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The ancient tale of the mythical bird phoenix is one of self-regeneration and self-renewal. One of the greatest advocates of dyadic passion, Ovid, ironically recounted the tale of this solitary bird who lived on frankincense and fruit, nested on cinnamon and myrrh, and proceeded to incinerate itself after 500 years of inspiration and generativity. From the ashes of the parent bird, a young phoenix arises de novo, destined to live for another half a millennium until it can faithfully ensconce its creative product, a nest, in the temple of the sun (Bulfinch, 1855/1979).
The belief that the creative act is a singular enterprise remains paramount in Western thought today (Storr, 1988). Although contemporary creative partnerships such as Gilbert and Sullivan, Lerner and Lowe, and Pierre and Marie Curie challenge this supposition of productive aloneness, one tends to imagine the artist as a person who willingly—and perhaps necessarily—works and struggles alone to create. Envision the young Michelangelo galvanized to paint the Sistine ceiling or to wrest Moses or the Slaves from stone. Neither his intense attachment to Pope Julius II nor any of his amorous liaisons (Oremland, 1989) come quickly to mind as furthering his sculpture, although substantial evidence mounts that they, in fact, did so. In more recent times, F. Scott Fitzgerald's wife Zelda may have served as a model for some of his most memorable characterizations, yet no one would claim their marriage as an example of a supportive and happy collaboration. Even though recent evidence clearly demonstrates Freud's own need for sustaining object ties (i.e., Fliess, Jung), his contributions tend to be thought of as a product of his genius alone (Gay, 1978, 1988; Gedo, 1983). Thus, in thought if not in fantasy, we assume