Barbra Streisand

H. Bond Alma

Description

Barbra Streisand has been a show business staple for decades, from Funny Girl and Hello, Dolly! to The Way We Were and, more recently, the Fockers franchise. Whether gracing a stage, screen, or album cover, Barbra's iconic silhouette is a globally-familiar image. We know Barbra the star, but how well do we know Barbra the woman?In Dr. Alma H. Bond's latest installment of her On the Couch series, Dr. Darcy Dalea renowned New York City psychiatrist whose expertise has been sought by such larger-than-life women as Jacqueline Onassis Kennedy, Marilyn Monroe, and Hillary Clintonis confronted by Barbra, dismayed after 30 years of minimally successful therapy. Over the course of a year, Dr. Dale conducts an intimate psychoanalysis, breaking through ego, defense mechanisms, and repressions to go deep into the heart and mind of one of America's last remaining superstars.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Bancroft Press
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781610882132
• Langue: English

Extrait

Barbra Streisand
ON THE COUCH
By Alma H. Bond, Ph.D., author of the On the Couch Series
Copyright 2017 Alma H. Bond, Ph.D. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.

Although factual information forms the core of Barbra Streisand: On the Couch , the book is a work of fiction, and is not necessarily a complete or historically accurate rendering of her life. The work draws upon some of the well-known details of Ms. Streisand’s history as well as speculations about her that have appeared in print. It is also based upon the author’s impressions and analysis of Ms. Streisand, whom Dr. Bond has admired from afar for half of her life. It is this great admiration that led to the writing of this book. It is emphasized that the author did not serve as Ms. Streisand’s psychoanalyst at any time.
Cover and interior illustrations: Mary Grace Corpus Interior Design: Tracy Copes
Published by Bancroft Press “Books that Enlighten” P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209 410-358-0658 | 410-764-1967 (fax) www.bancroftpress.com
Library of Congress Control Number: ISBN (cloth) 978-1-61088-211-8 ISBN (paper) 978-1-61088-212-5 Printed in the United States of America
To Barbra Streisand, The funniest person I’ve never known
Contents
February 6, 2015
February 7, 2015
February 9, 2015
February 11, 2015
February 13, 2015
February 16, 2015
February 18, 2015
February 20, 2015
February 23, 2015
February 25, 2015
February 27, 2015
March 2, 2015
March 6, 2015
March 9, 2015
March 11, 2015
March 13, 2015
March 18, 2015
March 20, 2015
March 23, 2015
March 25, 2015
March 26, 2015
March 27, 2015
April 1, 2015
April 3, 2015
April 13, 2015
April 15, 2015
April 20, 2015
April 24, 2015
April 27, 2015
May 1, 2015
May 4, 2015
May 6, 2015
May 11, 2015
May 12, 2015
May 13, 2015
May 15, 2015
May 16, 2015
May 18, 2015
May 19, 2015
May 20, 2015
May 21, 2015
May 22, 2015
May 23, 2015
May 24, 2015
May 27, 2015
May 29, 2015
May 31, 2015
June 1, 2015
June 3, 2015
June 5, 2015
June 8, 2015
June 10, 2015
June 12, 2015
June 15, 2015
June 17, 2015
June 22, 2015
June 24, 2015
June 26, 2015
June 29, 2015
July 3, 2015
July 6, 2015
July 8, 2015
July 8, 2015
July 15, 2015
July 17, 2015
July 20, 2015
July 22, 2015
July 23, 2015
July 27, 2015
July 29, 2015
July 31, 2015
August 2, 2015
September 1, 2015
September 4, 2015
September 7, 2015
September 11, 2015
September 14, 2015
September 21, 2015
September 23, 2015
September 26, 2015
September 30, 2015
October 2, 2015
October 7, 2015
October 9, 2015
October 12, 2015
October 14, 2015
October 16, 2015
October 19, 2015
October 21, 2015
October 23, 2015
October 26, 2015
October 28, 2015
October 30, 2015
November 4, 2015
November 6, 2015
November 9, 2015
November 10, 2015
November 11, 2015
November 13, 2015
November 13, 2015
November 16, 2015
November 18, 2015
November 20, 2015
November 23, 2015
November 25, 2015
November 25, 2015
November 27, 2015
November 30, 2015
December 2, 2015
December 4, 2015
December 4, 2015
December 7, 2015
December 8, 2015
December 9, 2015
December 10, 2015
December 11, 2015
December 14, 2015
December 16, 2015
December 18, 2015
December 21, 2015
December 23, 2015
December 30, 2015
January 4, 2016
January 8, 2016
January 13, 2016
January 15, 2016
January 18, 2016
February 6, 2016
Bibliography
Brief Yiddish Glossary
Acknowledgements
About the Author
February 6, 2015
I had just finished with my last patient of the day. It happened to be my birthday, my 92nd, and I was in a hurry to get home to dress for a party given for the occasion by my friend, Pat LaMarche. My secretary, Rivka Ruben, had already left the office and I was about to close up shop when there was a loud thumping at the door.
Curious as to who might be calling at this late hour in the mugger-glutted city of New York, I looked out through the peephole on the door. There, I saw a frumpy-looking woman, a scarf wound around her head, and a face that seemed somewhat familiar. Who could that be, I wondered, and why was she bothering me on my birthday?
She knocked again, even louder this time, shouting, “Open up, Doc! You’re supposed to be a doctor, aren’tcha? Well, I wanna see ya!” A bit intimidated by her bluntness, but curious, I opened the door.
She put out her hand brusquely. Her hand and arm were graceful and lovely, with half-inch long fingernails manicured with blood-red polish.
“Yes?” I said. “What can I do for you?”
She answered in a heavy Brooklyn accent with a slight, open-mouthed pucker. “I was drivin’ around the city and thought of ya. Until the day she died, Marilyn Monroe told everybody in Hollywood that you were a wonderful analyst. The scuttlebutt around town was that if she had continued her treatment with ya, she would still be alive. I might have just been a little kid starting to make the rounds back then, but I remembered your name and thought I’d check to see if you’re still kicking.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m flattered. But who are you?”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard me, the words shooting out of her mouth as if fired by a machine gun. “I was driving by your office and got this sudden urge to see if ya were here. So I parked my car by a fireplug. I wanna see ya. Knowing me, if I don’t act on impulse, I probably wouldn’t be here.”
I hesitated. “Well, it’s a bit unusual, but since you are here, let’s talk briefly. But first tell me who you are.”
She looked surprised that I didn’t know. She pulled herself up to her full five feet five inches and said proudly, “I am Barbra Streisand. Ya must be the only person in the world who doesn’t recognize me. Can I sit down now?”
Though accustomed to seeing celebrities, this one almost knocked me off my feet. I took a deep breath and said, “Excuse me, Ms. Streisand. I wasn’t expecting you. By all means, have a seat.”
She took off her raggedy coat and scarf, which I now understood to be a disguise, and plopped herself down on Rivka’s swivel chair. The next thing I knew, she was shouting, “Whee,” and rolling across the office floor. “I feel like Miss Marmelstein again! Ya know, the part I played in I Can Get it for you Wholesale .”
After shaking my head to recover from the shock, the likes of which I had never seen from an analytic patient or even a guest, I decided I was being tested. Back in the early ’60s, I had actually seen the play, and I’ll never forget Yetta Tessye Marmelstein, the bizarre, beehived, unloved child of nineteen, who swooped down and swiveled her chair around to ask why all the other girls got called by their first names right away. ‘Oh, why is it always Miss Marmelstein?’ I remember thinking how talented this quirky, unknown actress who played the hilarious character was, and that we would be seeing more of her in the future. Little did I know how accurate my prediction would be!
Thus began the psychiatric interview to end all psychiatric interviews. Without her disguise, Barbra looked quite different. Her hair was straight, shoulder-length blonde, flecked with gray, and hung loosely down the sides of her face. She had a way of stroking her naturally shining hair with her long, pale, spiky fingers, as if she were soothing a crying child. She had azure-blue eyes that appeared to sparkle with amusement, a mouth with slow-curving rises and sudden soft valleys, and a startling promontory of a nose—all in all, a dramatically distinctive face, with sculptured features that would attract any viewer like a magnet.
She wasn’t pretty, I thought, but I had never seen anyone who looked so alive. When she talked, everything seemed to move together, her slightly crossed eyes, her sensitive, humorously curved mouth, her lengthy nose, her graceful hands. I felt exposed. Why did I feel the woman could see through my professional reserve, and knew everything about me? She must have extrasensory perception , I thought. I would bet no one ever got away with lying to her.
“Well, Doctor Dale,” she said, bringing her joyride to a stop, “whatcha think? What about it?”
“What about what?” I answered.
“Will ya see me for analysis or not? Or are ya turned off by my impulsivity?”
I hesitated. It was true that I was used to potential patients treating me with deference, and thus found her “spontaneity” in the present situation preposterous. And besides that, I wasn’t sure I liked her. There was a grandiose, narcissistic, hostile quality about her that I found off-putting. But I know my job isn’t to like people; it’s to help them, so I decided to give her a chance. And besides, her celebrity status did intrigue me. So I decided to briefly interview her, even if it was my birthday, and I really did need to get home.
“Let’s talk,” I said, opening up my office door and beckoning her to enter.
Unlike most patients, she went through the door first.
February 7, 2015
“Are ya one of those analysts who never open their mouths except to say ‘Hmmmm?’ If so, I can leave right now.”
I smiled and said, “No, I say a few words now and then.”
She smiled, too. “Oh. A funny one. That’s something new. I guess I’ll stay a while. Ya want me to tell ya why I’m here?”
I nodded.
“Well, the thing is, Doc, I’ve been in analysis for thirty years now…”
“ Thirty years ?” I said, in shock.
“Yes. I’m a slow learner.”
I smiled.
“Thirty years, with a million different analysts,” she continued. “And I still don’t understand myself any better than the day I walked into the door of the first one. After thirty years of so-called treatment, I still don’t understand why I do some things. I wish my life was more peaceful. I wish I g