Thursday, September 4, 2014

The Narrative in Photography, reading

http://www.imageandnarrative.be/inarchive/painting/fulya.htm

Image and Narrative
Online Magazine of the Visual Narrative - ISSN 1780-678X
     

 

The pose in early portrait photography: Questioning attempts to appropriate the past.

Author: Fulya Ertem
Published: July 2006
Abstract (E): In the early years of photographic practice, we can observe a desire of making photography a medium of artistic expression. In that respect, photographers of the early period, who were mainly coming from the painterly tradition, were attempting to shoot photographs that looked like paintings. One of the key factors in that attempt was to borrow the poses and settings of the painterly tradition. But was this attempt really successful? Did the attempt of imitating the “artistic” poses of the paintings made photography a continuation of painting? This paper will attempt to find some answers to those questions, departing from a close analysis of some paintings and photographs of the early years of photographic practice.
Abstract (F): Les premières années de la photographie sont caractérisées par le désir de transformer le nouveau média en pratique artistique. Les photographies, dont beaucoup avaient eu une formation de peintre, s’efforçaient de faire des images qui ressemblaient à des tableaux. Un des éléments qu’ils favorisaient étaient les emprunts picturaux en termes de pose et de décor. Mais comment évaluer cette tentative de copier les modèles picturaux ? Est-ce que l’effort de ne pas s’éloigner de la pose « artistique » faisait de la photographie une continuation de la peinture ? Le présent article fournit quelques nouvelles réponses à cette question, à partir d’une lecture détaillée de quelques tableaux et peintures des premiers temps de la photographie.
keywords: Early photography, Posing, Julia Margaret Cameron, Imitation.
 
In the early years of photographic practice, one can observe a desire of making photography a continuation of painting. In that respect, photographers of the early period were attempting to shoot photographs that looked like paintings. One of the key factors in that attempt was to borrow the poses and settings from the painterly tradition .
In this article, I will question th is attempt of continuity between early photography and the painterly tradition by analysing some photographs and paintings of the end of 19 th century, in terms of the poses of the models. In examining and theorising the act of posing in early portrait photography, I aim to answer the fallowing questions: Does barrowing the poses from the painterly tradition make photography the extension and/or continuation of painting? Is it possible that the poses of the models in the early "artistic" photographs question the idea of imitation and therefore collapse the attempt or desire by early photographers to imitate the painterly poses and settings?


1. A Photograph as a starting point of analysis


I want to let an image be the starting point of my inquiry. Here is a photograph from 1865, entitled Divine Love by Julia Margaret Cameron (Figure 1). Until I saw this photograph I underestimated the importance of colours in our perception of black and white photographs. One who faces this photograph for the first time, might indeed think: "Here is a colourless photograph belonging to the first years of photographic practice". However this photograph is not colourless. On the contrary its colour is very effective. So effective that it can evoke the idea of sculpture. The greyish brown that governs this image reminds me of the colour of a sculpture dirtied and aged with time. Moreover, the grains producing that colour are visible and they give the impression that the two figures have a textured body, a body made out of small particles that could be felt if touched, like the particles of marble, of clay or other residues one can feel while touching a statue.

Figure 1. Julia Margaret Cameron, Divine Love, Mary Hillier 1865.
Image reproduction in Helmut Gernsheim, Julia Margaret Cameron: Her Life and Photographic Work , London : Gordon Fraser, 1975,13.

However colour and texture are not the only aspects of the photograph that creates such a sculptural effect. The pose of the two figures, their immobility without any trace of tiredness, their subtle connection with each other where the woman holds the child very gently and touches his head with a tender kiss, increases the sculptural effect of this image by creating the impression that every gesture is perfectly arranged, calculated and performed without leaving any room for chance, or unexpected occurrences that would sharply blur the image.
Considering all these, we can ask some questions about the nature of this photograph such as: Why it has such a sculptural effect? Why the models pose in such a way? Is it possible that they represent a mother and her child? If so, why are they dressed up in old-fashion clothes, then? They look as if they are acting or imitating other images, other poses. Are they imitating Christian iconography? Are they pretending to be Madonna and the child? And more importantly, are they really "imitating" something? To be able to answer those questions more in detail, let's first look at the original conception of photography.


2. The conception of photography at the beginnings of its practice


When, at end of 19th century, the French painter Paul Delaroche exclaimed, "Painting is dead" (Delaroche qtd in Caffin, 1) in front of Louis-Jacques Mandé Daguerre's new "light-pictures" (12) he was perhaps initiating a debate about the place of photography within the artistic realm. Like other admirers of the new medium, Delaroche was probably very impressed by the success of the photographic image in representing nature. He was thus recognising in this new invention, qualities and possibilities that would bring it to the same level as other techniques of visual representation.
Indeed the fascination exerted by photography was related to a certain conception of art, one dedicated to the exact reproduction of nature. Photography could be that dreamed of industry that could overcome the problems of exactitude posed by the art of painting.
However it was not so easy to consider photography as the newest art among the other arts. The main reason why the new medium was not easily recognised as artistic was due to its being understood as a scientific apparatus, "substituting a soulless eye for the artist's individual vision" (13) as Charles Caffin argues in his book Photography as Fine Art .
In fact, like Caffin, André Bazin points out in "The Ontology of the Photographic Image" that, the photographic lens, which is considered as the basis of photography, is called "objectif" in French and the objectivity of the photographic camera comes, not from its ability to reproduce images but from its ability to form images with limited human intervention. For Bazin, photography, unlike other forms of visual representation that are based on the presence of man, seems to derive an advantage from its absence. The photographic camera seems thus to offer a more accurate and objective image, creating a feeling of certainty about the thing it captures.
For Roland Barthes, this feeling of certainty that a photograph produces, is not a certainty in the sense of restoring what has been abolished by time or distance, nor in the sense of exactitude and perfect resemblance, (the first photographic images lacked colour information and details), but rather in the sense of certifying that, what is seen has existed. In a way, photography cannot lie about the existence of its referent and it is this particularity which makes it also distinct from painting.
From this perspective we can say that at the very beginnings of its practice, photography was conceived as an apparatus limiting the artistic touch of the photographer, and becoming a source of "scientific" evidence claiming an objective and accurate representation. It was thus not immediately seen as an artistic medium but rather conceived as an objective and scientific tool of recording.
One of the names, who used photography in the 19 th century for such scientific purposes, was Duchenne de Boulogne. He was one of the first photographers who didn't use photography for artistic portraiture but for illustrating his research on the electro-physiological analysis of the human expression.
Indeed, analysing the human expression and face in order to have access to the inner character of a human being, was an earlier desire, manifested in the proliferation of two scientific disciplines that emerged between the end of 18 th and the beginning of 19th century: Physiognomy and Phrenology. Physiognomy, systematised by Johann Caspar Lavater, was a science seeking to isolate the profile and the various anatomic features of the head, such as forehead, eyes, ears, nose, chin, in order to have access to the individual character. Phrenology, which emerged in the researches of the Viennese physician Franz Joseph Gall, sought to analyse the topography of the skull in order to reveal the correspondences between the skull and the mental faculties, seated within the brain. Both of these scientific disciplines were reducing an entire range of human diversity into specific categories.
Allan Sekula, in his article "Body and the Archive" refers to the coincidence between the emergence of photographic practice and those disciplines, that categorise, archive and control the individual body. For him, photography subverted the privileges inherent in portraiture. As a result photographic portraiture began to perform a role no painted portrait could have performed in the same fashion. This role did not come from the old honorific portrait tradition but from the imperatives of medical and anatomical illustration that established and delimited the terrain of the "other". Sekula adds that photographic portraiture was a double system of representation, functioning as both honorifically and repressively.
On the one hand, photographic portraiture, unlike the traditional 17 th century portraiture that provides a ceremonial presentation of the bourgeois self, was popularised and extended to all realms of society. As a result it democratised the honorific functions of bourgeois portraiture. As quoted by Sekula, Jane Welsh Carlyle describes the inexpensive portrait photography as a social palliative:
"Blessed the inventor of photography. I set him even above the inventor of chloroform! It has given more positive pleasure to poor suffering humanity than anything that has been 'cast up' in my time.- this art, by which even the poor can possess themselves of tolerable likenesses of their absent dear ones." (Carlyle qtd in Sekula, 347)
On the other hand, this usage of portraiture was not separated from its repressive use. Beginning with being a cheaply affordable aesthetic pleasure, photography became later on an utilitarian social machine which created a social archive containing and creating the traces of the bodies of "betters" and "inferiors", and thus providing a list of heroes, leaders, moral exemplars, celebrities, as well as, of the poor, the diseased, the insane, the criminal, the non-white and the female. Those identities were created through different social institutions of the period and photographic camera played an important role in that process.
As early as 1843-44, police departments in all over Europe started to use photographs in the research on criminalities. Hugh Welsh Diamond was photographing the countenance of the insane in Great Britain . The ethnographer Louis Agassiz was having daguerreotypes taken of American slaves. And, society portraitist André-Adolphe-Eugene Disdéri was patenting his first carte-de-visite.[1]
For Robert Sobieszek all these medical, psychiatric, anthropological/ethnographic, scopophilic and judiciary agendas of the period used portraiture to present the appearance of a certain individual or type, without the flattering or idealising goals of artistic portraiture.
In addition to these, John Tagg in his book The Burden of Representation: Essays on Photographies and Histories argues that the evidential character of photography at the beginning of its practice, cannot be separated from the new practices of observation and record keeping of the late 18 th and early 19th century European societies. These practices play an important role in the development of a network of disciplinary institutions such as the police, prisons, asylums, hospitals, departments of public health and schools, and they secrete new and strategically connected discourses which function as tools of power producing new objects and identities.
However , despite this "objective" power of photography, working on a different level than the artistic realm, there were still some photographers who claimed that photography could be art if the photographer could emphasise his or her superiority over the limitations of the apparatus. But to achieve such a freedom was not so simple. The circumstances of the practice of photography were different when compared to the practices of other visual representations. Comparing the ways the painter and the photographer deal with their models, Caffin argues that the painter can correct and modify his model's posture. But the photographer has to use devices such as head clamps in order to make the sitter remain immobile and to avoid any blurring in the picture, while at the same time, he has to save the sitter from the oppressive feeling of being operated upon. It was perhaps because of this that the first photographers were called operators.
However, these operators in order to weaken the scientific atmosphere created by the photographic setting and to make the photograph look like other artistic representations were also operating on their models and the composition, by imposing the poses, the settings, and by barrowing the representation style of other artworks.
In Cameron's photograph (Figure 1) for example, we can clearly see a desire to refer to Christian iconography and in addition to that, we also find the influence of the sculptural tradition, especially if we consider that both sculptors and photographers had to suggest certain colours only by a distribution of light and shade. However, painting has always been considered to be much more influential on early photography than sculpture.
"The first man who saw the first photograph must have thought it was a painting: same framing, same perspective" (31) says Roland Barthes. In fact professional photographers had the same scenic accessories as painters in their studio. The painted backcloth, the brocade drape tied back with a heavy cord and the tapestry footstool not only denoted the class of the sitter but also created some movement and richness in the frozen atmosphere of the early photographic studios.

Figure 2. Gaspard Félix Tournachon Nadar, Sarah Bernhardt , 1859. Image reproduction in Beaumont Newhall, The History of Photography: From 1839 to the present day . London : Secker and Warburg, 1965, 54.

This relationship between painting and photography can also be observed in the poses of the models. For example, in one of the portraits of the famous French portrait photographer, Gaspard Félix Tournachon Nadar, where he took the photograph of the actress Sarah Bernhardt, (Figure 2), we can see the traces of painterly tradition, such as choosing a celebrity as his model, and imposing on her a pose, which can be found in many painted portraits of the same period, such as the portrait of Mme. Inés Moitessier by Jean-Auguste Dominique Ingrès (Figure 3).

Figure 3. Auguste Dominique Ingres, Mme. Ines Moitessier Seated, 1856. Image reproduction in Robert Rosenblum, Ingres . New York : Harry N. Abrams, 1975, 165.

If we compare these two images we can see that both of the portraits have as their subject matter famous, influential women. Moreover, they represent their model in a posture borrowed from classical figures. The gesture shared by both models in which the right hand is placed delicately on the face, and which can be interpreted both as a sign of reflection and tranquillity, is a gesture found in other classical representations, such as the frescoes of Herculaneum (Figure 4).
Until now we have seen the classical debate brought up by the invention of photography in 19 th century about the place of photography within the artistic realm, and how this debate resulted in a desire and attempt to make photography look like previous artistic representations. However, we can now put this attempt into question in order to point our attention to a new question namely, whether such an attempt can really be possible.
Figure 4. Roman fresco from Herculaneum , Hercules and Telephus . Image reproduction in Michael D. Gunther / www.art-and-archaeology.com


3. Is photography an imitative representation?


Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe, in an introduction to a book on photography entitledThéatre des Réalites , bases himself on Walter Benjamin's criticism of the debate on photography in the 19 th century, arguing that, in only asking whether photography can be art or not, we miss an important question raised by photography, that is, what can photography tell us about art or representation itself? Lacoue-Labarthe noted that one of the important figures of that period, which paradoxically and unwillingly pointed to this issue, was Charles Baudelaire.
It is true that Baudelaire criticised photography harshly and denied it the possibility of claiming a stake to art as he sees photography as the antithesis of art, as something anti-imaginative and the product of an industry. Moreover, Baudelaire sees this technique as one that replies and corresponds to the most limited conception of art as simply an imitation of nature, a form of reproduction. However in a close analysis of Baudelaire's text entitled "Salon 1859", Lacoue-Labarthe suggests that, rather than questioning the duplicative aspect of the medium that ruins the artistic gesture, Baudelaire unwillingly brings to the fore an important and innovative aspect of photography. Let's refer to a passage from this text:
".A madness, an extraordinary fanaticism took hold all the new sun-worshippers. Strange abominations took place. In grouping funny men and women, dressed up as butchers and as washerwomen for carnival, and imploring these heroes to please hold, for as long as the job would take, the grin pasted on for the occasion, we flattered ourselves in depicting glorious or tragic scenes from ancient history. Some democratic writer must have seen there the cheap means of spreading disgust of history and painting amongst the people, and in so doing, committing a double sacrilege by insulting both divine painting and the sublime art of the actor." (Baudelaire qtd in Lacoue-Labarthe, 114)

It seems indeed that the accusation by Baudelaire of photography is not simply an accusation that the new medium is a cheap reproduction of artistic gestures. Nor is he questioning the accuracy of this reproduction. Rather, Baudelaire seems to point to the connection that exists between photography and theatricality when arguing that photography is a bad imitation of painting, a bad theatre. Why asks Lacoue-Labarthe, does Baudelaire conceive of photography as theatre rather than reality? His answer is that, Baudelaire, despite himself, would have felt that the origin of both imitation and imagination is a mimique , a form of theatre.
The connection between theatricality and artistic representation is an important one for Lacoue-Labarthe since it allows him to re-think the concept of mimesisconceived until now as an indirect way of representation, understood as imitation. Indeed for those who condemn mimesis , thus primordially Plato, theatre is essentially targeted because the miming of human action not only provokes a certain number of emotions that are thought to be dangerous but also, because, the actors on the stage have nothing to do with the characters they incarnate. Thus the main disadvantage or immorality of the theatrical act lies in its being an illusion where everything can be offered without impunity and responsibility. For Lacoue-Labarthe this conception of theatre comes from a limited understanding of mimesisas imitative representation.
However the word representation itself is a problematic word for Lacoue-Labarthe. It has been understood as imitation, as reproduction, because of the prefix re- that gives it a value of doubling and seconding. But Lacoue-Labarthe, basing himself on Diderot's analysis of the theatrical act, argues that to represent is to render present. Thus, an actor is not someone who reproduces the gestures of another it is rather someone who presents and makes a character exist, someone who "builds up" a character. Thus, mimesis is not an imitation but rather it is making "present" something, some idea or some person (mythical heroes in the case of the actors of Dionysos). This "rendering present", argues Lacoue-Labarthe, is not to make "present" what is empirically absent (the problem of realism) or make "present" the pure absence (the adventure of Modern Art) but rather to reveal the presence of the presence itself, to reveal the being present of what is present.
From this opening up of the concept of representation as something other than imitation, we can now try to see the early artistic photographs from a new perspective-as images that present the presentation, images that perform the performance by relinquishing a definitive, stable connection between the image and its referent. In order to reveal this possibility, let's now focus on the act of posing in general and then analyse the poses within some other photographs of Julia Margaret Cameron to be able to see how the poseurs of the early "artistic" photographs, failed in "imitating" the poses of the painterly tradition.


4. Posing as an impossibility of imitation


In its general sense, posing can be considered as the way in which the "subject" responds to the (implied) presence of the beholder. It is, assuming a posture, an imaginary self, in front of any captivating gaze. When in front of the photographic camera, posing can be seen as a reaction to the camera's deadly capture. Roland Barthes, extending the pose to inanimate things, also describes it as an "instant, however brief, in which a real thing happened to be motionless in front of the eye." (Barthes qtd in Owens, 210).
Posing is thus a moment of immobility where the poseur turns him/herself into a frozen image. It can also be considered as a moment where the poseur tends to imitate a certain image he/she has in his/her mind in order to project it onto his body and gesture.
However, Kaja Silverman in The Treshold of The Visible World claims that, posing is not imitative of a pre-existing image, it is imitative of photography itself, as she says that the pose does not only arrests the body, "hyperbolising the devitalising effects of all photographic representation"(202) but also resembles the "three-dimensional photography". Indeed Silverman adds that in the field of vision the subject does not passively wait for the camera/gaze to photograph him or her. On the contrary he or she "may give him or herself to be apprehended by the gaze in a certain way, by assuming the shape of. a desired representation.."(201, 1996). When this happen the subject does not simply hold up the imaginary photograph in front of him/her but rather try to approximate its form. It is in that sense that it resembles the "three-dimensional photography"
Much like Silverman, Craig Owens also says: "What I do when I pose for a photograph? I freeze.as if anticipating the still I am about to become; mimicking its opacity, its stillness; inscribing, across the surface of my body, photography's 'mortification' of the flesh." (210, 1992).
Considering these accounts of the act of posing we can argue that posing is not an imitation of a specific image. But rather it is a re-enactment of the some qualities pertaining to photography. Indeed Silverman argues that if posing resembles anything it resembles mimicry and mimicry is not a simple imitation.
Silverman refers to Jacques Lacan's description of the phenomenon of mimicry in his Four Fundamental Concepts and argues that for Lacan, although mimicry is the behaviour of certain species of insects, which seem to adopt the shape, and the natural colour of their environment for protective reasons, mimicry is more an attempt to become part of a particular picture rather than an attempt to imitate a pre-existing image. Mimicry is thus "a reproduction in three-dimensional space with solids and voids: sculpture-photography." (Flusser qtd in Silverman p. 201) as Wilem Flusser also argues in Towards a Philosophy of Photography.
In that sense what is significant here is that posing as "mimicry" is not an imitation of an image or a person. It is a mimicking of the stillness of photography.
Departing from all these accounts we can argue that posing is a paradoxical experience that seems to collapse and/or prevents any attempt of imitation, causing a disappearance of the referent. Perhaps the poseurs who tried to imitate the painterly poses were not imitating anything but they were just re-presenting in Lacoue-Labarthe's terms? And thus they were becoming something unrecognisable, something that rejects resembling and identification? In order to understand this better let's now return to some other photographs by Julia Margaret Cameron.
As one of the first women photographers working apart from the mainstream professional photography, Julia Margaret Cameron's work has long been subject to debate in the artistic field. Some critics have devalued her photographs because of their lack of focus. This was considered a lack of artistic accomplishment because focusing was considered a sign of mastery of the photographer over his medium. However others found her work promising in terms of representing the emotions of her models.
At a time where photographic practice was under the influence of Cartomania , the impulse to own and trade carte-de-visite portraits, Cameron was perhaps trying to save photography from its commercial aspect by giving it an artistic air through arranging her models and her compositions like some of the pre-Raphaelite paintings of her time.

Figure 5. Julia Margaret Cameron Enid, Emily Peacock , 1874. Image reproduction in Helmut Gernsheim, Julia Margaret Cameron: Her Life and Photographic Work . London : Gordon Fraser, 1975,96.

Let us focus on a photograph that bares traces of such an attempt. Her 1874 photograph entitled Enid (Figure 5) seems to have the same subject matter as one of the paintings of a pre-Raphaelite painter of the same period, Dante Gabriel Rossetti (Figure 6): a woman with a musical instrument. But more than that, the expressions of the two women who look as if they are going to sing, their nostalgic air that seems unaffected by any gaze, their hairstyles free and floating as if to give a sense of naturalness, seem to echo each other. Yet there's something more in the photograph, something that makes the viewer react to it differently. Even if I had not come across Rossetti's painting and had not been able to foreground its influence on Cameron's work, my memory would still be triggered by the question "where I have seen this before?" upon viewing this photograph.

Figure 6. Dante Gabriel Rosetti Christmas Carol 1867 image reproduction inhttp://www.artmagick.com/artists/Rosetti.aspx?p=8.html

By "this", I refer neither to the model nor to the photographic image per se but rather to the pose of the model and to the composition of the picture. Yet my memory would still fail to be satisfied since this impression of déjà vu , like all déjà vus , emerges because it can never be traced back. It is a photograph that gives the impression that you have seen it before without localising what it is that you have seen.
Moreover, unlike the painting, the photograph has a neutral dark background that evokes in me some theatrical settings, such as settings for pantomime where communication is possible through the body language of the actor whose body generally stands out in front of a dark background. This photograph that is devoid of voice and that makes its actor emerge in front of its dark background, provokes however a silence on the viewer because what it tries to represent is nevertheless still ambiguous.
After having read that Cameron chose her models among the members of her friends and family, I can't escape thinking about the real person behind the actor, since I know, thanks to the particularity of the photographic image, that the woman depicted here is an actual person in front of a camera. Though invisible in the picture, she has a personal narrative (her past, her relationship with the photographer etc.) Although she looks aware of her pose I wonder whether she was aware of the connotations her pose has to the paintings of her era. Perhaps she had in her mind some gestures, some expressions she unconsciously appropriated from the paintings she saw. Because of this intersection or superimposition of narratives, it becomes impossible to claim that this photograph imitates Rossetti's painting; rather, what it represents is the process of representation. Perhaps another photograph can help us to better grasp this aspect of early artistic photographs.
Here is another photograph by Cameron entitled Lancelot and Elaine . If I saw this image (Figure 7) as a photocopied reproduction, I would not immediately be able to recognise that it is a photograph. It could easily passed off as a photocopied reproduction of a painting. Yet getting closer I can see some disturbing details which prevent my reading of it as a painting: the blurs. The hands of the two models, some details of their dress and the background are blurred and unclear. In addition, the grains that I already mentioned in Divine Love (Figure1) are much more obvious in this photograph, especially in the areas of transition between dark and light tones, such as the cheeks of the models. Discovering that this is a photograph, I am filled with wonder. This feeling emerges because, although this photograph seems to represent two legendary figures (Lancelot and Elaine), next to the title there are, strangely enough, two other names, the names of the models: William Warder and May Pinsep.
Figure 7. Julia Margaret Cameron Lancelot and Elaine, William Warder and May Prinsep, 1874. Image reproduction in Helmut Gernsheim ,159.
Paintings where the names of the models are written together with the title are rare, especially if they are paintings that represent legendary stories. But in this case the models and their narratives become as important as the subject matter of the photograph because we know that they really existed in front of the camera, they are not the mere imagination of the artist. This increases the effect that this photograph is not representing a legendary story but rather represents the "representation" of a legendary story by two models.
In other words, this photograph refers on the one hand to the art of painting representing a legendary story (since the pose of the models and the setting is very reminiscent of a painterly setting), but on the other hand, it represents the performance of the models representing their own interpretation of the legendary heroes Lancelot and Elaine.
In either case, it is not easy to trace back or stabilise the referent of this image. Like Cindy Sherman's History Portraits where she re-creates the historical portraits by using grotesque prostheses or heavy make-up on her own body in order to point to the theatricality of our cultural imaginary this photograph faints the possibility of identification, recognition, and comparison.
Indeed Cindy Sherman's work, from her black and white film stills of the late 1970's to the colour images of 1980's and her history portraits of the 1990's, is the result of a project that calls into question any received notion of subjectivity or identity by emphasising its performative and theatrical character. She makes this emphasis through parodying the illusion of mimetic representation that dominates the conception of photography. But more than that she also emphasises the paradoxes of the act of posing.
Amelia Jones' reading of Cindy Sherman's photographs, in her article "The 'Eternal Return': Self-Portrait photography as a Technology of Embodiment" emphasises the fact that in Sherman (but also in other cotemporary artists such as Hannah Wilke), the act of posing (for photographic camera) is a representation which predicates a freezing of bodily motion where a death of the subject is enacted. However she also mentions that, although posing is a projected immobility on the past (in Barthian terms), this immobility "can after all be transformed into a sign of eternal life.sustained via deferral through the other."(956, 2002). Few paragraphs later she also adds: ".the performative posing of the self, whether photographically documented or "live" is always already a performance of the other" (965,2002).
Considering all these, we can argue that what is happening in Cameron's and Sherman's photographs is not only a questioning of the theatricality of our cultural imaginary but also, a relevance of the paradox of the act of posing: the splitting of the subjectivity of the poseur under the illusion of unity, revealing the never ending production and deferring of subjectivity, as it is best described in Roland Barthes's words: "in front of the camera I am the one I think I am, the one I want others to think I am, the one photographer thinks I am, and the one he makes use of to exhibit his art "(13).
As we have already seen the poseurs of Cameron's photographs who tend to imitate paintings, are also embedded in deferral of their referent. They are splitted during their performance of classical figures because their attempt of re-enactment of other poses and gestures, becomes impossible and their pose point to the impossibility of imitation.
Considering all these, we can argue that Cameron's poseurs refuse in way to reveal their subject matter by deferring the referent. It is perhaps in that sense that they are "representing" in Lacoue-Labarthe's terms. They are rendering present what is present because they are breaking the continuous and comforting relationship between the referent and its representation.
Moreover, Cameron's photographs also point to our presence, to our being present in front of them. It is in that presence that they make us aware of our participation in and production of the narrative frameworks, which constitute meaning. In that sense these photographs also make us aware that meaning can be unstable, fleeting, and fugitive.


Bibliography


Barthes, Roland. 1981. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography . Trans. Richard New York :Hill and Wang.
Bazin, André. 1967. "The Ontology of the Photographic Image." What is Cinéma.Trans. Hugh Gray. London : University of California Press.
Caffin, H. Charles. 1971. Photography as a Fine Art. New York : Morgan&Morgan.
Flusser, Vilem. Towards a Philosophy of Photography
Jones, Amelia. 2002."The 'Eternal Return': Self-Portrait photography as a Technology of Embodiment". Signs:Journal of Women in Culture and Society , vol.27, no 4. University of Chicago Press.
Lacoue-Labarthe, Philippe.1996. Théatre Des Realités. Trans. Christine Decruppe. Paris :Caves Sainte-Croix .
Owens, Craig. 1992. "Posing" Beyond Recognition: Representation, Power, and Culture. Ed. Scott Bryson, Barbara Kruger, Lynne Tillman, and Jane Wienstock. Introduction by Simon Watney. Berkeley , Los Angeles , Oxford : University of California Press.
Sekula, Allan. 1989. "The Body and the Archive" The Contest of Meaning: Critical Histories of Photography , ed. Richard Bolton. London : Mit Press.
Silverman, Kaja. 1996. The Treshold of the Visible World . New York and London : Routledge.
Sobieszek, A. Robert. 1999. Ghost in the Shell: Photography and the Human Soul 1850-2000, Essays on Camera Portraiture. California : Los Angeles Country Museum of Art.
Tagg, John.1988. The Burden of Representation: Essays on Photographies and Histories London : The Macmillan Press.


Illustrations


Figure 1 Julia Margaret Cameron, Divine Love, Mary Hillier 1865.
Image reproduction in Helmut Gernsheim, Julia Margaret Cameron: Her Life and Photographic Work , London : Gordon Fraser, 1975,13.
Figure 2 Gaspard Félix Tournachon Nadar, Sarah Bernhardt , 1859. Image reproduction in Beaumont Newhall, The History of Photography: From 1839 to the present day . London : Secker and Warburg, 1965, 54.
Figure 3 Auguste Dominique Ingres, Mme. Ines Moitessier Seated, 1856. Image reproduction in Robert Rosenblum, Ingres . New York : Harry N. Abrams, 1975, 165.
Figure 4 Roman fresco from Herculaneum , Hercules and Telephus . Image reproduction in Michael D. Gunther / www.art-and-archaeology.com
Figure 5 Julia Margaret Cameron Enid, Emily Peacock , 1874. Image reproduction in Helmut Gernsheim, Julia Margaret Cameron: Her Life and Photographic Work . London : Gordon Fraser, 1975,96.
Figure 6 Dante Gabriel Rosetti Christmas Carol 1867 image reproduction inhttp://www.artmagick.com/artists/Rosetti.aspx?p=8.html
Figure 7 Julia Margaret Cameron Lancelot and Elaine, William Warder and May Prinsep, 1874. Image reproduction in Helmut Gernsheim ,159.

Notes

[1]  A pocket-sized card, bearing a small and full-size photographic likeness in place of the person's name.

 
 
 
  
 

Maerlant Center Institute for Cultural Studies 
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Monday, March 3, 2014

Robin F. Williams' "Sons of the Pioneers" P.P.O.W. Gallery




On View: Robin F. Williams’s “Sons of the Pioneers” at P.P.O.W. Gallery

by Nastia VoynovskayaPosted on 

http://hifructose.com/2014/02/26/on-view-robin-f-williamss-sons-of-the-pioneers-at-p-p-o-w-gallery/

MARWENCOL

Google "Marwencol" Images, especially you Ivor.

Mark Hogancamp , artist

LEON GOLUB "Mercenaries 1"



also: http://www.saatchigallery.com/aipe/leon_golub.htm
look at Golub's Drawings, Paintings and Installations

CROCE-OATS Crisis of Criticism

http://artpdf.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/croce-oates_crisis-of-criticism_1994.pdf

Response to Arlene Croce's article

http://www.damagedgoods.be/EN/xxx_for_arlene_and_colleagues

 
 
 
On the last days of 1994, American dance critic Arlene Croce published in the weekly magazine The New Yorker an article on Bill T.  Jones's choreographyStill/Here, that had then just premiered in New York at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. This was not to be a common review. Croce, one of the most important dance critics in the United States, was willing to break the most essential rule for any reviewer: to write on something she had not seen and was not at all willing to see.
To justify her blind review, titled Discussing the Undiscussable, (1) Croce invoked what for her constituted two 'undiscussable' facts of the piece in question: first, that 'Still/Here' features 'dying people' on stage; and second, that Bill T. Jones himself is a HIV-positive gay man (Croce left-out of her writing the 'race' issue, which nevertheless should not to be discarded in the full appreciation of her political position).  The spectre of disease in general, and of AIDS in particular, along with the visibility of the gay body, lead Croce to establish a violent interpretative tautology. Her reasoning is: if Jones is HIV positive, he is contaminating dance, and hence his work becomes in itself, ontologically, a 'case of pathology in art' [sic]. According to Croce, this 'pathology in art' makes the audience respond to the work of art not in an 'aesthetic' mode but only in a 'sympathetic' one: the audience can only feel sorrow or pity for what it beholds. Therefore, for Croce, 'victim art-works' such as 'Still/Here' are always beyond the scope of criticism; they constitute rather a form of psychological blackmail with the audience's emotions. She concludes her reasoning by saying: 'Actually, I'm not sure who came first: Jones the AIDS victim or Mapplethorpe the AIDS victim. But Jones and Mapplethorpe, parallel self-declared cases of pathology in art, have effectively disarmed criticism' (emphasis added).
Most interesting in Croce's article is the conflation of Bill T.  Jones with other artists that for Croce also participate in this 'victimisation.' Croce actually put together in this category of 'victim-artists' not only photographer Robert Mapplethorpe but also ...  Pina Bausch! By including the German choreographer as an example of 'victim artist,' one sees how, for Croce, what is disturbing is not so much the visibility of a 'diseased body' (for instance, of a cancer patient on a video in 'Still/Here'), but rather the artistic problematization of the human condition as an ongoing conflict with the shadows of suffering, of sorrows, of loss, of power relations, and of the uses of a certain kind of humour or irony.
What is one to do then with utterances such as Croce's, utterances that mainly repeat the ideological and aesthetic position of the American conservatives-as illustrated by the public support given to Croce by conservative art critic Hilton Kramer (founder of the conservative art magazine The New Criterion), and by the similarities between Croce's arguments and the rhetoric of American far-right religious and political groups regarding 'obscene art' and government funding of the arts' First of all, one has to maintain the ethical and political imperative of not to dismiss those utterances as 'ridiculous,' or 'idiotic,' or 'ignorant.' I believe one might rather follow Gilles Deleuze when he writes: 'I don't think that people on the Right are deluded - they're no more stupid than anyone else, but their method is to oppose movement.' (2)  So if 'they' are not stupid, and if 'they' have a method, then what must be done, I believe, is to interpret in order to unmask. Against this strategy of paralysis, of containment, and of reification of 'the proper subject' for art and for dance, this interpretation must be performed precisely as a form of radical movement, a movement of and in interpretation, one that must occupy and run through the fringes of conservative discourse and its violent politics of classification and exclusion.
On February of 1995, Meg Stuart presented at an Open Movement evening at the Judson Church in New York her solo 'XXX. For Arlene and Colleagues.' This little solo is an important choreographic as well as a political and aesthetic statement - a most appropriate critique of Croce's aesthetics and politics that forbids art to be aware of its social, cultural and emotional context, i.e., to be aware of life. It is a dance full of irony that both deconstructs Croce's aestheticism and reinscribes the human body (any human body) as a powerful source of art and as a privileged site for new political articulations.

André Lepecki - Brussels and New York, June-September of 1995
References
(1). Arlene Croce, 'Discussing the Undiscussable,' The New Yorker, Dec. 26 1994, 54-60.
(2). Gilles Deleuze, 'Mediators,' in Incorporations, ed. Jonathan Crary and Sanford Kwinter (New York: Zone Books, 1992), 281-294.
© Damaged Goods — info@damagedgoods.be — +32 (0)2.513.25.40
choreography and dance Meg Stuart
music Serge GainsbourgVincent Malstaf(with samples of Marcel Duchamp andNicolo Paganini)
light Marc Dewit
production Movement Research (New York)
 

Monday, February 24, 2014

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

Please read for class. Not due for tomorrow.

" Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" Thomas McEvilley
from  "Art & Discontent, Theory at the Millenium" 1995
This is not the Wallace Stevens poem of the same name.

http://faculty.smcm.edu/lnscheer/mce.html


 Art & Discontent
Theory at the Millennium
Thomas McEvilley





DOCUMENTEXT
McPHERSON & COMPANY
"Thirteen Ways of
Looking at a Blackbird"


Everything we might say about an artwork that is not neutral description of aesthetic properties is an attribution of content. (Even value judgments, insofar as they reflect what Althusserian critics call "visual ideology, are implicit attributions of content.) If there is no such thing as neutral description, then all statements about art works involve attributions of content, whether acknowledged or not. There are many possible ways to sort these things out; one is on the model of geography—what types of content arise from this or that location in the artwork?

1. Content that arises from the aspect of the artwork that is understood as representational. This type of content is widely regarded as the least problematical; ironically, this very assumption lies at the heart of a tangled problem. We tend to feel that representation works by a recognizable element of objective resemblance, yet it seems more accurate to say that what we experience as representation is, like aesthetic taste, a culturally conditioned habit response not involving objective resemblance. In fact, it is difficult if not impossible to say what would constitute objective resemblance. And in reverse, the conviction of objective resemblance habituated in our pictorial tradition seems to exercise control over our perception of nature. The pictorial tradition, presented to us as representation of nature, has remade our perception of nature to conform with the conventions of pictures (as Goodman and others have demonstrated in their critiques of representation and, especially, of the tradition of perspectival drawing). The resemblance we seem to see between pictures and nature does not result from the fact that art imitates nature, but from the fact that our perception of nature imitates our perception of art. Seen thusly, just as it seems we can't think anything that our language can't formulate, so it seems we can't see anything that our pictorial tradition does not include or imply.

Representation, then, especially two‑dimensional representation, is not an objective imitation, but a conventional symbolic system which varies from culture to culture. What "looks like" nature to an Australian aborigine looks like symbols to us, and vice versa. Virtually every culture has a tradition of representation which it sincerely regards as based on resemblance. Faced with a painting of the Battle of Waterloo, we seem to recognize horses, weapons, warriors, and so on; what we are in fact recognizing are our conventional wets of representing horses, weapons, warriors, and so on. The fact that it is specifically the Battle of Waterloo must come from the next level of content.

2. Content arising from verbal supplements supplied by the artist. Duchamp's famous remark that the most important thing about a painting is its title points to a weakness in the "purely optical" theory of art. Artists frequently issue verbal supplements in an attempt to control the interpretation of their works, and even the most optical of critics cannot help but be influenced by them. In reference to a painting of horses, and weapons, and warriors, for example, the title "The Battle of Waterloo" injects a specific content arising not from optical features but from words. Abstract and reductionist art, as much as representational,‑ has been dependent on content supplied in this way. For example, it would be virtually impossible (as Harold Rosenberg once remarked) to distinguish the Minimal from the Sublime without such verbal supplements as Barnett Newman's cabalistic titles, the published interviews with Frank Stella and Donald Judd, and so on Robert Smithson's essays have controlled the interpretation of his works, as Yves Klein's essays have of his. This quality goes back, really, to the beginnings of art: to Pheidias' identification of a certain nude male sculpture as Zeus rather than, say, Poseidon or Apollo, to the texts accompanying Egyptian tomb pa~nt~ngs, to the shaman's explanatory song in front of his paintings. It is as important today as it ever was.

3. Content arising from the genre or medium of the artwork. This type of content shifts as ambient cultural forces shift. In the 1960s in America, for example, a contentual dichotomy between painting and sculpture arose. Painting came to imply a lack of direct involvement in experience, an absorption in indirect, distanced preoccupations. Sculpture, on the other hand, was understood, even when representational, as areal presence of objecthood, since it occupied the same space the viewer occupied, the space of embodied life. From this ethical dichotomy arose much of the dynamic of the art of the l960s and 70s. The radical new genres were associated with sculpture, performance being called "living sculpture," installations "environmental sculpture," and so on. Painting was associated with the old values of convention, rather than actuality. For an artist to choose to work in oils on canvas was seen as a reactionary political statement—whereas in the 1950s oil and canvas has signified freedom, individuality, and existentialism. This dynamic was at the root of the great acceleration, in the 1960s and '70s, of the project of sculpturizing the painting, of asserting it as an object in real space rather than as a window into illusionistic space. Three‑dimensional objects were added to canvases to link the representational surface to sculptural presence. Shaped canvases were similarly motivated. Explorations of ways to combine colors without producing a figure‑ground relationship were another aspect of the effort to produce objects that, while recognizably paintings, were not compromised by suggestions of representation. The content inherent in the media and genres had attained political and cultural significance that asserted itself alongside the significance of the art objects themselves.

History can provide countless examples of this type of content, not least the distinction between popular and elitist media (in ancient Greece, for example, the vase painting versus the sculpture) and that between male and female media (for example, in neolithic societies which restricted pottery‑making and basket‑making, that is, vessel‑making in general, to women's groups).

4. Content arising from the material of which the artwork is made. Within the category of sculpture in the 1960s and '70s, an artist working marble representationally was at one level making a statement opposed to that of the artist working with industrial I‑beams or fire. Traditional art materials, industrial materials, esoteric high‑tech materials, absurdist materials (like Ed Ruscha's chocolate), neoprimitive materials (like Eric Orr's bone and blood), pantheistic materials (Klein's fire, and so on), deceptive selfdisguising materials (plastic that looks like plaster, wood prepared to look like stone)—all these decisions by the artist carry content quite as much as form. They are judgment pronouncements that the art viewer picks up automatically without necessarily even thinking of them as content. They are statements of affiliation to, or alienation from, certain areas of cultural tradition; as, say, the use of industrial I‑beams represents a celebration, or at least an acceptance, of urban industrial culture, while the use of marble or ceramic suggests nostalgia for the preIndustrial Revolution world.

5. Content arising from the scale of the artwork. The New Kingdom Egyptian custom of sculpting pharaohs and their consorts much larger than life (as at Abu‑Simbel) is an obvious assertion of political content, a portrayal of the hereditary monarchy and its representatives as awesomely given, like those parts of nature—sea, sky, desert, mountain—beside which ordinary human power and stature seem trivial. Such channels of content are not objective and absolute but culturally shifting: it is possible to conceive a society that would associate unusual smallness with special power or efficacy. In the Roman empire an emperor was sculpted during his lifetime about life‑size; after death and deification, about twice life‑size. Obviously, decisions of scale have formal significance; their contentual significances should be equally obvious. John Berger, among others, has pointed out that the portability of the easel painting was a signifier of private property. The increased scale of paintings from Barnett Newman onward suggests a more public arena—a society dominated by large institutions rather than by private individuals. The huge scale of many paintings today functions in part as a denial of transience through an implied reconstitution of the architectural support. Scale always has content, yet we read it so quickly that we hardly notice.

6. Content arising from the temporal duration of the artwork. The Platonist view that underlies the masterpiece tradition was stated by the Roman poet Seneca: "Vita brevis est, ars longa": life is short, art long. The artist's work, that is, was expected to outlive him or her. This hope went back at least to Sappho (6th century BC), who said that her poems would bring her immortality. The time‑reality in which the artwork lived was not precisely historical time: its proper time dimension was a posterity conceived as a mingling of historical time and eternity— the artwork would survive through historical time forever, like Sappho's undying roses. With it something of the artist's Soul (its trace at least) also became immortal. In terms of Greek philosophy, the artwork has crossed a metaphysical boundary like that at the level of the moon, below which things die, above which, not. Great art, in other words, was regarded as having captured something of deity—as Quintilian said of Pheidias' Zeus. That divine spark inside the artwork is its immortal Soul, which enables it, like the magical ritual, to penetrate through to higher metaphysical realms and to act as a channel to conduct higher powers downward while yet keeping them pure. We are all familiar with this view. Even in comedies, artists seek immortality. One silly poet of the Roman Empire is survived only by a scrap of verse saying that his oeuvre would outlast the ages.

This view of artworks goes back to times when they were sanctified objects made for use in rituals. It is primitive magic plain and simple, which ritually abolishes historical time. It typified Egyptian tomb art, which portrayed the places and things of eternity and was itself magically equivalent to them; it goes back probably to those Magdalenian paintings in the distant depths of caves, beyond the reach of the changes of night and day. Yet despite the extreme primitiveness of its beginnings, this theory of art came into Romantic Europe whole, and has survived to the present day. Goethe quite as much as Propertius—and Dylan Thomas as much as Goethe—expected to be singing his poems in a chariot driven by the Muses toward Heaven.

Works with exaggeratedly durable materials— such as the granite in which the Egyptians carved pharaohs—participate in this Platonic daydream of transcending the web of cause and effect here below. The idea, of course, is integral to the formalist Modern tradition, which is throughout solidly founded on primitive thoughts and intentions. It is why the artwork is held to have no relation to socio‑economic affairs: it has transcended conditionality and, by capturing a spark of the divine, has become an ultimate. Signs of this metaphysic virtually ooze from the works made on its assumption, which can be detected not only by the durability of their materials but also by the pomposity that surrounds their aesthetic displays.

   Just as clearly, an opposite metaphysic is asserted by works made in deliberately ephemeral modes or materials—a metaphysic affirming flux and process and the changing sense of selfhood. The obsessive expectation of posterity is linked with the belief in Soul and constitutes, in effect, a claim that one has a Soul. Works affirming flux involve the opposite assumption, that the self is a transient situation arising from the web of conditions and subject to its changes.

7. Content arising from the context of the work. When the work leaves the artist's studio, what route does it take into what part of the world? This decision always has political content. Mail Art and other strategies to bypass the channels of commodification are expressions of resistance to the processes of commodity fetishism and are gestures toward the abandonment of exchange value and the regaining of use value. Other kinds of content cling to specific contextual situations. The release of a commodifiable aesthetic object into the marketing network often carries with it an opposite burden of content. It wants to be bought, and like anything that wants to be bought its attempts to ingratiate itself with prospective buyers are obvious, no matter that it may have been made by a monument of integrity such as Jackson Pollock. These are things that one must cock one's head slightly differently to see—and then at once they become obvious. All art is site‑specific to that degree. Declaredly site‑specific art involves selection of context as a major contentual statement: Is the work protected apart in a distant fenced compound of the New Mexico desert? Or is it thrown down in one section or another of an urban downtown? The contentual aspects of such decisions are as important as their formal aspects are.

8. Content arising from the work's relationship with art history. When the historicist drive is greatly exacerbated, as at the height of the Greenberg era, there is also a mythic‑millennialist content which carries with it a weight of German metaphysics and residual Neo‑Platonic spirituality. The myth of the evolution toward the innocent Eye suggests a drive toward the paradise at the End of History. The opposite of this complete affirmation of art history as a cosmic‑spiritual directionality is an iconoclastic approach, sometimes expressed in deliberate primitivism. Yet in a sense this type of movement is an attempt to roll back the tradition of vision to the earlier phase of innocence, the paradise beforehistory. These two movements, though opposite, complement one another.

The most common mode of content arising from the work's relationship to art history is in the use of allusions and quotations to assert a special relationship with some other work or tradition of works. James McNeill Whistler's introductions of references to Japanese painting and the Cubist references to African art are examples of such content, commenting, in both cases, on the closedness of the Western tradition and suggesting alternative aesthetic codes beyond it. Lately, the most common type of allusion has been to earlier works in one's own tradition. This level of content is so important to our present moment that I will discuss it in detail later.

9. Content that accrues to the work as it progressively reveals its destiny through persisting in time. I mean here much what Walter Benjamin meant when he said that a man who died at age 30 would forever after be regarded as a man who, at whatever stage of his life, woulddie at age 30. Whatever occurs to a work as its history unfolds becomes part of the experience of the work, and part of its meaning, for later generations. Duchamp added content to the Mona Lisa; Tony Shafrazi to Guernica, and what's his‑name to Michelangelo's Saint Peter's Pi eta.The fact that Greenberg used Pollock's works as proofs of the idea of contentless painting is now part of the content of those paintings.

10. Content arising from participation in a specific iconographic tradition. Iconography is a conventional mode of representing without the supposition that natural resemblance is involved. Thus to Christians blue may be felt as Mary's color without a suggestion that it looks like Mary. Through iconographic conventions, identifications and comments are made through conventional signals. A Christian, for example, sees not a human woman talking to a birdwinged man, but the Annunciation. To a Hindu a crowned man on a bird is Vishnu and Garuda, with all the myths and feelings associated with them called instantly into play. At less conscious levels are iconographic messages in movies, from the white and black hats in early Westerns to, say, clothing semiotics in Scarface. Context signals us toward one response or another: for example, the ringing telephone in a love film may signal an assignation, while in a gangster film a contract for assassination.

Whether some widely‑distributed iconographic conventions are based on innate psychological foundations, such as Jungian archetypes, is an unanswerable question, but it is clear that inherited conventions of this type saturate our responses and are effective in a hidden way in many artworks. One critical approach to 20th‑century art that has been very little used, yet is remarkably fruitful, is to subject it to interpretation in terms of the iconographic stream that goes back in both East and West, to the ancient Near East and beyond. Willem de Kooning's "Women," for example, may profitably be compared with goddess‑representations from Hindu Kali to Egyptian Isis to the leopard goddess of Catal Huvuk.

11. Content arising directly from the formal properties of the work. The formalist idea that abstract art lacks content is rightly seen today as archaic. It seems the associative and conceptualizing activities of the human mind go on constantly and transpire in an instant. Thus we see everything within some frame of meaning. If perceptions truly had no content whatsoever they would be blank moments in consciousness and would leave no trace in memory. At one level, formal configurations function as ontological propositions. Merely by shaping energy one models the real; every grasping or shaping is a rhetorical persuasion for a view of reality. Critics commonly have asserted that music has no content. But, for example, Beethoven is widely experienced as presenting a view of reality as stormy, turbulent, and full of passionate striving, while Bach presents it as serene, cool hyper‑realms of sensuous mathematical order. A Pollock drip painting asserts flux and indefiniteness of identity as qualities that can be found in the world. This tautological interface between form and content is not a mystical attempt to unify opposites. It simply means that a work demonstrates a type of reality by embodying it. Thus abstract art, far from being non‑representational, is, in effect, a representation of concepts; it is based on a process like that of metaphor, and overlaps somewhat with both iconography and representation.

This level of content is involved in value judgments, since it relates especially closely to the content of visual ideology (though visual ideology arises from all levels of content at once); hence, it confuses aesthetic issues somewhat. The assertion by Althussierian critics that aesthetic feeling is merely and exclusively a response to visual ideology is based on the Lacanian model of how the self constitutes itself from the surrounding cultural codes and then, looking at these codes again, seems to recognize itself in them. Whether a purely aesthetic level of response can ever be isolated from the encroachment of this process is a major question in art today.

12. Content arising from attitudinal gestures (wit, irony, parody, and so on) that may appear as qualifiers of any of the categories already mentioned. This level of content usually involves a judgment about the artist's intentions. The desire to persuade, for example, is a form of intentionality that saturates some works and involves itself in all their effects John Keats referred to such a situation when he wrote, "We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us." Our word "propaganda" means much the same. In irony, wit, and so on, some level of content is presented by the artist with indications that his or her attitude toward it is not direct and asseverative but indirect and perverse. The process is complex. The viewer's mind compares the statement received with another hypothetical statement which the mind constructs as representing the normal or direct version, and by contrast with which the abnormal and indirect approach can be perceived and measured Thus ironic indirection, entering into any other category of content, criticizes that content at the same time it states it, and alters the charge of meaning.

13. Content rooted in biological or physiological responses, or in cognitive awareness of them. Various claims have been made about types of communication that operate on a purely physiological level. (In fact, formalism, with its "purely optical" trend, was a claim of this type, while with its "faculty of taste" it introduced a supernatural ally to the optic nerve.) Sebastiano Timpanaro and others have suggested that some types of subject matter, such as sex and death, appeal to us because we know that we are organisms subject to death and involved in sexual reproduction; these responses, then, are prior to socio‑economic acculturation. Contentual readings that may be closer to pure physiological responses would include the stirring of the genitals in response to pictures of sexual subjects, the phenomenon of fainting at the sight of blood, or of becoming nauseous from viewing gory pictures; and so on. This is the level of content that is often denounced as "sensationalism"—sex and violence—with the denunciation presumably based on a sense of how easy it is to construct images that will elicit such responses. Some psychological research has suggested innate responses to colors, blue for example (perhaps contrary to popular notions) arousing feelings of aggression and pink of peacefulness. (There is an odd parody here of what the formalists sometimes called the "feeling" of color.)

Perhaps the psychoanalytic content associated with the theories of D.W. Winnicott belongs in this category, on the grounds that it arises from memories of primordial phases in the development of the organism. In relation to painting, Winnicott's work suggests (not for the first time) an equation between the figure‑ground relationship on the one hand and the ego‑world relationship on the other. Work that emphasizes the ground, or an ambiguous condition in which figure is almost completely merged into ground, expresses the ego's desire to dissolve itself into a more generalized type of being, on the remembered model of the infant's sleep on its mother's breast. Work that emphasizes figure, or clear separation of figure and ground, expresses a sense of egoclarity, and a fear of ego‑loss or of the loss of the clear boundaries between ego and world. (In more traditional terms, these are, respectively, the Dionysian and the Apollonian.) All artworks, I think (perhaps all human actions of any type), express an attitude on this question, no matter what else they express. In some cases this question is brought into the foreground as a primary artistic content; Barnett Newman, Mark Rothko, Ad Reinhardt, Agnes Martin, and others have all portrayed the moment when ego begins to differentiate itself for the dual‑unity (as Geza Roheim called it) with the mother's body. These artists saw in their own work a metaphysical moment that is a correlate of this psychoanalytic moment: the subject of "Creation," "Beginning," "Day One," "The Deep," and so on—the first emergence of differentiated things from the primal abyss of potentiality (compare Winnicott's term "potential space," which also correlates metaphysically with prime matter). Seen in these metaphysical terms this content can also be placed in the category of content arising from the formal properties of the work by a process like that of metaphor.

This list of thirteen categories is like a series of sample sightings of some great beast (Meaning) whose behavior is too complex to be fully formulated. As long as we chose to look for different ways to sort these things out we would find them. The categories I have presented overlap and interpenetrate at various places. (It would be foolish to expect a crisp set of categories from an activity of mammals.) Furthermore, as long as we choose to look for more ways in which the mind reads meaning out of an artwork, we would find them, too. Each possible network of relations between categories is itself another means of conveying a precise, if complex, content, and the possible networks and meta‑networks of relations among the thirteen listed above proceed toward infinity.

The relation between content arising from representation and content arising from formal properties is a prominent example of this type of interaction. To show Wellington at Waterloo with Goyaesque grotesquerie, or with expressionistically fraying edges denying the integrity of ego, would add to the subject matter a thematic content involving denial of heroic integrity, or some such. Similarly, grandiosity of scale can conflict with triviality of subject matter, as in much Pop art. Indeed, conflicts between all levels can occur, and in infinite regresses of complexity which cannot be individually defined here. A work that features contradictions among its levels of content thereby gains yet another level involving concepts like paradox, inner struggle, tension, and negation of meaning‑processes. On the other hand, works that exhibit a high degree of harmony or mutual confirmation among the various levels of content tacitly model the real as integrated, whole, and rich in meaning, somewhat in the manner of the traditional masterpiece.

Not all works, of course, have all levels of content. Abstract art, for example, has eliminated naive realist representationalism. The number of levels that are in fact discernibly present (or absent) provides us with yet another level of content. Works in both the Minimalist and the Sublime directions, for example, exhibit an attempt to eliminate content or at least to reduce the number of contentual levels present in the work. This attempt in itself declares or acts out a new level of content; no work ever attains the zero degree of content, since the concept of a zero‑degree of content is itself a content. In combination with other levels (primarily verbal supplements by the artist) this content may express the Minimalist ethic, or the Sublimist, or an impersonalist ethic, as in much International‑style architecture. In 20th‑century painting this anti‑contentual content has been of enormous importance. From Malevich to Klein to Newman, attempts were made to represent concepts like void, emptiness, prime matter, and the absolute by plastic analogues of the characteristics of solitary grandeur, nondifferentiation, and potentiality. In contrast, works of the traditional masterpiece type—from the Sistine ceiling to Guernica—tend to articulate as many levels of content as possible in their portrayal of a full‑bodied sense of rich, meaningful involvement in life.

This list of contents that arise among categories could be extended indefinitely. What is essential is that we begin to appreciate the complexity of what we do when we relate to an artwork. Far from being a "purely optical" and unmediated reflex, the art event is an infinitely complex semiotic Bead Game involving many different levels and directions of meaning, and infinite regresses of relations among them. Let's forget for a moment the Eye of the Soul and think of the marvelous mammalian brain which instantly reads out these many different codes, keeps them separate while balancing and relating them, and produces a sense of the work in which all these factors are represented, however transformed through interplay with the particular receiving sensibility. Far from a simplistic philistinism, content is a complex and demanding event without which no artwork could transpire. It demands our attention since with out awareness of these distinctions and levels we do not really know what has happened already in art, and what is happening now for the first time.