Love as an Art: From Expectations to Closeness

During the first few weeks they could talk until three in the morning. Both enjoyed walking, laughing at the same silly things and taking spontaneous trips out of town. A year later she wanted to spend Saturday together, while he was planning to see friends. “You used to want that yourself,” she said. He heard a demand to give up his own life. She heard that she was no longer wanted. The weekend had not even begun, and each was already defending against something the other had not said.

In an argument like this, the idea of a “missing half” comes easily: if this person were really right for me, they would understand without an explanation. Thinking of love as an art invites a closer look at what happens after the initial excitement. Can we check our assumptions, ask for something, hear a refusal and remain curious about a person who has turned out to be more complicated than we expected?

In Plato’s Symposium, Aristophanes tells a myth about beings once whole, whom Zeus divided in two. His account includes three kinds of original humans, so retelling it only as a union of male and female narrows its meaning. You can read the story in a translation of the dialogue. It offers an image of human longing for closeness, not proof that one uniquely destined person exists somewhere for each of us.

The image is appealing: someone will arrive, and being beside them will finally feel peaceful. Sometimes this is an ordinary wish for support. Sometimes we hope a partner will always read our mood, never disappoint us and restore a sense of safety we once lacked. Wanting closeness alone is not enough to conclude that someone has childhood trauma or is searching for a replacement mother or father.

You can notice the difference in the expectations. “Please hold me; today was hard” leaves room for an answer. “If you loved me, I would never feel lonely” gives another person a task they cannot perform continuously. Even good relationships include tiredness, misunderstanding and moments of separateness.

Carl Jung described inner images that may influence how we perceive others. Anima and animus belong to the historical language of his analytical psychology; a contemporary discussion is available from the International Association for Analytical Psychology. This model does not establish how every man, woman or couple in love must function.

In everyday life, projection may look simpler than the theory. Someone listened attentively on a date, and we have already imagined that they will always be patient. They spent freely on holiday, and we decided they would take the same approach to a shared budget. The observation was real; we supplied the conclusion about the entire future ourselves.

It can help to ask: what do I actually know, what have we agreed, and what did I very much want to assume? This is not an invitation to distrust every pleasant moment. It lets the process of getting to know someone continue after we have already written an entire biography for the two of us in our heads.

Expectations that do not match can bring anger and a wish to restore things to how they were. But there is no basis for declaring an inevitable power struggle for every couple, or saying that most couples separate at this particular point. People may gradually negotiate, drift apart, reconnect or decide that their plans are incompatible. A stage number will do little to explain one specific Saturday argument.

Karen Horney wrote about an anxious, neurotic need for love. This historical approach can prompt us to notice demands for constant reassurance, jealousy or efforts to win affection at any cost. One reaction does not justify calling someone a “neurotic” who is incapable of giving. Behind a persistent request there is sometimes anxiety; sometimes there is a history of broken agreements that genuinely deserves an answer.

In our Saturday story, she might clarify: “When you mentioned your friends, I decided that time together no longer mattered to you. We hadn’t actually agreed on this Saturday. When would you like us to spend time together?” He could explain that the gathering was arranged long ago and suggest Sunday. She might still feel upset. Reaching an agreement does not oblige both people to feel equally relieved straight away.

Try unpacking the brief moment before a reproach. The fact: a partner has not replied for two hours. The sensation: a tight chest and an urge to reread the chat. The thought: “They don’t care.” The need: to know when you can talk. While these things remain fused, an accusation seems like an accurate description of events. Once we distinguish them, a specific request becomes possible: “If you’re busy until this evening, please send me a quick message.”

Old pain and a present problem can also exist at the same time. Being sensitive does not cancel out someone repeatedly disappearing after promising to call. It is worth checking both our assumptions and our partner’s behaviour. Working on yourself does not mean looking exclusively inside yourself for the cause of every hurt.

If a conversation has already become a shouting match, you can agree on a pause and a return time: “I’m speaking harshly now. I need half an hour; let’s come back to this at eight.” A pause is easier to understand when the other person knows the issue has not been abandoned. Where there are threats, humiliation or coercion, safety and support come first, rather than a more persuasive description of feelings.

In The Art of Loving, Erich Fromm treated the ability to love as something requiring attention and practice. The comparison with painting fits: a good brush matters, but it cannot teach you to see colour by itself. Equally, one painter’s skills cannot create reciprocity on behalf of two people.

Four familiar themes in Fromm’s work—care, responsibility, respect and knowledge of the other person—can be explored through ordinary actions. The hypothetical examples below are our everyday illustrations, not a verbatim list of his advice.

Care begins with an interest in what actually helps someone. Bringing dinner after a difficult day may be welcome. Ordering food they dislike on their behalf and then taking offence at a refusal is a different matter. Responsibility can show itself in doing what you promised, or saying in time that you cannot manage it, rather than waiting for the other person to pick everything up again.

Respect leaves room for a separate wish. A partner can love us and not want to visit people today. Knowing another person requires updates: asking about current plans and feelings rather than referring only to who they were five years ago. Even in a long relationship, there are things to discover anew.

Otto Kernberg also studied loving relationships, including the interplay between present closeness and earlier experience; his approach is presented in Love Relations. His views should not be merged with Fromm’s into a supposedly shared test of maturity. For our own observation, we can keep several separate questions.

Can you admit a mistake without expecting humiliation? Can help be accepted without a lifelong debt of gratitude? Is it possible to love differently without turning the difference into evidence of indifference? Does curiosity about the person remain when their body, health, work or familiar pace of life changes?

Constancy does not mean an obligation to preserve every relationship. It can show itself when an agreement reached in an uncomfortable conversation is still there the following morning. Trust grows where words are followed by repeated actions. Choosing to end a relationship because of incompatibility does not prove that the people involved failed to learn how to love.

Choose one recent situation you can recall with enough calm. Write down what actually happened, without explaining anyone else’s motives. In the next paragraph, describe what you thought about yourself and your partner. Mark what you know and what you need to clarify. “You never choose me” may become a description of two cancelled meetings and a question about the next few days.

Next, name your feelings and one manageable request. Leave room for a different answer: what are you willing to discuss, and what will you not agree to? After the conversation, return to the note. Was there new information? Was the request heard? Did the agreed action take place? Writing can help you notice movement without giving the couple a grade for maturity.

You can use the MriyaRun Emotional Intelligence Diary for these observations. It provides space to write about feelings, expectations and conversations; the diary itself cannot ensure reciprocity or replace professional support when needed. Find out more about the project at mriya.run.

At the beginning of a relationship, there is a great deal we do not yet know. Later we have opportunities to notice whether we can clarify, acknowledge uncomfortable things and change our agreements. Closeness requires both people’s participation: our own attentiveness matters, but it gives us no control over someone else’s choices.

We still do not promise a prince on a white horse—horses are expensive to keep. Nor will anyone issue a certificate guaranteeing that one article will stop the urge to call an ex at two in the morning. Perhaps next time there will be enough time between the urge and the call to ask: what am I looking for right now, and what do I actually want to talk about?

Plato, Symposium, Aristophanes’ speech; IAAP’s discussion of anima and animus; Erich Fromm, The Art of Loving (1956); Karen Horney, The Neurotic Personality of Our Time (1937); Otto Kernberg, Love Relations. These are different authors’ approaches that help us ask questions about relationships, not a single route prescribed for every couple.