,
as can the identity o f universals, but it cannot exist across space— that is, in two or more
places at the same time. We see this when we take a look at our coffee cup. It exists now,
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and it also exists in the moments preceding and following the present moment. It is the same
cup in all these moments. It remains this cup. We can paint it a new color, or break o ff its
handle, but its thisness. its identity as the same substance remains unchanged: it is still this
cup. However, my cup cannot exist in two or more places at one time. To be this cup, it must
be here before me, and here before me only. If it exist in several places at once, then it is no
longer this cup! It thus belongs to the nature o f thisness. or o f substance, that a thisness can
be in only one place at any one moment o f time.
To compare our two identities yet further, it is helpful to bring two coffee cups
within view. Any way in which these two cups might be alike, we would consider
universals, because these ways o f being alike would necessarily be in two places at the same
time. These would include, for example, the shape o f the cups, their color (if both are white,
for example), the amount o f liquid they can hold, their weight, their distance from me, and
so on. Indeed, that they are both cups, would be a universal that causes them to be o f the
same type. These universals (which are the same things we refer to when we speak o f
objects’ properties or qualities) entail unities that occurs across space, and thus, as we noted
above, might be termed the one in the many. The identity we speak o f here is a unity in that
it is the same thing in both cups. For example, the whiteness o f both cups is the same
whiteness; not distinct whiteness. This whiteness is necessarily instanced in two places, but
this does not make it two whitenesses.
Now, if we grasp one o f the coffee cups in our two hands, and we view this cup
from a variety o f angles, from below and above, and from its various side, and we tap the
cup with a gentle flick o f our fingers— if we do all this, we witness throughout our
experience that we are viewing and touching the same cup, even though this cup presents
itself to us in many different views and with many different qualities. The sameness that
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presents itself through our myriad views o f the cup, and that gives us a unified cup with
manifold qualities is the identity o f substance. This identity o f substance cannot be had by
other cups. The second cup which we originally compared with this first cup, cannot be the
same as this first cup. The two cannot transfer cupness, nor can one cup become the other.
Rather, each individual cup, as is true with all individual things, m ust be the thisness or
thatness that it is. N o thing, to state the same essential law conversely, can be this thing and
then become that thing. This mirrors the law o f identity, which states that a thing is w hat it
is, or— another o f saying this— a thing is identical with itself.
One might argue that certain individuals, certain thisnesses. can be altered in some
way, and thus change into thatnesses. But this is to m isunderstand what I have argued. True,
I can take my cup and smash it against the wall, and thus it is no longer a cup. But the point I
am making is not that cups cannot change into other things (this they can certainly do, as
evidenced by the remnants o f my broken cup that lie scattered before me). Rather, my point
is that it is always this cup which breaks and transforms itself into this scattering o f shards. I
cannot drop my cup upon the floor and have it somehow become that cup. It is the nature o f
thisness, or o f individuality, that it remains with the individual, and is nontransferable.
The two types o f identities we have explored— that o f universality (or essence) and
individuality (or substance)— both adhere to the law o f identity, which states that a thing is
what it is. Thus, a universal is what it is, and a substance is too, though both in different
ways. To put this in formal logic, A is A, or (X)(X = X). Stated in plain English, given any
X, X is identical to X. This may seem obvious and necessarily so, indeed it is; but the m atter
o f identities nonetheless requires our attention if only for the reasons that it underlies all the
claims o f phenomenology. Indeed, the law o f identities is crucial to any phenom enological
study, and is also crucial to any science whatsoever, and to any claim o f knowledge. This is
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because phenomenology, science, and knowledge, always involves identities. They are
always o f something. For a something to be a something, it must be what it is. It cannot be
what it is not.
We must also establish identities— and our phenomenological explorations, our
imaginings o f them, have established them— because identities have been so vehemently
denied within traditional empiricism. Empiricism has, to simplify H um e’s view upon the
matter, argued that reality is nothing more than a succession o f separate, non-identical
impressions. In claiming this, however, one lands oneself in a quagmire o f confusions and
self-contradictions. Under such a theory, one can hardly argue that experience is nothing
more than a succession o f impressions. To begin, this would mean that the impression I have
at the present moment is alike with my next impression, at least to the extent that both are
impressions. But my theory does not allow for such likenesses, because it does not allow for
identities. Thus, any impression I have cannot be followed by another impression, because—
there being no identity— it is impossible that a like event occur again. W hat must follow an
impression, then, must be something other than an impression. Thereby, if we follow
Hum e’s theory, we cannot account for experience, because experience and consciousness
require a succession o f similar entities. This is to argue beyond the mere idea that the things
o f which we are aware are non-identical, though this is o f course assumed. It is to argue, in
addition, that the very ofness o f our impressions (ofness being a certain quality o f these
experiences) is only an ofness o f a single episode, but after that episode has expired, the
ofness can no longer be. To remain the same, to continue to be— that is, for my impressions
to have the quality o f being o f something (or to have any other quality for that matter)—
would be for my impressions to hold an identity, and Hume has argued that identities do not
exist.
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Furthermore, Hum e’s theory proposed that it is habit or custom that causes us to
believe that identities exist. The human understanding, Hume argued, inserts identity
relations where none exists. But this account assumes the very identities it denies. How can
there be such a thing as habit— the very term implying repetition o f the same activity— when
there exist no identities. W ith no identities, there can be no repetition. And what is this
human understanding that inserts relations? It too must be an identity. And what o f these
relations that are inserted; they too must be identities. H um e’s theory, then, made use o f the
very phenom ena it denied. In the end, Hume had no real explanation for why or how
experience gives us identities. His theory— in disallowing the invocation o f identities—
prohibited him from providing a coherent account. (To make matters yet worse, an account
or theory itself would also be an identity o f sorts). H um e’s theory, in the end, crumbles
because it undercuts the very identities it must have in order to make any sense.
Hume denied identities for this primary reason: they are not present in our sense
impressions. He seems to have been quite right about this, if he means sense impressions in
their most narrow understanding. In a certain sense, we do recognize identities through our
sense perception. I can hear, for example, that two sounds are the same. I can see that two
colors are the same. There are sense impressions. But though I hear or see two sense
impressions to be the same, I do not, it seems, hear or see the sameness itself. Rather, I
recognize that sameness as a part o f the experience. For example, I may see that the two
coffee cups before me are both white. The sense impression I have o f the white coffee cup
on the left is distinct from the sense impression I have o f the white coffee on my right. I
know, however, that the whiteness o f the two cups is the same. I can inspect this whiteness,
and witness that this is so, but the witnessing o f the sameness is not a witnessing o f a sense
impression. And this is perhaps what is so difficult to understand about identities. Though
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they may be present in our sense perceptions, they are not themselves sense perceptible. I
cannot touch, taste, hear, see, or smell them. They are not, to put it another way, material
entities.
This is true not merely o f universals (that is, identities that are properties, such as
whiteness) but also o f substances (that is, identities that are individualities). W hen I take the
coffee cup in my hand, and view it from m any angles, and thereby have various sense
impressions o f it, I recognize that the cup is one and the same cup. That is, I recognize its
individuality, its identity. I could not touch this identity, as I can touch the cup. I cannot see
this identity as I see the cup. But I do recognize the cup’s identity. This identity is not sense
perceptible. Hume, however, believing that only sense impressions are real, is forced to deny
the recognition we have that objects have identity. His epistemology, in other words, forces
him to be blind to identities. But this blindness is imposed. It is not a part o f our experience;
rather it is a part o f a prejudice. If we examine our experience, we find identities ever
present. Husserl’s phenomenology honors that presence, not merely by attending to it, but
also by describing its essential nature.
Though the recognition o f identities is not a sense experience (and thus not
accessible to traditional empiricism), it nonetheless occurs. What explains this? How are we
able to know identities? This is an epistemological question, and if we return to Chisholm ’s
discussion o f the wheel o f epistemology, we see why a m ethodist’s answer to this question
introduces presuppositions, whereas a particularist’s answer— more particularly, Husserl’s—
moves the inquiry along, unbiased. A methodist position will attempt to tell us how we know
o f identities by studying the methodology or procedure for knowing that it has established. If
identities do not match that procedure, or, as with traditional empiricism, determines that
such entities are not possible, then it must declare them illusory, and ban them from its
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ontology. The particularist approach, such as that o f phenomenology, however, witnesses
what we in fact know, and includes this self-evident knowledge only later to attem pt to
describe it in detail. In this view, the “how” o f knowing is made secondary. Thus, it is not so
fundamental to phenomenology to understand how we know identities. W hat is primary, and
unshakable, is that we do. Once we establish that we do know something— that is, we
recognize that something is verifiably a constituent o f our experience— we can, o f course,
take on the project o f understanding how. The project o f understanding how, however, is one
o f description, not o f theorizing. That is, we examine our experience to see how it is we
know something. In the case o f identities, when we examine our experience to see how we
know them, this ability is very difficult to describe. Indeed, identities may be a self-evident
part o f experience that are unexplainable. But this does not negate the fact that w e do
experience them. It does, however, put the question o f how we do this in its proper
perspective: as a question that is worth exploring, but that will not in and o f itself determine
our experience. Rather, it will follow from that experience.
Betweenness
Our exploration o f identity has been foundational for our understanding and
description o f the bare relation. It has been foundational because we are now able to
recognize and appreciate the identities that are inherent in bare relations. These identities, at
their most basic level, include three items: the terms o f a relation (o f which there are at least
two) and the relation itself. In other words, not only are term s identities (that is, they are
what they are!), but so too are relations. W ith this fundamental description in place, we can
now explore the puzzle o f bare relations that so fascinated Leibniz: W here does the bare
relation reside? Does it reside in the term s o f the relation? Or does it reside in a void
between the relation? And further, what is the nature o f this betweenness or linkage that
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constitutes relations? Does the betweenness cause its terms, or is it caused by them.
Leibniz’s puzzle brings several issues to the forefront, including (a) the notion o f difference
(in relation to identity), (b) the intem ality and externality o f relations, and (c) the nature o f
parts and wholes. Let us explore these.
Difference
That we are able to recognize identities is intimately linked with our ability to
recognize differences. A difference or a distinction is the negation o f a sameness (and a
sameness might ju st as well be considered a negation o f a difference). Above we have
explored two coffee cups, and have identified the two types o f identities that w e recognize in
relation to these cups. Along with our capacity to recognize the presence o f these two
identities, comes our ability to recognize their absence. In terms o f individuation, we can tell
that the cup on my right is not the cup on my left. Rather, they are two cups. As such, they
are non-identical. They are differentiated. Similarly, though the cup on my left is the same
color (white) as the one on my right, it may also be much larger, and thus it differs in term s
o f size. This difference is a difference with regards to properties. Just as we can recognize
when two items share the same universal (such as whiteness or shape), we can also
recognize when they differ in regards to such properties (one being larger than the other, for
example). Having distinguished between our two types o f identities (and thus having
witnessed a difference between the two), we can attend to the fact that a single individual
may have many properties, each o f which differs from the other. For example, my coffee cup
can be white, smooth to the touch, heavy, and very large. We recognize that though the
object that has these properties is identical (that is, the cup is what it is), the properties o f the
cup are not identical with the cup, nor with each other. That is, the whiteness is not the cup.
The smoothness is not the cup; the heaviness and largeness are not the cup. Rather, they are
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properties o f the cup. Similarly, the smoothness is not the heaviness, nor is the largeness the
whiteness. These properties, which are identical to themselves, are different from the other
properties. Clearly, then, in our experience o f the cup, we recognize m anifold samenesses
and manifold differences.
Relations as Universals
In terms o f bare relations, we recognize at least this important differentiation.
Relations are not the terms they relate. Two cups may be in relation in that the are side by
side; but neither cup is the same as this relation o f being side by side. If either cup were the
same as this relation (that is, were that cup identical with the relation), then the relation itself
would be a cup, and the cup, a relation. That this is not the case is, to some extent, a
statement o f logic. But it is also a statement o f our experience o f relations. They do not, it
seems, reside within their terms. Or— to put it another way— they are not identical with their
terms. This speaks directly to our understanding o f the therapy relationship. As a relation, it
cannot reside merely in the experience o f one o f its members. It cannot be solely the
experience o f the therapist nor solely that o f the client, even though these respective
experiences may determine the nature o f the relationship.
Returning to bare relations, where do these relations reside if they do not reside in
the terms they relate? In attempting to attribute a place to the betweenness or the linkage that
is the nature o f relations, we can immediately witness that if there be any such place, it must
not be a physical one, else we would be able to sense perceive it. But this we cannot do. This
in itself hints at another possibility, that relations are a type o f identity m uch like universals,
which them selves are not physical entities. Physical entities, we realize when we explore
them, are identities that are individuated from other entities. Universals, however, are
identities which are not individuated. Universals— such as the color white— can exist in
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many places at the same time. And two individuated objects, two coffee cups, can have this
whiteness, but are not in any way individuated by it. In fact, if we could recognize only the
whiteness o f the two cups, we would not be able to recognize that they were two cups.
W ithout their respective individualities, we would witness only one entity (a whiteness
shared by the two cups).
Relations seem to be similar to such properties as whiteness. A single relation can be
in many places at one time. For example, the relation o f “being to the left o f ’ can be
instanced by a multitude o f individuals. This relation, then, seems to be a one-in-the-many.
Another way o f saying this is that the relation o f “being to the left o f ’ is the same wherever
it exists. That is, it is a single thing existing in many places at the same time. Individuals,
however, cannot do this. Physical entities, such as a cups— precisely because they are
individuated— cannot be in many places at the same time. True, there can be many cups in
the world. But these cups are not the same cup (in the way that “being to the left o f ’ is the
very same thing, no m atter where it is instanced). Rather, what is the same with regards to
these cups, is the quality o f cupness which they share. Any particular cup, however, m ust be
where it is, and cannot also be in a multitude o f other places at the same time. Cupness.
however, can exist in many places at any one time. Cupness, then, is a single thing that exists
in many places at one time. A cup, however, is a single thing that exists in only one place at
one time. Relations, then, are like universals (such as cupness), and as such exhibit location
in the same way that properties do: that is, not as physical, individuated entities, but as non-
spatial, non-individuated entities. This helps us understand how the relation that holds
between two term s is not a physical entity, nor a physical fact.
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External and Internal Relations
Having developed some sense o f the whereness o f relations, and having established
that this whereness is by no means a physical location, we can now address the issue o f
causality. Do relations cause their terms, or do term s cause their relations? This issue calls
for an understanding o f external and internal relations. A relation is considered external if it
need not relate its terms. For example, the relation o f “being next to” need not relate its
terms. My coffee cup might “be next to” my keyboard, but it also might not be. A relation is
considered internal if it absolutely must relate its terms— or, to put this another way, if its
terms must relate to each other in a certain way. For example, the relation between the
numbers 2 and 4 must be such that they exhibit a difference o f two. They also m ust be
related such that the number 3 falls between them. This relations, then, is internal.
The doctrine o f internal relations provides a way o f determining the nature o f a
relation. It states that a relation is internal if at least one o f its terms could not remain the
same term with the loss o f the relation. The relation between 2 and 4, for example, m ust be
internal, because the numbers 2 and 4 could not remain the same numbers were they to lose
the relation o f being separated by the number 3. Similarly, they could not remain the same
were they to lose the property o f having a difference o f two. Internal relations are so tightly
linked that the relation itself might be thought o f as causing or determ ining its terms. The
difference between the num ber 2 and 4, being that o f two, seems to cause or determine what
2 and 4 are. Contrarily, the relation o f two objects “being next to” one another, in no way
determines the objects themselves. If we take away the relation o f “being next to,” the
objects remain what they are.
The notion o f causality, however, is m isleading here. It does not seem to be the case
that relations exist independently, and then cause their terms to have a certain nature. We do
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not have, and cannot imagine, two unformed numbers upon which w e impose a relationship
which thereby constitutes the terms 2 and 4. Rather, the numbers 2 and 4, and their relation,
are simply o f a nature that all three are inextricably linked. To use language we will soon
explain, a whole exists in which all parts are dependent upon one another. If any part is
extracted, no parts can remain. That is, a num ber system without the num ber 3 is simply
unthinkable.
In the case o f internal relations, then, relations do not cause or construct their terms.
This seems certainly true o f external relations also. The relationship o f “being next to” does
not cause two objects to exist as next to one another. Rather, two objects, when brought into
proximity, cause the relation o f “being next to.” Relations, then, are not constructive agents.
If they were, they would need to exist independently o f the agents they construct, and this
they cannot do. Rather, all relations, whether internal or external, are dependent on the terms
they relate. Thus, relations are determined by the nature o f their terms.
If we examine the therapy relationship, do we find it to be an external or internal
relation? The doctrine o f internal relations should help us here. We simply ask whether the
terms o f the therapy relationship would remain the same with the loss o f the relation. One
might be inclined to think that they would not. I will argue that they would. The former
position asserts that the participants in the therapy relationship are changed with the absence
o f the therapy relation; that is, the client or therapist is fundamentally different when not in
the client-therapist relationship. To put this another way, arguing that the therapy
relationship is internal is to argue that nature o f the client or the therapist is dependent upon
their relationship in the same way that the nature o f the number 2 is dependent on its relation
to 4. We m ight be inclined to believe that therapy relations (or all personal relations for that
matter) are internal for the reason that relationships can change us. M ost researchers who
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study the therapy relationship, for example, claim that the relationship has healing powers.
But even if this were true (and it may well be), this would not mean that the therapy
relationship itself determined the nature o f its members. Rather, it would mean that that
relationship, once established, can have a causal influence on its members. How this could
be so is well worth examining, but that it is so does not mean that personal relations are
internal.
Another way o f approaching this issue is to compare personal relations to the
relation between the numbers 2 and 4, which we know to be internal. The very nature o f the
number 2 is so determined that its relation to the number 4 is fixed. The num ber 2 cannot be
the number 2 if it does not hold the specific relation with the number 4 o f being two units
apart from it. A woman in a personal relation, however, would still be a person, even if she
were not to enter a particular personal relation. A person, then, can decide whether or not to
enter into personal relations. The number 2, however, by its nature has no such choice. It
must hold a certain relation to the number 4. Its very essence is bound with the essence o f
the number 4. But this is not true in personal relations. The essence o f a man who holds a
relation with another, is not bound by that relation. If that relation is term inated, the man
will still exist. But if the number 4 were terminated, the number 2 would simply not exist.
Personal relations, then, are external relations. This is not to argue, however, that relations
with others have no influence upon us. Indeed, the opposite is likely the case. W ho w e relate
to, on both a personal and social level, has a profound influence upon us. But that influence
is not o f the same kind that occurs for internal relations. It is not determined by the people
we relate to. Yes, we do say that relationships affect us, change us, or even heal us. But
when we say this, we do not mean that who we are is determined by our relationships with
others. Rather, we mean that our awareness o f others— whether they care for us or not,
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whether they are kind to us or not— matters to us, and profoundly affects upon us. Indeed,
that this effect is voluntary rather than determinative, that we can chose to enter into
relations or not, seems essential to their nature.
Parts and Wholes
An understanding o f parts and wholes will helps us describe personal relations such
that we do not confuse wholeness for what has mistakenly been described as the intem ality
o f personal relations, an understandable and preventable error. In his third logical
investigation, Husserl takes up the question o f wholes and parts. He begins with this simple
explanation: “Objects can be related to one another as W holes to Parts, they can also be
related to one another as coordinated parts o f a whole” (Husserl, 1900/1970b, p. 436).
Husserl clarifies that he does not mean the term object to denote merely physical entities.
Rather, he writes, “The term ‘object’ is in this context always taken in its w idest sense”
(Husserl, 1900/1970b, p. 438). The wider sense that Husserl means is this: an object is
anything which can be brought before the mind; or, to say this yet another way, anything
which can be experienced.
To begin simply, wholes are objects that have parts, and parts are objects that make
up wholes. Clearly, for parts to be able to constitute a whole, such parts must have relations.
If they did not, they would not constitute a whole. Husserl establishes two ways that parts
can relate to each other and to the wholes they constitute. Independent parts, also called
pieces, are parts that can be presented independently. They are separable. Physical objects
are good examples o f pieces. The leaf o f a tree is a piece o f the whole that is the tree; it is a
piece because it can be presented apart from the tree. Non-independent parts, often referred
to as moments, are not separable. They must be presented with another part (or with the
whole). Color is a good example o f a non-independent part or a moment. Color is
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inseparable from extension. It cannot be presented apart from extension. W hen we see color,
we necessarily see, along with it, extension or spatial expansion. Pitch is another example o f
a moment. The pitch o f a tone can only exist as blended with the tone. We cannot
experience, nor even imagine, pitch without tone. Husserl describes non-independent parts
as “governed by a law o f essence to the effect that they only exist (if at all) as parts o f more
inclusive wholes” (Husserl, 1900/1970b, p. 447). In other words, moments are parts whose
very nature demands that they coexist with other parts. They are dependent on other parts.
“We find them so closely united as to be called ‘interpenetrating’” (Husserl, 1900/1970b,
p. 437). Others have characterized such parts are “interdependent.”
Under different levels o f analysis, a whole can be a part within another whole. The
tree, for example, which constitutes a whole (comprising such parts as the roots, branches,
bark, sap, leaves, and so on), is a part in terms o f the forest. Similarly, a part can be a whole
with further parts. For example, the leaf, which is a part o f the tree, is also a whole in
relation to its many parts (including its stem, veins, lobes, color, shape, translucency, and so
on). N ot only can parts be wholes, and wholes parts, but parts which are pieces in relation to
certain wholes may be moments in relation to other wholes. For example, in the whole o f the
color spectrum, the part red is independent o f blue, and in this respect is a piece. However, in
the whole o f a red cup, the redness is dependent on the cup’s spatial extension, and thus is a
moment in this respect. Sokoloski writes that “M oments are the kind o f part that cannot
become a w hole” (Sokolowski, 2000, p. 23). But this is m isleading if not downright wrong.
Actually, moments can become wholes, but when they do so they are necessarily the kinds
o f wholes that must remain parts in relation to a greater, superordinate whole. Thus, we can
consider color as a whole, and can examine its many parts (such as hue, intensity, brightness,
and so on). This does not change the fact that color remains a non-independent part in
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relation to extension. Also, because color is only thinkable in coexistence with extension, all
the parts o f color (hue, intensity, brightness, and so forth) are equally non-independent in
their relation to extension.
The issue o f independence and non-independence— which is also that o f separability
and inseparability— needs to be differentiated from the issue o f distinction. Distinction— or
what we have also called difference and differentiation above— is simply the existence o f a
non-identity. On the one hand, two objects which are distinct may or may not be dependent.
Color and spatial extension are distinct, but they are dependent. L eaf and tree are distinct,
but they are independent. On the other hand, two objects which are independent m ust be
distinct. Pen and paper are independent; they must be distinct (non-identical). Color and
sound are independent; they too must be distinct. Another way o f stating all this is to say that
independence, by its nature, involves distinction. Distinction, however, can be either
independent (as between color and sound) or dependent (as between color and extension).
These differences are important to understand because dependent parts are often
mistaken as indistinct— that is, as identical. For example, color and extension are sometimes
thought to be the same because they necessarily occur together. Also, the mind (with its
thought processes) and the brain (with its physiochemical processes) are often thought to be
the same simply because they are believed to be dependent parts. But tw o objects being
necessarily coexistent— that is, two objects being dependent upon one another— does not
mean that these two objects are the same. Sometimes this is the case, and tw o dependent
objects are actually identical (and, o f course, an identity must coexist with itself, that is, be
dependent upon itself). Distinctions are sometimes more difficult to be aware o f when they
hold between two dependent objects. For example, because sound and volume are dependent
parts, we may mistakenly believe that sound and volume are the same. But the fact that a
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sound m ust have a volume and a volume a sound, does not mean that a sound is a volume. In
our everyday speech, we often ignore this for the sake o f convenience. We say, “Turn the
sound up, please,” when we really mean, “Turn the volume up.” This same type o f confusion
occurs in Jam es’s experiential monism, in which he contends that consciousness (knowing)
and the object o f consciousness (the known) are identical for the reason that they occur
together. (See page 153.) But this is a faulty argument. M erely because consciousness
(knowing) and the object o f consciousness (the known) may be dependent parts (that is,
knowing does not happen without something being known), does not mean that knowing and
the known are identical. W ith dependent parts, then, it can sometimes be difficult to discern
a distinction.
Wholes
W holes may consist o f two types o f parts— pieces and moments; but what can we
say about wholes beyond the parts they comprise. A common property attributed to a whole
is that o f being greater than the sum o f its parts. W hat does this mean, however? Taken
literally, this phrase seems to propose that a whole, such as that represented by the num ber
100, is greater the sum o f its parts, say the numbers 75 and 25. But this is surely not what is
intended. Rather, the view that the whole is greater than the sum o f its parts really means that
the whole is different from its parts. Another common way o f phrasing this is to say that the
whole is not reducible to its parts. O f course, this does not mean the whole does not have
parts! Rather, it means that the properties attributable to the whole are not properties that
inhere in the parts. The whole is a unity that stands apart from its parts, and has properties
that we would not necessarily know or understand merely from examining the parts. Smith
and M ulligan provide the following translation o f A ristotle’s preliminary remarks on wholes
in his M etaphysics:
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The whole, that which is compounded out o f something, is one, not like a heap, but
like a syllable. N ow the syllable is not its elements; ba is not the same as b and a, nor
is flesh the same as fire and earth (for when these are separated the wholes, i.e. the
flesh and the syllable, no longer exist, but the elements o f the syllable exist, and so
do fire and earth); the syllable, then, is something— not only its elem ents (the vowel
and the consonant) but also something else, and the flesh is not only fire and earth,
or the hot and the cold, but also something else. (Smith & M ulligan, 1982, p. 15)
Let us look at a few more examples o f this, and in so doing examine our notion o f
the bare relation. A bare relation cannot exist on its own. It is, o f its essence, dependent on
the existence o f terms. Furthermore, a relation is determined by the properties o f its terms.
“Being taller than” is a relation that may hold between my sister and my mother, such that
my sister is taller than my mother. In this example, the relation (being taller than) depends
on my sister and m other’s respective heights. M y sister and m other’s respective heights are
part o f their natures; or— to say this more simply— height is a property o f both my sister and
mother. This relation o f being-taller-than, taken on its own, has properties. For example, it is
the opposite o f being-shorter-than. Being-taller-than also has the property o f being
measurable.
In this example a whole is formed by the relation being-taller-than and two terms,
sister and mother. This whole is a unity which itself has certain properties. It may be a
source o f irritation for my mother, for example, that her daughter is taller than she. This
irritation is not merely the relation o f being-shorter-than, nor is it merely the term, my sister.
My mother, for example, is not irritated that she is shorter than my father, nor that she is
shorter than the average giraffe. And my m other is not irritated by my sister in general.
Rather, she is irritated with the unity that is “I am shorter than my daughter.”
Let us investigate a parallel example. The elem ents oxygen and hydrogen, when
held in a certain relation, form water. W ater is a whole that is com prised o f these parts: two
terms (oxygen and hydrogen) and the chemical relation that holds between these. The
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relation itself, again, has certain properties. It may be a strong bond or a weak one. It m ay be
similar to other chemical relations or dissimilar. And the wholeness that is water has
particular properties that differ from either o f its terms (oxygen and hydrogen) or their
relation. W ater, for example, can extinguish flame. Oxygen and hydrogen, however, will
kindle it. The unity or wholeness that is water can enter into further relations with other
terms. W ater, for example, can be mixed with soap to form suds that will wash oil away.
This new whole, consisting o f the term s water and soap in relation, has further properties
that neither water nor soap has on its own. N or does the relationship between water and soap
have these properties; nor do the many parts o f water and soap have these properties. If we
continue with examples o f these kinds, we begin to see that reality consists o f a vast network
o f parts and wholes. Terms (which are parts) come into relation to make wholes, and these
wholes become terms which enter into further relations to make further wholes, and so on.
In Chapter 4 we explored Barrett-Lennard’s depiction o f the therapy relationship as
“an emergent entity that develops a life and character o f its own.” W hen Barrett-Lennard
speaks o f an “emergent entity” he is, I believe, referring to the therapy relationship as a
whole. That whole is not merely the participants o f the relation (client and therapist), nor the
feelings o f these participants, nor the consciousness o f these members. Rather, the whole is
all these parts— the participants, their consciousnesses, their feelings, and the relations
amongst these terms— taken together and in relation to one another.
Thus, when we speak o f the relationship as altering its constituents, or as being
healing, or damaging, or nurturing, or what have you— when we speak o f the relationship in
this way, we do not mean the bare relation between client and therapist. Rather, we mean the
unity which includes all the terms we have heretofore discussed (and likely more terms, too),
along with the bare relations these terms hold. In other words, ju st as my m other is not upset
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at the bare relation that exists between her height and her daughter’s (that is, she is not upset
by “being shorter than”), but rather is upset by the unity which is “I am shorter than my
daughter.” So, too, when we speak o f the therapy relationship having w hatever impact it may
have, we are speaking o f the relationship as a unity, not the bare relation o f “being with”
another. Certainly this bare relation is essential to the nature of a therapy relationship (and
also, o f a personal relationship), but it is not in and o f itself the entirety that is “the
relationship.” I emphasize this point to clear up the confusion that is often made when
speaking o f wholes and their parts. Sometimes a part is referred to as if it were the whole,
and vice versa. W hen we describe the therapy relationship, we must be clear when we mean
its parts and when we mean its whole.
We must also be certain to distinguish when we are describing a part that is
independent (a piece) and when we are describing a part that is dependent (a moment).
Sokolowski warns,
The distinction between pieces and moments is very important in philosophical
analysis. W hat often happens in philosophy is that something that is a mom ent is
taken to be a piece, taken to be separable from its wider whole and other parts; then
an artificial philosophical ‘problem' arises about how the original whole can be
reconstituted. The true solution to such a problem is not to fashion some new way o f
building up the whole out o f such falsely segmented parts, but simply to show that
the part in question was a moment, not a piece, and that it never should have been
separated from the whole in the first place. M any philosophical arguments are
simply com plicated attempts to show that something is a dependent, not an
independent part, a moment and not a piece. (Sokolowski, 2000, pp. 24-25)
Our own analysis will indeed include such attempts to demonstrate that what has been
mistaken for a piece is actually a moment. One might characterize our Chapter 3 critique o f
traditional empiricism as an explication o f this mistake as applied to consciousness.
In Chapter 4, we spoke o f four aspects o f the therapy relationship: bare relations,
consciousness, feelings (or subjective states), and mutual awareness. We can now speak o f
these aspects as parts o f a whole that is the therapy relationship. As parts, we know that the
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properties that inhere in them are not necessarily the properties that inhere in the whole.
(Oxygen, remember, fuels the flame; but water abates it.) However, the properties o f parts
do determine the types o f relations those parts can have. Oxygen must have a certain nature
such that it hold a certain relationship with hydrogen to form the unity we know as water. It
will be helpful, then, for us to understand the parts o f the therapy relationship and to
appreciate their interrelationships at some basic level. Crucial to this appreciation will be the
discernment o f whether the parts we have identified are independent or dependent. Also
crucial to our study will be the incorporation o f the understanding we developed concerning
two types o f identities, substances and universals. We will want to distinguish not only
pieces from moments, but substances from universals. Our exploration o f bare relations has
equipped us to draw these distinctions.
Consciousness
Consciousness is a fundamental part o f the whole that constitutes a personal
relationship. It is fundamental not only in the sense that without consciousness there could
be no personal relationship, but also in the sense that two o f the other parts o f personal
relations— feelings and mutual awareness— seem to necessitate consciousness for their very
existence. Consciousness is also fundamental to our investigation o f the therapy relationship
in that it is that by which we are able to know and understand the therapy relationship. It is,
as we have discussed in detail in Chapter 5, the foundation o f our methodology. Our
appreciation for the nature and powers o f consciousness, then, must be accentuated, and our
study will involve a careful analysis o f many o f its properties.
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Fundamental Descriptions o f Consciousness
Consciousness as a Piece
To begin our investigation o f consciousness, let us take up the nature o f this aspect
o f the therapy relationship in terms o f its independence or dependence. Consciousness, when
analyzed in relation to feelings and mutual awareness (the other parts o f the therapy
relationship that we will be investigating), seems to be an independent rather than dependent
part. Consciousness, that is, does not seem to necessitate the coexistence o f emotion or
mutual awareness. We m ight be conscious o f something, for example, and not have any
feelings toward that something, and when we are consciousness o f something, this can occur
without that something being m utually aware o f us. This latter assertion is unassailable, but
the former has commonly been challenged.
Some have argued, for example, that consciousness is always “colored” by mood,
and thus, that it comes always accompanied by feelings o f some sort or another. But here let
me draw a clarification in my use o f the term consciousness, one that the concept o f wholes
and parts shall allow me to present. W hen I have spoken o f consciousness till now, I have
not differentiated whether I am speaking o f a specific act o f consciousness or many
combined acts o f consciousness. A specific act o f consciousness would be a thought or
awareness o f a single whole. Examples might include perceiving a triangle, remem bering my
mother, or seeing a bird fly by. These single acts o f consciousness are actually wholes that
have many parts. Looking at a triangle, for example, may include an awareness o f three sides
and three angles. M y awarenesses o f each o f the triangle’s three sides are themselves
different acts o f consciousness, parts which make up the whole that is my act o f perceiving
the triangle. Consciousness, then, can be a com plex whole made up o f many nested,
interdependent parts. We cannot perceive a triangle, for example, without its sides and
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angles being present also. W hen we speak o f acts o f consciousness, then, it is difficult to
draw a boundary around what might constitute a single act. One might argue, for instance,
that my consciousness o f the triangle is not a single act, but rather is many.
Though such a way o f describing consciousness is helpful and true, we m ust not
overlook this fact o f experience: acts o f consciousness are about or o f wholes. In perceiving
the triangle, for example, or remembering my mother, I am engaged in a conscious act that
regards a whole. I witness the triangle; I witness a wholeness comprised o f parts in relation. I
do not witness parts and then “construct” or “build” relations. (W e need only examine our
experience to see how this is true.) Now, even though the whole o f an act o f consciousness
may have parts, and these parts may be other acts o f consciousness, this does not rescind the
fact that my acts o f consciousness are awarenesses o f wholes. Even my act o f perceiving the
triangle (this act being a whole in and o f itself) may be a part of a greater whole. Perhaps the
triangle I am perceiving is part o f a map I am also viewing, and as part o f that map this
triangle represents the capital cities o f the United States. Even though this may be the case,
and even though the triangle is in this regard a part o f a greater whole, it is also a w hole in
and o f itself. Consciousness, then, has many layers, and is a vastly com plex melding o f parts
and wholes.
Returning to our initial concern, I argued that consciousness is independent o f
feelings. This does not meant that feelings cannot occur alongside, within, or as a property o f
consciousness. Clearly, when I remem ber my mother, I will likely have feelings associated
with this memory, feelings that are a crucial component o f the whole which is my memory
o f my mother. But, it is also the case that some acts o f consciousness— my perception o f a
triangle, for example— are wholes that occur in the absence o f feelings. Thus, consciousness
is independent in relation to feelings. It is not like color in relation to space, for color can
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only exist in interdependence with space. Consciousness, however, can exist separately from
feelings.
The Polythetic Nature o f Consciousness
Our discussion o f the network o f wholes and parts that constitute any single act o f
consciousness has hinted at an important aspect o f consciousness, its polythetic character.
Consciousness is polythetic in that any single act o f consciousness intends (is o f or about- )
more than one thing. In this respect, then, consciousness is multi-rayed or multi-layered. It
can take in, so to speak, more than one object at a time, or, to say this another way, it can be
directed upon multiple objects. W hen we perceive a triangle, for example, we also perceive
sides, angles, an interior and exterior, and other objects. All o f these additional objects are
objects we intend, things we think of. It is not the case that when we perceive the triangle we
perceive each o f these objects one at a time. Rather, we intend them all at once. A sim ilar
thing happens when we read a sentence. N ot only do we perceive black marks set against a
white background, but also we see letters (which are made up o f these black marks), we see
words (which are made up o f these letters), and we ‘see’ the meanings o f these words.
A common misdescription o f consciousness has been to characterize it as a single
ray which intends a single object at a time. This is H um e’s view. He believed that we could
hold only one sense impression in view at any one time (and that impression, o f course, he
believed to be a piece, not a moment). This partly explains Hume’s denial o f relations, for if
we can only intend objects singly, then we o f course cannot intend the relations between
them. Relations, by their very nature, demand that we intend two objects at a tim e (the
terms) in order that we comprehend them. If Hume were correct, however, and
consciousness were merely a single ray, then we would be unable to intend wholes. Rather,
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we would only intend pieces and moments, and any connection or relation that we believed
to exist would necessarily be an imposition upon the perceived object.
Additionally, if consciousness were monothetic and, like a flashlight, could only
shine upon one thing at a time, then Husserl’s phenomenology would itself be an impossible
endeavor. This is because his method requires that we have the capacity to be conscious o f
our consciousnesses. We explored this very ability in Chapter 5, and illustrated it in Figures
5 and 7 above. (See pages 163 and 175.) In these illustrations, we demonstrated that we have
the ability to perceive things, and to ‘see’ that we are perceiving them. For example, we can
look at a tree, and at the same time know that we are looking at a tree. The perception o f the
tree and the awareness o f that perception are both consciousnesses, and they are both
occurring simultaneously. A single-ray theory, however, would not allow for this ability,
even though we demonstrably have it, and can prove it to ourselves at any m om ent by simple
phenomenological experiment. According to the single-ray theory, we could no more
witness our own witnessing, than we could shine a beam o f light upon itself. The monothetic
view o f consciousness, however, no m atter how wrong it is, no m atter that it contradicts our
very experience, is nonetheless an ingrained assumption o f many scholars, especially those
in cognitive science. Hobson, for example, writes:
Although our minds may jum p from one subject to another, and while the several
biochemical molecules o f consciousness contribute components to our integrated
awareness in parallel, consciousness can at any instant concern itself with only a
single idea, a single percept, or a single emotion. (Hobson, 1999, p. 13)
Such monothetic conceptualizations o f consciousness relate to another oft noted critique o f
phenomenology. This critique has it that introspection can never be trusted as a methodology
because the very act o f introspection alters the studied object. We have already traced the
logic o f this position in those cases in which acts o f introspection are taken as being
representational. Under the representational view, when we introspect, we never actually
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“reach” the internal workings o f our minds because the introspective process transforms
these phenomena into copies o f some sort. But the monothetic view places yet another
obstacle in the path o f introspection. It argues that when we attempt to become conscious o f
our own consciousnesses, we alter our original state o f consciousness. That alteration occurs
not because consciousness is representational, but because consciousness is single-rayed. By
this view, if we are conscious o f the thing which is a tree, and thereby become a
consciousness o f the consciousness o f the tree, we have inherently altered the original
consciousness because that consciousness is no longer merely o f the tree, but is o f something
new— our consciousness o f the tree. Thus, we can never view the original consciousness
unaffected by introspection. Introspection m ust tam per with its object o f study.
But if we adopt both a polythetic understanding o f consciousness— an understanding
which is supported by the reality o f our experience— and if we incorporate within this
understanding our appreciation for wholes and parts, we see that it is not at all the case that
the consciousness o f a second consciousness necessarily alters the original consciousness.
For example, if I perceive a tree (one act o f consciousness) and then become aware o f my
perception o f the tree (a second consciousness), I have tw o separate consciousnesses. It is
very true to speak o f this second consciousness as being a whole which is different from the
whole which is my original consciousness. Thus, if I refer to my consciousness in general as
being constituted by my entire field o f awareness, and from this perspective argue that when
I am seeing the tree, my entire field o f awareness is o f a certain nature, but when I introspect
upon m yself seeing the tree, this is an entirely new field o f awareness, then such a view is
quite correct. According to this description, the whole which is my entire field o f awareness
is changed when I introspect. (The phenomenological attitude or reduction constitutes
precisely this type o f change in one’s field o f awareness.)
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But awareness (that is, consciousness) is o f such a nature, as we have discussed
above, that it consists o f many sm aller awareness. Though the w hole that is my entire field
o f awareness may change when I reflect upon m yself seeing the tree, this does not
necessarily alter my subordinate awareness o f the tree. If consciousness were merely a single
ray— a whole with no parts— then o f course any alteration o f my whole consciousness would
necessarily change all that was contained within it. But consciousness is not bound by such a
nature.
Let us take an example. I look at the weeping willow outside my window. I see its
branches and its leaves. Then I notice a humming bird sitting on one o f its branches. I had
not noticed the humming bird at first. This new consciousness o f the hum m ing bird does not
change my consciousness o f the tree. It does, however, change the consciousness that would
be considered the whole o f my experience. Let us imagine that I then notice the sounds o f
the tree. I hear the wind rustling the leaves. The sounds I now notice do not alter my
perception o f the tree. Rather, they join with that perception to give me a whole which is my
seeing the tree and hearing it. The seeing o f the tree and the hearing o f its rustling leaves are
both parts o f the whole. They remain unchanged by the whole. They can be attended to
without attending to the whole. That is, I can listen to the leaves rustling without seeing the
tree, and I can see the tree without attending to the leaves rustling. In this way, then, the
whole o f consciousness can be changed without its parts necessarily being altered.
There is yet another argument that can be proffered in favor o f the validity o f
introspection. Such a view is in essence an attack upon skepticism, and as such, we have
explored it already. Let us simply review how this view as expressed by Husserl, who uses
the word reflection to mean introspection (we here expand on a previous quote):
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Every genuine scepticism, whatever its type and orientation may be, can be
recognized by this fundamental absurdity, that in the arguments it uses it
presupposes implicitly, as the conditions o f the possibility o f its validity, precisely
that which it denies in its own theses. It is easy to recognize the presence o f this
feature in the arguments we are considering. He who merely says, I doubt the
significance o f reflexion for knowledge, maintains an absurdity. For as he asserts his
doubt, he reflects, and to set this assertion forth as valid presupposes that reflexion
has really and without a doubt (for the case in hand) the very cognitive value upon
which doubt has been cast, that it does not alter the objective relation, that the
unreflective experience does not forfeit its essence through the transition into
reflexion. (Husserl, 1913/1962, pp. 208-209)
Truth and Fulfillment, Presence and Absence
The polythetic nature o f consciousness explains how we can know and be aware o f
objects in the world, objects that are com plex wholes with many parts. Consciousness is able
to grasp these many parts, and itself has a like structure, with parts and wholes. The
polythetic nature o f consciousness also explains how we are able to grasp truth. For Husserl,
truth is something that we live through. It is finding an object to be as we thought it to be. To
be able to accomplish this feat, we must be able not only to hold objects before us but also to
witness our thoughts o f these objects as matching the objects themselves. Fulfillment is the
term Husserl uses to describe the witnessing o f this matching. Fulfillment is the lived
experience o f grasping the correspondence between our thoughts and what our thoughts are
about. If consciousness were by its nature monothetic, we could have no such ability.
Husserl’s description o f truth as fulfillment involves an understanding o f absences
and presences, and understanding that most philosophers have overlooked. Typically,
consciousness has been conceived as only the consciousness o f presences. But many o f the
objects we hold before our consciousness can be present or absent, or both. For example,
when I view a coffee cup before me, I am not only conscious of the side the cup that faces
me (this side being directly available to my visual perspective), but also the opposite side
which I cannot see. These two sides are included in my consciousness o f the cup. The side
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that I can see is a consciousness that is present. Consciousnesses that are present are term ed
intuitions by Husserl. As Sokolowski explains, “Intuition is not something m ystical or
magical; it is simply having a thing present to us as opposed to having it intended in its
absence” (Sokolowski, 2000, p. 34). The opposite side o f the cup is not all that is absent to
me in my consciousness o f the cup. The cup’s bottom is also absent from me, and the many
other perspectives by which I might view the cup are absent too. In my consciousness o f the
cup, I am aware o f all these perspectives as being part o f the cup, that is, as being a part o f
its nature, even if these sides are not immediately present to me. The cup also has a certain
history. Perhaps it is the cup my m other gave me for my 30th birthday. I rem em ber this
birthday, and unwrapping my m other’s gift, but the occurrence o f this experience is not
present to me. Rather, I intend all o f these memories as absences, and these absences are all
part o f my consciousness o f the cup.
When Sokolowski speaks above o f “intending” an object, he is using this word as
the verbal cognate o f intentionality. To intend an object is simply to think about it.
According to Husserl’s view, we can intend absences and presences. That is, we can think o f
an object that is present and we can think o f the same object in its absence. Objects— the
“things” we experience or think about— are identities that exist in presence or in absence.
When we experience an object that is absent, it is not the case that the object in its presence
would be a different object. Rather, it would be the identical object. For example, I can think
about the lecture I will be attending later this afternoon. The object I am thinking about, the
lecture, is the very same object that will occur for me in its presence this afternoon.
However, in the present moment I experience the object as absent. This afternoon, I will
experience it as present. Similarly, I m ight think about the picture o f my sister that hangs on
my m other’s living room wall. When I think o f this picture now, hundreds o f miles away
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from my m other’s living room, I intend the picture in its absence. W hen I walk into my
m other’s living room, I perceive the picture in its presence. In both instances, I am intending,
or thinking about, or experiencing, or being conscious of, the same object. The identity o f an
object carries across its presence and its absence. As Sokolowski explains, “Even when the
object is absent, we intend the object itself, we intend it in its identity. When it is present, we
intend the identity again, this time in its present mode and precisely as not absent”
(Sokolowski, 2000, pp. 37-38).
Consciousness is often spoken o f as containing empty and filled intentions. Empty
intentions are experiences o f things that are absent. Filled intentions are experiences o f
things that are present. Philosophers have often wanted to ignore empty intentions, or to
“fill” them in some way. They have thought that because consciousness is always o f
something, that the something, if it is not bodily present, must be an image or representation
o f some sort that is present. Sokolowski writes:
We shy away from absence even though it is all around us and preoccupies us all the
time. Thus, when we want to explain how we can speak about objects that are not
present, we tend to say that we are dealing with an image or a concept o f the object,
which is present, and through that image or concept we reach toward the absent
thing. But this postulation o f a presence to substitute for the absent is highly
inadequate. For one thing, how would we ever know that what is given to us is only
a concept or an image if we did not have some sense o f the absence o f the real thing,
if we did not already intend the thing in its absence? (Sokolowski, 2000, p. 36)
That we know presence and absence, and compare the two, is given in our experience.
Husserl’s description o f consciousness, o f lived experience, incorporates these components
o f experience. It describes consciousness as having the capacity to be about what is directly
before us (that which is present) and what is not (that which is absent).
Husserl uses the term “intuition” to denote intentions (or consciousnesses or
experiences) that are o f present objects. That is, intuitions are filled intentions. Intuitions are
the Evidenz that we described in Chapter 5. (See page 164.) They are direct experience, so to
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speak, or self-evident experience. They constitute experience that is undeniable simply
because it is given to us directly and can be observed in its fullness. Intuition, then, is the
process o f seeing something as it is. As such, it is the same as fulfillment. Truths are
intentions that can be fulfilled, or that can be presented in intuition. Falsities are intentions
that cannot be filled.
This description o f empty and filled intentions accounts for how we can be wrong
about the world and how we can be right about it. We are wrong when we think that
something is the case, but find through our attem pt at fulfillment that our intention is not
presented to us when we intuit the object itself. We are right when we think som ething is the
case, and our intentions o f the actual case correspond with these intentions. For example, I
may intend the coffee cup that my m other gave me for my birthday as being red. In other
words, I think o f it, or remember it as being red. In thinking this, I intend the coffee cup in
its absence. When I go to view the cup, however, I find that it is white. I have refuted my
earlier intention o f the object. It was not the case that this earlier intention was o f a different
object. Rather, that intention was o f the same object, but I was simply wrong in my
understanding, my memory o f that object.
Our experiences o f the world and its objects come saturated with absences and
presences. When I view the coffee cup before me, take it in my hand and turn it around, feel
its weight, rub my fingers over its smooth surface, I experience the presence o f the cup. But
within each presence there are multitudinous absences. W hen I look at the cup on the table, I
can also intend how the cup feels in my hands, though I intend this as an absence, for the cup
remains on the table, apart from my hands. I can also intend the cup’s w eight as I gaze upon
it; but again, this I do in the absence o f this weight, for I am not holding the cup in my
hands. Let us say that I place the cup on the table and walk around it. W ith every step I enter
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into a new visual perspective upon this cup. I see it from all its sides, from all its aspects.
With each o f these new perspectives I intend all o f my previous views upon the cup, but I do
so in their absence. Indeed, these previous perspectives, though absent, are contained in my
present experience o f the cup. Furthermore, as I pass from one perspective into another,
there is no threshold or boundary that I pass through that delineates this perspective from
that one. M y past perspectives o f the cup, and all my potential future perspectives, are not
detached from my present perspective. Rather, all my perspectives flow into one another,
and many o f these are present in my current experience. Any o f these absent or empty
intentions I can fill if I so desire. In viewing the cup from one angle, I can rem em ber the
opposing view, and if I so choose, I can walk around the cup to behold the opposite view as
a presence, rather than the absence it is for me now. I can also, in remem bering the w eight o f
the cup, pick up the cup in my hands, and intend its weight as a presence. I can com pare how
the cup feels in my hand to how I thought it would feel when I intended this weight in its
absence. In this way, I can experience and re-experience the cup, examine it more and more
closely to garner the presences and absences that I intend, and I can confirm or refute my
intentions o f the cup. In this way, I can come to know the truth that is this cup. I can know
its color, its shape, and the many aspects from which it can be viewed. I can correct errors I
have intended. Perhaps I thought the cup was heavy because o f how it looked. This thought,
which is an empty intention, I can refute by holding the cup in my hand and finding it to be
light. Now when I look at the cup, I know that it is light, even though I do not hold it. To
confirm this intention, I simply pick it up again.
Perspectives
This understanding o f truth— with its description o f empty and filled intentions—
can clear up a misunderstanding about phenomenology in regards to perspective. M ost o f the
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things we experience can be experienced from many perspectives. Spatial objects can be
viewed, as we have illustrated, from multitudinous aspects. Non-spatial objects, too, can
have perspectives in that they can be thought o f in different ways. I can think o f a triangle as
having three sides, or alternatively as having three angles. I can think o f a triangle as h alf o f
a square, or as symbol placed upon my map to mark capital cities. These perspectives onto
objects (both spatial and non-spatial) do not, however, constitute objects as different entities.
Rather, objects are single entities— that is, identities— which maintain throughout these
perspectives. In other words, the coffee cup that I see from so m any aspects, that I hold in
my hand to determine its smoothness and weight, that coffee cup is one and the same cup
throughout its multifarious perspectives. The triangle which I can think o f as having three
sides or as having three angles is one and the same triangle. Though we experience some
objects through experiential perspectives, these perspectives are not the objects themselves.
Rather, they are the way through which objects are presented, and furthermore, it is the
essential nature o f certain objects that they have perspectives. They could not be otherwise.
As Husserl explains o f spatial objects “It follows from the essential nature o f spatial
thinghood (and in the widest sense inclusive of'visual illusions') that Being o f this species
can, in principle, be given in perceptions only by way o f perspective m anifestation”
(Husserl, 1913/1962, p. 121).
“An experience.” Husserl clarifies, quite unlike an object, “has no perspectives”
(Husserl, 1913/1962, p. 121). Rather, an experience is self-evident. It is simply there as it is.
We cannot have different standpoints or orientations from which we “view” an experience.
We do not stand back from our experience and adopt different understandings o f it. Rather,
an experience is what it is. This is the essential structure o f experience. And as part o f that
structure, our experience o f essences (that is o f universals) is not perspectival. We “see”
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universals as they are. Similarly, we “see” identities as they are. Thus, experience o f spatial,
physical objects is not merely the experience o f multitudinous perspectives, each o f these
perspectives offering different sensory impressions. Rather, experience includes essential or
categorial intuitions along with sensory impressions. These essential intuitions are o f
identities, that is, universals and substances— o f “things” that are what they are and remain
identical across perspectives and throughout various standpoints. This understanding o f
perspectives is what Husserl had in mind in one o f his uses o f the paired term s immanence
and transcendence. An immanence, when used in this context, is something which we see
completely, fully. It is an identity (an essence or a substance), that we experience in its
presence. These identities are experienced apodictically, unquestionable, unassailably.
Transcendencies, however, are empty intentions. They are the parts o f our experience that
are not directly present, but are nonetheless constituents o f experience. They are the others
aspects o f the coffee cup, the “scenes behind the scene.” W ith most o f the objects we hold
before our minds, there is more that is transcendent than immanent. Phenom enology entails
the description o f both these components, and eventually it strives to view the
transcendencies “up close” to identify the immanences that may lurk within them. In this
way, we come to a better understanding o f things, a better description o f how the world is
and to the fulfillment o f our intentions.
The Noema
One term, the noema, is central to phenom enology’s analysis o f conscious acts. This
term is used in reference to the analysis o f experiential contents as they occur within the
phenomenological reduction. It is crucial to keep in mind that in engaging the
phenomenological reduction, and thus entering the phenomenological attitude, nothing
within our experiential field has been negated. We have simply set aside the question o f
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whether the objects we attend to are physically present to us. Husserl uses the example o f
experiencing an apple tree, viewing it and finding it to be pleasantly beautiful. W ithin the
phenomenological reduction, he explains, “The tree has not forfeited the least shade o f
content from all the phases, qualities, characters with which it appeared in this perception”
(Husserl, 1913/1962, p. 240).
In our experience o f the tree, it appears to us in a certain way. “From our
phenomenological standpoint,” writes Husserl, “we can and must put the question o f
essence: W hat is the ‘perceived as such’?” (Husserl, 1913/1962, p. 240). This “perceived as
such” is the noema. The term “noem a” is a Greek word meaning that which is thought. In
Husserl’s usage, the noema is the way in which an object appears to us. In our above
discussion o f perspectives, I described our perception o f the table as having many
perspectives. These perspectives are also noemas. They are the appearances o f the table that
are inherent in each point o f view.
The noem a is a difficult object to understand; upon its interpretation hinges one’s
conceptualization o f phenomenology. For many phenomenological philosophers, including
Derrida and M erleau-Ponty, the noema has been understood as a m ediator between
consciousness and the world. This view o f noemas assumes a representational view o f
consciousness; that is, it asserts that we do not have a direct view o f the world, but rather
witness only its appearances. But Husserl did not take the noema as a m ediator or
representation, or at least he can be convincingly interpreted as not adopting this view
(W illard, 1992). Sokolowski argues, “This understanding o f the noema as a mediating entity
is, I believe, incorrect” (Sokolowski, 2000, p. 60). But if every experience necessarily
presents itself as an appearance or perspective, how can it be that we see anything other than
this appearance? To understand this, we would do well to examine several illustrative
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examples. We shall explore the way in which the noema “leads us to what is transcendent to
consciousness” (Velarde-M ayol, 2000, p. 61).
Let us take two examples o f the noema. If we lay a penny on the table and view it,
there will be notable qualities o f our perception. One notable quality is that the penny will
appear elliptical. We may not at first realize this, because we know that the penny is actually
a perfectly round circle, and when we view it, we are aware o f its perfect roundness. Yet,
along with this roundness, the penny appears elliptical. This elliptical appearance is the
noema. It is the “perceived as such” that Husserl is fascinated by. Husserl attended to this
aspect o f experience because it is ever-present. In all our experiences, objects look or appear
certain ways, yet we know the object to be different or separate from its appearances. Let us
look at a white sheet o f paper. We know that the sheet o f paper is white; we see this. But
along with the whiteness, we also are aware that under certain conditions o f light, the white
paper seems to be various shades o f gray. These shades o f gray are to the white paper as the
elliptical shapes are to the round penny. They are the appearances, the noemas, present in
our every perspective.
In the case o f the penny, the appearances we have before us, the many elliptical
shapes it appears to adopt as we walk around it, as we move toward it and away from it, all
these are connected in a continuity within which our experience o f the penny occurs. At all
times, we have before us the identity o f a penny. This does not change, though the
appearances o f the penny do. A similar process occurs with the white sheet o f paper. As the
lighting changes, the whiteness appears to us as various adumbrations o f gray. We know and
see, however, that the sheet is white, just as we knew and saw that the penny was perfectly
round. This whiteness remains unchanged. It stands before us as an identity that stays
constant across its diverse appearances. The whiteness o f the sheet o f paper and the
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circularity o f the penny are identities. These identities do not change with each new
appearance. They are immutable, though nonetheless present to us through the many
mutable appearances o f the penny or through the many apparent shades o f gray o f the white
paper. W ere we to see the penny as elliptical or the paper as gray, however, this would be an
error, an illusion o f some sort. The penny is circular, the paper white. W hen we view them,
they present themselves “w ithin” their respective appearances, but we do not see them as
their appearances. We do not, that is, see the penny as elliptical. Rather, because it appears to
us as elliptical, we see it as round! Similarly, we do not see the sheet o f paper as gray, but
see it as white. A penny that actually was elliptical would have appearances quite different
from those o f a round penny. And a sheet o f paper that was actually gray would have
appearances quite different from a sheet o f paper that was white.
This leads to another important understanding o f appearances. The appearances o f
objects are unchanging properties o f the objects themselves. It is not, however, that the
appearances belong to the objects. But rather, the objects, in being viewed, in being brought
before a consciousness as whatever object they are, m ust necessarily have certain
appearances. That this is the case, that the penny must be apprehended according to certain
appearances, for example, never changes. It is an essential property o f the penny such that
when viewed it must be viewed through or by certain elliptical appearances. Indeed, that
objects o f thought or experience have certain appearances is essential to all acts o f
consciousness. W illard explains,
But it is crucial to the understanding o f mental acts and cognition, as well as
Husserl’s views about them, to understand that the noema is present with every act
o f every type to be found in the cognitive life. W hat this m eans is simply that
wherever we are conscious o f an object in any way it also is present to us under a
certain “sense.” (W illard, 1992, p. 44)
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It is this essential nature o f objects— that they must be “present to us under a certain
‘sense’”— that allows us to know identities through their appearances. An object’s
appearance provides “indications o f how we can apprehend the same object in different
ways,” explains W illard (1992, p. 46). He continues, “It is by working with its different
‘w ays’ o f being present that the object is ever more fully brought before us” (W illard, 1992,
p. 46). Phenomenology, as a method, is precisely this type o f work o f bringing objects more
fully in view, and this work is conducted in the hope o f deepening our understanding and
appreciation o f things. N oting an object’s noemas is not merely a project o f cataloging the
many appearances an object can have. Rather, phenomenology is the project o f describing
more carefully and more fully the phenom ena we want to know, and we come to know
phenomena through there appearances. If w e wish to understand things, we must work with
appearances, with noemas. But in so doing, we are not merely coming into contact with
representations. As Sokolowski admonishes, the noema “is not a copy o f any object, not a
substitute for any object, not a sense that refers us to the object; it is the object itself, but
considered from the philosophical standpoint” (Sokolowski, 2000, p. 60). The noema, that is,
remains the object o f our experience, though it is the object presented through its essential
appearances— appearances that an object must have in order to be presented at all.
Appearances direct us in our endeavors to understand w hat things are; they guide us in
grasping objects “in them selves.” “To understand this,” W illard claims, “was always the
central aim o f H usserl’s philosophical work, and that is why the doctrine o f the noema
becomes such a hugely important thing in his thought” (1992, p. 45).
Consciousness as a Property o f the Self
We have now explored the nature o f consciousness in relation to appearances, and
have clarified that experiences are not o f appearances and appearances only, but rather are o f
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“things them selves” and these things them selves are necessarily apprehended by way o f their
appearances. We now turn to an examination o f consciousness as an identity, with the aim o f
determining what type o f identity it is, a universal or substance. This m atter may at first be
confusing because there seems to be two ways o f experiencing consciousness. On the one
hand, consciousness appears to be a substance because it is individuated. I have my
consciousness, you have yours. I cannot have your thoughts, nor you mine. This is the very
individuation that we found between the two coffee cups before us. The coffee cup on my
right is an individual that cannot become the coffee cup on my left. Consciousness is also an
individual in that it can be in only one place at one time. M y consciousness is here and now
and is always here and now.
But consciousness can also be described in the following manner: this m orning I am
conscious, whereas when I lay sleeping last night, I was not. In this description,
consciousness appears to be a property. It is a property in the same way that any action
might be the property o f an individual. I may go running for example, or I may walk. These
are all acts that I engage in, and as such they are properties o f me. I “have” them or “am”
them in a way that individuals cannot be “had.” The two words “act” and “state”— which are
both so often used in conjunction with consciousness— seem to strengthen this view o f
consciousness as a property. I engage in conscious acts. I have certain conscious states. This
view o f consciousness as a property seems to explain, also, how separate entities can have
identical consciousnesses. That is, you and I can both be perceiving, loving, or thinking and
so on. Consciousness, contrary to our previous conclusion, seems to exist in many places at
the same time.
How can consciousness be both a property (a universal that can be in many places at
once) and a substance (an individual that can only be at one place at a time). It cannot be,
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and if we clarify the language we use when we describe our consciousness, we realize this.
The most apt description o f consciousness is that it is indeed a property, and as such, it is
“had” by an individuated entity o f some sort. As a property, consciousness can itself have
further properties. M y consciousness can be a certain type o f consciousness, for example, a
thinking, seeing, hearing, feeling, remembering, judging, and so on. M y consciousness can
also have certain qualities; it can be clear or fuzzy, quick or slow, narrow or expansive.
Let us call that individuated entity that has consciousness the ego or the self. W hen
we describe our own experiences— and say for example that “I see the bird,” or “I hear what
you are saying,” or “I think you are wrong”— when we do this, the “I” that w e speak o f is the
self or ego. It is the one who sees, hears, thinks, apprehends, judges, loves, and so on. In
short, the ego is what engages in mental acts, in consciousness, and by doing so grasps the
world. The ego, or self, is ever-present in all experience. It is “in back o f ’ or “at the center
o f ’ the experiential field. Indeed, with no ego there could be no experience. We realize this
if we try to imagine a consciousness o f a tree, for example, without there being a “seer” or
“thinker” to take in this consciousness. W ithout this seer or thinker, there could be no
consciousness. Consciousness, according to this understanding, is the very property or
activity o f making something “available” to an ego.
Husserl explained, “Every ‘cogitq,’ every act in a specially marked sense, is
characterized as act o f the Ego, ‘proceeding from the Ego,’ ‘actually living’ in it” (Husserl,
1913/1962, p. 213). He continued,
When observing, I perceive something; similarly in recollection I am often “busied”
with something; again, observing in a sense I follow in imaginative fancy what goes
on in the world o f fancy. Or I meditate, draw inferences; I revoke a judgm ent,
“refrain” if need be from judging at all. I approve or disapprove, I am glad or
grieved, I wish, or I will and do; or again, I “refrain” from being glad, from wishing,
willing, and action. In all such acts I am present, actually present. In reflexion I
apprehend m yself herein as the human being that I am. (Husserl, 1913/1962, p. 214)
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The ego is the terminus o f all experience. It is also that which connects all experience. The
stream or flow o f consciousness is a flow for an “I” that is always the same 1.1 who am
angry with my neighbor am the same I who remembers my m other’s birthday gift, who
dislikes olives, who is tired, who can see and touch the coffee cups before me, and so on.
This I is the identity that penetrates all my experiences, that “radiates” through all my
conscious acts. This I cannot be you, but must be I. Just as the coffee cup on my left must
remain the coffee cup on my left, and can in no conceivable way become the coffee cup on
my right.
The I or ego that penetrates all my experiences, that connects all my conscious acts,
is thus a substance. To describe the ego or self in this way is not to argue for any physical
attributes o f the self. Substance as we are here defining the term is not necessarily limited to
physical entities, though physical entities no doubt have substance. Rather, the self is a
substance because it is an individuated identity that remains “what it is” through time. I am
identical with myself, in my memories, my ambitions, my thoughts, my feelings, and so on.
These are mine and are discoverable as such. Every act o f consciousness carries with it this
self as its terminus. That these acts “belong” to the same being, the same pole o f experience,
is evidence o f the identity, the self, that lies back o f them.
Understanding the Unconsciousness
As a side note, what might we say about experiences that are characterized as
unconscious? Feelings I have, for example, that I am not aware of, or— to use Freudian
language— that remain repressed. In such cases, we have examples that do not speak to our
concern o f understanding the identity o f consciousness as a substance, for even if there be
such things as unconscious experiences, these experiences are the property o f a self; they
belong to the same ego. This concern, rather, has to do with understanding how
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consciousness can be unconscious! How can I have an awareness o f something (perhaps I
am angry at you) on one level, yet not be aware o f it on another (I claim that I am not angry,
and believe this to be so). This seems to be a surprising and perplexing capability o f the self,
my ability to deny that o f which I am conscious. The self can fool itself, so to speak. This
reality o f our experience can, I think, be explained by two characteristic o f consciousness.
First, I can be in error about what I apprehend. Thus, I can think I am not angry when in
actuality I am. If I were to examine m yself more closely, however, I would presumably be
able to find that indeed I was angry. Second, consciousness can be layered. This layeredness,
which we have already discussed in terms o f the polythetic nature o f consciousness, occurs
in even the most simple perceptions. I look at the white coffee cup on my table, and I
suddenly realize that there is a chip in its handle. This defect has been present all along, but I
have not noticed it. It has remained in the fringe o f my consciousness, and though I have
been aware o f its presence as background, I have not brought it into plain view, so to speak,
within the field o f awareness that makes things present in the foreground o f apprehension. It
is this layered nature o f awareness, then, that allows my self to place objects in the
foreground or background o f my consciousness. I, thereby, can deny realities simply by not
attending to them. This also grants the self an ability to direct its experiences o f the world.
The self can decide what to attend to and w hat not to attend to. But the self is not omnipotent
in this regard. I cannot deny the tree that I see before me. I cannot deny that the coffee cup is
white. Some apprehensions, by their character, are less subject to my ability to redirect my
attention, and this ability to redirect attention itself is not entirely malleable.
Solving the Puzzle o f Subjective Experiences o f Objective Entities
Now that we recognize consciousness as a property o f the self, as an activity in
which the self can become engaged, we can provide a better description o f a puzzle w e have
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examined above regarding the fact that you and I, though we live through two num erically
distinct experiences, nonetheless can experience the same thing. This truth leads to the
following contradiction: you and I have the same experiences (in that we see the same coffee
cup); yet you and I cannot possibly have the same experiences (because my experience o f
the coffee cup is numerically distinct from yours).
If we view consciousness as a universal that is a property o f an ego and the ego as a
substance (an identity) which can have varying properties, this puzzle is removed. W hen you
and I see the same coffee cup, we are having the same consciousness. This means not only
are we seeing the same cup, but our very m ental acts o f the cup are the same. That these
mental acts are the same, however, does not mean that you and I are the same. These acts are
the same in the way that all universals are the same. You and I, however, are substances, and
as such are individuated entities. I am not you, nor you me. We can share the same conscious
act because that conscious act is a property, and as such it can be in more than one place at
the same time. But neither you nor I has become the same ego. Two substances (be they two
coffee cups or two selves) can share the same property (whiteness or an experience o f coffee
cups) without becoming the same entity! If we view consciousness as an activity, this
possibility becomes more clear. You and 1 can share the same activity (walking, sleeping,
knitting or— to use mental activities— seeing the cup or feeling it with our hands), without
you and I becoming the same entity. The act we share is identical. The egos or selves
engaged in this activity remain distinct.
Sometimes this point becomes cloudy because o f the fact that you and I, when we
apprehend the same object, may witness different things about the object. In witnessing
different wholes, you and I differ; our consciousness (which present the different things to
us) must be different. For example, if in seeing the white cup before me, I notice that it is
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chipped, the wholeness that is my consciousness o f the cup would be different from yours,
which grasps the cup and its whiteness, but does not grasp the chipped handle. However, the
part o f my consciousness that apprehends the identity o f the white cup (this part itself being
a whole) remains the very same as the part o f your consciousness that apprehends the white
cup. These parts are identities. In what we witness that is the same, our corresponding
consciousness acts are the same. Indeed, were we not able to perform the same mental acts,
we would not be able to apprehend the same thing. (Not because our conscious acts create or
construct what we apprehend, but because our conscious acts grant us access to w hat we
apprehend.)
O f course, any person’s awareness o f the world— coming as it does within the
context o f that person’s personal history, her special skills, her innate talents, her web o f
concerns, and so on— any such awareness, because o f its tremendous complexity, would
never, as a whole, match exactly the awareness o f a another person. Practically speaking, we
cannot become experiential “clones” o f one another. But the fact that we cannot m irror one
another’s consciousnesses, that we cannot match in every detail our respective awarenesses
o f the world— that does not lead to the conclusion, a highly absurd one, that all the conscious
acts you and I live through differ. This could hardly be the case. If it were, we would be
reduced to solipsism, to our own private circle o f ideas. But we know from our experience
that you and I can experience some things that are the same. In this very phenom enological
examination, we have reviewed cases where this is so, those cases being all knowledge that
is Evidenz or self-evident. I know, for example, that an object must be what it is. It cannot be
at once what it is and what it is not. M y awareness o f this truth is not an awareness o f a
reality “inside” me. Rather, it is an awareness o f the reality o f the world, and you too have
this reality available to you. You can experience it, and if you turn your attention on this
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matter, you will experience it. We can thus share the same experience, and speak o f it to one
another.
It is the case, then, that whereas you and I can share many parts o f our experience,
we o f course do not share all o f that experience. We can have many mental acts that are the
same, yet the whole o f our conscious life, made up o f myriad acts o f consciousness, layered
in vast webs o f subsidiary parts and wholes— that whole is not mirrored between us. You
and I, then, can share samenesses and differences within our field o f awareness. Our
conversations o f identities (universals and substances) and parts and wholes has granted us
an ontology which accounts for this experienced truth.
Unity as Foundational
It has been crucial to enter into conversations regarding identities and wholes for the
reason that traditional empiricism and postmodernism have both emphasized the differences
and disconnections between experiencing selves. That selves can be disconnected is not
doubted in the present work, but that they must remain so is. Traditional empiricism, in
building its epistemology first, and subjugating its ontology to that epistemology, grants a
world not only o f irreconcilably partitioned selves, but similarly partitioned “im pressions.”
As James so aptly put it, traditional empiricism “has always shown a tendency to do away
with the connections o f things, and to insist most on the disjunctions (James, 1912/1938, pp.
42-43). Husserl’s phenomenology reverses that tendency, but not by any desire to impose
connections where they do not reside. Rather, it merely allows for the possibility o f finding
them, and does so by not subjugating experience to the presupposition o f a disjunctive
ontology. Postmodernism, too, has not freed itself from this atomistic bias.
M any o f our explorations up to now, then, have been attempts to display the
connectivity that is inherent in our experience o f the world, and to demonstrate that this
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connectivity is foundational, existing at the roots o f reality, not merely as fictions grafted
onto loose and separate impressions. This connectivity might be brought under the term
unity or union. W holes and identities are unions o f sorts, and as such are foundational unions
which we can directly apprehend in our experience. Understanding the nature o f wholes and
identities has been essential to understanding the nature o f the therapy relationship, because
as a union itself, that relationship stands upon the shoulders o f many subsidiary unions, and
when these subsidiary unions are doubted, relationships themselves crumble as a possibility.
If reality consists entirely o f differences, then there can be no accounting for the union
between two people. That reality is not o f a fundamentally disjunctive nature, that it consists
o f both identity and difference, union and disunion, and that the two are complimentary, this
fact is not merely a logical necessity, but it is an experienced one. W e witness directly the
unity which is a property instanced in several substances. That is, we grasp the whiteness in
the cup on the right as identical to the whiteness in the cup on the left. And we witness
directly the unity which is substance, an individuated identity existing through time, moving
from a past into a present and future, apprehended through its manifold perspectives and
appearances, yet remaining the same throughout. We also apprehend the unity which is the
whole, a totality which achieves properties beyond the cumulation o f its parts, and becomes
not a “heap,” to borrow A ristotle’s word, but a compound.
The Union that is Consciousness
The Union o f the Knowing and the Known
With an understanding o f wholes and identities in hand, we can now turn to the
preliminary model o f cognition unveiled in Chapter 5. (See page 147.) In that chapter, we
used the term cognition in the general sense in which both Descartes and Husserl used the
term “cogito;” that is, as inclusive o ff all forms o f mental acts. This model, depicted in
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Figure 3 (see page 148), illustrates the foundational connection between mental acts and
their objects.
As illustrated in Figure 3, the connection between mental act and object is a unity, a
whole. Furthermore, it is a unity we can apprehend. We do not need to take it for granted. It
is not a theory that we must presuppose as a transcendental argument, as that without which
our phenomenological methodology would not and could not occur. Rather, it is a witnessed
truth. At any moment, we can apprehend that our mental faculties bring objects into view.
We witness ourselves witnessing. This we illustrated in Figures 5 and 7 above.
For important reasons which we have discussed in detail, the above model o f
consciousness has been forwarded as a presentational model, rather than a representational
one. It is not mere copies o f the world, nor mere appearances, that we apprehend. The
identity o f whiteness is not an image o f some unknown and indescribable (even
unthinkable!) quality existing in the world. The identity o f the cup as a substance is also not
beyond our experiential grasp. Rather, these identities are apprehended (or at least can be) in
their actuality, as what they are. The presentational model o f cognition indicates that we can
become, and many times are, connected to the world as it is. We do not come to know that
world by viewing a screen o f images that plays “in our m ind.” W e come to know the world
by viewing the actual world. This theory is foundational to H usserl’s phenomenology; it
asserts that we— as conscious selves— come into union with what is the case. W e abut
reality, so to speak, and are not buffered or separated from it by unbridgeable synapses
inherent in the knowing process. As cognizing beings, we are linked to reality. W e are with
it. This union is no small matter, and it is no philosophical fantasy.
Consciousness, then, has as one o f its primordial properties, the power o f connecting
or joining us to the world. This is the central reason that an understanding o f consciousness
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remains central to any theory o f the therapy relationship, and especially any such theory that
hopes to establish true connectedness between people. Husserl’s theory o f consciousness
attests the public nature o f experience. W e are not trapped in our own private mental realms.
Sokolowski explains:
One o f phenom enology’s greatest contributions is to have broken out o f the
egocentric predicament, to have checkmated the Cartesian doctrine. Phenomenology
shows that the mind is a public thing, that it acts and manifests itself out in the open,
not ju st inside its own confines. Everything is outside. (Sterba, 1934, p. 12)
The Union o f the Knower and the Known
But phenomenology discloses more than simply the connection or unity between
knowing and known, experiencing and experienced. In addition to this duality, it also joins,
by its very nature, knower and known. Consciousness is a process hooked at both ends, so to
speak, such that it brings the self into contact with the world, and the world into contact with
the self. We thus can augment our model o f the presentational nature o f consciousness such
that it includes this ability. It is an ability that has been implied in our discussion o f self as a
substance. Consciousness, within this model, is a property o f the self. It is that which
presents, and as a presenting, must necessarily have a terminus upon whom this presentation
is conferred. To use our language o f wholes and parts, consciousness is a part o f the self. It
is, in fact, a moment o f the self. That is, it is dependent, in its existence, upon the existence
o f the self. No consciousness is imaginable without a self (though the converse is not true).
This does not mean that consciousness and self are identical. They are not. W e witness this
directly when we change the properties o f our consciousness without changing ourselves.
We remain the same, though our awareness changes. Let us present this model o f the self, its
consciousness, and the world it is conscious o f in the following diagram.
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Figure 8. The Knower, the Knowing, and the Known
The Self (or ego) has this conscious act of this object
(the knower) (the knowing) (the known)
►
This model illustrates the distinct parts o f the self (knower), the conscious act
(knowing), and the object (known). These parts form a whole which consist in the union o f
self and world. That union is brought about by acts o f consciousness. Several points
regarding this diagram should be emphasized. First, I have included within the above
depiction o f the conscious act the content o f the act. This is represented by the semicircle
and semi-square embedded within the arrow o f consciousness. Our previous discussions o f
content (see Figure 4 on page 152) elaborated an understanding o f consciousness in which
content was taken not as the object o f thought, but as a property o f consciousness that directs
it toward a particular object. I have included a depiction o f content in Figure 8 to prepare us
for a conceptualization o f particular types o f consciousness, with the realization that a theory
o f the therapy relationship will necessarily be a theory about consciousness o f particular
entities— namely, other selves and the subjective states o f these selves. Second, the depiction
o f the self in this diagram as a smiley face alludes to our endeavors to understand
consciousness as an awareness by a person o f another person, but it is also somewhat
misrepresentative in that we have not come to a full understanding o f what a person is, nor
will we attempt such an endeavor in the current project. W hat w e have established is that a
self (which may be part o f what makes a person) is a substance; it is the that which has
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consciousness, which engages in the stream o f experience. Third, Figure 8 highlights the
distinctions between the elements o f the encompassing union which is “a s e lf s awareness o f
the world.” I have included another illustration below to emphasize that union o f these parts.
This diagram, Figure 9, is intended to help us understand the nature o f experience as a
property o f the self, a property that connects self with the world.
Figure 9. The W hole that Is “S e lfs Awareness o f the W orld”
O ©
Fourth, though the above diagram illustrates two disparate acts o f consciousness (one o f a
semicircle, another o f a semi-rectangle), we must not forget that consciousness itself occurs
as a stream or flow, with each mental act emerging from previous acts and submerging into
succeeding ones. Husserl writes,
Every experience is in itself a flow o f becoming, it is what it is within an original
engendering (Erzeugung) o f an essential type that never changes: a constant flow o f
retentions and protentions m ediated by a primordial phase which is itself in flux, in
which the living now o f the experience comes to consciousness contrasting with its
“before” and “after.” (Husserl, 1913/1962, p. 202)
Any act o f consciousness can be isolated and viewed, in isolation, as a whole, but we must
not forget that this whole is yet a part o f the greater whole, which is the lived-through,
temporal stream o f consciousness.
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Transcendental Connectivity
Consciousness itself, then, constitutes a connection with the world, a connection that
can be the property o f a self, though the self can, as we witness in our daily lives, dispel o f
this property and withdraw from that connection. This connection m ight be characterized as
“transcendental connectivity.” That is, though consciousness connects the self with the
world, the world nonetheless remains outside o f or apart from the self. Said differently, I
experience the world, but I am not the world itself. M y connection with the world can have
properties itself. I can be clear in my experience or vague and confused. I can be attentive in
my focus upon the world, or I can be distracted and neglectful. 1 can examine the world
closely and meticulously, or I can disregard the majority o f its presentations. But regardless
o f the quality and nature o f my particular consciousness, the world remains both different
from me, yet connected with me. This is a fundamental property o f consciousness: the
objects o f our mental acts transcend the mental acts themselves, yet the mental acts are
essentially related to their objects. W ithout this essential relatedness, which is in essence a
connectivity to the world, consciousness would remain mere difference, or mere
representation, and as such would comprise two parallel tracks, never touching, never
forming the union we know o f as experience.
Feelings
In Chapter 4 we spoke o f feelings as being an important part o f personal relations,
especially the therapy relationship. If a relationship were to involve no feelings for either
party, we would be hard pressed to consider such a relationship personal. Those relations
that do lack the presence o f feelings, we might well describe as impersonal. We will need to
explore the nature o f feelings, then, to develop our understanding o f what a therapy
relationship is. This is no small topic, however, and we can in no way undertake a
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comprehensive and complete study o f feelings in our current study. However, we can at least
outline a few essential qualities o f feelings, especially as they relate to consciousness,
consciousness being that part o f personal relations we have already described (though, again,
not comprehensively) and which provides our fundamental connection with the world, and
thereby with others in it.
As a preliminary remark, we must not— in our consideration o f feelings or, for that
matter, any topic relevant to our study— suppose that the term consciousness denotes merely
a cold and calculating “cognitive” apprehension o f the world. Consciousness is vast and
complex, and under its general head comes an innumerable panoply o f awarenesses o f the
world, all o f which— according to the polythetic nature o f consciousness— may occur
simultaneously and be layered within the global whole that is our experience. Such
awarenesses includes feelings, but along with them can come physical sensations (such as
touch, sight, taste, smell, sound, and proprioception), memories, judgm ents, reflections, and
so on. Consciousness then is not mere reflection or introspection. Yes, it can, as we have
noted, view itself and thus be introspective, but it can ju st as well, and within the same
moment, apprehend the physical body through which it lives and the bodies present within
the world through which it moves.
The Relation o f Feelings to Consciousness
The “Depth” o f Personal Relations
We established above that consciousness can occur without the coexistence o f
feelings (see page 240); but in regards to personal relations, it seems necessarily true that our
consciousness o f other selves most often occurs in the presence o f feelings. In Chapter 4 we
reviewed several types o f feelings that researchers have invoked in their descriptions o f the
therapy relationship. Rogers speaks o f unconditional positive regard or warmth. Gelso and
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Hayes speak o f the “feelings and attitudes” that client and therapist hold toward one another.
M armar and Gaston speak o f the patient’s affective outlook upon the therapist. Orlinsky and
Howard speak o f comfortableness, trust, affirmation, acceptance, good will, respect, and
care. Frank and Frank (1991), too, describe healing relationships as “em otionally charged.”
Despite the inclination o f relationship scholars to emphasize the importance o f
feelings, one might argue, at the most fundamental level, that feelings need not be an
inherent part o f personal relations; that is, that you and I could be related to one another,
consciousness o f one another, without there being feelings passing between us. That this
does happen seems unimportant to our present study for the simply reason that the verity o f
this assertion does not contest the fact that when we attach the word “personal” to relations,
we imply that these relations involve feelings o f sorts, usually the very feelings identified
above by relationship researchers. Let us then define the term “personal relation” such that it
reflects this fact. Personal relations are, thereby, those relations in which two selves (that is,
two conscious beings) hold feelings o f some sort toward one another. W e may be able to pin
this term down further, but for now, let us leave it be. We can now speak o f personal
relations as contrasting with impersonal relations, the latter being those relations held
between selves in which the type o f awareness that is present lacks the co-presence o f any
feelings. Impersonal relations differ from the relations that objects might hold toward one
another merely because o f the added presence o f consciousness, and, we might add, a very
constrained consciousness indeed.
Let us say further, that personal relations mark a certain depth that is lacked in
impersonal relations. Impersonal relations, by excluding feelings o f any sort, are surface
relations. They are what occur when I see a person, for example, as I walk along the
sidewalk and that person sees me. We have no “emotionally charged” experiences toward
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one another. Usually such experiences— devoid as they are o f emotions— are quite rare.
Usually, even with the slightest awareness that the other has an awareness too, there enters
an emotional element to at least a modicum degree. This, however, moves us into a
discussion o f mutual awareness and the feelings attendant upon such types o f awareness. It is
worthy o f note at this juncture, though, that the depth o f personal relations seems to increase
with the intensity o f emotions. W hat exactly we mean by “depth” o f personal relations,
however, and the “intensity” o f emotions remain somewhat mysterious and unclear. W hat is
not in doubt, however, is that those relationships we refer to as “meaningful” relationships
are ones in which emotions are powerfully present. Such meaningful relations seem to
certainly be the type o f relations to which researchers are referring in their empirical
investigations, at least when they employ such terms as the “real relationship,” the
“transferential configuration,” and the “emotional bond.” And such relationships are what
we will here mean by personal relationships.
Feelings as Moments and Pieces
In defining a personal relation (and the therapy relationship) as being those unions
between two people in which consciousness is accompanied by feelings, we have not
clarified the association o f feelings and consciousness. A complete phenomenological
investigation o f emotions must be left to future research, but we must nonetheless gain some
understanding o f their nature if we wish to understand the therapy relationship.
Though we have established that consciousness can occur in the absence o f
emotions, the opposite is not the case. Emotions, it seems, are dependent parts o f
consciousness. To use our terminology, they are moments. If feelings are present, so to must
be consciousness. We see this if we recognize the intentionality— the ofness and
aboutness— o f our emotions. If I am angry, that anger is directed at something or someone.
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If I trust, I trust someone. The unconditional regard that Rogers so highly values is not
expressed without there being a someone to whom this warmth is directed. Brentano, in
explaining the intentional nature o f consciousness, used several emotions as examples. He
writes, “In presentation something is presented, in judgm ent something is affirm ed or
denied, in love loved, in hate hated, in desire desired, etc.” (Brentano, 1874/1973, p. 50).
W hat about those emotions that seem, at first glance, to lack this property o f
intentionality. W hat about joy or bliss, for example, or their opposite, the “generalized”
anxiety so often reported in psychological diagnoses. These feelings seem to be o f such a
nature that they are not necessarily directed at any thing, person, or event. True, they can be.
I can, for instance, be joyful about a recent jo b interview, or anxious about losing my current
position. But these types o f feelings sometime exist unaccompanied by an object that they
are o f or about. Can I not feel joyful, for example, yet have no object o f that joy? And can I
not feel a pervasive anxiety without that anxiety being o f something. Indeed, it seems that it
is possible to have these feelings without the presence o f intentionality. Astute researchers
might suggest that such feelings, though they seem to have no object, may indeed have
objects that we have simply not noticed.
But whether or not these feelings have objects, they nonetheless can them selves be
the objects o f consciousness. Indeed, they must be the object of consciousness for me to be
aware o f them. That is, if I feel joyful, there can be no doubt that to know I am joyful I must
be aware o f this joyfulness. But that we must be conscious o f our feelings to know that we
have them seems little more than a tautology, and this certainly does not necessitate that
feelings are inherently intentional.
W ith this in mind, let us distinguish two types o f emotions, those that are intentional
and those that are not. And let us name these to help us differentiate them and to clarify our
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examination o f them. Let us call those emotions that are directed at something, intentional
emotions, and those emotions that lack intentionality, reactions. Both types o f emotions
seem to be present in relationships. I can be joyful as a result o f my interactions with you, it
would seem, yet that joy not be about you or at you. M y joy, however, m ight also be
intentional. It may be caused by our interactions, and thus may be directed at the positive
nature o f our relations. W hen feelings do not have intentionality, they nonetheless require
consciousness to be made present. Such feelings, however, being that they are independent
o f consciousness in their primordial existence, would fall under the category o f pieces. The
are detachable from consciousness and can exist apart from it. However, intentional feelings,
the joy I feel about our close relations, such feelings, because they entail intentionality, are
dependent parts, or what we have chosen to call moments.
Unconscious Emotions
We spoke above about the possibility o f the unconscious (see page 259), and we
offered the following explanation o f such a phenomenon: our consciousness, as a polythetic
structure, has many layers. At this point, we must clarify what is m eant by the unconscious,
for in truth this term is a misnomer. As I am using it, the term does not mean non-intentional.
Indeed, by the strict terms o f our description o f consciousness (as the ofness or aboutness o f
psychic events), we could not relegate intentional emotions to the unconscious, for this
would seemingly be the negation o f their very nature. We should clarify, then, that the term
unconscious, as I am using it (and as I think it is often used), does not imply a lack o f
intentionality, and thus is not the true opposite o f consciousness. Rather, the unconscious
actually is a consciousness, but one that remains hidden in the background o f our awareness.
As such, it is something that we can take note of, that we can bring to the center o f our
attention, and it is something which always remains within the field o f our global
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consciousness. If we use this understanding o f the unconscious, we m ust recognize that our
global consciousness, simply by its nature o f being so vast, comprised o f so many individual
acts o f consciousness, is not fully in our immediate awareness at any one time. Indeed, what
we can keep in the foreground o f our consciousness is strikingly limited. This is evident in
even the most simple o f experiences, such as that o f sipping a cup o f coffee. W e may notice,
for example, upon taking our second sip o f coffee, that it tastes much too bitter today. W hen
we notice this, we realize that this was vaguely apparent to us in our first sip, but we had not
brought it to the forefront o f our attention. We may also notice, as we take a third sip, that
there is a morning dove pleasantly cooing outside our window. We have indeed been hearing
this cooing for the past quarter hour, but only in the present moment do we both fully attend
to this cooing and recognize also that we have been hearing this cooing all along. That
consciousness can harbor within itself foregrounds and backgrounds o f attention, and that
these may be o f further intricate layers, is indeed a fascinating property o f consciousness. It
is one that likely explains such phenomena as transference and countertransference, a m atter
to which we shall shortly attend. It also may explain the “baggage” that is so often associated
with personal relations; that is, the fact that a certain feeling can trigger other feelings that
are associated with past experiences. M emory itself is a form o f unconsciousness; that is, it
is a consciousness, and awareness o f sorts, that can be pulled into view and then removed
from it, often at will, though usually more by chance.
The Structure o f Consciousness and the Self
W ith an understanding o f the layeredness o f consciousness, we come to witness that
consciousness itself can be structured. This is to say nothing more than that it can be
organized in different ways; that is, its parts have certain natures and these parts can hold
various relations to one another in forming a whole. For example, I may be fully attendant in
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the present moments to the taste o f my coffee, everything else being in the background o f
my experience. Or I may turn my attention away from my coffee and onto the words on my
computer monitor. As I do this, I change the structure o f my consciousness. To say that
consciousness has a structure is to say nothing more than that it has certain properties, and
that these can be organized differently. Some o f these properties fall within our volition. We
can, for instance, change the focus o f our immediate attention. O ther properties, perhaps the
general mood we are in, for example, are more intractable, and often cannot be altered by
even the most strenuous o f efforts.
If consciousness has a structure, the self—the substance that has the property o f
consciousness— must also have a structure, the most minimal structure being that which
comes along with the capacities necessary to attain consciousness. Phenomenologically
speaking, we may witness the structure o f the self as certain habits, patterns o f behavior,
typical constellations o f feelings, thoughts, beliefs, memories, and so on. All o f these parts
(and many more that we have not named) are spokes that belong to the wheel that is the self.
My habits, for example, are mine, my behavior, mine, and my experiences, m ine. In
belonging to me, they are parts o f me, and as such must be structured and organized in some
way, even if that structure be chaotic or disorganized, though we witness in ourselves and
others much that is orderly and predictable.
There may well be realms o f the self that lie outside the purview o f consciousness
and, o f course, realms o f the self that are not made up o f consciousness. For example, if it is
the case that such feelings as joy and anxiety (and perhaps others) can be non-intentional,
then when we are not aware o f them, they may nonetheless reside within our selves
somewhere. That is, it is still me who is joyful, even if I am unaware o f this joy. But o f
course, to speak o f such feelings as joy as being non-conscious seems strange at best.
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But for the purposes o f our present study, we need not dwell on such difficult
puzzles. W hat is central to our current study is simply the understanding that the self and its
consciousness both have structures, and that these structures necessarily play a role in
personal relations. Personal relations are, after all, relations between two selves each with a
consciousness, and thus the structure o f these two selves and their two consciousness are
likely to play a role in their relations. I have certain memories, certain beliefs, certain habits
o f thought, certain ways o f acting, certain capacities, certain likes and dislikes, and so on,
and all o f these are parts that make up the wholes which make up my consciousnesses and
my self, and these parts will play an important role in my relations with others. Relationship
researchers such as Gelso and Hayes touch on this when they speak o f the “feelings and
attitudes” that client and therapist have toward one another; but o f course, there is more to
the whole o f self and consciousness than merely feelings and attitudes.
My aim here is not to explore the nature o f the organization o f the self other than at
this preliminary level: it consist o f least all the varying types o f consciousness (emotions,
beliefs,, memories, values, and so on). This simply demonstrates the complexity o f the types
o f awarenesses we can have toward one another and the complexity personal relationships
can have. At the most elementary level, the structure o f our selves and our consciousnesses
will highly influence what we bring to the foreground o f our awareness o f one another, and
by thus affecting our awareness, so to will our relationship be shaped. If I believe, for
instance, that people with Ph.D.’s are brilliant and somehow superior to others, then I will
likely notice different things about a therapist who has a doctoral degree than one who has a
m aster’s degree. I will defer to the former in a way I will not to the latter. The fact that
selves and consciousnesses have complex structures, and that these necessarily are part o f
the whole that makes up a relationship means, o f course, that relationships can take on a
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myriad o f organizational structures and patterns themselves. That there is worthy fodder for
future research in understanding the vast complexities o f relationship cannot be doubted. Let
it simply be noted that this complexity, though perhaps recognized by the research o f
traditional empiricism, nonetheless has remained outside its grasp, for the simple reason that
the majority o f this investigative subject is not o f a nature befitting traditional empirical
inquiry— it is not sense perceptible.
The Self
Having spoken o f the self in our discussions o f both consciousness and emotions, it
may well be worth spending at least a moment to comprehend this strange substance (as we
have come to know it), this identity which serves as the terminus o f awareness, among other
things, and which remains the same individual through time, notwithstanding the many
changes it also undergoes. Though I have made strong assertions for the existence o f the self,
assertions in line with our phenomenological experience and in line with the
phenomenological investigations o f Husserl, there has nonetheless been much debate in
philosophy about exactly what a self is, and whether the self is reality or illusion. The most
conservative theories assert that the self is bounded (that is, separate from the world),
coherent, and the source o f agency. That is the view I have here adopted. The m ost radical
theories assert the opposite: that the self is unbounded, incoherent (that is, without inherent
order or meaning), and not the source o f agency.
W e may first examine whether the self is truly bounded and coherent and the source
o f agency. The issues o f boundedness and coherency are readily addressed by reflecting on
the issue o f the s e lf s identity. Identity necessarily includes boundedness and coherency. If it
is true, for example, that I am myself, and that I am not you, then it must be true that I am a
coherent thing o f m yself (such that I continue to be m yself through time), and also that I am
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distinct from you. Being distinct from you means that I display a boundary o f sorts that
separates us. This boundary is not one that imposes impermeability. Indeed, the very
consciousness o f the self allows it access to the world, and thus it can influence that world
and be influenced by it. Rather, the boundary that delimits the realm o f self, though not a
physical boundary, is nonetheless one that represents the distinction between my own
individuality and that o f other selves. This is, o f course, verifiable in our experience o f
ourselves and others. To borrow ontological tools we have already established, the
observation that the self is bounded and coherent is nothing more than the recognition o f the
self as a whole with parts. The s e lf s nature as a whole does not restrict the possibility that it
can connect and relate with other selves, to become parts in a greater whole (that o f a
personal relation, a family system, a school, a workplace, a neighborhood, a bureaucracy,
and a society, to name but a few). The s e lf s nature as a whole, as a bounded entity, does not
impose upon it an incapacity to enter into certain relations. Finally, that the self is the source
o f agency seems difficult to refute if our phenomenological observations regarding our
ability to shift attention are accurate, and these observations are self-evident. This does not
negate the possibility that agents other than the self may cause the self to engage in certain
activities. Rather, it merely asserts the fundamental truth, as we experience it in most o f our
waking life, that we have at least some control over what we think about.
Both traditional empiricism and post-modernism have denied the existence o f the
self. Both do so on the premise that identity itself is not a possibility. Traditional empiricism,
in the view o f Hume, asserts that we do not have sense impressions o f identity, but rather,
create identities from habit. Post-modern psychologist such as Gergen (1991) and Cushman
(1990) argue for an “empty” self—that is, an entity which has no structure o f its own, but
rather is a vessel filled by the mores o f society and culture, or is an illusion created by
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language. We cannot enter fully into these debates here, but we can deny the fundamental
skepticism upon which they are built. To argue that the self is not an identity, indeed that it
is no “thing,” denies the very experience o f consciousness that we have here affirmed. It is to
claim that there is nothing that sees, hears, believes, notices, proposes, understands,
comprehends, and so on. Or that if any such thing exists, they are m erely blips o f
apprehension, momentary awarenesses the rise and fade, with no particular order or
structure. But, as we have noted with all forms o f skepticism, this theory denies the very
grounds it assumes, for as a theory, does it not build a position this is put forward as
comprehensible, and yet deny that any “thing” can comprehend this position?
Furthermore, there has been good research within psychology that has attem pted to
describe the self. In his book that compiles and synthesizes much o f this literature, Stem
(1985) provides a fascinating analysis o f what it means to be bom into this world and
develop a coherent self. Stem identifies four selves, all o f which emerge within the first two
and a half years o f the infant's life. He calls these selves the "emergent self," the "core self,"
the "intersubjective self," and the "verbal self." These selves come into being in separate
stages, and each is built upon the previously established selves. All four selves continue to
operate in the person throughout the life span. Others, such as N eisser (1993), have
developed theories that closely parallel Stem ’s work, though they do not agree with it in
every detail.
In closing this brief discussion o f the self, let us note that both traditional empiricism
and post-modern psychology seem driven to their views o f a nonexistent self by their
presuppositions that selves, not being physical beings, must consequently not be “things.”
Phenomenology, however, because it allows for an ontology o f non-physical and non-sense-
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perceptible things, thus allows for such entities as the self and consciousness, entities that
may not be physical, but that nonetheless display identity and wholeness.
Emotions as Universals
We have explored the relationship between emotions and consciousness, and
between emotions and the self. We have seen that at least some (if not all) emotions are parts
(more specifically, moments) o f consciousness and that all emotions are parts (again,
moments) o f the self. Let us explore emotions as wholes, however, and understand
something o f their nature. To begin, what type o f identities are em otions? Are they
substances or universals? It would seem that they are the latter, and this is implied, also, in
the fact that they are moments in relation to selves and consciousness.
Let us explore how this is so. If I feel sad today, and also I felt sad yesterday, we
cannot deny that there is an identity in these two instances. The sadness I feel today is
related to that which I felt yesterday, not only by the mere fact that both are emotions that
belong to me, but also by the fact that these two instances o f sadness are similar if not the
same. They are both sadness! They fall under the same species, and this is true not as a
m atter o f the language, not as a m atter o f me calling something by the name sadness
yesterday, and calling another thing sadness today, but rather by the fact that these instances
feel the same, are experienced as the same, across both days. This sameness, because it
occurs across time and as a property o f a self (or consciousness), is necessarily a universal. It
is a property o f me that is the same at different times.
One might counter that there are many types o f sadness, and that the sadness I
experienced yesterday is thus different than that which I experience today. There can be no
doubt that this theory o f sadness is more complex, and more true to our lived experience.
Indeed, our emotions are very involved; they are compounds made o f m any parts. Our
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examinations o f emotions to this point have perhaps been naive in not addressing these
complexities. For example, are not emotions related to thoughts? Is it not true, as so many
cognitive theorist have claimed, that thoughts are usually co-presented with em otions? But
the make-up o f emotions— and whether or not they are intrinsically bound with others’
conscious acts, such as certain thoughts or perceptions— is really no m atter to our current
theory. Even if it is the case that the sadness I feel today is different than that which I felt
yesterday— let us say that it is accompanied by more self-loathing, as compared to the more
wistful melancholy that overtook me yesterday— still, these two sadnesses share
commonality, and we have already examined the nature o f commonality. Universals are the
source o f all commonality. The whiteness o f my coffee cup yesterday is the same as the
whiteness o f my coffee cup today. It is the same as the whiteness on other coffee cups. It is
true that there can be different whitenesses, and thus these various shades o f white will have
their differences. As wholes, they will be necessarily different. But they will still have parts
that are the same, that are identical, else we would not recognize them as whitenesses! The
same holds true for our emotions. As universals, they can be instanced across time, and as
such, we can recognize them as identities across time. This is not merely a philosophical
conjecture. It is a fact o f our self-observation. W e notice whether w e feel today as we did
yesterday. W hether the joy upon winning a game o f checkers is similar to the jo y o f baking
our first cake. In recognizing feelings, we apprehend them as universals, as properties that
we can have, and as complex properties that have further parts that also can be compared.
To deny that emotions are universals is to claim that every emotion is inherently
different. This may seem plausible, especially according to ontologies that deny the
possibility o f similarity. But even ontologies that do not do this— even more typical
understandings o f emotions— might grant that the anger I felt this m orning is different from
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that which I experience in the present moment merely by the fact that it is separated by time.
But here we must be extremely careful in our analysis, and make use o f the ontology we
have already established, for it clears up the question o f how my feelings today can be
similar to previous feelings, even though they occur in a different moment in time.
Universals are precisely the types o f identities that can perform this task. That universals
(such as feelings, or colors, or numbers, or infinite number o f properties) can be instanced in
many individual, and thus separate moments, does not negate the sameness o f these
“instancings.” We cannot deny the existence o f sameness across instances merely because o f
philosophical prejudice. Our phenomenological experience is that we do experience
samenesses across time. We have confirmed this several times in the course o f our current
investigation, and we establish this as a necessary and self-evident truth in Chapter 5.
The Connectivity o f Emotions
Once we appreciate the nature o f emotions as universals, we can fully appreciate an
elemental way in which emotions provide a unity between two selves. This unity can occur
by the instancing o f the same emotion in two people. I can feel sadness, and you too may
feel the very same sadness, or one that is very similar to it. Such a unity is parallel to that
which is expressed by two cups o f coffee that share the same taste, or two sheets o f paper
that share the same color. The relation entailed does not bound two entities, nor does it
merge them. Two cups o f coffee that share the same taste remain two independent cups o f
coffee. Similarly, two individuals who share the same feelings— or, for that matter, who
share any o f the same conscious experiences— nevertheless remain two independent selves.
But the commonality that is also shared— even if it occurs across individualities— is
nonetheless a commonality. It is a means by which I, as a separate self from you, can
nonetheless become like you and thus understand you. I not only can witness that you are
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sad (perhaps you describe your sadness to me, or I see that you are crying), but I can also
share that very sadness.
W e have already explored how experiences— whether they be emotions or other
types o f conscious experiences— can be the same across individuals such that we can say
(and mean it literally) that two people have the same experience, the same consciousness.
Again, this does not mean that two individuals have joined to become one. Rather, it means
that two individuals share a common property. Just as we can listen to the same m usic and
hear the same tones, the same melodies, and the same harmonies; we can also listen to one
another and recognize the same feelings, thoughts, and beliefs.
Mutual Awareness
Intersubiective Worlds
The connectivity bom from the realization that you and I— two independent
selves— can share similar experiences leads to further forms o f connectivity relevant to
personal relations and the therapy relationship. These forms o f connectivity have to do with
the recognition that others have conscious selves ju st as we do. David Stem ’s (1985)
research provides a helpful route to understanding these forms o f connectivity. Stem , whose
four-tiered theory o f the self we explored earlier, studied infants and their ability to share
subjective experiences. We can compare Stern’s observations with our own experiences.
Stern posits an intersubjective self which he believes emerges within infants between the
ages o f seven and nine months. This self represents an infant’s ability to recognize that it and
its caretaker both have internal, subjective worlds. Once this sense o f self and other has
developed, infants can infer the subjective states o f others and adjust their behaviors
according to them. Infants can also express their own internal states so that those around
them might adjust their behaviors.
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Infants in this stage o f development are still preverbal, and so must achieve their
intersubjectivity by means other than language. Stem identifies three realms in which the
infant shares his or her world with others: attention, intention (meaning one’s purpose, not
one’s consciousness), and emotion. That is, the infant shares what he or she is paying
attention to, what he or she intends to do, and what he or she is feeling. Stem reviews
research that provides compelling evidences for all three realms o f sharing. I will not delve
into this research here, but instead will look at the development o f the intersubjective self,
for in many ways it is a precursor to how we as adults interact with others.
Attention as Primary
As part o f this understanding o f mutual awareness, we m ust accurately describe
what attention is. We have heretofore conceptualized attention in term s o f a self attending to
the world. Attention, in this respect, is simply a consciousness apprehending realities (or
falsehoods) that exist (or do not exist). Attention is an act o f consciousness that is directed
upon a world. But within personal relations it is also possible to be on the receiving end o f
attention. That is, you can attend to me, and I can witness this attention. Attention, then, has
an effect on those upon whom it is directed, and this is especially true within the context o f
personal relations. This ability to attend to others and the effect this ability has upon others,
has been famously m isdescribed by Sartre as the gaze (1956). Sartre believed that when we
view others, when we turn our gaze upon them, they become fixed by our intentionality and
made into static objects. That is, our attention becomes a M edusa-like ray that strips others
o f their true essence. Sartre’s view, though it does accurately attribute a certain pow er to
attention, wrongly believes that attention is itself transformative. This view derives from
Sarte’s peculiar version o f the M idas Touch theory o f intentionality. We need not repeat our
critique o f this model o f consciousness. Rather than examine what Sartre misunderstood, we
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must attend to what he rightly understood. Attention does affect others. It is not, however,
that my attention toward a child transforms my apprehension o f the child. Rather, it is that
the child, because she can be aware o f my attention, understands that she has fallen in view,
and is herself, by means o f this understanding (however primordial and unarticulated in may
be) “touched” by me. The “touch” o f attention is not merely a phenom enon o f sight, nor o f
the other senses. I may know that you hear me, and see me, smell me, and so on. But w hat
strikes me is not merely that your act o f hearing, seeing, or smelling has apprehended me
(Sartre might argue, has “captured” or “trapped” me). Rather, what strikes me is the
awareness that there is a you, a pole o f these intentionalities, that has become aware o f me,
and this realization marks a certain joining that has an impact. This explains the pow er that
attention has, why we crave it, or (as is also often the case) shun it. It is something we want,
sometimes even need, but that we can also get too much of. But the key here, is that it is a
veritable something. It is not merely an illusion. It is no mere fallacy. I can receive your
attention, and can be uplifted by it, or oppressed by it. A child turns and smiles at me when
she sees me looking at her. A father comforts his daughter by em bracing her. I listen to what
you have to say. All o f these are instances o f attending to another. And this attention—
though it might be beneficial in indirect ways, too— is directly beneficial only when the
other is aware o f this attention.
O f course, the process o f receiving the attention o f another is no simple matter. It
comes accompanied by a multitude o f feelings and beliefs that surround that attention, and a
personal history that shapes what that attention signifies. This explains why another’s
attention can be both uplifting and oppressing. All o f these accompanying meanings are
crucial to understanding the true nature o f attention, though they go much beyond the scope
o f this study. O ur purpose here is merely to pay respect to this fact o f the encounter: that the
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awareness o f being attended to is a part o f personal relations. It remains for future studies to
explore why we feel uncomfortable in the gaze o f others. Or why we are sometimes
comforted by that same gaze. Such future work will explore exactly this “it” that is provided
by the attention o f the other.
Sharing and Concealing
A most interesting aspect o f the intersubjective self—as described by Stem and
others— is that as it develops within infants, these infants will begin regulating how much o f
their inner world they share. This process occurs automatically and without conscious
consideration, according to Stern. Those subjective experiences that the caregiver shares will
likely be deemed appropriate by the infant, but those experiences that are not shared will be
deemed inappropriate, and the infant will keep such experiences private. Also, within the
private realm there will be those experiences that are explicitly shunned by the caregiver and
those experiences that have been unattended to. Those experiences that have been
unattended to, Stem posits, will remain unnam ed and perhaps unrecognized by infants, such
that they may not shun these experiences, but will nonetheless remain unaware o f them.
These experiences stay private because sharing them simply does not come to mind.
The development o f a subjective world, and its classification into shareable,
unshareable, and unnoticed realms, creates an interesting structural theory o f consciousness
that seems quite evident in therapeutic work with children and adults. W hat better explains
those clients who are ashamed o f certain feelings and who act in every instance to hide them.
Similarly, those clients who are unaware o f how they feel may never have attended to how
they felt when they were young, thereby explaining their inability as adults to locate,
acknowledge, and explore feelings.
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But whether or not these explanations are valid, we nonetheless cannot deny a
structural model o f consciousness that posits shareable, unshareable, and unnoticed realms.
In terms o f unnoticed realms, we have already explored this possibility in speaking o f the
multilayered nature o f consciousness and our inability to attend to the entirety o f
consciousness at any one moment. We attend to only certain domains, and the other dom ains
remain in the background o f our experiential field. But we have not explored the shareable
and unshareable, the public and private realms o f consciousness. Above we spoke o f the
ability o f two selves to share the very same experience. You and I can both be sad, and I can
recognize that you are sad, either because you tell me or because I witness you crying. Our
experiences may also be public. I see the cup, for example, and this experience o f the cup is
public and shareable. You too can see the cup, supposing o f course, that your visual faculties
are intact.
But I can also have private experiences that I do not share with you. I can have
beliefs, memories, feelings, learnings, and so on, to which you do not have direct access, nor
would you know about them unless I shared them with you. Thus, though you and I can
indeed share feelings and other conscious experiences, we can also conceal experiences. If I
am sad, I can tell you this, or I can deceive you and tell you that I am happy. If I hold the
belief that apples are a magical fruit, I can tell you this, or I can hide it from you. We can
thereby speak o f private and public worlds, as well as shared and unshared worlds. If I share
with you my sadness, it becomes public. If I conceal it from you, it remains private. Our
ability to conceal or reveal our private worlds is not always a m atter o f choice. Some things
are easier to hide than others. Beliefs and knowledge, for example, are relatively simple to
cloak. But some feelings, especially extreme feelings such as grief or bliss, may be more
difficult if not impossible to hide, try as hard as we might. Additionally, we may share or
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make public certain o f our experiences without noticing that we have revealed ourselves.
You may notice that I am rather quiet and that I seem distant, and from this you m ay realize
that I am slightly upset by something, perhaps a small criticism someone has made. I,
however, may not even recognize that I am upset, much less that others are aware o f this.
I have provided these examples o f shared and unshared experiences not to exhaust
their possibilities or permutations, but rather to illustrate the complexity o f interpersonal
worlds, and to show that feelings and other subjective states have certain properties that are
very important in terms o f understanding personal relations. The more two people share with
one another, the more attuned they become. They “get to know” one another; they become
familiar. All o f this is an important part o f what relationships are. Personal relations, and
therapy relationships, have as part o f their structure, the experiences that are shared and
unshared by two people. This sharing and nonsharing can be both conscious and
unconscious, it can be verbal and nonverbal, it can be automatic or calculated. Regardless, it
is part o f the structure o f a personal relation, and the fact that these sharings do occur
between two people is a product o f two consciousnesses becoming aware o f one another. We
will have more to say about this when we discuss mutual awareness below.
As a side note, culture can play an important role in shaping the developm ent o f our
selves at least to the degree that it influences what we decide to reveal or hide from others.
Stern argues that before the development o f the intersubjective, inner self, the infant has no
hidden part o f the self. The infant is not even aware o f the possibility o f concealment. W ith
the emergence o f a subjective self, however, this becomes possible, and in fact probable. It
would be quite inconceivable that a caregiver could know and then encourage the
development and acknowledgment o f all o f the infant's subjective experiences. Every culture
chooses a way o f ordering the world, or structuring its approval and disapproval; thus every
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culture highlights only limited aspects o f that world (aspects that are internal and external to
the self). The infant that develops in any culture will be affected by that choice, shaped
throughout its development by what it acknowledges and what it shuns.
With the development o f intersubjective worlds comes another possibility, that o f
shared secrets between individuals. Such secrets are nothing more than the shared
experiences between two individuals. Gabriel M arcel (1950) has identified the shared secret
as one o f the properties o f communion (the sharing o f worlds). Stem's w ork seems to support
this view. The infant indeed builds a shared world with its caregiver, and this world will
appear to the outsider as inaccessible and secret in that the outsider cannot, without great
effort, gain access to it. The secret world will seem to the outsider as might the customs o f a
foreign country. Stem tells us o f interactions between siblings in which jokes are shared or
teasing occurs which cannot be understood by the parents. Dunn, for instance, observed a
one-year-old breaking into laughter over seemingly mysterious jokes with a three-year-old
sibling (1982). We can look at our own experiences to verify this reality. We share
experiences with our peers, for example, that we do not share with our parents. In our most
intimate relationships, we develop understandings that only we as a couple share, jokes that
only we understand, words that we have defined in our own special way, m em ories that only
we have lived through and that only we have re-examined and cherish.
Affect Attunement
Stem proposes three realms that infants share: the realms o f attention, intention, and
emotion. He argues that emotion may be the first to develop, the m ost pervasive, and the
most important. Stern labels this realm as that o f "interaffectivity," and he describes the
process o f sharing emotions as "affect attunement." Affect attunement is much more than the
caregiver mirroring the behavior or affect o f the infant. The caregiver actually reciprocates
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or complements the infant’s affect. Affect attunem ent is difficult to recognize when the child
is properly attuned to, for in such instances the child will not change its behavior in any way,
and thus may seem not to respond. But if the child is not properly attuned to, that lack o f
attunement will become clear; the child will produce a puzzled look as if to say, "W hat's
going on?"
W hy do infants and caregivers wish to engage in affective attunement. Stem reports
that "The largest single reason that mothers gave (or what we inferred) for perform ing an
attunement was 'to be with' the infant, 'to share,' 'to participate in,' 'to join in'" (Stem , 1985,
p. 148). This question is harder to answer for infants, however, and we are forced to resort to
theory here. Psychodynamic and behavioral theorists have asserted that the infant is driven
by basic physiological needs (usually hunger or sex) that impel the infant to make contact
with others. This however does not explain the fact that infants seek contact even when such
rewards as food or sex are absent. A more compelling theory, one which has been proposed
by such thinkers as Sullivan, Klein, and Bowlby (all working from different theoretical
perspectives), is that human relatedness is a primary drive itself. The infant, they argue,
seeks human contact or communion as something that is rewarding in itself.
Once the infant has developed a subjective self, interaffective attunem ent becomes
commonplace. It is a primary way that the caregiver is with the infant. Caregiver's will use
this to their advantage, and by purposefully misattuning to the infant will attempt to direct
the infant's feelings and behavior. This is a way o f calming the infant, for instance, when it
appears to be overexcited, or o f exciting the infant when the caregiver is bored. The patterns
o f affective attunem ent that the infant learns will affect the infant throughout his or her life
span. Infants, as they grow older, will organize their world (or at least attem pt to) according
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to these learned patterns, and they will become baffled by the attuning attempts o f others that
do not match their own proclivities.
In speaking o f interaffective attunement, Stern seems to be describing tw o processes
that are occurring. First, infant and caregiver are able to understand, at least to a limited
degree, that the other individual has a subjective world (what we have labeled simply as
consciousness) and that this subjective world can share experiences similar to the others. The
other self can feel sad, angry, or joyful; the other self can have beliefs; the other self can
perceive certain things, and so on. A part o f this ability to share subjective experiences
includes the infectiousness o f such experiences. That is, not only m ight I recognize that you
are laughing, and also that you are experiencing humor, but when you do laugh, I too begin
to laugh. We thus share in the laughing. We may not know what we are laughing about, or
we may. But regardless, we laugh together. Here, it is not simply the case that I recognize a
feeling you are having as one that I, too, can have; nor is it merely that 1 can laugh in a way
that matches you (humor being a universal property o f consciousness, and thus an identity),
but rather, that 1 laugh alongside you, or with you. You and I are swept up in each others
laughter. The same can happen with other feelings: sadness, grief, joy, irritation, and so on.
It is almost as if feelings can resonate between us, and that we share them not only because
they are universals which we both experience (as w e might share the experience o f
whiteness, for example), but also as an event, a happening, that occurs for both o f us, in the
present moment, side by side.
A second process that occurs in affect attunement has to do with infant and caregiver
sharing a pattern o f feelings and behavior. Caregiver and infant develop patterns o f feelings
and other conscious states that occur according to certain rhythms, and these rhythms entail
not only understanding how the other is feelings (even if that understanding is unconscious),
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but also sharing in the participation o f the overall, complementary pattern. That pattern
forms a whole in which the other is a part. If we want to influence the other, we can change
our part in the pattern and thus change the other’s reactions or interactions with us. Stem
uses examples o f infants regulating the behavior o f their caregivers. An infant that dislikes
high levels o f stimulation, for example, will avert his glance from his caretaker, thus
encouraging the caretaker to stop the stimulation, perhaps a game o f tickling. In adults, such
patterns o f interaffective attunement often involve language and the communication o f
desires, beliefs, curiosities, and so on. Yet even in adulthood, interaffective attunement
maintains an important non-verbal component. The way I hold my jaw , or constrain my
cheek muscles will tell you something about how I feel— that I am angry perhaps— and your
response to be me will be occur within your awareness o f my anger.
Transference
To this point, much o f the polemic o f our investigation has been forwarded in the
attempt to demonstrate that selves can know each other accurately and that this is a daily
occurrence for us. That is, you and I can share the same experience, and we can apprehend
that we are sharing the same experience. This happens when you and I read the same
newspaper article. We know we have read the same words, and have come to grasp some o f
the same ideas. This also happens when I apprehend that you are angry, or when you realize
that 1 am sad. But the fact— and genuine experience— that we as selves can accurately
recognize the conscious states o f others does not mean that we are infallible in our
understanding o f others. Indeed, much o f personal relations seem to involve
misunderstandings, and much o f the work that is accomplished in the therapy relationship
may involve a special kind o f misunderstanding known as transference.
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Transference, as we discussed in Chapter 2, is defined by Gelso and Hayes as
involving “displacement, onto the therapist, o f feelings, attitudes, and behaviors belonging
rightfully in earlier significant relationships” (Gelso & Hayes, 1998, p. 51). In our discussion
o f attunement, we have alluded to the fact that infants may develop patterns o f relating to
caregivers that they then carry with them into their adult interactions. If I was abused by my
father, I may well misunderstand my male teachers and mentors to be abusive figures, to be
angry with me or critical o f me, when in fact they are not. In our attempts to understand
personal relations and the therapy relationship at its most fundamental level, we need not
attend to the intricacies o f transference. That we as selves have certain histories, and
memories o f those histories, and that those histories involve relationships with earlier
people, and that the patterns o f these relationships m ight influence our understandings o f
current relationships— all this seems plausible, and indeed, if we observe ourselves
phenomenological ly, we will likely find instances o f this. But the essential m atter to us now
is not the influence that our personal histories might have upon us, but rather the fact that we
as selves can be wrong in our apprehension o f others’ consciousness. We may be wrong
because o f our reliance on past experiences in understanding the consciousness o f another,
or we may be wrong simply because we have not attended carefully to how the other has
behaved, or what they have said, or the non-verbal clues that are available to us. Regardless
o f the cause, the fact remains that we can be wrong about the consciousness o f another. I can
apprehend you as sad, yet you are not. You may apprehend me as happy, yet I am not.
What is essential to comprehend in term s o f these types o f errors or
misunderstandings, is that personal relations that rest on m isunderstandings are
fundamentally different than those that rest on true understandings. If this were not the case,
then transference would hardly be a recognizable or important therapeutic phenomenon. But
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that it is so remarkably transparent, that therapists can be trained to recognize when clients
seem to be interacting with them, and when clients are interacting with a projection, that this
is so suggests that we tell when others bring feelings, beliefs, and so on to our relationship
that do not genuinely belong as a part o f the relationship. I become angry with you when you
ask me to dine with you. You are confused that I would be irritated by such an invitation.
Your confusion is evidence that my anger is a misunderstanding o f sorts. Clarifying these
misunderstandings, these projections, may be no mean task. Transferential reactions may be
stubborn habits bom o f years o f repetition. But they nonetheless can be recognized, even if
we do not typically do so within the course o f our daily lives.
Let us examine another example. I tell you that I am fond o f your witty remarks, and
you dismiss my compliment, saying “Oh, you would laugh at anything.” This may, in turn,
hurt my feelings. I may be offended that you judge me as being so easy to entertain. Perhaps
it is the case that I truly find you to be very witty and am impressed by your witticisms. But
perhaps it is also true that you believe that I am unim pressed by your humor. You think I am
simply eager to gain your favor. In this case, you have misunderstood me. You think you
know me, but you do not. And also, I m isunderstand you. I believe that you think I am slow-
witted; and this is why your remark has offended me, and has hurt my feelings. But you
actually do not think this. You believe I am very intelligent, but that I nevertheless laugh at
your hum or simply to ingratiate you, not because it tickles me.
Examples such as this are not uncommon in human interactions. There may occur
slight misunderstandings that are clarified quickly with merely a gracious comment or two;
or there may occur intractable disagreements or ingrained patterns o f mistrust. W hichever is
the case, the crucial point is this: the misunderstanding in question can be cleared up. The
possibility o f genuine understanding is attainable. And the presence o f such an
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understanding would not be mere illusion. O f course, in such interactions the issue o f trust
often arises. I tell you, “No, I really do think you are very funny.” But you still do not
believe me. You are convinced that I am hum oring you, ju st as your older brother would
sometimes hum or you, in his mocking, derisive repartees. Indeed, this example presents to
us the importance o f trust in relationship. It may be true that I can come to understand you,
and you me, but it is also true— as we have seen— that you and I can conceal truths from one
another. I might detest your humor, but tell you I enjoy it. I might even laugh along with
you, feign that I am entertained, yet all the while be bored, longing to escape your company.
That I trust you, and you me, is thus important.
But the fact that you and I can mislead one another, and the fact that we can be
wrong about one another, does not negate the fact that we can also establish relations in
which we do the opposite. We can tell one another the truth. We can reveal to one another
how we feel, what we think, what we believe, what we remember, and so on. And in doing
so, we can come to know one another: know one another firstly in the sense that we have
more knowledge o f the other, a better comprehension o f the other, and secondly in the sense
that we share what the other is experiencing. How do we come to know one another better?
We can observe and witness one another more closely, and from our observations and
witnessings learn to trust the other, or distrust the other. And if we do distrust the other, we
can make this known, and we can attempt to reverse this pattern, and thereby gain trust
toward the other.
Absences and Presences
It remains a truth, nonetheless, that we cannot force others to be honest with us, nor
(as we so often find in therapy) to be honest with themselves. Personal relations are
voluntary endeavors. We choose to enter them, and we choose what we wish to share and
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what we wish to conceal. Here we might remem ber what we learned about presences and
absences. Personal relations, because they involve interactions between two com plex
consciousnesses, are necessarily complex. W hen we view another, when we apprehend his
or her thoughts, feelings, behaviors, beliefs, attitudes, and so on, we cannot view the whole
o f that person. Indeed, much o f what we understand o f one another m ust be garnered from
indirect clues, from nonverbal behaviors, from unvoiced assumptions, and much o f that
which we do apprehend about another may remain in the background o f our understanding
o f them, such that we are not even fully aware o f our understanding o f them. This being the
nature o f our encounter with other selves, we necessarily have certain intentions that are
present to us and others that are absent. That is, there are filled intentions and unfilled
intentions. But this is really no different from our “interactions” with the most simple o f
physical objects. I see the cup before me, and my apprehension o f the cup involves a m yriad
o f filled and unfilled intentions. I do not see the backside o f the cup, yet I intend it as an
absence. I do not see the side view o f the cup, yet I recognize this also as an unfilled
intention. I may believe that there is coffee in the cup, though my angle is such that I cannot
see the coffee. This too is an absence that I intend. This process o f intending presences and
absences occurs similarly in personal relations, yet they are perhaps vastly more complex. I
apprehend you, and I believe— because o f the way your eyes are watering— that you are very
sad. A sadness wells up in me as I intend this sadness. I believe w e share a sadness. But then,
when I ask you if you are sad, you deny this. You report that you have ju st poked your eye
accidentally. My awareness o f you, then, was wrong. I now correct it. That you might be
lying to me is also possible. If so, I would be correct in thinking that you are sad, yet unable
to confirm this. In this way then, two selves in relation to one another, two consciousnesses
that are engaged in encountering one another, may have may filled and unfilled intentions.
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This is simply the nature o f personal relations. But the fact that many o f our awarenesses o f
one another may be absent, may by unconfirmed, unfulfilled, this does not m ean that they
must be. Rather, the opposite is true. I can reach you, if you are willing to share yourself
with me, and you too can reach me.
Revealing O neself as the Voluntary N ature o f Personal Relations
That relationships are voluntary endeavors is an important characteristic. That I have
choice in what I let you know about me marks personal relations. If this were not the case,
we would all become equally familiar with one another and this w ould happen regardless o f
whether we wanted it to happen. We would all develop similarly deep and meaningful
relations. But in fact, we choose our friends, we chose who we wish to be close to, and part
o f this choice is brought about by the process o f revealing or concealing ourselves.
O f course, it is still true that there is much about ourselves that we cannot hide. I
cannot hide from you my physical presence. I cannot become invisible. And there are certain
emotions that I also may be unable to hide. Perhaps I am overcome by the grief o f my dog’s
death, and I try to hide my tears because o f my shame for my fondness o f this animal. It is
clear that I cannot hide my shame entirely, that anyone with an astute awareness, anyone
who wished to know me, would recognize not simply the streaks left on my face by the tears
I have tried to wipe away, but would recognize the quiver in my voice, the hesitancy and
distraction in my responses. These are things I cannot hide (though many o f us become
better able to hide our emotions as we grow older, and indeed it is considered a childlike
quality to be unable to do so). Though I can hide m yself from you, I can also display myself.
I can express m yself to you, reveal my feelings, my thoughts, my likes and dislikes, my
history and so on. And with these revelations, you come to know me better. You can share in
my experiences.
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Though I can stop you from getting to know me, though I can hide from you and
thus prevent the two o f us from establishing a personal relation, an emotional bond, it is not
true that I can cause us to be close, in the same way that I can cause other things to happen. I
can, for example, cause my eyelids to open and close at will. 1 can also cause my legs to
move or to stop moving. But I cannot cause an emotional bond to form between you and me.
There is, rather, an element o f spontaneity in this. I can do things that will nurture the
establishment o f such a bond. But I cannot force you to listen to my entreaties for friendship;
I cannot force you to reveal yourself to me (even if I may learn tidbits about you from my
observations). I cannot even force you to pay attention to me, to turn your awareness tow ard
me. This shows that a certain inherent element o f personal relations is the freedom with
which they are entered. It is not so much that I cannot attempt to control you. You may be
bound to me in servitude because I pay your wages, and you may do w hat I ask you to do,
but even in this relation, I cannot force you to be friendly with me, to care about me, to
understand me, to want to be with me. You, o f course, may choose to be my friend, even
though I am your boss, and even though I may be cruel and unfair. But this is your choice o f
sorts.
But there is more. Even when we chose to enter personal relations with others, there
is a sense in which we cannot control the depth o f that relationship. Part o f this may be
because we cannot control the other party. W e cannot m ake the other “closer” to us, nor
make the other care for us or listen to us. But let us suppose that the other does these things
willingly and even eagerly. We still cannot control our own emotions or reactions to
another’s willingness. We may try to be loving, but w e cannot make ourselves loving at will.
We cannot make another m atter to us at will. Sometimes we may even try to love another, or
care for them, or listen to them, yet we find ourselves feeling oddly distant and unavailable.
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And even if in the end we are successful in our attempts, and we become warm to the other,
even then we still must realize that we have not controlled the occurrence o f this newly
experienced relationship. We have not caused it to come into being as we cause our own
bodily movements, or cause our attention to shift from one m atter to another. Something
within the establishment o f personal relations remains outside our control. It occurs
furtively, even mysteriously. W e can welcome and embrace its occurrence. We can learn
how to nurture it, and how to cause it to occur more often. But we cannot cause it to occur
upon demand. This may be related to the fact that our consciousness also remains somewhat
outside our control. Though we shift our attention, we cannot terminate it, other than to force
ourselves to sleep perhaps, or by knocking ourselves unconscious. Our consciousness, it
seems, cannot be turned on or off by us. W e cannot force ourselves to stop experiencing
some things anymore than we can force ourselves to sleep. If we are penetrated by a deep
anxiety, we cannot wish that anxiety away. W e cannot end it at will. The same is true with
certain levels o f excitement. We are sometimes bursting with emotions, and we cannot stop
them from happening. This is perhaps why emotions have sometimes been described as
passions that take us over, that control us rather than we them. We must appreciate, then,
that part o f the nature o f consciousness— and so, too, part o f the nature o f a personal bond—
is that it is beyond our voluntary manipulation. Like sleep, we can welcome these
experiences when they come upon us, and we can take actions that will encourage their
occurrence, but we cannot make them obey our immediate commands.
The Real Relationship: Personal Relations as a Sharing o f W orlds
N ow that we have reviewed and established several ontological matters, including
the existence o f micro entities such as universals, identities, bare relations, wholes, and parts
and the existence o f macro entities, such as consciousness, feelings, and mutual awareness,
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we can explore what exactly a personal relation is and the essential qualities it has. An
overarching them e o f personal relations is the connection or bond that is intended by the
term personal relations. This connection is best described as a sharing o f worlds. I use the
term worlds to denote a person’s experiential field. M y w orld is what I experience. Your
world is what you experience. W hen the two o f us experience the same thing (say the tree
that stands before us) we share a world. Clearly, to experience the same thing is not
necessarily to enter into a personal relation. Let us, then, explore first the ways in which we
can share worlds, and then tease out the type o f sharing which seems to constitute a personal
relation. Our analysis o f bare relations, consciousness, feelings, and mutual awareness has
given us several layers o f shared worlds. In each o f these layers we have already alluded to
themes o f union and commonality. Here we will simply bring these ideas to the forefront o f
our investigation, and we will demonstrate how a personal relation is built upon (that is,
necessitates) these layers.
To begin, there is the “preshared” world that occurs when two objects o f any kind
hold a relation to one another. Say, for example, we have two coffee cups placed beside one
another. The besideness exhibited by these cups constitutes what might be conceptualized as
a linkage that is presharing. I say presharing simply because the cups are not aware o f one
another, and in lacking the capacity for intentionality, they cannot share worlds in the sense
as having similar experiences. But they can share worlds in the sense o f being in the same
world and o f having a relation to one another. O f course, any two objects have a relation to
one another, even if that relation is nothing more than that the two objects are different from
one another. Here, then, the relation that holds, though it links the two objects, and is real in
and o f itself, does not at all establish the type o f linkage that we mean when we speak o f
personal relations. It does, however, establish certain fundamental realities or ontologies that
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must also be present in all superordinate relations. There are at least two term s present; each
o f these terms is an identity; and the relation that holds between the two term s is also an
identity.
When we bring consciousness into our understanding o f shared worlds, we begin to
produce the type o f connections or linkages that more adequately approach what we mean
by personal relations. With the admission o f consciousness into our description, we can now
speak o f two things that not only are physical objects, and thus hold physical relations to one
another, but two objects that have intentional relations with one another. I can be aware o f
you, and you o f me, and we are thus “with” one another in a way that two objects lacking
intentionality (say, our two coffee cups) could never be. At this level, an extremely
important property emerges. In being aware o f you, I can thus “have” you in my world. You
become, in other words, part o f my world. I, too, can become part o f your world. The sense
o f ownership expressed by the term have is not to be overlooked. It was implied in our
conversations above about the unity o f the knowing and the known and the unity o f the
knower and the known (see page 264).
In being able to be aware o f you, you become “m ine” in a very important sense,
though this should not be exaggerated. It is not that I literally own you, nor that I can control
you, nor that I can become you and thus have your view onto the world. N or is it that I
understand or comprehend everything about you. But whatever experiences I do have o f you,
I do own or have these. M y experiences o f you are mine and mine only. Thus, in a certain
veiy genuine sense, I “have” you in me. You become a part o f me. Or, to put this in a way
we more commonly express it, “I know you.” M y experience of you, even in being mine, is
essentially connected to you. I grasp you. If you change, so to will my experience. If you
reveal more o f yourself, say you tell me your history, or show me a poem you have written,
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or explain to me your painful relationship with your family, if you do this, my experience
follows you. It tracks you. And my experiences o f you are (or at least can be) authentic
connections. They are genuine awarenesses o f you as a m ember o f the world, not mere
copies, nor mere representations o f you. (Though it is certainly true that I can hold
representations o f you, too, in my field o f view.) W ith consciousness then, comes the ability
to have the world. This is a partaking o f the world, and as such it implies a sharing far more
profound and striking than the mere besideness that two cups can share.
But even this type o f sharedness, in which you— experientially speaking— becom e a
part o f me, a sharedness that should not be under appreciated, even this sharedness is one
sided. I might have it o f a coffee cup or any other object. That is to say, my experience o f
any object such as the coffee cup is mine. M y experience tracks the cup; it is essentially
connected to the cup. I “have” and know the cup, ju st as I can “have” and know you. But
“having” and knowing things, which means the same as experiencing things, is not the same
as having personal relations with them. To have personal relations means not only to have
experiences, but to have experiences o f other experiencing selves, and to have feelings
toward those experiencing selves. In relation to feelings, we have explored how the
understanding o f feelings as universals allows for the possibility o f sharing the same
experiences. Indeed, many if not all our experiences can be shared experiences. You and I
can listen to the same music and hear the same tones, the same melodies, and the same
harmonies; we can also listen to one another and recognize the same feelings, thoughts, and
beliefs. We, thereby, can share a world, can both “have” it, in a way that two coffee cups can
not share a world. This sharing o f the world simply means to have it present to both o f us.
We both “have” the same experiences.
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But even the sharing o f experiences, w hether they be feelings, thoughts, beliefs, or
what have you, does not constitute the sharing o f worlds that we presume in personal
relations. The sharing o f worlds that occurs in personal relations requires a recognition o f the
other as being able to have awareness and the further recognition that the other is having the
very same experiences. That is, not only do I have the same experiences as you, but I know
that you and I have these same experiences. It is in this way that the full m eaning o f the term
sharing comes into play, for two children cannot be considered to share the same toy merely
because both are playing with it. Rather, sharing involves the recognition o f the other, and
that the other is partaking in the same object. This holds true in the sharing o f worlds that
occurs with mutual awareness. You and I may be perceiving the same tree. But if I do not
know o f your presence, the connection between us is actually unknown. It could be said that
we both have experiences o f the tree, but that experience is not “ours.” But what if I call you
over to where I am standing and point out the beautiful tree before me, and you remark that
the tree is indeed beautiful. Now, we m ight both be said to be sharing the same experience o f
the beautiful tree, and this is not merely that the tree is perceived by both o f us, but rather
that we both know that each sees the beauty o f the tree. We share this experience, and it is in
the sharing (that is, the knowledge o f each other’s experience) that a new level o f connection
is established. Part o f the connection is the realization that you and I are alike. The alikeness
is expressed not only in our experience o f the tree, which is the same (or identical). It exists
also in the fact that you and I can be aware o f the tree. You are like me because you are
capable o f awareness.
A yet deeper connection can occur between us, one which we would declare even
more personal. This deeper connection occurs when you and I share the same emotion.
Emotions have a connectivity that differ from experiences o f external objects. Perhaps that
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connectivity is due to their intemality. That is, you can feel sad, and I can come into view o f
that very same sadness. How I come into contact with that sadness is not so essential.
Perhaps you describe it to me, or perhaps I infer it from your actions, the tears in your eyes,
or your drooping posture. But regardless, that we can witness the same sadness brings us
together. We have something in common, and the thing in common is not an external object
that stands before us, but something internal. Something that belongs to you (your sadness)
but can also belong to me (I can experience that sadness). When developmental researchers
speak o f affect attunement, this is the phenomenon they are describing. The importance o f
shared experiences cannot be underrated. It is a phenomenon that is present in the way we
imitate one another, sometimes consciously, but many times unconsciously. Im itation is
perhaps the attempt to share another’s world by becoming like them, recreating their
experiences. Personal relations, then, involve two people sharing each other’s worlds. Part o f
that sharing is the external world in which they sit, but an even more profound part o f that
sharing is the internal worlds that each possesses, each other’s beliefs, desires, fears, secrets,
intertwined histories, and yet other feelings, which are disclosed to the other. These internal
worlds can also be shared, and one aim o f this study is to lay out an ontology that shows how
this can be.
Complex Feelings
In exploring the shared worlds that arise from consciousness, feelings, and mutual
awareness, we have only laid out the skeletal parts o f the whole that is a personal
relationship. Though we have described how these parts allow for the psychological
connection or contact that can occur between tw o people, we have not spoken o f specific
types o f consciousnesses, feelings, or mutual awareness that may be universally present in
personal relations. With our groundwork laid— a description for the ability o f two selves to
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join worlds— we can now explore, even if only briefly, several phenom ena that are
commonly remarked upon in the literature on the therapy relationship. These include
genuineness, trust, warmth, affirmation, acceptance, empathy, and caring. All o f these
interpersonal feelings are quite complex, and each is worthy o f its very own
phenomenological investigation. For our purposes here, our brief discussion will serve to
illustrate the importance o f the foundational elements o f the relationships that we have
identified (consciousness, feelings, and mutual awareness) and to illustrate the com plexity o f
interpersonal relations. Another aim will be to illustrate how the foundational connectivity
that is present in consciousness, feelings, and mutual awareness can be augmented by ever
more complex amalgamations o f these elements. The foundational elements we have
identified and explored are certainly necessary for the establishment o f personal relations,
but they are not necessarily sufficient. Furthermore, it m ay be that more com plex feelings,
such as genuineness and trust, contribute certain binding properties that contribute to the
connection that is the therapy relationship.
Genuineness
The importance o f genuineness in personal relations was made famous by Rogers in
his 1957 article on the necessary and sufficient conditions for therapeutic change. Rogers
spoke o f genuineness in terms o f one’s expression o f self being congruent with one’s true
feelings. There is another side o f genuineness, however, which has to do not merely with
one’s expression o f self, but one’s awareness o f another’s expression o f self. That is, not
only can we be genuine in what we say, but we can also recognize this quality in others.
Much o f the descriptive analysis this study has already put forward has dem onstrated the
possibility o f this recognition— that is, the possibility that you can recognize who I really
am, my real feelings, beliefs, desires, and so on. Though we have noted how we can conceal
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ourselves from others, more important for our present study is our ability to show ourselves
to others, and it is this revelation o f self which is genuineness.
Is genuineness a necessary component o f personal relations? M ight not some
personal relations be disingenuous? It would seem that all relations have a certain m ixture o f
the two. I meet with my therapist, and I tell him about the troubles I am having with my
rebellious daughter, but I do not tell him about the affair I am having with my secretary and
the guilt I feel about this affair. Though my therapist would not understand me fully, and
would not have this full understanding because I am withholding information, he will
nonetheless know some genuine truths about me: my concern for my daughter. Indeed, it
would seem that all personal relations have at least some level o f genuineness about them.
We cannot hide all o f ourselves. I can lie to my therapist, and weave impressive, though
concealing narratives, but in so doing, I will nonetheless reveal true things about myself. I
will speak in a certain manner, with certain hesitations, and certain excitements, and some o f
these will be genuine. I cannot possibly hide everything about myself.
But here enters an important point about genuineness. The m ore truth about
ourselves that we share with the other, the closer we usually become with the other. W hat is
it about genuineness that brings two people together? A beginning for an explanation o f this
can be found in terms o f the concept o f shared worlds that we have already explored. The
more that two people honestly share with one another, the larger the world in which the
share, the deeper their understanding o f one another. The deeper that understanding, the
closer the relationship. If that understanding is based on false disclosures, then an
disharmony will form, in which one participant shares many falsehoods, yet the other shares
many truths. Such a relationship, at its extreme, we would not consider personal. If you did
not know me at all, or only barely, because I have only shared lies with you, then the
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connection between the two o f us would be a modest one indeed. And even though you
might think we were very close and intimate, I would not.
There is, then, with genuineness— as there is with many other feelings— the
presumption o f mutuality. And where mutuality is lacking there is a certain vulnerability that
is present. When we share who we are with others, we make ourselves vulnerable to them.
We come under their power, in some strange way, if only because they know the true us, but
maybe too because they m ight use this information against us. They might share with others
what we want to hide. This vulnerability that is a part o f sharing oneself with another hints
about that power or control that is inherent in personal relations. Something is at stake, and
one person can grant another a certain power o f them by sharing facts about themselves.
W hat if, for example, a comment you have made has hurt my feelings. If I share
with you that this is the case, then I am vulnerable to you. Why? Because you know how I
really feel! Genuineness, though it brings people together, seems to do so by making people
more vulnerable to one another. An interesting project would be to determine exactly what
this vulnerability is. Part o f that vulnerability, and its complimentary power, are a product o f
being “seen” by the other, o f having a part o f ourselves revealed. The other, who now knows
something true about us, something that is personal, can now use that against us. Can
embarrass, or push or buttons so to speak.
M attering (or Valuing)
Our exploration o f genuineness has pointed to a phenomenon central to personal
relations, one that we did not place in our list o f feelings to investigate, but which seems
fundamental to them all. This phenomenon is the occurrence o f another mattering to me, and
me mattering to another. W hat does it mean for a person to matter to another? In our
investigation o f genuineness this mattering emerged in two ways. In the example in which
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your comment has hurt my feelings, you m atter to me such that my feelings w ould be hurt.
That your comment could carry such w eight for me m eans that you matter. I care about what
you say, what you think about me, and w hether or not I m atter to you. But still, what is this
mattering? How does it arise? A second way that mattering emerges in our investigation o f
genuineness is the simple paying attention to another. That you would listen to me, and hear
what truths (or falsehoods) I have to share, means that at least in some basic way, I m atter to
you. Your attention to me is a display o f me mattering. Here, mattering seems to be related
to the concept o f attention and presence. If another is present for me, then the other at least
matters in that I attend to him or her.
W e m ight first shrug o ff this mattering that has to do with attention, as nothing m ore
than merely the consciousness o f something. It is true, that mattering m ight consist o f
nothing more than mere awareness. I may see you walk across the street, and you will m atter
to me only as a person who is walking across the street. But in personal relations, this
mattering begins to deepen and grow more profound. We bump into one another as you
make your way onto the sidewalk, and you apologize. I recognize you as a classmate, and I
share with you that I have seen you before in class. Here, in this simple interaction, I have
shared with you that you m atter to me, that I have seen you before, and this sharing m ay lead
to a deepening o f our relationship. You look at me and recognize me too. You smile and
comment upon the fact that I am the one who always sits at the front o f class. Here, we have
an example o f two people growing to know one another, sharing with one another their
experiences o f one another, widening their commonalities and understandings, being
genuine with one another (at least in the expression o f mutual recognition), and com ing to
matter to one another in a way that they did not m atter to one another in previous encounters.
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This mattering which can be expressed and felt between tw o people seems closely
related to the attention we pay one another. An infant may avert her gaze from a stranger. In
being aware o f the stranger’s gaze, the infant is somehow aware o f her presence in the
experiential field o f another, and this event has enough o f an impact that the infant is
discomforted. It is, perhaps, too revealing, such that the infant wants to hide, or move away.
The infant has realized that she matters to another. And this has mattered to the infant.
Again, this mattering is not simply conscious awareness o f something, but involves the
conscious awareness o f a conscious awareness. The conscious awareness o f others carries
with it a certain power that goes beyond mere awareness. Otherwise, why would the infant
care that a stranger holds her in his gaze. The gaze seems to denote a certain level o f
intimacy, or knowing the other, and the infant seems to be discontinuing that contact.
But why should others matter to us? I walk through the check out line o f the grocery
store. The clerk assiduously tallies the cost o f the groceries I have collected. The clerk is a
mere clerk to me. I see him, but say nothing to him. But then a young boy approaches the
clerk and asks for a treat. The clerk calls the boy by his name, and I realize that the boy is the
clerk’s son. I feel warm towards the clerk, a warmness that arises with the recognition that
the clerk is not merely a person fulfilling a role at a grocery store, but is a father like myself.
I strike up a conversation with the clerk about raising a son. The clerk has begun to m atter
for me in a more profound way. I care for him. I share a wider world with him. I have
realized, too, that he is like me.
If we did not matter to one another, or could not matter to one another, then we
would be unable to hurt each others feelings. We would not need each other’s attention. We
would not grow jealous when another turned their attention away from us onto others. We
would not grieve at the deaths o f our loved ones. W e would not feel sorrow upon saying
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goodbye. This mattering seems to be infused in personal relations. Others are not mere
objects to me, not mere things to be used, not mere means to ends. Rather, others are
mattering objects. They are things I care about, but they are not even things, for things can
be disposed of, yet people cannot be. Part o f the mattering that others have for me seems to
exist within the recognition that others are like me, and the fundamental sameness that they
carry is that o f having or being an experiencing self. When I first encountered the clerk, he
was a clerk to me. But when I witnessed the clerk’s interaction with his son, the clerk
became a self, a person. M attering then, has somehow to do with the realization and
appreciation o f others as selves or persons, as conscious beings.
Even in cases where we dislike another, m attering seems to be essentially involved.
W ould I hate another if they did not m atter to me? Indeed, that you do m atter to me seems to
explain how I can both love and hate you, yet still be connected to you in the same way.
W hat is essential is less the feelings o f love or hate, but rather the fact that you count for me,
you are important to me. This also might explain how personal relationship can also involve
such vehement, even violent feelings. The rage that two people express toward one another,
is— at bottom— a revelation o f the extent to which they m atter to one another,
notwithstanding that such mutual significance is destructively manifested.
Here, I have explored but the most basic and inchoate forms o f mattering that selves
can share, ways in which two selves hold one another dear. Levinas, too, has explored this
facet o f human relations, and has declared it ontologically primordial. He attributed this
mattering o f the other to one’s encounter with the face o f the other. When fully present to
another, we are struck by the other’s uniqueness, a uniqueness that calls upon us to respond.
This “response-ability” is not an objective rule o f justice imposed from above, but a
compelling ethic (an “ought”) that emerges within the immediate moment. “The face is not,”
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Levinas explains, “a form offered to serene perception. Immediately it summons me, claims
me, recalls me to a responsibility I incurred in no previous experience” (1993, p. 93). It is
not the case that the other, nor that the other’s face, necessarily impels us to care, impels us
to hold them as somehow significant, for others can be present to us, yet not matter, such as
the clerk was present to me, or passers-by are present to me as we walk past one another on
the street. But when I become fully present to the other, when I realize the other for who he
or she is, another person, another unique consciousness, a self that is aware o f the world.
When this happens, I also begin to care for the other. The other becomes important to me.
The other matters.
Genuineness and Caring as Fundamental to Emotions in Personal Relations
We mentioned several more emotions or phenomena that seem to be a part o f
personal relations. These included trust, warmth, affirmation, acceptance, and empathy.
Before we venture into a brief explorations o f these, it is worth noting that they all presume a
level o f genuineness and a level o f mattering. They presume genuineness in that they would
not be possible if genuineness itself (and the recognition o f genuineness) were not possible.
In other words, trust, warmth, affirmation, acceptance, and empathy would not be what they
are without genuineness. Each o f these interpersonal processes— trust, warmth, affirmation,
acceptance, and empathy— are not merely statements o f such, but are actual feelings or
experiences o f such. If we were not capable o f having these feelings, nor o f expressing them
as genuine, then personal relations would be fundamentally different. If I were to say to you
that I trusted you, but in fact I did not, then the type o f relationship we have would be
fundamentally different from one in which I genuinely trusted you. Trust, then, is either
present or it is not. The same for these other interpersonal processes. W hen they are present,
they are genuine. They are real. If I claim to have these experiences, yet I do not, then a part
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o f our relationship is necessarily false. Even if you do not realize this, and you think that I do
hold these feelings toward you, it will still be the case that our relationship is different than
were these feelings real.
One might argue that in the case o f feigned emotions, that appearance is as
important as reality. In some sense, this is true. If you seem to care about me, or seem to
trust me, then this will affect how I feel toward you, how much I share, whether I trust you
and feel warm toward you. But I do not need to take your word for it. I can apprehend your
feelings by attending to you closely. I can try to determine whether you really trust me or
not. I can, that is, fulfill that empty intention that you do care about me, or trust me, or
whatever. The fact that I can do this, and that it does m atter to me whether these things are
true or not, shows the importance o f genuineness. If this genuineness were not important,
then betrayal would not be a conceivable or relevant emotion. W hat others really feel or
think would not m atter to us. I would not care whether you really trusted me or not, or
whether you really cared for me or not. Genuineness, then, is a fundamental part o f these
interpersonal processes.
M attering too is fundamental to these interpersonal processes but not in quite the
same way. Trust, warmth, affirmation, acceptance, and empathy all involve caring when they
are part o f an interpersonal process. If I trust you, for example, this involves caring about
your feelings toward me. I know you will be good to me, for example, and this m atters to
me. This mattering, unlike genuineness however, is not a necessary condition for trust. I
might trust you, yet you do not m atter to me. I also might feel empathy toward you, I might
understand your sadness, yet you still m ight not m atter to me. And with acceptance, this
again may be true. I may accept you— that is, not judge you— but still you do not m atter to
me, you are not important to me. The emotions o f warmth and affirmation, however, do
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seem to imply a mattering that is inherent in them. If I feel warm toward you, you m atter to
me. If I affirm you, you m atter to me.
Regardless whether these particular emotions necessarily involve caring at a
fundamental level, it nonetheless is the case that they involve mattering as we usually mean
these when referring to a personal relationship. To say that the client trusts the therapist, for
example, is not to say that the client merely believes the therapist is capable o f doing his or
her job. It means that the client believes the therapist cares for him or her, and in fact, will
try to “take care” o f him or her. This taking care o f is itself an expression o f caring.
Similarly, when we say that a therapist empathizes with a client’s angst, it is not m erely that
the therapist understands or comprehends this emotion, for this would hardly be beneficial
for a client. Do I care that you comprehend how I feel. Yes, perhaps, to a certain extent I do.
But when that comprehension o f my feelings comes attached to a caring for me, and my
plight, then I am touched in a certain way that moves me. I feel tended to, and this is part o f
what we mean when we speak o f personal relations. We mean a closeness in which two
people m atter to one another. This mattering is a truly apprehensible quality o f relationships.
We can attend to whether or not the other m atters to us, and whether we m atter to them.
When we speak o f trust, warmth, affirmation, acceptance, and empathy, then, we are
speaking o f these feelings or processes as occurring in the presence o f caring. W ithout this
caring, they would lack an essential quality that makes them personal, that makes them about
“touching” another person.
Affection, Fondness, Liking, and Love
When we speak o f personal relations, we usually imply the liking, affection,
fondness, or love that occurs between two people. These are commonly thought o f as having
many gradations, commencing at the one end with mild liking and term inating at the other
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with devout love. These feelings might all be considered to fall within the concept o f
warmth, but their diversity is not fully honored by that term. It is not the case that personal
relations always involve positive feelings o f this kind, for we can well think o f examples o f
personal relations in which the two parties, though they may care deeply for one another,
also hate or despise one another in the present moment. Though we have already explored
how this dislike for the other necessitates a caring for the other, else it would not be the
intense dislike it is, we have not established that such dislike necessitates a liking or
affection for the other. This may or may not be the case, and in this study we will not explore
this question in any depth.
But it nonetheless cannot be denied that in personal relations there is, at least at
some point in the relation, a feeling o f affection that occurs between the two parties. Any
relationship that is absent this affection we would certainly consider odd in some way. It
would not be the deepest o f bonds that we m ight imagine, such as that which occurs between
a mother and her beloved child. I mention these feeling here because they are so much a part
o f our descriptions o f personal relations, yet we know so little about them. We speak o f our
love for our sibling, or our love for a spouse, yet exactly what constitutes this love is difficult
to convey. The same is true for less exuberant feelings such as that o f liking and affection.
We may have trem endous affection for a fellow classmate, or for the librarian who has
kindly helped us with our many class projects, but what is this affection. M arcel has referred
to it as a communion o f sorts. Certainly it holds a property o f m erger between tw o people.
More is shared; two people become wed in some way, join at the core o f their being. But
still, what is this affection? Is it, to ask the ultimate question, real? Here we come face to
face with doubt about the possibility o f recognizing such feelings, and o f identifying them as
existent in the world, not merely as projections o f our own. We m ay experience these
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emotions (if they can be classified as such), but what constitutes the contention that these are
real feelings versus mere projections, or mere epiphenomena?
We have said too little, here, about the nature o f affection, fondness, liking, and
love. W hat is more to be said must wait for future investigations. I wish only to point out
how integral these feelings are to personal relationships such as the therapy relation, and
below I hope to deal more directly with the doubt current philosophies commonly hold
regarding such positive feelings, labeled as they so often are as mere subjective
manifestations, not as truly bonding realities.
The Recognition o f Feelings and Awareness
W hen we speak o f the above emotions and awarenesses in regards to personal
relations (that is, such phenomena as genuineness, mattering, trust, warmth, affirmation,
acceptance, warmth, affection, love, and so on), we have assumed an ability on the part o f
both members o f a personal relationship to apprehend these emotions, and we have asserted
these emotions as real. These dual claims are made according to the m ethodology we have
accepted. We claim these emotions as real for the simple reason that we really experience
them. This may seem simple-minded. But our methodology establishes these emotions as
real by first establishing that we can truly experience things in the world internal and
external to us. Our model o f experience, or alternatively, our theory o f experience, has
established that our experience can provide us with realities. We can be, so to speak, in
“touch” with the world.
One might quickly argue, however, that we should not trust our experience o f the
world, because this experience cannot be confirmed. It is, as is so often charged o f
phenomenology, merely subjective. But our methodology, and our labors to establish that
methodology, should already illustrate the fallacies with this argument. Let us take the
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simple example o f tasting a banana, or witnessing its yellow color. (This may seem to be a
digression; but I think it will help us understand the nature o f experiencing emotions such as
affection and love.)
One m ight well claim that we should not trust our experiences o f the banana. We
cannot know, for example, that it truly has a singular taste (the taste o f banana!) or a singular
color (yellow!). But with such a claim, what recourse do we have? W hat m ust we say about
the taste o f the banana that we experience, and the color yellow that seems so apparent to us
when we view the banana? We can say nothing! We must declare that these are illusions,
and also declare that the basis o f our declarations cannot be affirmed or denied (for to do so
would be to rely on our fallible experiences).
But the reality o f our experience is contrary to this. We taste the banana, and we
recognize its tastes. We see the yellow o f its peel, and we recognize this. How we do this is a
mystery. That much is true. But is this mystery uncovered, or alleviated, by claim ing that the
reality o f our experience o f a banana’s taste and color have to do with physical properties
that can be measured. Certainly the banana does have physical properties. It has a length, a
width, and a mass. These we can measure. But should we trust these measurem ents any more
than any o f our other experiences? Are not they still experiences just the same? And do we
have a reason for trusting them above other experiences (say that o f the banana’s taste and
color)?
We cannot seem to develop experiential arguments in favor o f this odd view. The
banana’s taste and color occur, in our experience, as equally real as the banana’s m easurable
qualities. The banana has a taste and color, and you and I can confirm this. W e can taste
other bananas and compare their taste. We can look at other bananas and com pare their
colors, the shades o f yellows that they display. But would we be correct in asserting that the
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banana’s taste or color was nothing more than the mere secondary effect o f some primary
quality. To do so seems odd and prejudicial. The reality, rather, seems to be that taste and
color are things that, simply put, we can know. We can recognize them in the world, and this
fact is absolute and primary. We can establish it simply by drawing upon our experience and
analyzing and comparing those experiences. If you were to argue that the banana’s color is
nothing more than the wavelength o f light it reflects, I w ould have to disagree. I experience
color, not a wavelength o f light. I see yellow, not an undulating line! Your declaration
appears as mere theory, theory that does not even conform to your experience, whereas my
declaration is simply the description o f my experience. But you may counter that I do not see
yellow, I merely see something that I call yellow. But again, how absurd. It is not merely
that I call what I see yellow, or call what I taste banana. Rather, yellow refers to an
experience, and that experience is something. It is not mere illusion; it is the yellow that is
present to me, and that yellow is not merely spoken words. That yellow is lived experience.
The tendency to quantify experience must be carefully understood, and described for
what it is. When I experience yellow, I do not experience a certain frequency o f light. I see
yellow! That experience is primary and unassailable. I can confirm it in each new moment. I
can re-examine my lived experience to re-determine its nature. But the theory that my
experience o f yellow is merely an experience o f a wavelength cannot be confirmed. It is
untestable in experience. It m ust be assumed, even though it cannot explain the experience
o f the actual yellow. For if it is true that my experience is merely o f a wavelength, w hat must
we say o f the experience o f yellow? W hat is it? A mere corollary? And if so, why do we not
have access to the original, the supposed undulating wave that yellow is?
Our ability to recognize certain properties, certain tastes, or colors, or pitches— all o f
these abilities cannot be reduced to numbers or quantities unless we accept a theory first.
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And that theory is not an experienceable phenomenon. The theory is a theory! But that I can
see yellow or taste banana, that is experienceable. I can affirm it and reaffirm it. The banana
taste occurs within the tasting o f the banana. And the taste is itself no numerical. True, I can
assign it a number. But this assignment does not occur in experience. That is, the banana
tastes does not present itself to me with a number attached. Rather, it presents itself to me as
the taste o f banana, ju st as yellow presents itself as yellow, and blue as blue, and m iddle C as
middle C. That we have the capacity to recognize such properties, such universals, m ust be
accepted, but not because it is a theory. Rather, because it is part o f our experience.
Similarly, when we experience love, trust, acceptance, empathy, and so on, we truly
experience these, not numbers attached to them. These m ay have a myriad o f shades or tones
about them, but these too we identify through our experience, not through numbers. This is
not to say that numbers are unhelpful. They may well be. I may say to you that this banana I
have tasted, on a scale from one to 10, is a 10 in terms o f its banana taste. But if I were to tell
you this, and you were not to taste the banana, you would have no understanding or
apprehension o f what I meant. You could only apprehend my meaning if you and I had, by
previous conversations, tasted many bananas, and had together rated these bananas
according to our scale o f one to 10. Then, and only then, if I were to present you with a
banana, and tell you it was a 9, you would know, even before tasting it, what it would taste
like. But only in the actually tasting could you affirm the correctness o f my judgm ent. All
experience is like this. It is affirmed in the “tasting” o f the experience, in the apprehension o f
what is in view. That we can indeed hold things in our view, that we conceive things, that we
can understand them, “taste” them so to speak, all o f this w e hold to be true not because o f
theory, but because our experience attests to this.
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Power in Personal Relations
Another aspect o f personal relations that cannot be ignored is that o f power. Power
plays several roles in personal relations, and it is difficult to describe exactly what it is. We
have, as an example o f power, the dynamics between two friends in which both trust the
other, and believe what the other says. This gives each friend the ability to dupe the other. A
similar power is displayed in the therapy relationship, and feminist scholars have astutely
recognized this fact (see, for example, Brown, 1994 and Douglas, 1985). Psychoanalytical
scholars, too, have spoken o f the “tilt” that exists between analyst and analysand. The power
that occurs within personal relations, such as those between therapist and client, derive partly
from the willingness o f one person to believe what the other has said, and to trust the
thoughts and feelings that are put forward.
But the power that occurs between members o f a personal relation has additional
qualities. When we become fond o f another or when we fall in love with someone, that
someone seems to establish a power over us. They monopolize our thoughts. They are
present to our minds, even when they are miles away. W e sometimes engage in our activities
as if the other were present, and when they are present, our actions are inclined toward
gaining their approval. W hen they are present, we may melt in their arms. We feel
vulnerable around them. And what is this vulnerability if it is not at least some form o f
power that is granted to the other. This can also be witnessed in our caring o f w hat the other
thinks. They may com m ent upon our actions, and our feelings are hurt by their comment.
But this very comment, coming from someone else, m ight not affect us, would not even
penetrate our defenses, would not rattle our composure. There is even another facet o f
power. When we care for another, we attend to what they do, and are hurt when they are
hurt, and may cry when they cry, or become anxious with the anxieties that wax in them.
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Here again, the other has a certain power to touch us, to affect us. This power seems to be
founded on many o f the matters we have discussed: on trust, on genuineness, on mattering,
and on attention.
M utuality
It is worth at least a brief comment to address whether or not personal relations need
be mutual. We have asserted that they indeed must be, at least at the primordial level o f
shared awareness. We have derived this assertion from initial descriptions o f personal
relations as offered by researchers and thinkers who have investigated the therapy
relationship. Our own investigations have asserted the truth o f this description. W hen we
enter relations with others, part o f what makes these relations personal is mutual awareness,
and part o f that mutual awareness is the recognition that the other is aware o f us as we are o f
them. Just as I can be aware o f you and the fact that you can have the same experiences as I
do, I can also recognize that you, as a conscious entity, are the same as me. This is not to say
that I know you are having the same experiences as I am (though you m ay be), but rather
that I recognize you to have the same kinds o f experiences that I have and to have, like me,
an experiencing self that is the term inus o f your experiences.
To say that personal relations must be mutual, however, is not to say that they must
be equal, or perfectly reciprocal. Personal relations do not seem to require this. I may be
more fond o f you than you o f me; or you may trust me more than I trust you. Specific
feelings and beliefs need not be held in the same way and to the same degree by both parties,
but what must be reciprocated is an awareness o f the other’s awareness. W ithout this, there
is no connection between two people. There may be an awareness o f the other, but not an
awareness o f the other as a self, that is, as a consciousness that has feelings, experiences,
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beliefs, and so on; or, to put it more simply, as a person. It is precisely this awareness o f the
other as a person (as an experiencing being) that makes relations personal.
But we should not ignore relations that are not truly personal, but nonetheless appear
to take on aspects o f personal relations. Examples o f such relations might include the child
who has an imaginary friend, the husband o f a wife who has fallen into a coma, the brother
o f a girl who suffers from severe autism. In all these cases, we might well imagine that one
o f the parties is very aware o f the other as a person, but this is not and cannot be reciprocated
by the second party. The imaginary friend can have no awareness o f the child. The com atose
wife is similarly unable to call her husband to mind; and the autistic sister is quite unaware
o f her brother.
The case o f the imaginary friend is perhaps the most striking, for it is the rare child
that does not imagine interactions with pretend characters, even if those characters do not
take on a permanent existence in the child’s ongoing reality but instead live in his or her
fleeting play. “Relations” with pretend playmates are remarkable for the fact that pretend
playmate can be comforting and consoling to the young child. Here, the m ere belief that
another, responsive person exists seems to be enough to provide some solace, some aid. But
such interactions (if they can rightly be called such) not only provide solace to the child,
even grownup’s commonly engage in them, for who among us has not held imaginary
conversations, especially in times o f trouble and need. But notwithstanding the com fort and
release that can sometimes be found in imagined companions, and even if their occurrence is
worthy o f investigation (for the rewards such an they would likely contribute to our
knowledge o f human interaction), we cannot deny that imagined interactions do not
constitute personal relations. If the child cares about his imagined playmate, and trusts that
playmate, and indeed, believes that playmate to exist, even so, that playmate does not exist.
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That playmate cannot attend to the child, that playmate cannot speak to the child, cannot
here her, cannot apprehend her. Children grow to know this, and in knowing this, recognize
the difference between a pretend playmate who provides comfort, and a true one who does.
In the case o f the latter, there is a real contact with the world. The difference is not unlike
that between imagining that I drink a cup o f water and actually drinking a cup o f water. In
imagining that I have drink water, I may go through many actions that dem onstrate an “as i f ’
quality. I may act as if I am holding a glass to my lips. I may contract my esophagus as if I
were gulping a refreshing draft o f water. And I m ay even convince m yself that I am no
longer thirsty. I believe this is the case. But this does not mean that I have actually sipped
water. N or that pretending to sip water is the same as truly sipping it. In truly sipping the
water, there is more to the m atter than merely my belief. There is the actuality, and I can
differentiate between the two. Even if I were to believe that I had sipped the water, if I were
to test whether this had in fact happen, I could come to see that indeed it had not. I m ight
experiment with this matter, and try pretending to sip water, and next, actually sip water, and
I could tell that pretending was not the same as truly engaging in the activity. Pretending to
sip water carries a host o f qualities that are not present in actually sipping water, and vice
versa. The importance o f this matter, is not whether the belief that something has happened
is more or less beneficial than the reality o f it happening. Rather, the importance is whether
there is a difference that can be apprehended. And indeed, it can. This is phenom enological
verifiable. Thus, there is a difference between believing that my teacher cares for me, and
actually experiencing my teacher to care. The latter involves a witnessing o f its occurrence,
which the former cannot supply. And it is the actual witnessing or experiencing o f others’
emotions and attention that is crucial to our experience o f personal relations. Indeed, it is
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likely by means o f our actual real-life experiences o f others’ emotions and attention that we
are able to mimic them in our minds so powerfully and sometimes, even salubriously.
The case o f the imaginary friend is not unlike another case which m ight shed light
on the nature and importance o f mutual awareness in personal relations. M any o f the feelings
that we have toward an imaginary friend would be ones that we might have toward a real
friend. Similarly, we might hold these same feelings toward a cherished object. Perhaps my
mother, for example, upon returning from a trip to Russia, has given me a small wooden
box, inlaid with intricate designs. I care about this box. It matters to me. I have fretted when
I could not find it and have been concerned when it has shown its age and wear. I trust this
box, too, and because o f that trust I feel comfortable keeping in it old valuable coins that I
have collected over the years. I also feel a warmth toward the box. It is special to me,
reminding me o f my youth, and o f the attention my m other showed me. Sometimes, when I
am feeling sullen, I may draw the box near, and open it to explore its contents. I feel
consoled by having it before me. By touching its surface, and running my fingers across its
inlaid designs. M y relation to the box may even be described as a personal one. I have an
affection for it. But we would hardly consider this a personal relation as we have used the
term in this study. For though I may care about this box, I know that it cannot care about me.
It cannot know me, touch me, or see me. M any o f my feelings toward it, in fact, are mere
fantasies. Though it comforts me to draw the box near, I know that the box cannot take care
o f me, even if it does remind me o f my m other’s embrace. My relation with the box is more
than merely the relation that holds between two physical objects, me and a box. But this is so
precisely because I am more than a physical object. The box, however, cannot reciprocate
my memories and affections; it cannot be attached to me as I am to it. And this fact I can be
well aware of, even if I m ight sometimes imagine otherwise.
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A Lived Experience
If we take the case o f the wife who has fallen into a coma, we witness another aspect
o f personal relations: they are lived interactions, not merely the memories o f such. I may
love my wife, and have a strong emotional bond with her; but if she has fallen into a coma, I
could hardly be said to have a personal relation with her. True, we have a shared history in
which the two o f us have had a personal relation; but personal relations are not their
histories, even though we often speak o f them as such. But what o f the case o f the historian
who has fallen in love with the person he has studied so long. This historian has learned to
understand this particular figure, can even empathize with the turns in her career, has grown
to appreciate her wise and courageous decisions, the sacrifices she made to insure the safety
o f her country. Our historian knows this historical person, he cares for her, trusts her deeds,
feels warmly toward her, and admires her deeply. But this relation, though it would hardly
be accurate to call it an impersonal one, would also not suitably fall within our description o f
a personal relation, for personal relations involve experiences in the present moment. They
can be relived, or, shall we say, brought to life. And in so doing, in fact, they can be
described as having a life o f their own. They are not determined by their past, though
perhaps influenced by it. Indeed, in regards to the therapy relationship, this life, this course
which relations may take, has been studied under the aspect o f the ruptures and reparations
that are considered an important part o f the trajectory o f working alliances.
I might say that I have a strong relationship with my brother; but when my brother is
not present for me, when I am not actually engaged in relating to my brother (nor him to
me), we could hardly be said to be in a personal relationship. We o f course are often sloppy
in our use o f language, and we ignore the gaps that occur between people’s m om ents o f
relating. We speak o f our relations with others, even though we m ay not have related with
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them for some time. And the relation that we mean when we say this should not be ignored
entirely. There is a meaning here, a referent worth noting. When I say that my father and I
have a distant relationship, I am speaking o f a history o f personal relations, o f times that we
have related, and I am giving (or so we hope) an accurate portrayal o f those interactions. In
other words, it is significant when I say that I have a relationship with my father, even if I
am not— in the very moment I make this statement— relating to my father. This indicates an
openness to continuation that seems to be a part o f personal relations. Such relations are
sustained by in-the-moment personal contact, but they do not necessarily end or begin with
each encounter. Rather, the history that I share with another person becomes part o f future
encounters, and that history plays an important role.
But to return to our initial example, though it may be true that I have a personal
relationship with my wife— who is now in a coma— it could not be argued that I am now
able to relate to her. We cannot, so to speak, currently sustain our relationship. We cannot
relive it. We cannot, in essence, experience one another, and it is this experiencing o f one
another that is core to personal relations. Personal relations that lack it are non-personal
simply because they do not involve relating, and they become personal once they again
involve relating. So though I may be said to have a personal relationship with my wife, it
might be more accurate to say that I once had this, and that this relationship has been
momentarily suspended or impeded, perhaps never to continue, all depending on my w ife’s
ability to regain consciousness and once again enter into the interchange o f relating with me,
o f apprehending me.
Prepredicative Relations
In the case o f the sister who suffers from autism, there may actually hold a personal
relation, but one that cannot be articulated by either party. This is because the autistic child,
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though she lacks awareness o f certain realities (say perhaps, the realities o f what words
mean, or the emotions that her brother holds), and thereby is incapacitated or restrained, in
certain regards, to forming a full relation with her brother, she nonetheless m ay have
consciousness o f her brother’s presence, and may be well aware that her brother has the
capacity to have consciousness. Our awareness o f others’ consciousness is not a com plex
understanding. Rather, it is a simple one, which we attribute to others often quite
unknowingly. The fact that this sister does not and cannot communicate as non-autistic
persons can, does not mean that she is incapable o f interchange with another. The
interchanges that occur in personal relations may be difficult or impossible to articulate
precisely or they may be unconscious (that is, they exist at the periphery o f awareness), but
they are nonetheless interchanges, and should not be discounted. But if it is the case that an
autistic child is incapable o f apprehending the other— that is, has absolutely no awareness o f
the other— then we would hardly consider such a person capable o f personal relations. They
may benefit by the love and attention o f others, but that benefit will derive indirectly, not
through the apprehension o f such emotions.
Summary Remarks
In this chapter, we have attempted to provide an accurate description o f several
foundational properties o f personal relations, especially as manifested in the therapy
relationship. To do this, we had first to dismantle traditional empiricism, which imposes
restrictive assumptions upon current empirical research o f the therapy relationship. These
assumptions presume a disunity between successive experiences, a disunity that is fatally
damaging to any accurate portrayal o f personal relations. In place o f these assumptions, we
relied upon the methodology o f Husserl’s phenomenology, which does indeed attend to the
disjunctions o f our lived experience, the many differences we encounter in the world, but
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equally attends— unlike traditional empiricism— to the conjunctions o f our experience. We
examined these conjunctions as they are m anifested in the presence o f the identities o f
universals and substances. We also witnessed these conjunctions in the relations o f parts and
wholes that make up all relations. With these ontological realities settled— not by theory, but
by observation— we turned to matters specific to the unions we know o f as personal
relations. We attended to consciousness, feelings, and mutual awareness. In exploring these,
we came to understand the true import o f what it means for two people to be personally
united, what it means that these two members o f a common relations come to know one
another, and enter a shared experience, a shared world. Part o f what this means is that two
selves, two apprehending entities, come into view o f one another, come “face to face.” We
traced the many subtleties inherent in such shared viewing; we examined, though only
cursorily, the roles o f attention, genuineness, mattering, trust, empathy, affection, loving and
other com plex interpersonal processes. Finally, we came to view the aliveness o f personal
relations, their existence as relations that unfold in time. Personal relations develop and grow
along a trajectory that knits together the experiences o f two conscious selves, not unlike an
open-ended symphony that weaves its many melodies into a rich and harmonious
progression. That progression may wander a varied course, sometimes flowing into troubled
ruptures and other times into ameliorative reparations, but no m atter how varied the course,
its essential property is its many-layered unity.
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CHAPTER 7
IMPLICATIONS FOR COUNSELING PSYCHOLOGY
This study has addressed issues profoundly important to the advancem ent o f
counseling psychology as a science, but the issues addressed— which in their m ethodological
aspect deal mainly with ontological and epistemological foundations— are not explicitly
manifest at the surface o f current research efforts. They are not explicitly m anifest because
science as it is currently practiced in mainstream academic psychology m arches forward
under the esteemed banner o f traditional empiricism, a m ethodology that has been successful
according to its own aspirations and has conquered important territories o f knowledge. These
conquests have given psychologists little motivation to change their m ethodological
assum ptions. Even when they have called their assumptions into questions (as postpositivists
have encouraged them to do), there has been little motivation to change actual research
practice. The territories conquered by traditional empiricism, however, have been entirely
quantitative. Empirical science has continued to develop more and more powerful
psychometric measures, but its understanding o f what its instruments m easure has advanced
very little.
Counseling psychologists— as researchers, practitioners, and trainers alike— have
become increasingly dissatisfied with the fruits o f their adopted methodology. The theories
developed and the quantitative territory claim ed under the waving banner o f traditional
empiricism have not adequately explained human interactions, nor the com plex
“mechanisms” that underlie therapeutic processes and outcomes. Therapists, researchers,
and trainers, in their attempt to expand upon their empirical knowledge, have made recourse
to such nonmaterial constructs as caring, empathy, love, affection, warmth, trust, and so on.
O f course, such constructs have been constrained by the assumptions o f traditional
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empiricism. Immaterial and non-sense-perceptible properties and entities have been tossed
into Hum e’s proverbial flames because o f the presupposed inability to observe them.
In critiquing traditional empiricism, this study has attempted to dismantle those o f its
assumptions which are unproductive while retaining the kernel o f truth that lies at its core.
That truth is that experience should lie at the foundation o f all knowledge. That which is
unproductive comprises traditional em piricism ’s self-refuting insistence that only material,
sense-perceptible entities and properties exist. The confrontation, then, between the theory
forwarded in this treatise— which might be most aptly described as Husserl’s
phenomenological realism— and that forwarded by traditional empiricism, sheds light on
alternative views o f reality. This confrontation is ontological in its nature, meaning that our
understanding o f reality hinges on its victor. I have argued that H usserl’s phenom enological
realism should be declared the victor, and that the methodology that springs forth from it can
redirect empiricism unto a path that will lead to true knowledge. Traditional empiricism, on
the other hand, though a swift and eager m ethodology that is capable o f producing
impressive heaps o f findings and results, nonetheless leaves, in its progress, a barren
theoretical landscape. This is because traditional empiricism, in eschewing the reality o f
“non-empirical” entities, has not only negated its own theoretical foundation, but has
negated realities that we experience on an everyday, moment-to-moment basis.
Foremost among these realities, in regards to the science o f counseling psychology,
has been the relationship between therapist and client. Traditional empiricism has been
unable to fully investigate this phenomenon because it has been unable to define its very
nature. It has established numerous psychometric measures purporting to tap this
“construct,” but has leap-frogged the task o f developing a true understanding o f the therapy
relationship. But if we do not know what a relationship is, and cannot define or describe that
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relationship by means o f our methodology, then we are left with the classic problem that all
methodisms face: we have no way o f verifying the fruits o f our project. These essential
questions remain: Are we m easuring what we think we are measuring? And what
methodology might help us answer this question?
In pursuing these questions— which we first encountered in uncovering the glaring
lack o f definitional work within the literature addressing the therapy relationship— we have
tested the foundational assumptions o f traditional empiricism. These were revealed to be
mortally lacking, and we have several times reviewed traditional em piricism ’s two self-
defeating contradictions. First, traditional empiricism adopts a self-negating epistemological
stance; it declares that only sense-perceptible and measurable realities are knowable, yet it
forwards a theory that is not sense-perceptible. Second, traditional empiricism has
established itself upon an arbitrary methodological foundation; in asserting that only sense-
perceptible and measurable realities are knowable, traditional empiricism has provided no
basis for adopting this methodological criterion.
In the place o f traditional empiricism I have adopted the realism o f H usserl’s
phenomenology. This phenomenology begins with an unprejudiced view founded upon
direct experience, and asserts that we must establish our methodology according to what we
in fact know, rather than establishing w hat we know according to an arbitrary methodology.
What we in fact know is given to us in our experience, though not all experience is equally
reliable. Husserl then examines experience to identify what within it is indubitable. W ith the
bindings o f traditional empiricism discarded, the scope o f reality available to scientific
investigation opens to include such phenomena as consciousness and “idealities,” the latter
o f which Husserl refers to as universals. These entities, though they can indeed be traced by
traditional empiricism because they are present within and interact (to speak loosely) with
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the physical world, are nonetheless not reducible to physical entities. Traditional
empiricism ’s account o f them is inherently incomplete. In the case o f consciousness, it
cannot grasp its true nature because it cannot account for the intentionality, the ofness, that is
an essential property o f consciousness. In the case o f universals, it must dispense with these
entirely for the reason that they are not sense-perceptible, and it can only account for them as
fictions or constructs. Thus, traditional empiricism fails to describe their full reality, due to
the fact that it discounts their very existence. By contrast, Husserl’s phenom enology can
accurately describe the reality we encounter, because his account relinquishes all prejudices,
all pre-experiential theories, and describes the world as w e find it, not as w e think it to be (or
not to be).
H usserl’s phenomenology lacks the self-contradictory tenets that lie at the heart o f
traditional empiricism. It calls for a radicalized empiricism that acknowledges our awareness
o f non-empirical entities such as universals and consciousness, and it illustrates how our
experience o f the world is precisely o f these kinds o f entities. At its foundation, H usserl’s
phenomenology argues that we have contact with a real world, and then it sets upon the task
o f describing that world. It faults traditional empiricism for having no account o f this
contact— o f in fact negating the possibility o f relations in general and thus negating the
specific relation that holds between consciousness and world. The negation o f relations also
negates the possibility o f universals. But adm itting o f the possibility, indeed the reality, o f
relations, Husserl’s phenomenology establishes an ontology from which an accurate
description o f personal relations can be built. This study has begun the process o f building
such a description. That project, however, is an immense one, and this study has hoped not
to complete such a description, but rather, to lay a viable foundation upon which future
researchers can add further descriptions.
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The Importance o f Personal Relations Across Knowledge Domains
Though the present study has focused on personal relations as they m anifest in the
therapy relationship, it should not be overlooked that personal relations remain a possibility
in all human encounters, and humans encounter one another across a vast array o f contexts—
political, economic, social, familial, formal, informal, and so on. W ithin all these domains,
humans can, and often do, interact with one another in a personal way, a way that involves
being with one another not as two objects, but as two conscious beings that have feelings
toward one another, and that are aware o f each other’s awarenesses. Sociological and
psychological researchers have a long history o f investigating the formal and informal
relations that occur within social institutions such as families, governments, and
corporations. W hat are these relations? They must in part consist o f personal relations.
Personal relations, it is apparent, are ubiquitous, and how such relations come to be
structured— the awarenesses and feelings persons have toward one another— play a large
role in shaping the success and failures o f public and private enterprises. Even the very
fabric o f our social order, the communities in which we w ork and play, even these are—
fundamentally speaking— networks o f personal relations. Such problem s as the violence in
our culture might be viewed as attributable to the types o f personal relations that are formed
within our institutions. Traditional empiricism has encouraged social science to adopt a
mechanical understanding o f these relations. This science has searched for the correlation
between attitudes and outcomes; but this understanding o f science has limited our
appreciation o f the depth o f relationships that do or do not form, and the presence or lack o f
mutual caring that does or does not occur. Only with the admission o f the subjective nature
o f our presence within reality and our presence with one another, we will be able to
accurately describe what it means to be a m em ber o f a relationship, and thus to be a m em ber
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o f a family, a church, a school, a workplace, a community, a nation, and most importantly, a
shared world. An understanding o f personal relations, then, and an understanding o f the
therapy relationship, are not esoteric endeavors. They speak directly to our hum an condition,
and our attempt to understand what it means for humans to live together.
Implications for Therapy
The Primacy o f the Real Relationship
The core implication o f this study is that psychological contact is possible between
two human beings. This understanding presumes at least a rudimentary appreciation for what
it means to be a human being and what it means for human beings to be in contact. That
rudimentary understanding as it has be presented in this study asserts that being a human
being means having a consciousness that is directed upon the world and that term inates in a
self that recognizes this directedness. The real relationship that is possible between two
human beings— or two selves— is a contact which derives from this consciousness.
The model o f consciousness put forward in this study recognizes that the awareness
inherent in consciousness has direct access to the world. We do not see images o f the world,
or copies o f it. Consciousness is not bound within a circle o f ideas, nor is it shielded from the
world by a veil o f representations. Rather, consciousness is capable o f grasping the world as
it is, and thus o f grasping other consciousnesses as what they are, too. O f course,
consciousness is fallible. It can be erroneous in its understanding; it can grasp what in fact is
not present. But this does not negate the fundamental assertion that consciousness is capable
o f understanding the world, o f being in direct contact with that world, o f presenting that
world to us. That presentation is not merely a distant, cold apprehension. Consciousness is
more than abstract or “formal” recognition o f the way things are. Rather, it is involvement in
the way things are. It is understanding not from afar, but from “w ithin.”
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This theory o f consciousness, and o f the self, moves the appreciation o f reality to the
center o f therapy. The real relationship should not be viewed as one o f three elem ents o f
therapy relationship, as it is in Gelso and Carter’s (1985; 1994) and Gelso and H ayes’s
(1998) model. Rather, it is the building block from which all other personal relations derive.
The working alliance, too, as well as transferential and countertransferential configurations,
must be understood in term s o f their layering upon the fundamental kernel o f the real
relationship.
The real relationship, as I have described it here, differs from the conceptions o f this
relationship as offered in the research literature. Often, it is understood not as a primary or
foundational contact between two people, but rather as that which can be distinguished from
the working alliance and the unreal relationship (that is, transferential and
countertransferential interchanges) or— at in a more extreme view— that which remains once
the working alliance and the unreal relationship are removed. In his seminal work on the real
relationship, Greenson wrote,
The term “real” in the phrase “real relationship” may mean realistic, reality oriented,
or undistorted as contrasted to the term “transference” which connotes unrealistic,
distorted, and inappropriate. The word real may also refer to genuine, authentic, and
true in contrast to artificial, synthetic or assumed. At this point, I intend to use the
term real to refer to the realistic and genuine relationship between analyst and
patient. (Greenson, 1967, p. 217)
In my description o f a real relationship, I have emphasized— according to our
phenomenological description o f personal relations— the “reality oriented” aspect o f
personal relations. That is, personal relations are indeed real, and two members o f a relation
can directly apprehend the other. That two parties may be inauthentic in their encounter with
one another does not at all mean, in my description o f personal relations, that a real
relationship is not occurring. Even in such an encounter, both parties know som ething real
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o f the other, if it merely be that the other is an experiencing being. A relationship in which
everything is concealed from the other is a theoretical phantasm.
My description o f the real relationship necessarily includes the revealing o f genuine
feelings and thoughts toward the other, but this level o f sharing does not necessarily (perhaps
not even usually) attain the level o f genuineness or congruency— to use R ogers’s term— that
is often implied by the term real relationship. In such conceptions, a real relationship implies
a deep level o f genuineness that is shared between two people. Certainly, this level o f
genuineness cannot be denied as important in relations such as those that hold between
therapist and client, and certainly such genuineness, and the levels it attains, have a profound
impact on relations. But this high level o f authentic disclosure is not necessary to w hat I am
here describing as a real relationship. Rather, such high levels o f authentic disclosure
constitute a further deepening o f what is already a primary bond between two people, a real
contact that involves mutual awareness. Thus, even where two people may be quite
dishonest in their dealings with one another, a real relationship is present. This is apparent
for several reasons. First, the two people are truly relating to one another (not to imaginary
beings). Second, each recognizes the other as a conscious being capable o f affect. And
finally, the two— even though one or both may be deceiving the other— are nonetheless
relating in real ways in certain regards. For example, I must use real words to deceive you,
and not only must I know the meanings o f these words, I must know that you know these
meanings. You and I, then, even though we have a duplicitous relationship, share a world o f
sorts. Indeed, the fact that all relationships are founded on real relations— on veritable
connections between two conscious beings— explains our inability to com pletely conceal
ourselves from one another. It also clarifies why fake relationships are so difficult to
maintain, so unappealing to those who maintain them, and so painful to those who
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eventually discover their falseness. W ere it the case that we could only enter into false
relations, we would hardly be concerned about their falsity, and would hardly be able to
recognize it.
The W orking Alliance
In Chapter 2 we discussed the cloudiness o f Greenson’s conception o f the working
alliance. At one extreme, the working alliance is a reality-based relationship characterized by
the client’s ability to work productively. A t the other, it is transferentially based, thereby
encouraging the client’s retreat into fantasy. To repeat Greenson words, “The patient’s
contribution to the working alliance depends on two antithetical properties; his capacity to
maintain contact with the reality o f the analytic situation and his willingness to risk
regressing into his fantasy w orld” (Greenson, 1967, p. 208). The conception o f personal
relations put forward in the present study claims that the real relationship is primary to both
the working alliance and to transferential relations (or the “unreal” relationship).
That the working alliance relies on the possibility o f the real relationship is apparent
even if we adopt an interpretation o f the working alliance as merely a com pact or a
collaborative agreement. To establish such an agreement, two selves must be able to
apprehend and understand one another. If they cannot, then we can hardly speak o f an
agreement. Much o f Bordin’s work was intended to stress the importance o f the working
alliance as an ongoing and explicit negotiation between therapist and client (see Bordin,
1994, for example). Bordin criticized both Rogers and Freud for failing to understand the
importance o f this negotiative process, and for failing to make it an explicit com ponent o f
therapy relations. But if we truly wish to honor the importance o f such negotiations, we m ust
assume the possibility that two selves can come into contact with one another in a genuine
way such that they can negotiate. If we do not allow for this possibility, if we have a model
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o f consciousness that does not enable selves to directly access reality— w hether that reality
be a social, personal, or physical one— then we have, in essence, eliminated the possibility o f
a genuine working alliance because o f the impossibility o f a genuine relating o f any kind.
The concept o f the working alliance, then, even when narrowly conceived as not
necessitating an emotional bond, rests upon a conception o f genuine relations, o f the reality
o f human contact and interaction. We must be able to share worlds, share ideas, share
thoughts, and share understandings, if we are to make any sense o f therapist and client
sharing an alliance.
Transference Revisted
But what o f those theorists who have claimed that there is no such thing as genuine
relationships. They argue that all relations are transferential. This argument em erges from
psychoanalytic theorist (Brenner, 1979; Curtis, 1979) and also from theorist who have
borrowed from social constructivist theory (Greenberg, 1994; Hill, 1994), and we m ust deal
with it as it arises from both camps.
The Psychoanalytic View
From within the psychoanalytical camp, some theorists have doubted the existence
o f the working alliance altogether. They have claimed that all encounters are transferentially
based. But such an argument is simply a retreat to the representational view o f consciousness
that we have already examined at length, and this view o f consciousness lapses into
solipsism and contradiction. Let us examine how this is so. “Transference,” explains
Greenson,
is the experiencing o f feeling, drives, attitudes, fantasies, and defenses toward a
person in the present which do not befit that person but are a repetition o f reactions
originating in regard to significant persons o f early childhood, unconsciously
displaced onto figures in the present. (Greenson, 1967, p. 171).
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To argue that w e cannot experience others as they really are, but only experience our
transferential reactions to them, is to argue that our apprehension o f others is necessarily
mediated by our own representations o f them. If I interact with you, and we become friends,
1 am not in fact aware o f you. Rather, I am aware o f past relationships. I am aw are o f my
love for my father, my longing for his attention and nurturance, and my apprehension o f you
is thoroughly infused with the pigment o f this past relationship.
But if we take this understanding o f personal relations to its logical extreme, we
must ask two crucial questions. How do we establish our first relationship, our inaugural
bond? If all relationships are transferential, then this relationship, too, must be transferential.
We are left with no explanation for this first relationship. It is, by our very theory, not
possible. And the second question is this: if I can only know you by means o f my
transferential representations, and thus I do not know you, but rather know my father as if he
were present before me, how can I interact w ith you whatsoever. For to interact w ith you, to
speak to you, to see you, hear you, and so on, I must be interacting with something. Even if
we are to assert that I initially interact with a real being, but that this triggers feelings from
past relations which are then displaced upon you, still such a theory is adm itting that I have
at least a fundamental real relationship w ith you. I know, at the very least, that you are
present, for if I did not, you could not possible trigger transferential reactions within me.
Transference, even as it is defined and understood by the most staunch psychoanalyst, is a
triggering o f ghosts, and there must be a presence that triggers these ghosts. The view, then,
that all emotional relationships are entirely transferential, is— because it forces transference
to a foundational status— untenable. It assumes at its basis the ability to be aware o f others,
not merely as physical presences, but as conscious entities with emotions, beliefs, and so on.
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This is not to say that transference is unimportant in our relations with one another,
nor that it plays a m inor role. It may indeed be that transferential configurations predominate
our relations with others. But even if this is true, it must also be the case that we have real
connections with others, and it must also be the case that we can access these relations and
enlarge there sphere. A view that real relationships must exist, does not deny the existence or
importance o f unreal relations. Rather, it puts them in their proper theoretical perspectives,
such that transference can be properly understood. M y relations with you will likely trigger
past relationships. And I may well interact with you as if I am interacting with my father. I
may be meek in my requests, and I may believe that you do not approve o f me, or that you
do not truly care about me. But these beliefs, these projections, can be tested against the
reality o f our relationship. You can recognize these reactions as inappropriate to you. You
have, perhaps, done nothing to make me believe this. And thus you are suspicious that my
feelings toward you arise not from our real encounter, but from the vestiges o f my past
encounters. It may not be an easy task for me to untangle my transferential reactions (indeed,
Freud classified these as resistances), and it may be true that at times I am unable to strip my
perception o f you from the transferences that imbue it, but these transferences, even when I
am fully involved in them, are built as much upon my relating to you— the real you in front
o f me— as they are to my past relations, that is, the real father, whom I once related to. It is
because you have become important to me, that I have begun to care about you, and need
your attention, that the memories and patterns o f past interactions have been stirred within
me.
A Social Constructionist View o f the Real Relationship
A critique o f the real relationship that runs parallel to the contention that all
relationships are transferential (or countertransferential) has been forwarded by relationship
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researchers who have been influenced by social constructionist theory. In critiquing Gelso
and Carter’s definition o f the real relationship (which focuses on the client’s realistic
perceptions), Hill writes,
I do not believe that there is such a thing as “realistic” perspectives. I think that we
are all biased by our cognitive distortions or our lenses o f the way we view the
world (cf. Gergen, 1985; Kelly, 1955). In other worlds, this is no “reality” ; there is
only an individual’s subjective perceptions or constructions o f reality. (Hill, 1994,
p. 93)
But this constructionist outlook— as we have repeatedly observed— reduces to
representationalism, and like representationalism is untenable. If it is in fact true that “there
is only an individual’s subjective perceptions or constructions o f reality,” one wonders how
science o f any kind m ight be accomplished. In her above quote, Hill is applying her critique
to attempts to evaluate a client or therapist’s perspective, but it can and should be applied to
Hill’s perspective too. W hen it is, we are left without any means o f claiming or evaluating
any knowledge claims— our own as researchers (and Hill must be included am ongst us), as
well as those o f our clients. But the phenomenological method w e have adopted in this study
demonstrates that such a view runs contrary to our actual experience. W e indeed experience
truths. And the fact that many o f these truths are necessarily presented through perspectives
or appearances in no way means, as we have explored in detail above, that we do not directly
access them. Indeed, it often means the opposite, for certain entities— physical ones perhaps
being the most obvious— necessitate that the grasping o f them occur through various
perspectives or aspects. That such entities can only be viewed in this way, is an essential
fact. It is a truth, and one we can witness in any encounter we have with discrete spatial
objects.
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Sexton and W histon, in their review o f the relationship literature, put forward a view
similar to H ill’s. They call for the use o f social constructionist models to better explain the
therapy relationship and explain,
The most basic assumption o f the social constructivist perspective is, however, that
interactional patterns only gain meaning when considered within the context o f the
particular relationship in which they occur. Relationships gain m eaning because of
the broader cultural and social contexts in which they occur. (Sexton & W histon,
1994, pp. 61-62)
Though there is valuable insight provided by Sexton and W histon’s analysis, that insight
should not be overemphasized. It is very true, as social constructionism argue, that context is
extremely important, and we cannot ignore the many contexts (historical, political, social,
cultural, linguistic, and so on) within which personal relations occur. But neither must we
presume that such contexts give personal relations their meaning. If we truly believe that
“interactional patterns only gain m eaning when considered within the context o f the
particular relationship” then it follows that such patterns have no m eaning in and o f
themselves. They thus m ust have no nature, no essence, no structure. But do w e believe this?
Is it true to our experience o f relationships? If you and I have been arguing with one another
for the past several weeks, and both o f us are quite angry at one another, is it the case that
this pattern o f interaction has meaning only within the context o f our relationship? Is there
not, in other words, such a thing as anger and argument that exist outside the context o f our
particular encounter. Is it not true that others, too, can be angry with one another, and can
enter into prolonged arguments. And is it not true that the anger that others feel towards one
another is not— at least in some respect— similar to our own anger, and their arguments, too,
similar to ours.
These truths, it would seem, are difficult to deny, yet they so often are when
researchers attempt to explain both the subjective and contextual nature o f our reality— the
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indubitable facts that we live through our experience o f the world, that we have direct
contact with the world, and that we experience the contextual complexity o f our worlds.
Researchers come to assume that because we can directly grasp meanings, this must mean
that meanings are subjective and contextually determined. But such a view makes no sense
in the end. Though it honors the complexity, richness, and diversity o f experiences, it
expurgates the similarities and commonalities, and these, too, cannot be abandoned for the
sake o f theoretical exigencies. Rather, our science and its theories must honor diversity and
similarity, subjectivity and objectivity, and not view the one as destructive o f the other.
Theorists such as Sexton and W histon are driven to their conclusions by the faulty ontology
upon which their theory is built. That ontology sees objectivity as antithetical to subjectivity,
and views consciousness as a constructive process that establishes reality out o f
indeterminate and indefinable “things.” Sexton and W histon write that their perspective
“regards knowledge, understanding, and m eaning as inexorably dependent on processes
inherent to the individual organism rather than on natural laws or principles" (Sexton &
Whiston, 1994, p. 61). However, when we adopt the phenomenological point o f view, we
can immediately present ourselves with the experience o f our ability to subjectively observe
objective realities. I can grasp that the numbers 2 and 3, when summed, equal 5. My
experience o f this is subjective, yet the reality is objective. Similarly, I can reflect upon this
act as 1 engage in it, and the act itself becomes objective, that is, the object upon which my
consciousness is directed. You, too, can experience this same objective reality. That this
reality, and many others like it, are subjectively available to you and me, in no way
necessitates that they are not objective.
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The I-Thou Relationship
By placing the real relationship as primary to the working alliance and the
transferential configuration, this study has established the groundwork for an adequate
conception o f what Buber famously described as the I-Thou relationship (Buber, 1970). An
ontological and epistemological framework has been laid out upon which we can evaluate
and describe this concept. Such a task would not be possible under the ontology and
epistemology set forward by traditional empiricism, for traditional empiricism insists that
reality and, thereby, our study o f it, must be constrained to that which is sense perceptible
and measurable. But the I-Thou relationship has notoriously eluded such constraint. Social
constructionism is equally unable to explain the I-Thou relationship, for its ontology and
epistemology claims personal reality to be the mere construction o f the social fabric in which
we live. Under such a theory, the I-Thou relation dissolves with any attem pt to describe it,
for it has no foundation in any methodology, all methodologies being declared relative.
Even B uber’s conceptualization o f the I-Thou relationship presents, in my view,
certain important problems. Set, as it is, within a greater project o f discerning the spiritual
nature o f our relations to one another and the world in which we live, it draws too heavily on
the presumption that relationships are foundational to reality. Reality is considered a product
o f human interaction. Such a view is in essence constructionist in its outlook. But there is
nonetheless much to be gained from B uber’s description o f the I-Thou relationship. Part o f
what is to be gained is an appreciation for the reality we in fact live in. Buber casts humans
into two possible modes o f existence, the I-It mode and the I-Thou (or I-You) mode. These
modes constitute two different ways o f relating to the world. The I-It mode allows us only a
limited experience o f the world. I believe that Buber means by this limited experience what I
have referred to in this study as sense experience. He explains that in the I-It mode,
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M an goes over the surfaces o f things and experiences them. He brings back from
them some knowledge o f their condition— an experience. He experiences what there
is to things. But it is not experiences alone that bring the world to man. For what
they bring to him is only a w orld that consists o f It and It and It, o f He and He and
She and She and It. (Buber, 1970, p. 55)
Here using the term experience to mean sense experience, Buber is explaining that our sense
experience will give us only an incomplete knowledge o f the world, a cursory
comprehension that grasps only the physical, the spatial, the temporal. Such an
apprehension is equivalent to the view provided by traditional empiricism, which treats all
objects as physical objects, all things as physical things. Husserl was very much in
agreement with Buber that this is an unduly constrained view o f the full experience o f the
world that in fact presents itself to us. B uber’s project— much like H usserl’s— was to point
us toward a more full experience, toward a deeper involvement with the world, toward a
wider apprehension o f reality. For Buber, this wider reality included a spiritual presence.
Our own study does not go so far as to claim this, and need not, but our study also does not
exclude such a possibility merely as an artifact o f its methodology. It remains open to such
possibilities, and trains us to develop our abilities in examining and describing the world,
such that we do so as honestly and genuinely as we possible can.
Buber’s I-Thou mode o f apprehension suggests an alternative view o f our human
universe, one that honors the rich actuality o f our encounters with fellow beings. Though
Buber overextends his philosophy when he claims that the I-Thou relationship is primary to
reality, he nonetheless does justice to the importance o f personal relations by honoring their
profound and deep-seated importance to us, and he establishes their proper place as an
essential component o f human affairs. Friedman has studied the philosophy o f Buber in
terms o f its implications for psychotherapy. One o f those implications is w hat Friedman
describes as the possibility o f healing through the meeting o f two persons. “All therapy,”
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writes Friedman, “relies to a greater or lesser extent on the meeting between therapist and
client” (Friedman, 1985, p. xi). This is, o f course, very similar to R ogers’s early claims, and
our review o f recent empirical literature has verified that the meeting between therapist and
client, the therapeutic relationship, is related to positive therapeutic outcome.
In this study, I have not explored the reasons that the therapy relationship m ight be
therapeutic in and o f itself. Rather, my aim has been to establish a proper understanding o f
personal relations such that the therapy relationship can be properly described and
understood. I have also attempted to establish a methodology that can sustain the continued
development o f a scientific appreciation for the depth and complexity o f personal relations
that moves beyond the strictures o f traditional empiricism. W hat may well indeed be
essential to certain healing processes within psychotherapy is precisely the healing through
meeting which Buber identified. That healing, if it does occur, does so because o f our ability
to establish real relationships with one another. That is, our ability, in Friedm an’s words, to
touch one another. Friedman writes,
It is not ju st that we have the experience o f touching. On the contrary, to touch is to
go through and bevond subjective experiencing: if I touch, if we touch, then there is
a communication that is neither merely objective nor merely subjective, nor both
together. The very act o f touching is already a transcending o f the self in openness to
the impact o f something other than the self. W hen two people really touch each
other as persons— whether physically or not— the touching is not merely a one-sided
impact: it is a mutual revelation o f life stances. (Friedman, 1985, p. 201)
This study has attempted to provide an ontology that can truly make sense o f what it m eans
to touch one another. That ontology provides a description o f consciousness that truly
transcends the merely subjective (that is, the merely relative, and the merely solipsistic), yet
also transcends the merely objective (that is, the merely physical, and the m erely other-than-
me). Our consciousness is capable o f involving itself in the world, not in some mystical
ability to intermingle with or create reality, but rather by means o f a mundane yet strangely
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magical ability to grasp that world in its essence— m undane because we do it everyday,
magical because this power, though it is ever available to us, remains somewhat mysterious:
we do not know exactly how we do it, nor can we replicate it for other objects.
The ability to heal one another merely by touching one another with our mutual
presences is a process that has been overlooked by m odem investigations. Even theories that
have grown to appreciate the need for a strong personal relations in therapeutic w ork have
not fully understood, nor been able to fully explain, the nature and im pact o f such relations.
Guntrip, a psychoanalytic thinker, writes,
Object-relations theory.. .does have a truly psychodynamic theory o f the
development o f the individual ego in personal relations; but not o f the com plex fact
o f the personal relationship itself between two egos. From Freud’s ego and
superego, through M elanie K lein’s internal objects, projection and introjection, to
Fairbaim ’s splitting o f both ego and objects in relationships, and finally W innicott’s
tracing o f the absolute origin o f the ego in the maternal relationship, we have a
highly important view o f what happens to the individual psyche under the im pact o f
personal relations in real life. But the theory has not yet properly conceptualized
Buber's I-Thou relation, two persons being both ego and object to each other at the
same time, and in such a way that their reality as persons becomes, as it develops in
the relationship, what neither o f them would have become apart from the
relationship. This is what happens in good marriages and friendships. (Guntrip,
1969,p. 389)
It also happens, as Guntrip implies, in good therapy relationships. The present study has
fallen short o f Guntrip’s lofty goal o f properly conceptualizing B uber’s I-Thou relation. But,
unlike traditional empiricism, it has established an ontology and epistemology that does not
presuppose its inexistence. It is Guntrip’s penultimate sentence which I think highlights what
our investigations o f personal relations m ust honor. Let me repeat G untrip’s description o f
the I-Thou relationship. He describes it as “two persons being both ego and object to each
other ... in such a way that their reality as persons becomes, as it develops in the
relationship, what neither o f them w ould have become apart from the relationship.” In other
words, a new reality, a new whole, is formed by personal relations, one in which two w orlds
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merge to share a common world. The purpose o f the present study has been to elucidate the
means by which such a sharing is possible.
Confirmation and Disconfirmation
Friedman contends that “confirmation lies at the core o f healing through m eeting,”
and contrarily, “disconfirmation or the absence o f confirmation lies at the root o f much
psychopathology” (Friedman, 1985, p. 132). Confirmation, explains Freidman,
is most fully realized in what M artin Buber calls “making present,” an event that
happens partially wherever persons come together, but in its essential structure, only
rarely. M aking the other present means to “imagine the real,” to imagine quite
concretely what another person is wishing, feeling, perceiving, and thinking. One, to
some extent, wills what the other is willing, thinks what he is thinking, feels w hat he
is feeling. The particular pain I inflict on another surges up in m yself until
paradoxically we are embraced in a common situation. (Friedman, 1985, p. 120)
This “common situation” is what I have term ed shared worlds. Notice, however, how
Friedman (and Buber) rely on the word "imagine." In confirming another, we make the
other present by imagining what the other is feeling, thinking, believing and so on. This
implies, however, that we cannot truly know the other. W e are limited to our imaginings. W e
cannot, in other words, have the exact same experience as the other. This, I believe, is a
crucial error in Friedman and Buber’s philosophy. I have attempted to show in this study
how we can indeed know the other and that this knowledge is not mere imagination: it is
direct awareness. We can quite literally share the same experiences, and thereby become
present to one another, partaking in a common situation.
Friedman quotes Rogers’s description o f the power that confirmation asserts upon
us. Rogers states,
W hen I am not prized and appreciated, I not only feel very m uch diminished, but my
behavior is actually affected by my feelings. W hen I am prized, I blossom and
expand, I am an interesting individual. In a hostile or unappreciative group, I am not
much o f anything. (Rogers, 1980, p. 23)
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Confirmation is parallel to the concepts o f attention and mattering that we have discussed.
The confirming other has a certain power that seems to shape who we are. If you m atter to
me, if I care about you, then what you think o f me, whether or not you attend to me, how
you treat me, these things will affect how I feel and how I view myself. It is this pow er that
relations hold upon us that leads some investigators to propose that we are socially
constructed. I am, it is theorized, who you think me to be, and I could not properly be me,
nor any self, without the reflection o f m yself which you bring to me. One aim o f this study
has been to honor the power we have over others, and they over us, without mistakenly
presuming that that power is a constructive one. The self, I have aruged, is affected by
others, and powerfully so, but it is not created by them. This is a distinction that is
ontologically and epistemologically fundamental. We enter into relations, perhaps because
we need to, perhaps because we are driven to, or perhaps because we prefer to, but
regardless, personal relations do not form us, at least not in a literal sense. We carry an
essence into all our encounters, and an important aspect o f that essence is the ability to
recognize the essences o f others.
It should not be lost upon us, nor upon future investigators, the harm that can come
when we fail to recognize the essences o f others, when we disconfirm selves, leave them
unattended, perhaps severed from our communities. This can happen if we treat others as
physical objects, as things to be understood by measurem ent and psychom etric assessment,
or if we merely accept them due to our relativistic ontology, as partners in co-constructed
“realities.” Confirmation, as Friedman makes quite clear, is not tantamount to mere
acceptance. Constructionists often proffer acceptance as a product o f the fact that all realities
are granted equal privilege. But we may attend to the others (and accept them ) without
necessarily agreeing with them. Indeed, much o f our social discourse today involves
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disagreements about fundamental issues. The tendency in psychotherapy has been either to
ignore these disagreements, and claim therapy to be an objective, value-free enterprise, or—
just the opposite— to validate all knowledge claims as equally true, and to claim a
therapeutic relativism.
Both views, however, are discontinuing. Confirmation stands upon the possibility o f
shared worlds, and the reality that two conscious beings can at least share their awarenesses
o f one another. But that awareness is not merely a cold and abstract gaze. It is, at least, the
ability to present oneself to another, and be in full view, full grasp o f another’s presentations.
This view o f shared worlds allows for true confirmation, and the likelihood, paradoxically,
that genuine human encounters will be both harmonious and contentious. This is equally true
o f effective psychotherapy. As Friedman explains, “The therapist may have to wrestle with
the patient, for the patient, and against the patient” (Friedman, 1985, p. 137). W e m ust also
wrestle with the truth— that is, we must take it in hand and examine it with our own “eyes,”
our own groping minds. So, too, we must wrestle with the true nature o f our fellow human
beings.
Implications for Research
In a recent article in the American Psychologist. Martin and Sugarman state that
“defensible notions o f human subjectivity and understanding are basic conceptual
requirements for both psychology and education” (M artin & Sugarman, 2000, p. 397). This
study has attempted to present a defensible account o f human subjectivity and
understanding. That account, however, runs counter to traditional empiricism, challenging its
primary ontological and epistemological claims. The account any scientific approach has o f
human understanding will be crucial to the capacity for that approach to guide hum ans in
their efforts to understand the world. If science misunderstands consciousness— which is the
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essence o f human understanding— then that m isunderstanding will touch every knowledge
claim that science makes. Traditional empiricism has misunderstood human understanding.
In adopting traditional empiricism as the cornerstone o f its methodology, scientific
psychology has sabotaged its very efforts to comprehend human affairs. Because o f the
faulty foundation it has planted, it has restricted reality to a sphere which cannot hold most
o f the experiences we regularly encounter. Thoughts, for example, are not tangible, nor are
feelings, or meanings, or identities. Such phenomena must either be dropped from our
investigations, are explained in term s o f there tangible ramifications.
The path o f m odem psychological research— and that o f current research on the
therapy relationship— has been to explain human phenom ena in term s o f their tangible
manifestations. There is no doubt that any responsible science m ust account for the physical
world. But accounting for the physical world is one aim, and establishing it as the sole
reality is quite another. We cannot understand the essential nature o f the therapy relationship
through the means o f ordinary science because ordinary science does not even allow for the
plain reality o f many, if not most, o f our in-the-moment experiences o f that relationship.
In essence, the present study calls for an alteration in our view o f reality. It demands
that we return to our direct experience and examine it closely and honestly, without
presumption. If we do so, we will find that the world o f traditional empiricism, a world o f
measures and psychometric instruments, does not include the fullness o f our experiential
universe. Traditional empiricism has claimed, o f course, that the fullness o f that universe
cannot be included in the treasured annals o f science, precisely because that which is not
measurable and physical, cannot be trusted as knowable. Knowledge, it claims, comes only
from sense experience and measurement.
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This claim, however, has crippled the advancement o f m odem psychological
science. It has stopped researchers from attending to m atters at the core o f their studies,
matters such as defining and understanding the constructs they study, constructs such as the
therapy relationship. The reality that phenomenology asserts is one that many scientists,
schooled as they have been in rigorous, m athematically based methodologies, find unwieldy.
Numbers and mathematical equations provide a certainty that is undeniably luring. The
physical reality which presents itself to us is a tremendous presence. N o one (or, at least,
few) can doubt the certainty that comes from seeing a thing, or touching it, hearing it, tasting
it, or smelling it. Such experiences are indubitably powerful. But the power o f the senses to
bring reality into our view, to give us the evidence for understanding o f the world, must not
blind us to the equal reality o f what Husserl labeled ideal entities.
Scholars have grown frustrated with traditional em piricism ’s attempts to
comprehend the therapy relationship. In their attempts to account for the subjective nature
o f this relationship they have wavered between adopting social constructionist approaches
(Gergen & Walter, 1998) and re-invigorating and re-perfecting empirical approaches. This
study has attempted to show how all constructionist approaches are as doomed to failure as
their traditional empirical counterparts. Both social constructionism and traditional
empiricism are based on a presumption o f constructivism when it comes to non-tangible
entities such as subjective experience itself.
The research implications o f a phenomenological approach to the therapy
relationship, and to all other matters in psychology (for phenomenology is applicable to
most, if not all, psychological investigations), is staggering. Phenomenology shakes the very
foundation o f psychological inquiry. W hat are we to do, as a scientific enterprise, if our
constructs cannot be measured and operationalized? W hat are we to do if we discount
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numerical certainty in favor o f experiential validity? How will we prevent our investigations
from lapsing into mere subjective accounts? These are important issues, but they are not
addressed by mere dismissal, as has been the path o f traditional empiricism.
Invariably, researchers who have been trained in the methodologies o f traditional
empiricism attempt to refine their measures once their inquiry faces obstacles in the
advancement o f their particular domain. This has certainly occurred in research on the
therapy relationship. In his critique o f Gelso and Carter’s most recent review o f the
relationship literature, Patton (1994) makes this comment about G reenson’s model o f the
therapy relationship: “Unfortunately, Greenson did not provide a systematic and em pirically
useful definition o f the real relationship” (p. 310). Actually, Greenson did provide an
empirically useful account o f the real relationship, but not a measurable one. G reenson’s
account describes what he means by the real relationship by making use o f several case
examples. But this, o f course, is not what Patton takes to be empirically useful. Patton goes
on to lament the “vagueness and ambiguity” which he believes to permeate Gelso and
Carter’s model o f the therapy relationship (this model being based on G reenson’s earlier
work). Patton sites Hill (1994) and Beutler and Sandowicz’s (1994) parallel criticisms. He
decries the “lack o f precision in terms o f the model— namely, that these term s have not been
written as empirically verifiable statements” (Patton, 1994, p. 311) . Patton is concerned that
this lack o f precision will render empirical researchers incapable o f studying the interactions
between the three proposed components o f the therapy relationship: the real relationship, the
transferential configuration, and the working alliance. Patton then congratulates the authors
for putting forward their several propositions regarding the interaction o f these three
components. He claims that “It is these 19 propositions that move the field a step closer to
formulating precise statements concerning the relationship among the com ponents” (1994,
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p. 311). Patton soon makes clear that “precise statements” are nothing more than
“empirically verifiable statements” (1994, p. 312).
I do not mean to unfairly criticize Patton and researchers like him. They are, after
all, merely implementing a model o f scientific inquiry that they believe will lead to truth.
But I do mean to illustrate that this is the predominant conception o f science and that it is to
this model that scientists turn to in their attempts to understand psychological reality. W hat
is entirely missing from this inquiry is an appreciation for the possibility that num bers and
measurement will not adequately account for subjective experience. This is not to excuse
imprecision or vagueness, but we must not mistake quantitative operationalization as the
touchstone o f precision. Often— especially in current psychological research— the opposite
is the case, operationalization obfuscates the more fundamental task o f adequate description.
Even when and where investigators do understand the limits of traditional empirical
methods, they nonetheless tend to return to their psychometric instruments in the hope o f
doing the best they can with their given expertise and research experience.
Another concern that is evident in the relationship literature is determ ining a
difference between the real relationship and the unreal relationship (that is, the transferential
and countertransferential configurations). Patton (1994), Hill (1994), and Beutler and
Sandowicz (1994), all comment upon this. Patton writes,
Also, throughout the model [proposed by Gelso and Carter], there is the problem o f
distinguishing between what is “rational” and what is “irrational.” This is the ancient
problem o f distinguishing between appearance and reality, and one can hardly blame
the authors for not solving it. (Patton, 1994, p. 311)
Hill (1994) goes so far as to say that Gelso and Carter should drop that aspect o f the real
relationship that refers to realistic perceptions, claiming “I do not believe that there is such a
thing as ‘realistic’ perspectives” (1994, p. 93). Beutler and Sandowicz (1994) write,
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How can client perceptions o f the therapy process and the therapist be sufficiently
objective as to be a measure o f real components on some occasions and a necessary
determ iner for the definition o f unreal components on other occasions? W ithout
evidence that the same participant raters can make reliable distinctions among
“genuine-undistorted” (i.e., real) and “transferential-distorted” (i.e., unreal)
components o f the counseling relationship, how can one conclude anything about
these two classes o f experience? (Beutler & Sandowicz, 1994, p. 100)
Determining the difference between appearance and reality is no small matter, o f course, nor
is it an easy task to accomplish. The history o f science attests to this, with the many false
theories that have been overturned during its progression through the centuries. But the
answer to the problem o f reality is not answered, as we have discussed, by applying the
criterion o f numerical (i.e., traditionally empirical) certainty as Beutler and Sandowicz
imply, nor by abandoning “realistic perspectives” altogether. Clearly, traditional empiricism
has backed these researchers into a com er which they cannot find their way out of.
Phenomenological realism, as it has been proposed in the present study, offers a way out o f
this predicament. Truth, it claims, is achievable, and we have proof o f this in our direct
experience.
To many, phenomenological realism portends a return to introspection, and this is
seen as an egregious scientific retreat. Phenomenological realism is indeed a return to
introspection. It is a return to a reliance on experience over and above arbitrary
methodological pronouncements such as those forwarded by traditional empiricism.
Introspection, o f course, has its own difficulties. How am I to com pare my experience to
yours, especially where our descriptions are contrary? W hat or who is the final arbiter? But
these questions do not remain unanswered under an introspective methodology. Rather,
phenomenological realism directly answers them. W here descriptions differ, we must
examine the descriptions and understand why they differ. Were they arrived at under
different contexts? If so, our description must appreciate these contexts. This is not to argue,
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however, that context determines reality. Rather, it is to appreciate that contexts are
necessary (and obvious) components o f reality (and as such, we can discern them). But
context is not necessarily superimposed upon our awareness o f reality.
And how do we verify knowledge attained through personal experience? But this is
truly an absurd question when we turn our minds to it. W hat knowledge do we have other
than that which is personally attained? Can we know anything about the therapy relationship
without either experiencing it ourselves, or learning about it from the written or spoken
words o f others. And are not all methods o f knowing (including traditional empiricism)
methods that require personal experience? How else can we understand anything other than
to personally experience an awareness o f that thing? This is the very nature o f consciousness
itself! Personal experience can only be verified by personal experience. W e can, o f course,
think about what we have experienced We can ask ourselves if it makes sense or not. But we
cannot question the possibility o f direct experience itself. That possibility is indubitable.
O f course, when scholars say that they question personal experience (and with it,
introspection), it is not usually personal experience that they question. It is the theory about
that personal experience, or the description it provides, which is called into question. The
true concern, then, is how do we verify our theories and descriptions o f reality. Traditional
empiricism suggests that we subject these to the touchstone o f empirical verifiability, namely
sense-perceptibility and measurement. Phenomenology, on the other hand— while it
recognizes the reality o f sense perception and numbers— does not restrict the whole o f
reality to these two categories. It imposes an altogether more substantial criterion, one under
which all experience must fall, and that criterion is conscious awareness. W e must allow
ourselves to experience the fullness o f our phenomenological worlds, and only then can we
come to the project o f describing that world rigorously and scientifically. It will be this
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project, not the project o f traditional empiricism nor that o f social constructionism, which
will inevitably lead to an understanding consistent with the world as we know it and the
world as it is.
Implications for Training
The methodology and practice o f H usserl’s phenomenology has much to say about
the training o f psychologists, not only as researchers but as practitioners. Perhaps the most
striking message that phenomenology brings to the training o f practitioners is the need to
conceptualize humans according to descriptions that reach beyond mere corporeal reality.
Theories and research that do not do this have, according to phenomenology, overlooked the
greater part o f reality.
According to the findings o f phenomenology, all descriptions that are based on
psychometric understandings o f the human thought, emotion, and behavior, mischaracterize
these phenomenon when they purport to be fundamental descriptions. Thought, em otion, and
behavior are simply not, o f their essence, quantifiable things. This is not to say that thought,
emotion, and behavior lack any quantifiable properties. Indeed, they may have many. We
can, for example, count our thoughts about a certain topic, and we can m easure the length o f
time we hold these thoughts. As a task o f measurement, even these quantifications are not
simple. When, for instance, does a thought begin or end? Are we entirely vigilant upon all
our thoughts such they we never miss their occurrence? But no m atter these difficulties,
thoughts (and behaviors and feelings) all have their quantifiable aspects. The point that
phenomenology makes is that quantification will simply not accurately describe these
phenomenon. To accurately understand these phenomena, we must allow ourselves to
describe their qualities as lived through experiences.
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But even where theories have developed that are built upon qualitative
descriptions— and much psychoanalytic and humanistic theory is o f this sort— we must
understand that the process o f training, o f imparting an understanding o f these descriptions,
is not merely the process o f telling students these descriptions. Let us use the therapy
relationship as an example. I can give students a description o f what a therapy relationship is
at its fundamental level (the m eeting o f two consciousnesses, for example), and furthermore
what types o f feelings and interactions are important for its strong developm ent (empathy,
warmth, trust, genuineness, and the like), but if students cannot understand these
descriptions in terms o f their own experience, in terms o f their own ability or inability to
recognize these descriptions within their lived world, then they will remain merely abstract
words, divorced from the lived realities o f the therapy encounter.
Two matters are crucial to the training o f students. First, do they understand what
they have been taught. Second, how can I as a teacher know that they have this
understanding. In academic environments it can be all too often the case that both o f these
matters are determined according to psychometric measures, usually in the simple form o f
paper and pencil exams. But a student’s written comprehension o f a theory o f intervention
does not necessarily reflect their experiential comprehension o f that theory, and it is the
experiential comprehension that is the true goal o f training (as, in phenom enological realism,
experiential comprehension is the touchstone o f knowledge). We want to develop students,
for example, who can develop strong emotional bonds with their clients, not students who
can merely write or speak about that bond.
Our means o f training students, then, must attend to imparting understandings to
students that are not merely "conceptual," but are experiential. Students must learn to
recognize (that is, be aware of) the nuances o f their own experiences so as to determine
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whether they indeed have built a strong relationship with their clients. They must, that is, be
good phenomenologists. And we as trainers m ust be able to recognize the nuances o f our
own experiences such that we can evaluate students. Students, then, only truly understand
the practice o f psychotherapy— in any one o f its many theoretical orientations— when they
experientially recognize and implement the concepts and techniques o f psychotherapy.
If we heighten the importance o f experiential development, then we as trainers will
appreciate the fact that psychometric measures will never capture the abilities o f students in
the same way that a trainers experiential “measurem ents” will. It is the trainer’s own sensing
o f the students development that is key to assessing those students developm ent and abilities.
Students must be examined by being listened to, interacted with, and watched by an
experienced and experience-savvy (i.e., phenomenologically grounded) trainer. Similarly,
students will not truly understand the concepts o f therapy until they have practiced them and
thus experienced them. Furthermore, their experience m ust be guided so that they can
accurately recognize the processes that are occurring for themselves, for their clients, and for
the relationship between themselves and their clients.
Training students about therapy only by means o f telling them about it, or having
them read articles or manuals, is tantam ount to training wine tasters w ithout having them
taste wine. The results o f such practice has been revealed in the research o f Strupp who
quickly recognized that his interpersonal training for therapists was producing relationship-
inept therapists. His trainees “were significantly less optimistic, less supportive o f patients’
confidence, more defensive, and more authoritarian” (Henry & Strupp, 1994, p. 67). Strupp
concluded that his training— which included the use o f treatment manuals— was providing
therapists with an intellectual and abstract understanding o f the interpersonal process, but no
hands-on experience (Henry et al., 1993). It is this latter type of learning that is needed to
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effectively perceive and become adeptly involved in the client-therapist interpersonal
process. Phenomenology provides a means toward this end. It places experiential
understanding as tantamount, without neglecting the proper importance o f detailed,
descriptive accounts o f the therapy relationship, accounts that may indeed include
psychometric instruments, but should not be limited to them.
Implications for Theory
To make a difference in the 21st century, counseling psychology will need to address
considerable challenges on three fronts, all o f which we have addressed above. These
include research, where traditional paradigms o f scientific inquiry are being questioned;
practice, where medicalized and m anualized therapies are eclipsing other models; and
training, where scholars are baffled by the proliferation o f therapies, the growing
prominence o f the Dodo Bird hypothesis, and the expanding divide between researcher and
practitioner. As these challenges intensify (and indeed they are), philosophical issues— such
as what is knowledge and what is reality— are shifting from the perim eter o f psychological
discourse to its center.
A Discipline and Its Discontents
Speaking two summers ago before an audience o f more than 4,000 o f his peers,
Elliot Aronson, author o f the highly regarded social psychology prim er The Social A nim al
commented upon how turgid academic journals have become. "I don't even read them
anymore,” he declared; “They're boring" (Aronson, 2000). His audience erupted in laughter
and applause. They did so, I presume, because Aronson called to mind what has been a
lingering suspicion for many psychologists: academic journals have little in them that
contributes substantially to our understanding o f human beings. Practitioners o f psychology
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have long been accused o f holding this view, and academics— many o f whom have devoted
their careers to painstaking research programs— have scolded practitioners for paying so
little heed to psychological investigations. Aronson, however, is him self a seasoned
researcher, acclaimed for his empirical work; for him to publicly rebuke research journals
manifests an emerging realization among researchers themselves, especially those who have
reached the latter stages o f their career: the scientific progress o f psychology and the
relevance o f that progress are discomfortingly dubious.
That psychology is subject to self-doubting is to be expected. It is, after all, a young
science, especially as compared to its elder and more respected siblings, the physical
sciences o f physics and chemistry and the natural sciences o f biology and geology. As a
young science, psychology must face the painful evolutionary path that all sciences have
faced— incipient and fragmented paradigms vie for attention and acceptance, and the most
difficult and fundamental problems remain unanswered until a great mind or great idea
arrives to integrate the field and propel it forward to new heights. New ton was the great
mind that established the maturity o f physics, but no such great mind nor great idea has
rescued psychology. The great thinkers o f psychology— Freud in the late 19th century,
Skinner in the 20th, to name but two— have not integrated the field; they have divided it.
The N eed for Theory
What, then, can be done to address the faltering evolution o f psychology, in general,
and counseling psychology, in particular? O ne’s answer, o f course, depends upon one’s
diagnoses. These may be numerous, but in their number one malady should not be
overlooked: counseling psychology has failed to develop and refine its theory. “Scientific
achievement,” asserts a technology com pany’s recent advertisement, “is fueled by the simple
desire to make things clear.” In counseling psychology, most things have not become clear,
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and that is primarily because psychology has failed to build theory o f adequate depth. This is
no where more evident than in the relationship research, where very few scholars have
attended to the need to develop fundamental descriptions and definitions o f the therapy
relationship. This anemic theoretical content has caused psychological journals to be, in the
end, rather unhelpful to practitioners and rather dry even to avid researchers. Theory is the
backbone o f any great science, and philosophy— which is the study o f theory— has m uch to
offer counseling psychology in this domain.
Psychologists, however, have shunned philosophy and have leaned heavily on the
shoulders o f traditional science. Take, as evidence, the following quote from an Am erican
Psychologist article; it exemplifies the thinking o f many research psychologists. The
authors— a panel o f nine who are publishing an earlier report to the National Institute o f
M ental Health— explain that “much emphasis has been placed in this report on prevention as
a science ... because o f our conviction that sound theory is essential for effective practice”
(emphasis added; Coie et al., 1993). Certainly, sound theory is essential for effective
practice. But these authors have assumed, erroneously, that traditional science will provide
that sound theory.
W hat psychologists, especially research psychologists, have not understood is that
whereas theory is the backbone o f science, science is not the backbone o f theory. This may
seem a radical proclamation. Indeed it is, and it is made true because o f the way science has
been conceptualized and practiced by counseling psychology. That science— let us call it
traditional science— is no tool for developing theory. Rather, it is a method for collecting
data and establishing em pirical fact. This method, which often goes by the label o f
positivism, involves the basic presumption that knowledge includes only em pirical facts. The
facts that traditional science discovers are descriptions o f what is the case. Theories,
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however, tell us why such and such is the case. Theories explain. As The Oxford Am erican
Dictionary (19801 spells out, theory is “a set o f ideas formulated (by reasoning from known
facts) to explain something” (p. 711). Theories give us the order that facts should fall in, and
the relations that facts hold to one another. W hen all is said and done, theory should grant us,
in the realm o f psychology, an understanding o f the workings o f human phenomena.
If theories are not created by traditional science— that is by empirical facts alone—
then what creates them? A clue comes from the parenthetical remark o f The Oxford
American Dictionary’s definition: theory is created “by reasoning from known facts” (1980,
p. 711). In other words, it is created from thought— from thinking about facts. Thinking,
however, is not easy. We are beings that can be baffled by the simplest o f ideas and can
introduce errors when formulating the most commonplace arguments. This is to say nothing
o f our human yearning to be correct, and our inability, in self-righteous and dogmatic
moments o f human weakness, to admit misjudgment. Theory is the attem pt to avert such
lapses and foibles, to replace opinion and misreckoning with reason. Sound thinking and
sound theory are not insubstantial attainments. It is very hard work, especially considering,
as the philosopher Findlay explains: “intelligences as confused as ours, which cannot hold
more than three points together in thought, which cannot think o f B without forgetting A,
and which cannot see the most obvious implications o f a view unless made to do so by the
grossest absurdities” (Findlay, 1963, p. 1).
We create theories, then, because addressing complex questions involves stringing
together elaborate lines o f thought which must provide persuasive rationales for a multitude
o f assumptions. Theorizing is both an expansive process, in which disparate ideas are
incorporated and integrated into a single formulation, and a tedious one, in which
assumptions are vigorously examined to pursue their far-reaching, sometimes insidious,
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implications. When theory is understood in the former sense, it is a “grand” enterprise.
Certainly psychology, which has fragmented into so many disciplines and sub-disciplines,
would be well served by grand theories that consolidate and explain phenom ena now
interpreted according to seemingly incommensurable points o f view.
Getting to the Bottom o f Things
The lack o f grand theorizing, however, is not the root o f psychology’s current
incapacity for substantial progress. The root o f that incapacity arises, rather, from
psychology’s negligence o f the more tedious aspect o f theorizing— that o f vigorously
pursuing and examining foundational assumptions. Even this aspect o f theorizing, however,
has its grand implications: it involves getting to the bottom o f things. This dem ands a
certain passion and depth in regards to thinking, but psychology, in its attem pt to become a
rigorous science in the traditional sense, has not aspired to develop equally rigorous theory.
The mistake psychology has made— one bequeathed to it by British Empiricism, especially
as espoused by Hume— is that o f replacing reason with method. It has attem pted to do with
positivism— the chosen method o f psychology— what can only be done with reason. As Slife
explains:
Textbooks in nearly all subdisciplines routinely have chapters devoted to
methodological considerations.... In addition, courses in research m ethods and
statistics are core courses in both graduate and undergraduate departm ents o f
psychology.... [Psychology is a discipline defined and driven principally by a
commitment to method. Theorizing is secondary to the supposedly more precise,
experimental pursuit o f knowledge. (Slife, 2000)
Science— when equated with positivism— is an empirical endeavor, not a theoretical
one. It produces facts, tangible data. It does not, however, create ideas. It m ay test ideas, but
it cannot examine them. Psychology has believed that traditional science, however, will
answer its deepest questions. But its deepest questions— the ones that address the
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assumptions which underpin its very methods— are not empirical matters. Reason itself—as
perhaps the most important example— is not empirical. To test this, simply try to touch,
taste, feel, hear, or see reason. Try to sense-perceive a thought. It is simply not possible.
The N eed for M etaphysics
W hat can counseling psychology accomplish, then, when it must move beyond the
realm o f traditional science to advance its state o f knowledge, yet it has severed any limb o f
knowledge that is not positivistic? W hat can psychology accomplish when it has,
epistemologically speaking, maimed itself? To re-establish its integrity and offer itself the
possibility o f advancement, it must address the non-empirical project o f developing theory.
A critical com ponent o f that non-positivistic project— when it consist o f getting to the
bottom o f things, o f testing its assumptions rigorously and systematically— is a m etaphysical
project. Psychology needs a metaphysics, or one might say a “m etapsychology.” It needs this
because it has made crucial assumptions about reality but has not examined and re-examined
these continually and thoughtfully. Philosophy can provide the beginnings o f a
metapsychology; it has long struggled with the nonpositivistic questions o f the world.
Theory in general, and metaphysics in particular, are the basic realms o f philosophy. As
counseling psychologists, we must begin to explore our metaphysical foundations; we must
address, as Slife explains it, “the nonempirical issues that currently facilitate or stymie the
work o f psychologist” (Slife, 2000, p. 100).
Philosophical Mindedness: Back to Our Roots
W hat would counseling psychology look like if it were to welcome theory— and
with it, such non-empirical issues as metaphysics— into its corridors and begin self
consciously identifying and examining its grounding assumptions? It might resem ble the
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type o f psychology that was first practiced when psychology began distinguishing itself as a
separate discipline. It is a well known story that psychology was bom from the womb o f
philosophy. Prior to the 19th century, psychological matters— questions about the mind and
its capacity for reasoning and experiencing— had become a favorite topic o f philosophers,
especially those considered to be the harbingers o f m odem science. John Locke (1632-
1704), for example, wrote An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. David Hume (1711-
1776) wrote A Treatise O f Human Nature and An Enquiry Concerning Human
Understanding: and Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) wrote The Critique O f Pure R eason.
Following in the philosophical footsteps o f these intellectual giants, Jam es W ard, a
psychologist writing for the 1911 Encyclopaedia Britannica. characterized psychology as
“the science o f mind, which can only be more strictly defined by an analysis o f w hat ‘m ind’
means” (W ard, 1911, p. 547). One could hardly imagine a modern-day psychologists m aking
such a statement, much less embarking on an analysis o f what “mind” means (and Ward
very much fulfills this mission in the remainder o f his entry). Many early psychologists
were, like Ward, “philosophically minded.” W ard him self is described by the same 1911
Encyclopaedia Britannica as an “English psychologist and m etaphysician.” Today, one could
hardly imagine more contradictory careers. W ilhelm W undt (1832-1920), considered by
many the father o f modern day psychology, is well known for his contributions to the
science o f psychology. He established the first psychological laboratory and founded the first
journal devoted entirely to experimental psychology. But less celebrated were W undt’s
philosophical interests, which included such topics as epistemology and the nature o f
consciousness. William James (1842-1910), W undt’s American rival and the one o f many
forebears o f American psychology (he established the first psychological laboratory in the
United States), maintained membership in tw o APAs— the American Philosophical
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Association and the American Psychological Association— and he ascended to the
presidency o f both.
How did psychology lose its philosophical mindedness? It lost it by replacing
metaphysical concerns with epistemological ones. The seeds for the demise o f philosophical
mindedness were sown by philosophers themselves, specifically the British Em piricists
Locke and Hume, for it is they who belittled the role o f metaphysics in science, and it is the
assumptions o f British Empiricism which underlie today’s positivistic psychology. In the
course o f our own study, we have examined this traditional empiricism.
The tenet that epistemology should precede metaphysics is one that the present study
has attempted to reverse. In m odem philosophy and m odem psychology, epistemology has
been thought o f as the search for a method or criterion to distinguish truth from falsity. The
search for an adequate method is, o f course, no small matter. But should it be the first matter,
the most primary one? To say that epistemology should precede metaphysics is to answer
yes to this question. This is the view that all methodisms adopt. First they select a criterion
for knowledge, then they use that criterion as the touchstone for all truth. The opposing view
is that metaphysics should precede epistemology. This view proclaims that we must first
establish an ontology— what we believe to be real— and then proceed to epistemological
concerns. This is the view implied by Aristotle’s description o f m etaphysics as a first
philosophy.26 it is the view that we asserted as the only reasonable means o f exiting the
wheel, as described by Chisholm. Chisholm described this alternative to methodism as
particularism. Particularism asserts that the first problem o f knowledge is not to determ ine a
26 It is ironic that what Aristotle considered a first philosophy was later dubbed metaphysics. The term implies
that such concerns com e after (i.e., “meta”) physics or science. The appellation metaphysics, however, was little
more than a fluke o f history, due to the fact that Aristotle’s writings on first philosophy where placed in books
that follow ed his writings on physics.
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criterion, but rather to determine what it is we already know. From this, we can then build an
epistemology. H usserl’s phenomenology begins in this way. It asserts— actually it finds—
that what we know comes from our experience. It then examines experience to understand its
nature. By establishing an ontology that accurately describes experience, phenom enology
does not turn its back on non-sense-perceptible reality, as does traditional empiricism.
Furthermore, phenomenology presents a discoverable and testable theory o f reality.
Empiricism, however, provides a test and arbitrarily deems its test untestable. That is, the
very theory o f traditional empiricism is itself not sense-perceptible. Thus, if we are to
employ the tenets o f traditional empiricism, we m ust presuppose these, for— given a
traditional empiricism account— these tenets are not discoverable.
M etaphysics and the Reality Debate
The importance o f metaphysics to m odem psychology is highlighted by M artin and
Sugarman in their article, “Psychology’s Reality Debate.” They explain:
As we enter the twenty-first century, we psychologists are having trouble with
reality. Some o f us who hold more or less traditionally m odem view s with respect to
psychological science want to treat psychological reality as if it were akin to
physical reality (e.g., Matthews, 1998) and are therefore anxious to reduce
psychological phenomena o f interest to their presumed neurophysiological,
chemical, and biological correlates. Some o f us who hold postm odern and related
views with respect to psychology as a human social construction are skeptical about
psychological and physical reality alike (e.g., Gergen, 1994), especially when
psychological reality is asserted to be natural or essential. (M artin & Sugarman,
1999, p . 177)
Reality, then, is— like epistemology— no small m atter for modem psychology. W hen
relationship researchers suggest, as do Patton (1994), Hill (1994), and Beutler and
Sandowicz (1994), that reality is an ephemeral and phantasmic goal, we see how the “reality
debate” has flown from the pages o f philosophical polemics to settle down upon m odem
psychological discourse. The reality debate, as M artin and Sugarman correctly characterize
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it, has established two polarized points o f view: on the one hand are the hard-nosed scientists
who believe— in their modernism— that reality is physical and objective; on the other hand
are the social constructionists, who give subjectivism the upper hand, and claim— in their
post-modernism— that reality is a creation behind which no foundational truths can be
ascertained.
Into this debate, the current study has plunged, and it has attempted to illustrate the
following crucial similarity between these tw o points o f view. Both modernism and
postmodernism provide, at their core, representational models o f consciousness. Traditional
empiricism is representational in at least the tw o following senses: first, all “constructs” that
are not discoverable in the spatial and tem poral world are deemed fictions created by hum an
understanding. Love, thus, is a fiction. Feelings are fictions. Even consciousness itself m ust
be declared a fiction. And, perhaps most importantly for the present study, relations are
fictions. Second, in asserting that relations are fictions, traditional empiricism is forced to
explain all identities, both universals and substances, as fictions. All knowledge then, is a
fictitious creation. O r to put it another way— in the more clever and concealing language that
hard-nosed empiricists often use— we cannot directly experience reality, but are left merely
to hypothesize about it. W e are left with the following instrumentalism: we can experience
our theories about the world, but not the world. The same, o f course, is true o f personal
relations. I cannot experience you, nor you me. Rather, I experience my understanding o f
you, my cognitive schema o f you, my theory o f you.
In post-modern theory, this representational conceptualization o f consciousness (or
knowledge, or awareness) is unconcealed, but it is essentially the same as that within
traditional empiricism. So that we might witness the similarities between traditional
empiricism and postmodernism, and also so that we might realize the prevalence o f the
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constructionist paradigm in current philosophical and scientific debate, let me quote some
discussions that were provoked by a recent contribution to the Am erican Psychologist by
M artin and Sugarm an’s (2000). In their original piece, M artin and Sugarman had presented
their conceptualization o f psychology’s reality debate to the wider com m unity o f
psychologists. Raskin, in his reply to M artin and Sugarman’s contribution, favorably notes
the similarities between postmodern, social constructionistic perspectives, and the personal
construct psychology (PCP) o f George Kelly (Raskin, 2001). “The theoretical principal
behind PCP,” Raskin explains, “is constructive altemativism. which holds that there are an
infinite number o f ways to construe events” (Raskin, 2001, p. 368). It is true, perhaps, that
there are an infinite number o f perspectives upon any event, but is this the same as asserting
that there are an infinite number o f ways to construe events? Perhaps, for Raskin may m erely
mean that any event can be conveyed through an infinite number o f narratives about that
event. But Raskin goes on to say the following, “PCP is a form o f idealism because it
proposes that reality is not directly accessed; people get at the world indirectly, through their
constructions o f it” (2001, p. 368). Here, Raskin freely admits o f the representationalism that
lies back o f his view, and which he presumes to lie back o f social constructionism. “PCP
also emphasizes,” Raskin continues, “the creative individual, free to discard current
constructions and devise new ones as needed” (2001, p. 368). This view, o f course, is less
troubling when applied to social reality. It accounts for context and it accounts for
perspective, but the mistaken representationalism that lies within it, must also be applied to
all reality, and when it is, we soon realize the absurdity o f the view. Are we free to construe
the science o f logic, for example, in any way we choose? Can we choose that up is down
and down is up? Can blue be red, and red blue? Can sheep be trees, and trees sheep? Can
that which is, also not be? And these are not questions o f language! Certainly we m ight call
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red blue and blue red, but when I mean red (regardless o f what I call it), I could not ju st as
well change that meaning to blue! But R askin’s approach must answer yes to these
questions, for essentially he has adopted the psychologism that Husserl sought so tirelessly
to eradicate. W hat is the reason for such a point o f view? Raskin answers this question, I
believe, in the following passage:
PCP’s emphasis on the indirect, filtered nature o f knowledge helps move
psychology toward a view that recognizes the impermanent, ever-changing nature o f
personal and social constructions while attending to the idea that people— even
scientists— are always engaging the world from a point o f view. (Raskin, 2001,
p. 368)
There is no doubt that much is to be said in favor o f a view that recognizes the imperm anent
and evolutionary character o f nature and that also attends to our experience that knowledge
always comes wrapped in context, but is the only way o f handling such difficult
philosophical problems to adopt a representational, constructivist point o f view? H usserl’s
phenomenology provides, I believe, an alternative explanation. His phenom enology and his
ontology do not assert that nature is entirely static— though some m istakenly think they do.
It is true that essences or universals are unchanging and atemporal. A triangle today will be
the same as a triangle tomorrow. W e cannot even imagine the possibility that triangleness
could change through time, or through space. N or could we imagine that num bers do so. The
number 1000 will be forever the number 1000. But the fact that essences do not change, does
not mean that the individuals that instance these essences do not change. Properties, for
example, are essences. Individuals— whether they be sense perceptible or not— can have
certain properties, and can also change into having new properties. N othing in Husserl’s
doctrine o f essences opposes this. The wax before me may be triangular, or I may take it in
my hands and roll it into a sphere. The object may indeed change. The mystery, the true
philosophical puzzle is this: the wax has changed yet has remained the same. It has changed
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372
in that it has a new shape; it has remained the same in that it has m aintained its identity as
wax. These facts, both the change and the sameness, are experienceable, but they are not
constructed. Raskin asserts that “constructed meanings, rather than direct and unfettered
access to an objective reality, should be the central subject mater o f psychological inquiry”
(2001, p. 368). But in the above experience, if we are to inquire about it psychologically,
what do we examine if intend to examine the “constructed meanings”? Is the triangleness a
constructed meaning? If so, I should be able to remove it without the use o f my hands. I
should be able to remove it by means o f the same constructive meanings by which I first
created it. And this I cannot do. I might imagine that the triangleness has transform ed into
another shape, but when I return to my experience, I will witness that my imagination has
effected no such transformation. N or will the context o f society or language effect such
transformations. These are experiments that we can employ at any moment. True, society
may urge us to interact with objects, such as trinagles, in different ways, and language may
change such that we call these object by different names, but these transform ations do not
effect a transformation in the object itself, whether that object be material (such as a
horseless carriage) or immaterial (such as triangularity).
In another response to M artin and Sugarm an’s article, Glassman— a self-proclaimed
modernist— offers this summary o f postmodernism, “Postm odernism ’s primary critique is o f
the modernist notion that there are (verifiable) truths in the world and that sincere, serious
activity brings people closer to these truths” (2001, p. 369). If we adopt postmodernism,
then, we must relinquish the truth, though we are o f course left in the untenable position o f
asserting the truths o f postmodernism. Yet under postmodernism, no “serious activity” will
bring us to the truth. Science itself must be abandoned. Glassman continues,
“Postm odsem ism is m eant to point out the implacable flaws in the m odernist program (just
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373
as there are implacable flaws in all ideas)” (2001, p. 369). As a corrective, postmodernism
has, I believe, failed. The flaws it attributes to modernism— a belief in truth, progress, and
objectivity— are not the true flaws o f modernism. Traditional empiricism did not go wrong
in asserting that there is truth or a reality out there; rather, it went wrong in describing that
truth as consisting solely in measurable, sense-perceptible objects.
Objectivism
M artin and Sugarman attempt to steer a philosophical path that provides a middle
ground between modernism and postmodernism, a middle ground they term “hermeneutic
realism” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, 2000). They compare hermeneutic realism to three
other types o f realism. The first type o f realism is akin to traditional empiricism, but differs
in significant ways which I will elucidate. M artin and Sugarman characterize this realism
(they label it “realism 1”) as “the doctrine that objects o f sense perception have an existence
independent o f the act o f perception” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 178). The second type
o f realism (“realism 2”) “holds that abstractions, generalizations, and especially universals
have a real, objective existence” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 178). Both o f these positions
M artin and Sugarman accurately describe as objectivist positions, for they both claim the
existence o f objects (material objects in the case o f realism 1, immaterial objects in the case
o f realism2) independent o f consciousness.
The present study has indeed argued for objectivism. I have claimed, as did Husserl,
that objects can and do exist independently o f hum an awareness. Both realism 1 and
realism2, as stated by M artin and Sugarman, are in fact true and dem onstrably so. Sense
perceptible objects exist independent o f acts o f perception and non-sense-perceptible objects
(such as universals) also exist independent o f perception. Unlike M artin and Sugarman,
Husserl’s critique o f modernism was not that it accepted the doctrine o f realism l, but rather
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374
that it did not admit the doctrine o f realism2. H usserl’s project was an attem pt to radicalize
traditional empiricism such that it realized the undeniable, incontestable, and readily
experienceable truth ideal entities such as universals.
H usserl’s phenomenology, however, does not contest the existence o f entities that
are dependent upon perception or consciousness. There are such entities. Acts o f perception
and acts o f consciousness are precise examples o f such entities. Perception cannot exist apart
from acts o f perception, nor can consciousness exist apart from acts o f consciousness. But
the fact remains that we can be conscious o f both perceptual and conscious acts without
these becoming part o f the specific acts directed upon them. Establishing this truth was the
purpose o f our involved examination o f the nature o f consciousness. It is the reason we
explored the crucial distinction between object and content in Figure 4. (See page 152.) It is
the reason we argued against the m onothetic or single-ray view o f consciousness. And it was
our direct experience o f our own consciousness, unfettered by filters and constructions, that
we illustrated in Figures 5 and 7 (on pages 163 and 175 respectively). W hat allows for the
possibility o f objective knowledge is the very model o f consciousness that Husserl puts
forward, and this model, I repeat, is not a theory o f consciousness, but is a description o f
consciousness as it is experienced.
Against H usserl’s phenomenological realism— a realism which combines M artin
and Sugarm an’s realism 1 (physical reality) and realism2 (nonphysical reality)— M artin and
Sugarman introduce their version o f reality, hermeneutic realism. M artin and Sugarman
assert “that traditional philosophical doctrines o f realism [realism 1 and realism2] may be
inadequate with respect to ascertaining the ontological status of psychological phenom ena
per se” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 178). These authors hope to introduce “a line o f
thought with respect to questions concerning reality that effectively rejects the entire debate
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375
between metaphysical realists an anti-realists as arising from a failure to understand human
life and existence properly in the first place” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 178).
M artin and Sugarm an’s attacks upon realism 1 and realism2 are fundamentally based
on the objectivity inherent in both views. The authors want to secure the realities expressed
with both accounts (that o f physical and “conceptual” entities) without adm itting that that
reality (and our access to it) is independent o f the constructive nature o f consciousness and
society. M artin and Sugarm an’s critique o f realism l, however, suffers from a grave
misunderstanding. The authors assert that “it is obvious that many o f the actions,
experiences, thoughts, and emotional reactions o f individual humans can not be said to exist
outside o f human perceptual awareness as required by realism l” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999,
p. 181). According to the authors, then, some entities clearly exist “inside” perceptual
awareness and, because they do so, cannot possibly be independent o f this awareness. But
realism l does not, in fact, require that all entities exist outside o f perceptual awareness.
Rather, it merely asserts that all entities m ust exist independent o f such awareness, and such
independence does not exclude the possibility o f existing within awareness. For example, if
we were to hold strictly to realism 1, and develop a theory o f consciousness that required all
the elements o f consciousness to be sense perceptible, we would therefore view thought as a
sense-perceptible entity. But realism l does not claim that thoughts, conceived thusly, must
exist outside o f perceptual awareness. To believe that thoughts are necessary for perceptual
awareness, does not necessarily entail the conclusion that we cannot sensuously perceive
those very thoughts as we think them. Realism l can be developed such that it is entirely
consistent with this view. W hat realism l does assert, however, is that whatever entities do
exist (be they within or outside o f awareness) m ust be sense perceptible. It is precisely this
assertion, as we have repeatedly emphasized, that Husserl contested. This m atter aside,
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M artin and Sugarman do accurately characterize those who have stringently adhered to
realism l. R ealism l is tantam ount to traditional empiricism. M artin and Sugarman write o f
those who hold this view that they
clearly worry that if psychological states and processes are considered to be real in
ways that do not reduce them to more non-contingent, natural, physical and
biological phenomena, their aspirations for psychology as a true science in the
m anner o f physical science will be disappointed. (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 182)
The hermeneutic realism that M artina and Sugarman adopt, in their attempt to
replace the above realisms, is based on H eidegger’s philosophy. The authors explain that
“Heidegger’s (1962, 1982) hermeneutic realism (realism4) avoids the subjective-objective
and m ind-dependent/mind-independent turmoil that, as we have seen, occurs all too easily
when traditional doctrines o f realism are applied to human activities in the world” (M artin &
Sugarman, 1999, p. 184). But these authors, I believe, enter into turm oils o f their own. “For
Heidegger,” they note, “our basic ‘being-in-the-world’ constitutes the basis for all our
theorizing, yet this all-pervasive background o f our everyday activity never can be fixed
explicitly. There is no external vantage point to be gained from which we can com prehend
our w orldliness...” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 184). In other words, our
conceptualizations o f the world, and our understanding and experiencing o f it, are
“irreducibly interpretive.” W e cannot see the world as it is, but can only see it as our
inextricable interactions have constructed it to be. “Our practices o f living,” write M artin and
Sugarman, “largely predetermine how things show up in our lives” (M artin & Sugarman,
1999, p. 184)
But if we take Heidegger at his word— and with him, M artin and Sugarman— can
we trust the theory that they have presented to us? If it is true that all our understandings and
all our theories are constructed from the background o f our situatedness in the world, would
it not follow from that all theories are relative? N o one theory can grant us a G od’s eye view.
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N o theory could provide us with a determinative account. N o theory is foundational. Yet
hermeneutical realism asserts a theory. It asserts, for example, that “Our practices o f living
largely predetermine how things show up in our lives” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 184),
and that “being in the world is a unitary phenomenon in which self and world are
intertwined” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 184), and that realism l and realism2 are fatally
flawed. Even more, it claims that the “all-pervasive background o f our everyday activity
never can be fixed explicitly” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 184) while all the while
attempting to fix it explicitly! This theory seems to deny the very task it has set itself, the
very task that any theory sets itself. M artin and Sugarman write that according to their
hermeneutic account, “traditional metaphysical and epistemological questions concerning
reality, truth, and relativity should be set aside and addressed only after w e have worked out
a general account o f our primordial reality— our situation as ‘being-in-the-world’” (M artin &
Sugarman, 1999, pp. 184-185). But what can it possibly mean to work out a “general
account” o f something— especially if that something is “primordial reality”— yet not be able
to make reliable and verifiable truth statements? How can these theorists possibly claim, as
they do, that “the reality o f our world relation is given” (M artin & Sugarman, 1999, p. 185)
when then have ju st claimed that nothing can be given, but rather m ust be constructed and
interpreted?
H usserl’s phenomenology does not make this error. It admits o f the realities granted
us by realism l (the sense-perceptible world), by realism2 (the immaterial world o f universals
and the like), and hermeneutic realism (that is, the situatedness or “being-in-the-world”
nature o f our understanding). It claims objectivity, but does not deny context, nor does it
deny social, lingual, biological, or physical reality. These are all present for us in our
experience, and we need only turn to our experience to witness them. W e need not call into
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378
question our very capacity to know the world through experience (as hermeneutic realism
does) to secure the truly human nature o f our existence. Rather, when we do turn to our
experience, we can witness that human reality plainly and clearly, even though this may
sometimes require great investigative effort. This plainly and clearly experienced reality is
the Evidenz which Husserl’s phenomenology speaks of, and it is this Evidenz that can serve
as an appropriate and generative foundation o f m odem psychological science.
The Similarities o f Hermeneutic Realism and Phenomenology
Though Husserl’s phenomenology is fundamentally opposed to hermeneutic realism,
phenomenology nonetheless has much in common with the hermeneutic perspective. Indeed,
hermeneutic philosophy was bom from H usserl’s phenomenology, and it was Husserl's tw o
famous students— Heidegger and Gadamer— who originated much o f the hermeneutic
program. Husserl’s philosophy has in common with hermeneutic realism a sharp criticism o f
the limitations o f traditional empiricism, and both philosophies pursue descriptions and
understandings o f psychological phenomena that are true to lived human experience. Both
phenomenology and hermeneutics also attend to the “being-in-the-world” nature o f our
experience, and they oppose this to the corporeal box o f traditional empiricism. In
abandoning the existence o f objective identities such as universals and substances, the
hermeneutic scientist nonetheless remains interested in these phenomena, at the very least in
terms o f their subjective import. Even though the hermeneutic theorist holds that universals
are a creation o f the mind, she nonetheless respects these creations as integral to the human
understanding o f the world. Phenomenology adds to this a deeper appreciation for the
importance o f universals as identities. Phenomenology also has established a more profound
interest in understanding and describing such entities. The present study has indeed found
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379
identities— with their inherent, unifying properties— crucial to an understanding o f the
personal relation that is the therapy relationship.
Concluding Remarks
Counseling psychology has achieved much, but it has much to achieve. If it were to
honor metaphysical questions, to recognize them when they are important and to realize the
value o f addressing such issues, it would find itself less driven by traditional science (as a
positivistic method) and, instead, driven by curiosity. But counseling psychology has done
just the opposite. In adopting traditional science, “psychology settled on its way of
answering questions— its methods— before it developed its questions” (Slife & W illiams,
1997).
This decision has damaged counseling psychology’s ability to establish theoretical
clarity and depth. This is most evident in the discipline’s failure to describe and define the
very psychological “objects” it investigates. An excellent example o f this has occurred in the
study o f the therapy relationship. Gelso and Hayes, as we noted earlier, comment, “Because
the therapy relationship has been given such a central place in our field over such a long
period o f time, one might expect that many definitions o f the relationship have been put
forth” (1998, p. 5). Indeed, one might expect the same across all domains o f inquiry within
counseling psychology. “In fact, there has been very little definitional work,” observe Gelso
and Hayes (1998, p. 5). This failing has been repeated within almost all o f counseling
psychology’s innumerable research programs. True, we operationalize the “factors,”
“variables,” and “constructs” that we study, but is it the case that operationalization suffices
for definition, or even for description? What, after all, is operationalization? It is, I would
suggest, the transformation o f common direct experiences (such as thoughts, feelings,
desires, and beliefs) into discrete, sense-perceptible phenomena, and it is these sense-
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380
perceptible phenomena (behaviors and statements) that w e then measure. The transform ation
that is imposed by operationalization occurs not according to the objects under study, but
according to the method used to study them.
In our journals we examine and discuss psychological variables, but the best w e do
in terms o f definition and description is briefly list and explain the psychom etric scales we
have used. As one eminent researcher reported in frustration at a recent professional
meeting, “We are fascinated with measures” (Hill, 2000). Indeed we are. W e continue to
build new psychometric tools with every new phenomenon we study, but w e do not provide
the descriptions and definitions that lay at the heart o f good theory. The operationalization o f
constructs yields productive research programs, but it leapfrogs the developm ent o f basic
theory. This is the consequence o f methodism; this is the consequence o f an epistemology
that eclipses metaphysics. The alliance, as a m atter o f contractual agreements, has proven
amenable to the sensate analysis o f traditional empiricism. The personal bond between
therapist and client, however, has failed to come under equal scientific attention. The current
study begins the difficult task o f correcting this failing.
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381
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Asset Metadata

Creator Vernon, Robert Fox (author)

Core Title The therapy relationship: Developing a sound metaphysical description of personal relations

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Counseling Psychology

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag Education, Social Sciences,health sciences, mental health,OAI-PMH Harvest,philosophy,Psychology, clinical

Language English

Contributor Digitized by ProQuest (provenance)

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c16-263647

Unique identifier UC11339371

Identifier 3093927.pdf (filename),usctheses-c16-263647 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier 3093927.pdf

Dmrecord 263647

Document Type Dissertation

Rights Vernon, Robert Fox

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the au...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus, Los Angeles, California 90089, USA