The image

Divided (c) Samantha Groenestyn

The painter practices a shadowy art: one of flimsy surfaces imbued with illusory depth, one of treacherous likenesses, one of unbounded profusion that disrupts the rigorous order imposed by the rational mind, one of quivering movement that breaks the quietude of the soul. But this is only within the carefully demarcated world of representation, built upon the long-entrenched prejudices of Platonism. The world of representation infers models for every copy; it assumes every image to be in a degraded relation of dependency upon some unwavering truth (Deleuze, 1990 [1969]: 259). Being visible, painting may only approximate truth. It must imperfectly mimic truth, offering us merely a plausible rendition (Plato, Tim., 28a; 29b). Painting proliferates wildly, disgorging as many iterations of truth as there are viewpoints at every conceivable time. Painting boils over with the feverish richness of experience, actualising every basic human truth–love, longing, loss, contentedness–in every different shade and hue. Painting challenges the impulse to declare truth abstract and constant. Each life might be reduced to the same few categories, but the art is in the living, in the particular threads we weave. The painter who escapes the arena of representation makes a claim for the positive power of the image, shedding the conception of the image as imitation. She attempts to ‘reverse Platonism’ (Deleuze, 1990: 253; 262).

 

I

Representation is founded on a false relation. It draws a connection between a painting and the world, suggesting that the painting, like a word, stands in for something in the world–something which thus must be more real. The relation is unequal, for the world does not refer to the painting. Better yet, says representation, the painting–like a word–might stand in for something far more abstract, something not even visible in the world. By an elaborate chain of substitution, a painting is first divided into colour and drawing, and by means of drawing it is dismembered into figures and ground: a figure is selected and cut out by line, peeled out of its context and raised up as a sign; that sign, now sharply recognisable, can shed its visual form for a word, a word which refers to an object in the world which in turn is but a metaphor for a deeper idea. This is to say: representation denies a painting its own status. It places it at the end of a long series of imperfect replacements for verbal thought. The original assumption behind representation is that thought is necessarily abstract and invisible, but that to trade thoughts with one another we must dress them up in inadequate clothing.

To challenge this assumption is to assert other modes of thought. It is to suggest that the painting, as it is, in its entirety, is complete; that it may be confronted on its own terms, not greeted as a carrier of other messages. This would break down Art as we have come to know it: tour guides, artist statements and historical notes would prove incidental. Painters would not calculate their strokes according to verbal ideas, nor would they translate their technically weak paintings back into words that explain them. It is only representation that demands explanation, that drives the impulse to understand. Explanation and understanding pursue the referents at the expense of their disposable carriers. Once the truths buried in the painting are uncovered, the skin that is the painting may be cast aside.

But the painting may not be cast aside as a skin. If this were the case, any skin would do: any covering would only imperfectly approximate that buried truth, and many coverings could be reduced to that single truth. Wittgenstein (1966: 36) holds up the stubbornness of the particular and the mad repetition it induces–not just any minuet will do; not just any Mary, not just any Nordic sea. It is this one that resonates with me in this moment, it is this one I return to again and again. The idea is not enough; what moves me is precisely this manifestation in all its particularity.

 

II

We begin, with Deleuze (1990: 7), to return to the surface, accepting its limitless possibility. We confront the flatness of the painting and we do not demand depth of it, layered meanings, or buried truths. We do not dissect it, because such holes would deflate this thing that hovers before us as a unity, carefully interwoven, every stroke balanced against every other. We turn from our analysis and begin to affirm, with Lucretius (DRN IV), the multiple, the positivity of the infinite, the world itself (Deleuze, 1990: 279). The world mirrors the abundance of the picture plane, and its surface–across which the particularities of experience spread–offers us its most profound truths. Where we search for patterns, we find exceptions; where we impose laws, we must amend them to cope with variables. The world’s movements are subtle and fluid, and our explanations are clunky. But where our minds struggle to describe with precision, our bodies adapt to the rhythms of the world with remarkable dexterity (Merleau-Ponty, 2012 [1945]: 171-172). The search for depth confounds us; the direct contact reassures us.

 

III

Plato’s (Tim., 27c; 29b) old dichotomy haunts philosophy of art; we still divide the world into being and becoming and we trust the one more than the other. We set them as our standards for knowledge, and we condemn the painter along with the Sophist. For the ‘image’ is not simply a picture; in our tradition it has an enduring status as an imitation, as a copy of a model (Plato, Tim., 29b). It stands as the original mould of representation, since it necessarily clings to its referent. An image might be a picture, but it might be anything sensory–as Augustine’s (2009: 152; 172) vast palaces of the memory, catalogues of images gathered through all sensory channels, make clear. Whatever sensory mode it takes, ‘the image … is an ever-moving apparition of something else’ (Plato, Tim., 52c).

Plato (Tim., 29b) casts the image under the banner of becoming, which he considers an imperfect copy of eternal being. And the nature of becoming is that it is restless. It is always in transit, and never arriving. It is not height, but shrinking or growing, and each implies the other, because becoming is the possibility of all movement, it is the pull of opposing possibilities at once. ‘Alice does not grow without shrinking’ because becoming is the relation between what has been and what will be (Deleuze, 1990: 1). Becoming admits that the world consists in these comparisons; it admits how readily we slide between them as we shift our position or traverse time. Becoming encapsulates the surge towards but never the goal. Time itself, the very condition of movement and change, is the image of eternity (Plato, Tim., 37d). The instability it introduces into the world is the direct result of its status as a flawed copy of a perfect model. Indeed, the world itself, being visible, being encountered via the senses, is on Plato’s (Tim., 28b-29b) terms merely an image.

 

IV

It is not, then, that Plato urges us to distrust our senses, only that the world in all its loveliness is pitched as inferior to the divine. What is mental and spiritual cannot be grasped through the senses; it is the special privilege of intellect to think abstract thoughts (Plato, Tim., 34c, 37c, 45a). As abstractions, such thoughts distill the multiplicity of the world into immovable and universal concepts, revealing the simplicity and order of the structure of the world. Rather than ‘embracements of flesh,’ abstract thought permits the ‘embracement of my inner man: where there shineth into my soul what space cannot contain, and there soundeth what time beareth not away’ (Augustine, 2009, p. 150). While Augustine’s (2009: 152-153) palaces of memory are conceived spatially, as interlocking caverns where images (and not the things themselves) are stored up inside of us, abstract thoughts escape this spatial constraint. These purely intellectual products of reason and number–‘the things themselves’ and not images of them–take up ghostly residence in us, in no place (Augustine, 2009: 154-155).

Movement is characteristic of the surface, while the rational stillness of being can only lie at some deep core (Plato, Tim., 57d-58a). Plato shuns movement not only because it is disruptive and uncontainable, but also because it is superficial. It corresponds to passive perception rather than deep reflection; it blithely concerns itself with unassuming exteriors rather than troubling to dig for truth. The body gives us no access to the depths and its palpitations distract us from such sober and bodiless thoughts.

And when the painter coats a swathe of linen with a thin film of pigment bound with oil, promising nothing of depth, but only a reflection of our own turbulent emotions, she seems to leer as the charming Sophist, winning our trust with superficially appealing approximations rather than honest and probing arguments. Her art is a rhetorical one: she carefully appraises the situation and adapts her picture accordingly, responding to its effect rather than holding fast to truth (Lichtenstein, 1993 [1989]: 180). Truth becomes subordinate to the effectiveness of her picture, and a picture is not effective when it accurately conveys a message to us but when it moves us. The imitative art of painting mirrors, in all its shifty superficiality, the ‘imitative art of reasoning’ (Plato, Soph., 234b-c). Aligned with becoming rather than being, the painter and the Sophist at best make plausible claims; at worst they deliberately deceive. In any case, they lay no claim on knowledge, since they refuse to excavate the truth (Plato, Tim., 29b; Rep., 510a). The imitative art of painting and the imitative art of reasoning are arts of the surface.

 

V

Yet the imitative art consists in two distinct breeds, even by Plato’s (Soph., 235d-236c) account. He considers the art of likeness-making less reproachable than the art of making appearances. The likeness strives after the inner being of the object, attempting to remain faithful to its objective proportions, while the appearance fixes on its surface and, like the painter, preserves the relations between object and observer. The maker of appearances affirms with Merleau-Ponty (2012: 77-80; 196) that there is no view from nowhere, but only perspectives: views from here or there, a shifting web of relations across a rippling and indeterminate world. The maker of appearances is the agent of becoming (Deleuze, 1990, p. 256). The painter and the Sophist don the same guise, accused by Plato (Rep., 597b-e) of standing at the third remove from reality. Their copies are not honest copies of nature, such as the carpenter might construct. With utter disregard for things ‘as they are,’ the agents of becoming dazzle us with a false knowledge which only skims the surface. Their cheap imitation is only concerned with how things appear (Plato, Rep., 598a-600e).

The echoes of this accusation of sophistry ring well into the twentieth century. The Cubist painters fret over how to paint things as they are, and renounce the ‘surface effects’ of light and perspective, the painter’s traditional tools of depth (Rivière, 1966 [1912]: 82-83; Gleizes and Metzinger, 1988 [1912]: 37-38). In a fit of irony, the Cubists scramble to portray their inner selves by trying to depict the insides of mundane objects, and this they attempt by multiplying the surfaces of those objects and consciously depriving them of depth (Rivière, 1966: 88; Gleizes and Metzinger, 1988: 46; 52). Painting approaches higher peaks of absurdity the deeper it descends. Its intellectualism retreats from the sensory, seeking the bodiless abstractions that occupy no space in Augustine’s palaces of the memory. But its method remains stubbornly physical. Painting, after all, takes up space, it gives presence to thoughts. The Cubists encounter the limits of representation: if truth is deep, and painting remains at the surface, painting and truth are incompatible. And this is the very philosophical landscape Plato has herded us into: painting is in bondage to representation, inescapably subject to its hierarchy, by definition subordinate to it (Deleuze, 1990: 259-260).

 

VI

By insisting on what we have called the false relation of image to world, Plato has obscured the crucial division. Distracted with distinguishing copies from models, we failed to notice that we confront two types of images (Deleuze, 1990: 256). And these are not simply the true likeness (as of the craftsman) and the deceptive appearance of the painter-Sophist. Deleuze (1990: 257) makes very plain that ‘if we say it is a copy of a copy, an infinitely degraded icon, loose resemblance, we miss the difference in nature between simulacrum and copy.’

This difference in nature lies in a fundamental difference in conception of resemblance. Resemblance may stem from an original similitude or even identity, from which it decays the further it strays from the model, as in Plato’s position. Or it may stem from a fundamental disparity (Deleuze, 1990: 261). In the case of the former, the traditional copy, an inner, spiritual, mental resemblance is imperfectly preserved. The copy makes feeble reference to the model. But in the latter, no such inner structure binds the two; they converge precisely because they are different. Plato bears down on us with the insistence that this outward similarity is a trick, trying to mimic an inner bond. But Deleuze (1990: 253) stands firm, defiant in his effort to ‘reverse Platonism.’ The simulacrum, he insists, ‘internalises a dissimilarity’ (Deleuze, 1990: 258). The way out of the trap of representation is to seize upon this inner unrest.

The inner disparity revels in the outward profusion of similitude in the world. The world is a jubilant profusion of diversity, of reckless variation and rampant growth, spawning rainforests of unimaginable beasts and vegetation whose individuals yet present their own personal traits (Deleuze, 1990: 266). Amplifying on Lucretius (DRN IV), Deleuze (1990: 266; 268) argues that this abundance presents no threat; rather, ‘nature must be thought of as the principle of the diverse and its production,’ and that principle is a limiting one. Increase and multiplication do not run along every axis. The number of kinds is not infinite, but among each kind, infinite instances may occur. Growth is not entirely unrestricted–there is method in its madness. Permitting the wild permutations of the world affirms truth of an entirely different flavour: one that aligns with our experience at the surface of the world, daily confirmed by our bodily immersion in the world.

 

VII

The proliferation at the surface of the world cannot be described in representational terms. Each manifestation is not a deviation from a model, but it ‘speak[s] across difference’ (Foucault, 1983 [1973]: 32). The world multiplies in series, a level field of different objects without hierarchy, sitting by one another in all their distinctness. Where they resemble one another, we must understand this as the outward convergence of inwardly disparate things. Foucault (1983: 44) further refines the concept of resemblance, teasing out the inward disparity and calling it ‘similitude,’ abandoning ‘resemblance’ to representation. The visual likeness that a painting may offer appeals to similitude, to the proliferation in series like that at the surface of the world. It can move in any direction, as Alice shrinks and grows at once–for it is always becoming. It posits the ‘indefinite and reversible’ relations between cohabitant things, not the firm reference to a model (Foucault, 1983: 44). It is in this sense that it ‘refer[s] to nothing;’ it refers not to things but to fluid relations between things (Foucault, 1983: 48).

This likeness is of an entirely other kind than that for which Foucault reserves the term ‘resemblance,’ which is inescapably grounded on a model, clinging to that inner likeness (if not identity). Resemblance always returns to the model, its purpose is ever to sacrifice itself in order to reveal the model (Foucault, 1983: 44). It is the skin that sheds itself, the superficial layer that conceals, only to finally reveal, the depths. Resemblance proves to be in servitude to representation because it treats likeness as a sign. The sign is the gateway to penetrating the surface, and it ruthlessly requires substitution: ‘This thing,’ the sign proudly declares as it annihilates itself, ‘is something else’ (Foucault, 1983: 44).

And this is how, according to Foucault (1983: 53), resemblance reintroduces words into the world of shape, which actively resisted it. While painters worked wordlessly in their studios, marvelling at their own physical encounter with the surface of the world, at the golden sunlight that melted over a late afternoon in early Summer, at the shocking discord they discovered between themselves and close companions, at the dreary fog of futility that seemed to descend on a Sunday, noting all these things in their particularity and setting them down in paint from their own perspective, words were ever stalking the boundaries of likeness and waiting to seize it for deeper purposes (Foucault, 1983: 41). The painter may defer to either side, either embracing the sign or denying it. When she denies it, she reveals the depths to be empty. There was never anything to uncover, to understand or to interpret. ‘Absence reäscends to the surface’ (Foucault, 1983: 41).

 

VIII

Having cleared the depths, we must now face this absence. The painting looms before us, flat and silent. Disarmed of our representational tools, we must simply confront the surface, accepting that painters do not bury treasures but simply reflect an experience of the world. That world is lavish and indeterminate, shimmering at its edges (Husserl, 1973 [1948]: 87). It offers an ever-changing array of possibilities upon which we may seize, with each act opening out into a new branch of possibilities. This openness affirms the movement of the world, the agitation of a world that is always surging towards and never arriving, a world premised only upon becoming without any deeper and constant being. The movement ripples back and forth across a surface of reversible relations, of which the painter is one small thread in a complex weave. Though her position is arbitrary, it is nevertheless her own, and she wields her brush with conviction, actualising a little corner of that world from her perspective, emphasising the relations that resonate with her, imposing the order of perspective, not of internal resemblance. Things make sense from her angle, or rather, she makes sense of them, by setting these relations into a holistic harmony with one another, a harmony of colours, tones, shapes, lines and textures. She demonstrates not what the world means, but why it matters, praising each particular.

The painter thinks in terms of Augustine’s stored up images and not in the hovering truths of number. She returns to her easel with the same recurring impressions circling in her head, reconfiguring them and reformulating them until they touch a nerve, bypassing the intellect altogether (Sylvester and Bacon, 1975: 18). What she puts forward is not a statement, but something that, when effective, also resonates with us as viewers when we linger at the surface.

 

IX

The image is a tarnished concept, inextricably bound up in imitation: in the reference that copy makes to model. It binds us to the world of representation, a world in which painters are either deceitful Sophists with seductive rhetorical tricks, or in which they must disavow the surface and proclaim themselves messengers of deep truths, and try to resolve the paradox of giving spatial form to what is purely abstract. Where the image cannot be rescued, it must be replaced. We must appeal instead to the simulacrum, to similitude, to series and to surface. Painters side with the Sophist only to turn his question upon Plato (Soph. 239d): ‘Pray, what do you mean at all by an image?’ It is Plato (Soph. 239e-240a) who, ‘when you address him as though he had eyes,’ laughs in response, who ‘pretend[s] that he knows nothing of mirrors and streams, or of sight at all; [who] will say that he is talking about an idea.’ The painter wordlessly wipes back her thin film of wet paint and exposes nothing but the blank expectation of experience, of life ready to be lived.

 

Augustine. (2009). The Confessions. Oxford: Oxford University.

Deleuze, Gilles. (1990 [1969]). The Logic of Sense. Edited by Constantin V. Boundas. Translated by Mark Lester. London: Athlone.

Foucault, Michel. (1983 [1973]). This Is Not a Pipe. Translated by James Harkness. Berkeley: University of California.

Gleizes, Albert, und Jean Metzinger. (1988 [1912]). Über den ,Kubismus.’ Übertragung von Fritz Metzinger. Frankfurt (Main): Fischer.

Husserl, Edmund. (1973 [1948]). Experience and Judgment: Investigations in a Genealogy of Logic. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

Lichtenstein, Jacqueline. (1993 [1989]). The Eloquence of Colour: Rhetoric and Painting in the French Classical Age. Translated by Emily McVarish. Berkeley: University of California.

Lucretius, C. T., & Bailey, C. (1948). Lucretius on the nature of things. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. (2012 [1945]). Phenomenology of Perception. Hoboken: Routledge.

Plato. (1988). The Republic, 2nd edition. Translated by Desmond Lee. London: Penguin.

Plato. (1984). The being of the beautiful : Plato’s Theaetetus, Sophist, and Statesman. Chicago: University of Chicago.

Plato. (1976). Timaeus and Critias. Translated by Desmond Lee. Hammondsworth, England: Penguin.

Rivière, Jacques. (1966 [1912]). ‘Gegenwärtige Strömungen in der Malerei,’ in Der Kubismus, Ed. Edward Fry. Köln: DuMont Schauberg.

Sylvester, David, and Francis Bacon. (1975). Francis Bacon. 1st American ed. New York: Pantheon.

Wittgenstein, Ludwig. (1966). Lectures and Conversations on Aesthetics, Psychology and Religious Belief. Ed. by Cyril Barrett. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

Advertisements
Standard

Blueish yellow

The mirror (c) 2017 Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

The connection between colour and geometry demands some attention. Richard Heinrich (2014: 41) argues that ‘there is always a tension between … colour space and the geometry of colour,’ that conceptualising colour in terms of space is not as simple as unearthing the underlying geometric principles that will take care of everything. He is, of course, correct in this. There are many rich and nuanced ways of conceiving of colour spatially, from Aristotle’s delightfully plain string of colours, which Newton (1672) eventually closed into a circle, which has been expanded both theoretically and experimentally into various three-dimensional schema that are as idealised or roughly-hewn as their methods dictate (Briggs, 2017). A geometric conception of colour space, like that of Philipp Otto Runge (1810), approaches colour from a purely theoretical side, permitting us the sharp analytical divisions of conceptual midpoints and the elegant polish of a sphere as the theoretical limit. The reality of colour, both for the physicist and the painter, is much rougher at the edges, much more irregular, much grittier. But this does not mean that some abstracted principles, deliberately divorced from the messy realities of light and pigment, cannot be united with the practice in an instructive way. Indeed, such conceptual clarity can help the practicing colourist organise her approach to colour, while still allowing the flexibility to adapt those principles to experience.

But this is not really the disjunction that Heinrich is getting at. Rather, he is concerned that a geometric model for colour tries to explain both our perceptual experience and our concept of colour, and that this uneasy compromise tends to destroy our concept of colour (Heinrich, 2014: 41-42). We establish a working web of relations, but relations between possibly infinite coordinates of hue-value-chroma, none of which bear any greater significance over any other such that they attract the familiar and seemingly meaningful titles of ‘red’ or ‘yellow.’ This is true, but it points to the greater underlying problem that our concept of colour is desperately flawed. That we conceive of colour so misguidedly despite our firmer scientific grasp on it has only negative implications for painters. Most pressingly, there is a pervasive and false belief that colour cannot really be taught, which lends it a certain mysticism both in philosophy and in art schools. This mysticism is only compounded by the fact that colour is persistently mistaught on the basis of our flawed conception of it. We need to reconfigure our concept of colour or, if that is too extreme, to at least separate out a working theory of colour that practitioners–painters–can rely on from a more experiential understanding of it. This, I think, is not so outlandish: physicists operate with a different set of primary colours without threatening our habitual perceptual ideas about colour. What needs to be teased out is the psychological conception of colour, dearly-held but quite unrelated to the models most useful to artists and physicists.

From Runge, 1810: Farbenkugel

The primary colours are a good place to start, especially given Heinrich’s justified criticism of Runge’s development of the colour sphere (Farbenkugel). Runge moves deftly from a triangle (picking out red, yellow and blue) to a star which incorporates orange, green and purple, smooths them into a familiar colour-wheel and fleshes the whole thing out into a ball. The dubious move (which Heinrich (2014: 38) does not let him get away with) is that he begins with certain geometric parameters but quietly dissolves them along the way. The triangle is made of points, marking out the primary colours, which are connected by lines, which signify the gradations between them. The triangle says that conceptually, we grasp the idea of a ‘pure’ red–it tends neither towards yellow nor blue, it is not in the least orange or purple, it holds a privileged status as a colour (hue) that every orangish red and purplish red does not. It says that while there are many oranges, there is only one pure red.

We can, however, conceive of a middle-orange, one that appears equally red and yellow, and a green that is no more yellow than it is blue, and likewise a perfectly balanced purple. Runge (1810) thus bisects each line and places each of these so-called secondary colours at the midpoints, forming a small inverted triangle. Perhaps what starts to go awry here is that the lines from green to orange, from orange to purple, from purple to green, do not really signify anything–just a gradation of muddy browns. Runge expands this second triangle without explanation, presenting us with two triangles which we could not, on geometric terms, distinguish, though they represent vastly different ideas: the hierarchy is dissolved. To gloss over this fact, Runge removes the points altogether, and it is this that Heinrich (2014: 40) particularly objects to. The model abandons its initial claims about the significance of some colours above others and drops into a fluid mass of relations.

Runge’s Farbenkugel development

Runge’s move is questionable, but the result is perhaps not so catastrophic. This is not only because in practice, one can navigate colour more nimbly and efficiently when one thinks only in terms of relations rather than absolutes (for example, recognising that this mix should be bluer than that mix, rather than trying to match a particular fixed shade on a colour chip). But also because our attachment to the primary colours might be unjustified. Runge’s initial choice of red, yellow and blue–even as conceptual ideals–could be as arbitrary as his model ultimately suggests.

As David Briggs (2017) describes, the concept of a primary colour is itself somewhat muddy. We generally bring to it the idea of an ‘unmixed,’ ‘pure,’ or ‘primitive’ colour. But these intuitions bring various assumptions, mostly derived from paint, which are simply nonsensical when we describe colour in terms of light. In light, common colours compound the reflectance: green does not ‘defile’ red, but their shared components yield yellow and their differing components cleanly cancel out. Another enduring sense of ‘primary colour’ is a colour from which all others can be derived. This would already force us to branch colour into two separate realms, one of paint and one of light, which revolve around different base colours: subtractive and additive primaries, respectively. Briggs (2017) assiduously notes that this formulation brings conceptual dangers of its own, particularly that ‘it is a small and slippery step from the observation that all hues can be made from three primary colours, to the assumption that all hues are made of those three colours,’ which would be another paint-oriented bias.

To further complicate the idea of a primary colour, Briggs (2017) rightly points out that in fact we cannot derive all colours from just three. For the painter, purple is notoriously elusive because red pigment is still too yellow, thus the mixture of red and blue tends to result in an unsavoury brown. Painters resort to other pigments such as a rose (suspiciously magenta-like) or to outright purple pigments. Perhaps even more shatteringly, the additive primaries are no more certain, they do not correspond to any specific red or green or blue wavelengths; rather, Briggs describes them as optimal ranges of wavelengths. Defining primary colours at all turns out to be a hazardous and imprecise enterprise; at the very least this should cause us to question what reason we have to insist on points in our geometric model of colour.

Copy after Mestrovic

That reason might have something to do with our perception. Ewald Hering (1878) describes another set of primaries: the four psychological primary colours of red, yellow, green and blue. These four colours are privileged for having a ‘mentally unmixed’ status, while all other colours seem, to our minds, to be gradations between adjacent colours. This is why an orange can satisfactorily be described as a yellowish red, but we feel uncomfortable to describe a green as a yellowish blue. This seems to be the unrelinquishable ‘grammar of colour’ that Heinrich (2014: 41) particularly wants to hold onto: the sense, based in our experience of colour, that these colours are distinct and in this way primitive. This stance seems as arbitrary and as defensible as any: green is rigid and present in our experience in a way that orange is not. Or as Heinrich (2014: 41) puts it, ‘we will have to admit that green lies between blue and yellow in a fundamentally different sense as orange between yellow and red.’ But for the painter, green remains a mixture of yellow and blue, just as red may be a mixture of rose and yellow, depending on her pigments. And for the physicist, green is the absence of blue and red, while orange is a more complex array of light. Our mental divisions–what we project onto the world and how we break it down–do not correspond to the ‘input into our visual system’ and the stimulation of our rods and cones (Briggs, 2017); nor do they correspond to the pigments that happen to be available to painters. And that might be just fine.

What I propose is to keep these three types of colour systems distinct, while acknowledging their intersections. Runge’s colour sphere perfectly captures the fluid conceptual relations between hues and their values and chroma for the painter. Since it is advantageous to think relationally rather than in absolutes when trying to establish a harmonious colour context in a painting, an idealised, geometric model of three-dimensional colour space proves a useful tool for the painter. Such a tool, being relatively simple, yet rich and adaptable to any situation, empowers the painter both to organise her observations and translate them into paint, and to teach a coherent and systematic approach to colour to her students.

Copy after Belvedere Apollo cast

Physicists, meanwhile, may continue to measure wavelengths, discuss energy, and optimise their additive primaries of red, green and blue. Since the physicist is concerned with describing what light information enters the eye, his measurements do not undermine or contradict the relational model of the painter’s pigments. Rather, the two conceptions intersect unexpectedly beautifully: the complementaries of the additive primaries (red, green and blue) are cyan, magenta and yellow. These last three are used in printing to achieve the maximum range of mixed colours, and can be shown to yield a broader gamut of colours in paint than red, yellow and blue. This elegant inversion, identified by Helmholtz (1852a), perhaps gives us a firmer reason to fix cyan, magenta and yellow as the optimal subtractive primaries, if indeed we would rather retain points in our geometric model of colour space. At the very least, we might revise our pedagogical practices and stop teaching painters colour theory based on the psychological primaries rather than on the actual properties of light and pigments.

A painter does not need to understand the physics of light in order to manipulate paint. The systems remain conceptually distinct. But I think it would be correct to say that not only is the painter’s system inversely related to the physicist’s; it is also subordinate to it in the sense that after the pigments are applied, a painting, too, is simply an object reflecting wavelengths of various frequencies into the rods and cones in our eyes. In this sense, as Briggs (2017) argues, the painter works with light. He offers a particularly nice example that bridges the two systems in the practice of painting. A painter can drag paint roughly over dry paint of another colour such that the colour underneath sparkles through the gaps, or lay small strokes of different colours next to each other as the Impressionists did. The eye mixes these physically unmixed colours in an additive manner. Scientifically, it would be called ‘additive averaging mixing;’ painters call it ‘optical mixing’ and use it knowledgeably to great effect. Briggs (2017) further argues that the painter works with perception, and that what the spectator perceives remains largely geared around the four psychological colours, by which he makes sense of the painting.

And so we return to the ‘concept of colour’ that Heinrich is reluctant to dissolve into the more sophisticated systems. Drawing on Ludwig Wittgenstein, he relates it to a ‘grammar of colour,’ which modestly and openly captures something but not all of our experience of colour (Heinrich, 2014: 41). This is the key: none of the systems of colour we have discussed capture everything of our experience of colour; each operates in its realm without excluding or invalidating the others. An artist might comfortably talk of a ‘blueish yellow’: her vivid cadmium yellow paint is redder than the mental ideal of yellow; she can physically add blue to it to make it more yellow. But for the spectator, who now sees an ideal yellow in the painting, no feat of mental dexterity seems to allow him to imagine a blueish yellow. The slightest introduction of blue slides the colour irrevocably into the lush spectrum of greens. That is simply the mental category of green. And since, mentally, green is opposed to red, our brains cannot grasp a red that leans towards green, or a green that leans towards red. The curious thing is that yellow and blue, though they complement as strikingly as red and green, merge effortlessly into a pleasing colour. This says very little about how light or pigments operate, but it says a great deal about what we project onto what we see. Perhaps a phenomenology of colour would treat of questions like these.

Copy after Mihanovic

In any case, as spectators with firm mental categories for colour, the are things we can say about colour, and things that we cannot. Wittgenstein (LWL, 8) is not so facetious to suggest that certain models of colour–such as his favoured colour octahedron–are ‘really a part of grammar… It tells us what we can do: we can speak of a greenish blue but not of a greenish red etc. … Grammar is not entirely a matter of arbitrary choice.’ Grammar has its role, and need not be threatened by geometrical schema designed to help the painter navigate colour space, any more than it should be threatened by physics. A grammar of colour seems to attempt to describe our intuitions about colour based on how we perceive it, just as the grammar of a natural language attempts to explain how we structure our expressions, even though it may consist more in explaining exceptions than syntactic regularities (Chomsky, 1965: 5). Perhaps the intersection between a geometric colour space and a grammar grounded in a phenomenology of colour would reveal yet more rewarding insights, perhaps as beautifully connected as light and paint have proved to be.

Briggs, David. 2017. The Dimensions of Colour: Modern Colour Theory for Traditional and Digital Painting Media. Accessed November 2017, <www.huevaluechroma.com>.

Chomsky, Noam. 1965. Aspects of the Theory of Syntax. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT.

Heinrich, Richard. 2014. ‘Green and Orange – Colour and Space in Wittgenstein.’ In: Frederik Gierlinger, Stefan Riegelnik (Eds), Wittgenstein on Colour. Berlin, Boston: De Gruyter.

Helmholtz, H. 1852a. ‘On the Theory of Compound Colours’. Philosophical Magazine, Fourth Series, 4(4): 519-34.

Hering, Ewald. 1878. Zur Lehre Vom Lichtsinne. Wien: Gerolds Sohn.

Newton, Isaac. 1672. A Letter of Mr Isaac Newton, Professor of the Mathematicks in the University of Cambridge; Containing His New Theory about Light and Colours: Sent by the Author to the Publisher from Cambridge, Febr. 6. 1671/72; In Order to Be Communicated to the R. Society. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, 6, 3075,8.

Runge, Philipp Otto. 1810. Farbenkugel: Konstruktion Des Verhältnisses Aller Mischungen Der Farben Zueinander Und Ihrer Vollständigen Affinität. Köln: Tropen.

Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1980. (LWL) Wittgenstein’s Lectures, Cambridge, 1930-32, from the Notes of John King and Desmond Lee. Lee, Desmond (Ed.). Oxford: Blackwell.

Standard

Going underground

Vienna is a guarded, secretive city, where people go about their business privately, and very often, quite literally, turn underground. When I think of the artistic climate in which we live, the prevailing worship of autobiographical indulgence and ill-eduated expressiveness, it’s no surprise that artists who care for draughtsmanship, intelligent mark-making and the knowledgeable construction of pictures exist at the fringe. Without even a chance to secede, for we were never admitted in the first place, we retire to the cellars beneath our city and keep our happy occupations among ourselves.

Only, we ourselves have grown so much since we tentatively began meeting over a common interest in investigating the human form. Our collective expands and changes, absorbing new members with their own priorities, and our sessions adapt organically, organisational responsibilities shift hands, emphases adjust. But our many faces reflect a common conviction that makes us something of a movement: our very existence asserts with Wittgenstein (1953: 178),

‘Der menschliche Körper ist das beste Bild der menschlichen Seele.’

(‘The human body is the best picture of the human soul.’)

10

© Christine Schmidl

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Thursday we put on our second group exhibition. Our familiar Keller was bursting at the seams, filled with the merry faces of our dear friends and families, of long-lost acquaintances; the walls were decked with the astonishingly diverse works of twenty artists—some amateurs, some professionals, some students, some in sister artistic fields, and at all stages in between. Quick, gestural notations hung alongside careful, long-term studies; painted portraits beside pencilled figure drawings; shape-laden abstractions beside colour-drenched impressions of the figure; animated marker drawings next to fresh digital works.

Our hunger for more visual material connects us with so many other circles—our friends include musicians and dancers and scientists who all submit to our voracious appetite for interesting faces. It also means we are fortunate enough to be closely acquainted with exceptional musicians who enchanted us with Grieg and Debussy, performing with gravity and with spunk, showing us that finely-tuned expressive control over their auditory media which we search for in our own visual ones.

8

© Christine Schmidl

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If Vienna has taught me anything about life, it’s that if you can’t find your place, go underground. Rilke (1997 [1903]: 14) urges us from the distant past,

‘Sie sehen nach außen, und das vor allem dürften Sie jetzt nicht tun. Niemand kann Ihnen raten und helfen, niemand. Es gibt nur ein einziges Mittel. Gehen Sie in sich.’

(‘You are looking to the outside, and that above all you should not be doing now. Nobody can help and advise you, nobody. There is only one way. Go into yourself.’) And when you turn inward, sometimes you are pleasantly surprised to find that you are not alone after all, and the like-minded fringe-dwellers will find you. The glamorous, reticent yet ebullient Vienna of our dreams is alive and well, and eluding you just beneath the surface.

9

© Christine Schmidl

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rilke, Rainer Maria. 1997. Briefe an einen jungen Dichter / Briefe an eine unge Frau. Diogenes: Zürich.

Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1953. Philosophische Untersuchungen / Philosophical Investigations. Trans. G. E. M. Anscombe. Basil Blackwell: Oxford.

Standard

Disrespect

aktzeichnen

Philosophy demands a certain arrogance. Clear and deep thinking requires a solid grounding in and familiarity with the thought of our forebears, as intelligent painting requires an intimate communion with painting of the past. But the type of philosophy that hovers over the past, circling like ravenous vultures, and only cautiously picking at things that have already been thought, tentatively offering patches for small tears in the fabric, or perhaps safely offering an historical overview of thinkers long deceased, is desperately timid.

tinte

This acceptable sort of philosophy, while courteous and respectful, seems to discard the real purpose of philosophy, the true inquisitive nature of it. Philosophy is a razor-sharp tool that can be turned upon the world to make incisive insights, to fundamentally change our view of it. Wittgenstein (1953: 47) says decisively and dramatically, ‘Die Philosophie ist ein Kampf gegen die Verhexung unsres Verstandes durch die Mittel unserer Sprache.’ (‘Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language.’)

pencil

It’s difficult to imagine Wittgenstein diligently attending seminars on how to narrow the scope of his research questions, how to situate his small contribution among the multitudinous academic literature, how to structure his dissertation—beginning with the immovable words of some philosophical heavyweight, detailing the near impenetrable ideas and only at the end offering some humble amendments. Did Wittgenstein’s potential supervisors chide him, ‘Herr Wittgenstein, don’t be a hero’? Imagine the number of scholars who would be put out of work had Wittgenstein been deterred by advice that philosophy should not be visionary!

Ivo

My philosopher friend Kim Solin (2013: 57) notes in his own dissertation that ‘there is sometimes an assertive tone in Wittgenstein’s writings, since the descriptions and objects of comparison need to be taken seriously, so that they will change the way we view things.’ Wittgenstein’s arrogance stems not exactly from disrepect or disregard for the past, but from a firm belief in how philosophy operates, and why. Unlike in science, Wittgenstein (1953: 47) is at pains to make clear, we are not proposing and testing some hypothesis with the goal of piecing together a theory. We do not need an army of lab-rats filling in gaps and completing Kant’s or Descartes’ or Hume’s ‘theories.’ Philosophy, rather, turns a light on the problems we encounter in life, be they moral problems or aesthetic problems, mathematical problems or political problems. It allows us, at a distance from the practical domain, to inspect the nature of those problems, to deepen our understanding and to help us find a new way forward:

‘We must do away with all explanation and description alone must take its place. And this description gets its power of illumination—i.e. its purpose—from the philosophical problems. … The problems are solved not by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known.’

This healthy disrespect for restrictive academic processes is a sort of intellectual self-preservation: Solin (2013: 61) writes that it is not exactly that we lack respect, rather that ‘one should try to protect oneself from being taken into possession by [in his case] mathematics. … Showing some disrespect might just well be what is needed for that.’ The structures within academia attempt to preserve rigorous standards of thought. They prevent crackpots from publishing incoherent madness; they extend a tradition rather than permitting ruptures; they encourage common languages among scholars, rather than letting them rave unintelligibly past each other. I have nothing against this. But these firm structures should not paralyse us with fear—they should not possess us. We have something to say, and it might not only be a counter-claim. We are observing the world, too, and probing into the nature of problems. Our backgrounds—some practical, some theoretical—afford us different insights. Facing the wall of opponents we are expected to politely challenge, we feel nothing but an indescribable fatigue. Perhaps we can leave such work for others—perhaps we have some new and optimistic description to offer.

Copy after Rubens

Copy after Rubens

Of course, this does not mean the world is unbounded. We stand firmly upon the work that has gone before, we read and read, we learn to think by thinking through the thoughts of others. We set meaningful and useful parameters for our own work, we attempt to define limits. We strive after clarity and humbly keep quiet and listen when we meet an idea worth attention. Our attitude reflects Wittgenstein’s, as elucidated at the outset of his Tractatus (1963 [1921]: 7):

‘Was sich überhaupt sagen läßt, läßt sich klar sagen; und wovon man nicht reden kann, darüber muß man schweigen. Das Buch will also dem Denken eine Grenze ziehen, oder vielmehr—nicht dem Denken, sondern dem Ausdruck der Gedanken: Denn um dem Denken eine Grenze zu ziehen, müßten wir beide Seiten dieser Grenze denken können.’

(‘Anything that can be said at all, can be said clearly; and what one cannot speak about, one must keep quiet about. This book wants to draw a limit for thought, or rather—not for thought, but for the expression of thoughts: for in order to find the limits of thought we must be able to think on both sides of that border.’)

Copy after Maler

Copy after Maler

We do not deny the significance of what came before us, neither in art nor in philosophy. We do not seek to upend and discard everything and begin afresh. We only hope for enough room to advance our own ideas. We fear that, like Nelson (2010: 161), we might be forced to ‘come laden with contemporaneous references which plug up my case with footnotes, as though art were a leaky vessel, the flow of whose life-humours only art-historical paranoia can staunch.’ For we agree with Nelson (2010: 161) that ‘no number of footnotes carries as much intellectual authority as a poetic insight.’ And we do not forget that it was Wittgenstein (1963 [1921]: 7-8) himself, that revered pillar of philosophy, who brazenly commenced his work with a shamelessly visionary attitude:

‘darum gebe ich auch keine Quelle an, weil es mir gleichgültig ist, ob das was ich gedacht habe, vor mir schon ein anderer gedacht hat.’

(‘Hence I am also not providing any sources, because I am indifferent as to whether what I thought was already thought by another before me.’

dancer

 

 

 

Nelson, Robert. 2010. The visual language of painting: An aesthetic analysis of representational technique. Australian Scholarly Publishing: Melbourne.

Solin, Kim. 2013. The mathematician as mathematics: Theories of computation in light of Wittgenstein’s thought. Uppsala: Filosofika institutionen.

Wittgenstein. Ludwig. 1953. Philosophische Untersuchungen / Philosophical Investigations. Trans. G. E. M. Anscombe. Basil Blackwell: Oxford.

Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1963 [1921]. Tractatus logico-philosophicus Logisch-philosophische Abhandlung. Suhrkamp.

Standard

Lernen & Lehren

Morgens / Mornings © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

Morgens / Mornings © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

I have begun to teach drawing. It’s a dizzying experience: a job for which I have full responsibility—in the content, the delivery, the managing of people, organisation, physical premises, money and the division of time. It’s a careful balance to pull everything together. I am a performer, I set the tone. It’s humbling to see people trust my guidance, trust in what I do. I see, plötzlich, how my own teachers felt falsely idolised when they knew the limitations of their own work. But I also see a logical way to lay out the learnings I have gathered from many places over several years, a systematic way to present them to others, to share the discoveries that blew my mind.

Ivo

And what is it that we teach? When I think over my own artistic education, all its variegations and approximations, all the extended drawings and prolonged investigation, all the gentle praise and gentle corrections, all the forceful criticisms and all the times someone else took my pencil and violated my page—I would have to agree with Wittgenstein about the importance of experience. Artists are constantly making judgements, and cementing them in material form. Some judge better than others, because their knowledge is deeper. And this, like the knowledge that enables one to judge ‘the genuineness of expressions of feelings,’ is certainly learned, but not ‘by taking a course in it, but through experience’ (Wittgenstein, 1953: 227).

Claudia

Drawing is ultimately about making judgements, and I firmly believe that you can make intelligent ones if you have reasons behind the judgements you make. My driving instructor used to say, ‘Driving is only a little bit about knowing how to operate a car. Driving is mostly about making decisions, and I can only show you how to begin to make those decisions for yourself.’ An experienced draughtsman draws on years of accumulated knowledge when he decisively puts a line down. The trouble is that this knowledge cannot be transmitted through words alone, even if it can be explained. Intellectual understanding of properties of prisms and spheres and cylinders, of perspective and anatomy, is not enough to be able to draw: you must constantly use this understanding, for drawing is an act. Only once your intellect and your motor skills align can you be said to have acquired this particular knowledge, and it is experience that marries the two.

Short poses

‘Can someone else be a man’s teacher in this?’ asks Wittgenstein (1953: 227). How does one go about transmitting this knowledge, about conveying these sublte things that one has collected over the years from many sources, from countless painstaking investigations? How is it that I can be so bold as to offer a course in drawing? Things that I know by sight are difficult to put into words; anatomical names fall away as I silently use the visual knowledge rather than speak about it. I hold tin cans and boxes at exaggerated angles and grasp clumsily at words to express something about an elusive three-dimensional rhythm through space, trying to argue that we can transcend reality and, through art, inject even more life into life itself—wait, what? I slow down: I can isolate tasks, and focus my students on one idea, and thus wrap their shaky hands around a steady tool, but their minds are more active than their wrists. Wittgenstein (1953: 227) remains hopeful about teaching one to recognise the genuineness of expressions of feelings, and I too remain hopeful about passing on the ability to draw:

‘Can someone else be a man’s teacher in this? Certainly. From time to time he gives him the right tip.—This is what ‘learning’ [Lernen] and ‘teaching’ [Lehren] are like here.—What one acquires here is not a technique; one learns correct judgements. There are also rules, but they do not form a system, and only experienced people can apply them right.’

So much is cast into the ether, so much grain scattered in the hope that one or two seeds will germinate in a fertile mind. I try to rain down tips on my students, carefully hung together tips, carefully organised and logically arranged, but I know that most will scatter like seeds and few will take root. Successful teaching, successful learning, demands the improbably fortunate meeting of a knowledgeable mind with a humble, hungry one, and even then most of the substance is lost, washing over the over-tasked student, who can actually only learn through active, sustained and repeated doing. The key is patient repetition, and providing a guided space in which to gain experience, gently corrected experience. I make my students draw as much as possible. All my clever explanations will come to nothing if they cannot discover the truths themselves through the very doing.

Copies after Bammes

Copies after Bammes

Besides smoothing the path and attempting to remove discouraging obstacles, besides dropping tips like crumbs, the best I can hope to transmit to my students is a love of drawing and for drawings. If I can invite them a little way into my private sphere where drawings and paintings work their intoxicating magic on me, I can bring them to the best teacher of all. For living in art is the firmest way to grow one’s experience; filling one’s head with it such that one’s hand can’t hold still, but itches to mimic those curves and to reproduce those shapes and in doing so to imprint the physical knowledge in one’s own body. As Rilke (2006 [1903]: 21) once urged a young poet, on recommending him his most treasured and life-changing books:

‘Leben Sie eine Weile in diesen Büchern, lernen Sie davon, was Ihnen lernenswert scheint, aber vor allem lieben Sie sie.’

‘Live a while in these books, learn from them what seems to you worth learning, but above all: love them.’ I will do my best to impart knowledge to my students, but more than this, I will encourage them to slowly, steadily, concentratedly build their experience, and most of all, I will try to show them what it is to love drawing. And I can only hope that tentatively inviting others into my private mental space will strengthen my own judgements and help me to stand by them with even greater conviction.

Bammes hands

Copies after Bammes

 

Rilke, Rainer Maria. 2006. Briefe an einen jungen Dichter / Briefe an eine junge Frau. Diogenes: Zürich.

Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1953. Philosophische Untersuchungen / Philosophical Investigations. Trans. G. E. M. Anscombe. Basil Blackwell: Oxford.

Details about my classes are on my website.

Standard

A dialogue

Erdbergstraße © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

Erdbergstraße © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

I find the metaphor of language to be very illuminating when talking about painting. Of course pictures do not communicate with us in the direct and specific way that words do. But the visual realm affords a certain kind of exchange: some form of expression on the part of the artist, and some form of inner response on the part of the viewer. We can think of this exchange as a manner of communication, and the medium as a language. A visual language might extend our toolbox, allowing us to say something about emotion, for example, with a force or clarity that words might lack: Wittgenstein (1966: 1) reminds us that ‘I have often compared language to a tool chest, containing a hammer, chisel, matches, nails, screws, glue. It is not a chance that all these things have been put together—but there are important differences between the different tools.’

aktzeichnen1

Painters take up the tools of the visual language, but before they ever try to say something with this language to another person, they use it to arrange their thoughts. They think through the medium of paint, and their thoughts are of a corresponding nature—such thoughts are not readily thought in words. ‘Art itself becomes the innovator’s instrument for probing reality,’ as Gombrich (1959: 274) aptly describes it.

aktzeichnen

The truly thoughtful painter is an experimenter: she tries new combinations, she feels her way in paint until she finds what works. ‘There is no way of finding out,’ writes Gombrich (1959: 279), ‘except by trial and error, in other words, through painting.’ Successful experiments open doors to innovation: genuine discoveries that grow the language. But this growth, as it must be in verbal language, is something closer to a rearrangement, a small adjustment, rather than a dramatic break. ‘Language grows by introducing new words,’ observes Gombrich (1959: 274), ‘but a language consisting only of new words and a new syntax would be indistinguishable from gibberish.’ This gentle adjustment of the visual language through experiment reminds me of Wittgenstein’s assertion that ‘the problems are solved, not by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known.’

aktzeichnen

Language as a metaphor helps emphasise the deliberateness of experimentation in paint. As Gombrich (1959: 274) writes, ‘The systematic explorer can afford less than anyone else to rely on random actions. He cannot just splash colours about to see what happens, for even if he should like the effect he could never repeat it.’ The shadowy threat of silence hangs over chance discoveries: perhaps the discovery is so far removed from the current dialogue that no one understands it. The painter who really wants to use paint to ‘speak’ with others must be generous enough not to completely break her connection with the viewer.

aktzeichnen

But from the other side, the viewer must work to follow the painter’s cues and make an effort to learn the ever-growing visual ‘vocabulary.’ I think it is at this point that we begin to be troubled by the idea of subjectivity in painting. When someone looks at a painting and hears only silence, he would rather blame the painter’s self-absorption than his own inadequacy with the language. But the painter might say of her painting as Wittgenstein says of his writing (1953: x), ‘I should not like my writing to spare other people the trouble of thinking. But, if possible, to stimulate someone to thoughts of his own.’

aktzeichnen

Speaking of a visual language helps us be clear that the painter is deliberately emerging from the silence and attempting to engage another person in a dialogue. She brings new insights, distilled and eloquently articulated thoughts, and even variations on the language into the discussion, for she is an author in that language. She is an expert in the orchestration of that language. But the viewer, like a well-versed reader, must be ready to receive such ‘literature,’ he must know enough to understand the core of it, and be willing to actively work to grasp the rest. As he absorbs the developments into his understanding, the dialogue continues, the language grows. The apparent subjectivity of the work dissolves as painter and viewer mutually advance the language.

aktzeichnen

Gombrich (1959: 275) is quite right to say that ‘the assertion of subjectivity can be overdone.’ He uses the Impressionists as an example. Their genuine visual discovery that the world might be seen in terms of flecks of light was initially met with great resistance. The public found this reframing of the visible world ‘hard to read and hard to accept because it had not yet been trained to interpret these new combinations in terms of the visible world’ (Gombrich 1959: 275). This resistance is now hard to imagine, the Impressionists now being so dearly loved by so many, but that is precisely because, having learned this vocabulary, having turned it upon the physical world, we have found this visual description in fact very apt, and very pleasing.

aktzeichnen

Framed in this way, subjectivity need not enter into painting at all. A dialogue has two sides, and though the speaker may ask extra of the listener through her incremental experiments, the listener can be richly rewarded for tasking himself with learning the language and trying to keep up.

aktzeichnen

Gombrich, E. H. 1959. Art and illusion. Phaidon: London.

Wittgenstein. Ludwig. 1953. Philosophische Untersuchungen / Philosophical Investigations. Trans. G. E. M. Anscombe. Basil Blackwell: Oxford.

Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1966. Lectures and conversations on aesthetics, psychology and religious belief. Ed. Cyril Barrett. Basil Blackwell: Oxford.

Standard

Stille

Pflaumen © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

Pflaumen © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

There have always been things too profound to express, and humanity has always sought ways to grapple with these elusive, ineffable thoughts. Whether through religion, philosophy or art, we have spent sleepless nights labouring over the questions we cannot quite articulate, the chains of reasoning we cannot quite lay out systematically, the conclusions which evade us as fog resists our grasp. Wittgenstein (in Sontag 1969: XII) says that ‘everything that can be thought at all can be thought clearly. Everything that can be said at all can be said clearly. But not everything that can be thought can be said.’

And so, argues Susan Sontag (1969: XIII), ‘the artist issues his own call for a revision of language.’ The artist invites—‘administers,’ even—silence. The artist acts in the face of ‘the habits of lifeless, static verbalisation, presenting models of “sensual speech”.’ So much is said, and yet so little gained by this cacophony. And so much more is lost: for all our eloquence, our senses are blunted. With painful accuracy, Sontag (1969: XIII) writes: ‘We lack words, and we have too many of them.’ Words fail to get at what we really want to illuminate: they prove themselves crude, but in their desperately mounting explanations and arguments they bathe us in an unbearable busyness, ‘inviting a hyperactivity of consciousness … which actively deadens the mind and blunts the senses.’

Birnen © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

Birnen © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

The artist, unsurprisingly, cowers from this chatter. The serious artist, Sontag (1969: II) suggests, ‘is continually tempted to sever the dialogue he has with an audience. Silence is the furthest extension of that reluctance to communicate.’ The artist, living more fully in his body, thinking in sensory experiences more than in verbal ideas, is not retreating solely to contemplate, nor to ready himself to explain himself. He really stands at the edge of the abyss, desperate to plunge himself into silence. ‘For, to be a victim of the craving for silence is to be, in still a further sense, superior to everyone else. It suggests that the artist has had the wit to ask more questions than other people, as well as that he possesses stronger nerves and higher standards of excellence.’

Ink2

Yet silence need not consume us completely. According to Sontag (1969: XV), Rilke considers it enough ‘to cut back drastically the scope and use of language.’ Similarly, she (1969: XIII) describes Mallarmé’s intention to use words—poetry—‘to clean up our word-clogged reality—by creating silences around things.’ Silence both implies and demands its opposite, and that calls on the artist to produce something dialectical: to participate in a dialogue, even if his role is to punctuate that dialogue with silences.

silence speech silence

 

For what precedes words, and what follows them, but silence? Sontag (1969: XIII) explains, ‘Silence, then, is both the precondition of speech, and the result or aim of properly directed speech.’ The artist sandwiches speech with his wordless meditations, guiding avid speakers through quiet milieux. ‘The efficacious artwork leaves silence in its wake,’ just as Wittgenstein considered his Tractatus a ladder to be climbed and cast aside with the attainment of understanding; just as he abandoned philosophy after producing this work and turned to humble menial labour in Vienna. The yawning silence that Wittgenstein left behind him was not a disavowal of everything he had said; rather, his work had been a sort of deliverance (Sontag 1969: II). The artist does not search for his voice, his message, his marketable style: he seeks closure, the stillness of silence, and his work is the only means he has to reach this delicious promised land.

Ink1

In smaller doses, silence provides some relief from the continuous barrage of speech. It makes room for thought—for its prolongation, extension; for exploring the hidden alleys and backstreets of thought that we’d otherwise avoid. Because, ‘notably, speech closes off thought’ (Sontag, 1969: XIII). But used deliberately in speech, silence brings gravity and solemnity to words. It slows their burbling pace and lends dignity to them: ‘when punctuated by long silences, words weigh more; they become almost palpable.’ And we ourselves become more palpable to ourselves, we become more aware of our bodies: ‘when one talks less, one starts feeling more fully one’s physical presence in a given space.’

Art—painting, perhaps literature, poetry, music, at the very least—takes up the lofty aims of philosophy and religion to clear our heads, to touch something difficult to reach, to slow the rush of businesslike verbal exchange. For even ‘language can be employed to check language, to express muteness’ (Sontag 1969: XIII). But my beloved painting and drawing stand in a firmly wordless domain, resisting thorough explanation and description, demanding but to be seen, tugging at the senses. And they remain painfully, infuriatingly, resolutely silent in the face of words, warring against words in their reclamation of the body, of the senses. Sontag’s (1969: XIII) rallying cry defends this retreat: ‘Art must mount a full-scale attack on language itself, by means of language and its surrogates, on behalf of the standard of silence.’

For Ryan.

Kürbisse © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

Kürbisse © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

Sontag, Susan. 1969. ‘The aesthetics of silence.’ In Styles of radical will.

Standard