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Attentional cueing and the conveying of mental state are two of the most common explanations put
forward for our attraction to eyes, and they cover, between them, a considerable amount of ground. Yet
whether they cover all the ground is open to question. Why, for instance, does engaging in eye contact
render persuasion more effective? And why are our eyes, with their oceans of white and tiny marooned
irises, so radically different – in appearance, at least – from those found anywhere else in the animal
kingdom?
The answers to these questions are rooted, I believe, in the state of total dependency in which we first
enter the world. Newborns, we know, possess an innate perceptual bias for eyes. But could such a bias
be a bit more complex than it seems? Might it not be for the eyes themselves – but rather for
something, well, a little more fundamental perhaps? For the perceptual contrast between light and dark
that characterises their form? Could it be that what we’ve got going here is not, in actual fact, a unitary
process at all but rather a two-tier model of influence? Where perceptual contrast engages the
attention of the newborn, and where the newborn ‘locks on’ with that vice-like grip of charm?
To take this second point first – the charm factor – one need look no further than the newborn itself.
Not only are a newborn’s eyes disproportionately large in relation to its face (the face, unlike the eyes,
continues to grow after birth), but the pupils, too, are similarly disproportionate in relation to the sclera
(the white, outer surface of the eyeball – see Figure 2.13).
This latter observation is believed to reflect the relative inefficiency of the immature retina at capturing
light. But research has also revealed that dilated pupils can serve a completely different function: forging
the bonds of attraction.
‘Which part of the human anatomy swells to twice its normal size when aroused?’ the professor asks her
class of first-year pre-meds.
During the early days of his career, the British film actor Michael Caine had an intuitive grasp of the
persuasive power of eyes. In a fiendish campaign aimed at raising his Hollywood profile, Caine began by
training himself not to blink – to maximise the intensity of his close-ups (when his eyes, magnified on
screen, might be a couple of feet across) and reduce the chances of the director cutting away from him.
An audience, Caine reasoned, enjoyed being paid attention to. And by actively endeavouring to fix them
with his gaze, he could enhance the illusion that he actually found them attractive. Plus, of course, the
opposite: how attractive they found him