Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Contributors 260
Index 263
Figures
The work of Michael Fried has remarkable range. He made his name as
an art critic in the 1960s championing high modernist painters and sculp-
tors such as Morris Louis, Frank Stella, and Anthony Caro, engaging with
vigor and zeal in the debates that defined the moment. In the 80s and 90s,
Fried published influential studies of French pre-modernist, modernist, real-
ist, and North American realist painting. Since then he has produced a book
on the German realist painter and draughtsman Adolph Menzel, a ground-
breaking book on contemporary art photography, two books on Caravag-
gio and his aftermath, a study of Gustave Flaubert, and new works of art
criticism. Fried has regularly published poetry, producing volumes of poems
in 1973, 1994, 2004, and 2016. And he has a new monograph appearing in
2018: What Was Literary Impressionism?
As well as their range, Fried’s texts are remarkable for the intensity with
which they track a very particular set of interconnected problems: the ontol-
ogy of artwork and beholder; questions of modernism and medium; the
issue of aesthetic quality, and what it is to be convinced by a work of art;
the nature and importance of artistic intention; and the dialectical character
of artistic practices as they develop in specific contexts. As the depth of its
influence and the vitality of the discussion it has generated show, this rich
and penetrating body of work has profound significance for understanding
modern art and literature. The thesis of this volume is that it also has sig-
nificance for philosophy.
Michael Fried and Philosophy brings philosophers, art historians, intel-
lectual historians, and literary scholars together to engage with philosophi-
cal themes from Fried’s texts, to draw out their implications for problems
in and beyond philosophical aesthetics, and to clarify the relevance for
Fried’s thinking of philosophers like Ludwig Wittgenstein, Stanley Cavell,
Morris Weitz, Elizabeth Anscombe, Arthur Danto, George Dickie, Imman-
uel Kant, Friedrich Schiller, G. W. F. Hegel, Arthur Schopenhauer, Fried-
rich Nietzsche, Denis Diderot, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Roland Barthes,
Jacques Rancière, and Søren Kierkegaard. Like Fried’s own work, the
chapters in this volume range widely over different historical moments,
traditions, and figures. And like Fried’s work, they keep returning to a
2 Mathew Abbott
particular set of problems: questions of modernism; the role of intention
in art; and the tension and interplay between theatrical and anti-theatrical
artistic tendencies.
This introduction does not attempt to do justice to the range and richness
of Fried’s work. Nor does it attempt to do justice to all the issues and prob-
lems treated in this book’s fifteen chapters. As it works to introduce aspects
of Fried’s art critical and historical projects, it gives brief accounts of three
moments that have been decisive in the development of his thinking and
writing: his critical essay “Art and Objecthood”; his work on French pre-
modernist and modernist painting; and his recent foray into writing about
photography. As it proceeds, it opens a number of philosophical and inter-
pretive questions, aspects of which are taken up in the book’s individual
contributions.
Published in the June 1967 issue of Artforum, Fried’s “Art and Objecthood”
intervened with great polemical force into discussions of minimalism—or
“literalism” as Fried called it—then emerging in the US. Mistaken by some
for a dogmatic (“formalist”) dismissal of the work of artists like Donald
Judd, Sol Lewitt, Robert Morris, Carl Andre, and Tony Smith, the essay
does make a severe case against them. But it makes that case in full recogni-
tion of the art historical (and indeed, ontological) significance of literalist
works. This was no hackneyed attack on the apparent coldness, inertness,
or inexpressiveness of literalist objects (in fact for Fried part of the problem
with literalist artists was their failure to make good on their radical claims
regarding the work: Judd and Morris’s works, for example, are attacked not
for their inhumanity but for their disavowed anthropomorphism). Nor was
this a mere application of Greenbergian ideas. Though Fried’s text bears the
imprint of Clement Greenberg, by 1967 Fried had broken with his formal-
ist mentor’s theory that the task of the modernist artist was to discover the
irreducible essence of a medium (against this he developed a non-reductive
account of medium profoundly influenced by the later Wittgenstein, whose
work Fried encountered when he met Cavell at Harvard in 1962). Differ-
ent concerns were driving Fried’s critique of the literalists, which made
use of a crucial term that had no real place in Greenberg’s critical lexicon:
“theatricality.”
The term is first invoked in “Art and Objecthood” as follows:
resolve it. Through the second half of the eighteenth century in France, the
pressure of theatricality grew.
As this indicates, crucial to Fried’s account is the idea that theatrical-
ity emerges out of a set of tensions that develops dialectically, such that
works that once seemed to defeat it can start to seem to fail in that regard,
or even begin to look contrived. This is why Greuze had to go so much
further than Chardin to convey absorption, painting blinded figures, or fig-
ures in extreme emotional states; this is why Jacques-Louis David repeatedly
transformed his own style, as he came to feel that certain older, often very
successful works—such as 1784’s Oath of the Horatii (Figure 1.3)—were
6 Mathew Abbott
Notes
1 Robert B. Pippin, “Authenticity in Painting: Remarks on Michael Fried’s Art
History,” Critical Inquiry (32: 3, 2005), 577–8. Of course, this is complicated
by the fact that many literalist artists understood their projects in anti-aesthetic
terms, as troubling the very idea of “success” in art (indeed, some were quite
happy to regard their works as theatrical, though they rejected the pejorative
connotations of Fried’s use of the term). I treat this problem in my contribution
to this volume.
2 Hal Foster, The Return of the Real: The Avant-Garde at the End of the Century
(Cambridge, MA and London: MIT Press, 1996), 36.
3 As Pippin writes:
No one in these Chardin genre paintings appears to be acting for effect, tak-
ing account of how they look to others, looking to normative acceptance by
an audience, aiming to please or entertain an audience . . . and in just that
sense too, neither is the painting.
(After the Beautiful: Hegel and the Philosophy of
Pictorial Modernism (Chicago: Chicago
University Press, 2014), 84)
Michael Fried and Philosophy 17
4 Though Fried does not give these transformations in David’s work an extended
treatment in Absorption and Theatricality, he has since treated them in some
detail (see “David/Manet: The ‘Anacreonic’ Paintings,” AL 7–39; see also
IMAC 49–50).
5 Pippin, After the Beautiful, 85. As Pippin shows, this means we can read Fried’s
work in Left Hegelian terms, and so as complementing the work of the Marxist
art historian T. J. Clark (see 63–95).
6 See “Géricault’s Romanticism” (AL 53–109).
7 I worked through some of these issues in relation to cinema in Chapter Five
of Abbas Kiarostami and Film-Philosophy (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University
Press, 2016).
8 Properly resolving these questions would require a close engagement with Fried’s
interpretation of later Wittgenstein, and the links between Cavell’s work on
grammar and criteria and Fried’s notion of a “primordial convention.” This
phrase recurs through Fried’s works from Absorption and Theatricality onward.
In his introduction to his art criticism, he links it to Wittgenstein’s Remarks on
the Foundation of Mathematics (see IMAC 31 and 33).
9 Stanley Cavell, The Claim of Reason (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 111.
10 Walter Benn Michaels, “Neoliberal Aesthetics: Fried, Rancière, and the Form
of the Photograph,” nonsite.org (http://nonsite.org/article/neoliberal-aesthetics-
fried-ranciere-and-the-form-of-the-photograph, 2011).
1 Modernism and the Discovery
of Finitude
Mathew Abbott
This is not to say that painting has no essence; it is to claim that that
essence—i.e., that which compels conviction—is largely determined by,
and therefore changes continually in response to, the vital work of the
recent past. The essence of painting is not something irreducible. Rather,
the task of the modernist painter is to discover those conventions that,
at a given moment, alone are capable of establishing his work’s identity
as painting . . . I would argue that what modernism has meant is that
the questions—What constitutes the art of painting? And what consti-
tutes good painting?—are no longer separable; the first disappears, or
increasingly tends to disappear, into the second.
(AO 169n)
The road and much of the landscape was artificial, and yet it couldn’t be
called a work of art. On the other hand, it did something for me that art
had never done. At first I didn’t know what it was, but its effect was to
liberate me from many of the views I had had about art. It seemed that
there had been a reality there that had not had any expression in art.
(quoted AO 158)
What seems to have been revealed to Smith that night was the pictorial
nature of painting—even, one might say, the conventional nature of art.
And that Smith seems to have understood not as laying bare the essence
of art, but as announcing its end.
(AO 158)
Smith’s encounter revealed the conventionality of art to him, and led him
to want to repudiate that conventionality, to show it up as mere conven-
tion. By producing artifacts that would express non-artistic reality, Smith
wants to demonstrate the artificiality of art. In the terms I developed out
of Weitz, he wants to reveal that any attempt to define the nature of art is
28 Mathew Abbott
just an arbitrary subjective decision; in the terms I developed out of Dickie,
he wants to reveal that distinguishing artifacts from art just depends on the
decrees of those who happen to be invested with the relevant institutional
authority (another title for Fried’s essay might have been “Art and Artifac-
tuality”). This is the sense in which literalist works functioned as provoca-
tions, and part of why Fried derides them as theatrical.
As well as picking up on a kind of inauthenticity, Fried’s claim that literal-
ist works are theatrical is grounded in an account of what it is to encounter
them: they have an uncanny and alienating physical presence; this activates
the space around them, effectively setting it up as part of the experience of
the work; that makes it difficult or impossible to discern what counts as part
of the work and what does not; this means the literalist work is “unexact-
ing” (AO 155). Because my experience is deframed by the literalist work,
there is no way I can get it wrong (or right) in my response to it; the work
asks nothing of me, except the attention it solicits; “the experience alone
is what matters” (AO 158). Since they do not make a case for themselves,
literalist works resist both classification and evaluation; rather than being
unconvincing (as an unsuccessful Stella is), they do not even try to convince.
Stepping out of the conviction game, they lead us out with them, asking
us to consider the artifice of it. After all, finding something convincing (or
unconvincing) means having a view about the nature of that thing: as Wal-
ter Benn Michaels writes, “compelling conviction is something the work
does.”36 To say a work is convincing as painting, for example, is not merely
to give voice to my subjective experience of it: it is to make a claim about
the work, and so a claim that might be right or wrong. At the same time, it
is a claim about the work that I have to make myself, insofar as someone
cannot be convinced of something on my behalf. Cavell writes of encounter-
ing a Caro:
The problem this raises for me is exactly not to decide whether this is
art (I mean, sculpture), nor to find some definition of “sculpture” which
makes the Caro pieces borderline cases of sculpture, or sculptures in
some extended sense. The problem is that I am, so to speak, stuck with
the knowledge that this is sculpture.37
As he beholds the Caro, Cavell does not find himself being asked to
“decide” whether it counts as art. Nor, as a reductionist essentialist might
have it, does he find himself trying to “decide” whether it fits some pre-
determined criterion about what sculpture is. Nor, as a Weitzian anti-
essentialist might have it, does he try to “decide” whether it is sufficiently
similar to other sculptures to count as bearing a family resemblance to them.
No one can just “decide” to be convinced by something: it has to do the rel-
evant work on them; in Fried’s terms, it has to compel conviction. And being
convinced by an artwork amounts to something more than simply liking it,
giving it a positive evaluation. When a work convinces me as sculpture, it
Modernism and the Discovery of Finitude 29
convinces me it is sculpture. It thus changes my stance on how it is with the
world, on what there is in it. Cavell discovers the work is sculpture; he finds
he knows it is. The insistence here on a kind of subjectivity is also an insis-
tence on a kind of objectivity. In this context, we need one to have the other.
Both modernist and literalist art face the problem of what art is, and they
do so in response to something we might call the discovery of finitude. When
we make this discovery (and it is the kind of discovery one can only keep
on making), we arrive at the knowledge—or approach the k nowledge—
that our concepts lack determinacy, and so that there is nothing to them
beyond our convictions about them, conventions regarding them, and prac-
tices with them. And we find ourselves confronting the problem of how we
can go on together in the same world in the face of this ungroundedness (in
Cavell’s words, we find that our going on “depends on nothing more, but
nothing less” than “sharing routes of interest and feeling”38). This gives a
way of accounting for what it means to say that modernist artworks inter-
rogate themselves as such: under modernist conditions, art’s ungrounded-
ness drives artistic inquiry, as artists try to find out what art is. Literalism
(or what, speaking too loosely, we could call “postmodernism”) responds
to the very same problem, yet it does so differently. The modernist artist
approaches the question of what art is through a particular medium. The
task they set themselves is to discover what art is by discovering what (say)
painting is at a particular historical moment: if they respond successfully to
recent painting, they will show us what painting is now and so (an aspect of)
what art is now. The literalist, on the other hand, goes straight for the prob-
lem of art: moving beyond medium, they want their works to raise the ques-
tion of art directly. Because of their suspicion of conventional context, they
want to get at the question of art by stepping out of that context. They want
to go straight for it. Because they go straight for it, however, they cannot
provide—and indeed, do not intend to provide—a convincing answer to the
question of art. They remain at the level of questioning: provoking, under-
mining, challenging, and critiquing, but not convincing. That is the sense
in which literalist art is skeptical (to use Cavell’s words again, the literalist
understands the “nothing more,” but not the “nothing less”). Unable to find
security in convention, literalism repudiates it, reveling in indeterminacy
(hence perhaps some of the characteristic features of postmodern art: rejec-
tions of the aesthetic; attacks on intentionality; a flaunting of the arbitrari-
ness of interpretation; critiques of institutional authority; an emphasis on
the role of the beholder in creatively constructing the meaning of artworks;
and so on39). Indeed the literalist artist is not unlike the analytic aesthetician
wrestling with the problem of the definition of art after stepping out of the
conventional, evaluative context in which art can be what it is. Seeking to
view our practices from outside, they lose the resources only available in
their midst. Though Weitz takes himself to be making an anti-theoretical
argument, then, there is a sense in which he remains caught in the grip of
theory: not of any particular theory, perhaps, but of the theoretical attitude
30 Mathew Abbott
itself, of theory as theoria. He wants to view the world from a “sideways
on”40 perspective, as if from a position outside it (which is to say: he wants
to get out of the world).
Just as with “game,” there are no necessary and sufficient conditions
of “art” (nor of “painting,” nor of “sculpture,” nor of “poem,” nor of
“music”). If this is right, then it was always right, but it took a particular set
of historical circumstances for it to start to manifest itself.41 Modernism is
what happens when artists confront and make art out of art’s ungrounded-
ness, going on in the face of it; literalism is what happens when artists seek
to reveal art’s ungroundedness. A difference between games and art is that
disagreements about what counts as art are relatively common. Another is
that disagreements about art have a tendency to run aground, as we reach a
point in our discussions where it seems hard or impossible to go on (which
is when we might start doing philosophy). A difference between Judd and
Stella is in the resources Stella gives us for going on, though meager they can
seem. If modernist art lays bare value’s inescapability, it is because it shows
how describing the world just is to take a position, or better: that there is no
describing the world without being in it. Modernism emerges out of skepti-
cism; skepticism takes hold as modernism ends.
Notes
1 Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (third edition), trans. G. E. M.
Anscombe (Malden, Oxford, and Carlton: Blackwell Publishing, 2001), §66; 27e.
2 As Hjalmar Wennerberg observed in an early response to Wittgenstein’s
remarks on family resemblance, his claim can be interpreted in two ways. On
one interpretation, Wittgenstein is denying that there is any feature shared
by all games; on the other, Wittgenstein is denying that there is any feature
or set of features “which is common and peculiar” (“The Concept of Family
Resemblance in Wittgenstein’s Later Philosophy,” Theoria (33: 2, 1967), 110)
to all games. I think Wennerberg is right to interpret Wittgenstein as making
only the latter, weaker but far more plausible claim: the issue pertains not to
whether all games share any feature (for example, it seems fair to say that they
are all activities), but to whether they have an essential distinguishing feature
(or set of them).
3 Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, §66; 27e.
4 Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, §66; 27e.
5 Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, §66; 27e.
6 Alice Crary’s Wittgensteinian account of conceptual mastery is instructive here
(see Beyond Moral Judgment (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
2007), 41–2).
7 Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, §66; 27–8e.
8 See Definitions of Art (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1991), 12.
9 See Noël Carroll, Philosophy of Art: A Contemporary Introduction (London
and New York: Routledge, 1999), 222–4 (see also Davies, Definitions of Art,
11). The difference between Carroll’s interpretation of Wittgenstein and the
Cavellian one at work in this paper emerges in Carroll’s repeated use of the
phrase “family resemblance method,” as though Wittgenstein were claiming that
his points about resemblance could equip us with a means of distinguishing
games from non-games, art from non-art, or whatever.
Modernism and the Discovery of Finitude 31
10 The scope of Wittgenstein’s claim is not obvious, but it does seem obvious that he
does not take himself to be making a point about games alone. To what portion of
our concepts does it extend? Craig Fox may be right to say that Wittgenstein must
have deliberately avoided answering this question (see “Wittgenstein on Family
Resemblance,” in Wittgenstein: Key Concepts, ed. Kelly Dean Jolley (Routledge:
Oxon and New York, 2014), 55), perhaps because he didn’t know the answer. On
the other hand, Wittgenstein does make similar claims about mathematical con-
cepts, which might seem to be prime candidates for determinacy. See his remarks
about the concept “number” (Philosophical Investigations, §68; 28e), for exam-
ple, or his famous (and perhaps misnomic) “paradox of rule following,” which
emerges in the context of a discussion of a very simple mathematical concept: that
of extending a series (see the discussion through §185–242; 63–75e).
11 See the first part of G. P. Backer and P. M. S. Hacker’s piece on family resem-
blance for a useful brief history of the grip this idea has had on philosophers (in
Wittgenstein, Understanding and Meaning Part I: Essays (Malden, Oxford, and
Carlton: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), 202–8).
12 Morris Weitz, “The Role of Theory in Aesthetics,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art
Criticism (15: 1, 1956), 28.
13 As Giorgio Agamben argues, in Nietzsche’s sense the term “untimely” is really
a synonym for “contemporary”: a way of expressing how a thinker’s apparent
anachronism can make their thought “more capable than others of perceiving
and grasping their own time” (“What Is the Contemporary?” in What Is an
Apparatus? and Other Essays, trans. David Kishik and Stefan Pedatella (Stan-
ford: Stanford University Press, 2009), 40.
14 I am using “art theory” to describe the body of theoretical work (and theoreti-
cally inclined critical work) typically produced by critics, artists, and theorists
working outside the field of analytic aesthetics. I am using “aesthetic theory”
and similar terms to describe the body of work typically produced by aestheti-
cians, especially those involved in the debate around definitions of art.
15 Weitz, “The Role of Theory in Aesthetics,” 30.
16 Though this is not directly relevant to my argument, it is worth pointing out that
this is perhaps unfair as a critique of Tolstoy, who explicitly rejected the idea
that “it is necessary to find a definition of art which shall fit the works” (What
Is Art? trans. Aylmer Maude (Indianapolis and Cambridge: Hackett Publishing
Company, 1996), 45).
17 Weitz, “The Role of Theory in Aesthetics,” 35.
18 Weitz, “The Role of Theory in Aesthetics,” 35.
19 Weitz, “The Role of Theory in Aesthetics,” 32.
20 Weitz, “The Role of Theory in Aesthetics,” 35 (see also his use of “chosen” in
the passage quoted here).
21 Following Immanuel Kant, Andrea Kern contrasts the infallible “creative knowl-
edge” that would be enjoyed by an infinite or godlike being with the kind of
knowledge finite beings can enjoy. Because it is “fundamentally knowledge-
creating,” creative knowledge “as such is true.” “Finite knowledge,” on the
other hand, “is incapable of producing by itself the contents which it knows;
it depends upon the contents of its knowledge being given to it. Hence, finite
knowledge is (in the best case) objective knowledge” (“Why Do Our Reasons
Come to an End?” in Varieties of Skepticism: Essays After Kant, Wittgenstein
and Cavell, ed. Andrea Kern and James Conant (Berlin and Boston: Walter de
Gruyter GmbH, 2014), 98.
22 John McDowell, “Non-Cognitivism and Rule-Following,” in Mind, Value and
Reality (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 200.
23 As Davies argues, Weitz does not really need the implausible claim that artworks
are not necessarily artifacts: for his anti-essentialist argument to work, he only
32 Mathew Abbott
needs the claim that “art has no jointly necessary and sufficient conditions”
(Definitions of Art, 11).
24 See George Dickie, “Defining Art,” American Philosophical Quarterly (6: 3,
1969), 253–6.
25 Arthur Danto, “The Artworld,” The Journal of Philosophy (61: 19, 1964), 580.
26 Dickie, “Defining Art,” 254.
27 Dickie, “Defining Art,” 254.
28 George Dickie, “Art as a Social Institution,” in Aesthetics: An Introduction
(Indianapolis: Pegasus, 1971), 106.
29 Paul Gudel’s as yet unpublished book Modernism and Skepticism: Terms of Crit-
icism in Clement Greenberg, Michael Fried, and Stanley Cavell contains very
illuminating accounts of some of these differences between Fried and Dickie, and
of the connections between Fried, Cavell, and Wittgenstein.
30 Stanley Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” in Must We Mean What We Say?
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 216.
31 Donald Judd, “Specific Objects,” in Complete Writings 1959–1975 (Halifax and
New York: The Press of the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design and New
York University Press, 1975), 183.
32 Fried writes that “with respect to his understanding of modernism Greenberg
had no truer followers than the literalists” (IMAC 36).
33 In Clement Greenberg, The Collected Essays and Criticism Volume 4: Modern-
ism with a Vengeance, 1957–1969, ed. John O’Brian (Chicago and London:
University of Chicago Press, 1993), 121–33.
34 See Robert B. Pippin, After the Beautiful: Hegel and the Philosophy of Pictorial
Modernism (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2014).
35 See Arthur Danto, “The End of Art,” in The Philosophical Disenfranchisement
of Art (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 81–115. I don’t think he
would have minded the epithet.
36 Walter Benn Michaels, The Shape of the Signifier: 1967 to the End of History
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 87 (my emphasis).
37 Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 218.
38 Stanley Cavell, “The Availability of Wittgenstein’s Later Philosophy,” in Must
We Mean What We Say? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 52.
39 Fried’s discussion of some remarks Hal Foster made about “Art and Object-
hood” in 1987 is instructive here (see IMAC 43–4).
40 McDowell, “Non-Cognitivism and Rule-Following,” 207.
41 Fried’s trilogy of books on French pictorial modernism—Absorption and Theat-
ricality, Courbet’s Realism, and Manet’s Modernism—can be read as providing
an account of when and how this happened. If my interpretation of his work is
right, however, it seems there is no reason why modernism couldn’t emerge at
multiple times or in multiple places, or in multiple places at a single time, or at
multiple times in a single place, or whatever. The discovery of finitude, after all,
is a discovery of something that must have been true of human concepts from the
start.
2 “When I Raise My Arm”
Michael Fried’s Theory of Action
Walter Benn Michaels
Michael Fried’s “Morris Louis” has at its center an interest in what Fried
calls “distinctively human . . . action,” particularly, the “act of drawing”
and, more generally, “mak[ing] one’s mark” (ML122).1 But that interest
is at every moment accompanied by and even articulated through a deep
worry about (sometimes amounting almost to a refusal of) both drawing
and marking, even action itself. Thus, for example, he says that the rivu-
lets in Louis’s unfurleds not only “do not strike one as drawn” (ML 110)
but that they seem more like “the manifestation of natural forces” than of
human ones. And he says of the stripe paintings Louis was making before
his death that there is a “crucial” sense in which “they are not drawn” but
an equally crucial one in which “they can be seen as drawn” but “not . . . as
the fruit of any imaginable act of drawing” (ML 122). So, on the one hand,
Louis is all about “the will to draw”; on the other hand, no actual drawing.
On the one hand, the question of distinctively human action is the central
one; on the other hand, Louis’s paintings “more than those of any previous
painter, give the impression of having come into existence . . . without the
intervention of the artist” (ML 126). The idea that Louis is concerned above
all with acting is introduced in conjunction with what is described as his
refusal of the primary act in question—marking and, in particular, drawing.
One reason drawing is problematic in “Morris Louis” is because of how
you do it—with your “hand, wrist and arm” (ML 126). That’s why this
essay is called “When I Raise My Arm”; part of my argument will be that
Fried sees in Louis’s painting what amounts to a refusal of Ludwig Wittgen-
stein’s foundational (for the theory of action) question, “what’s left over if
I subtract the fact that my arm goes up from the fact that I raise my arm?”
and that this refusal amounts to a theory of action that is also a theory
of the work of art.2 But we can more easily approach this issue by way
of a second and more obvious reason, the problematic status in “Morris
Louis” not only of what the act of drawing is but of what drawing looks
like on the canvas. In this text, Fried associates drawing with the “plastic or
tactile identity” of “tangible entities” in “traditional space” (ML 117)—in
other words, with the “sculptural” “illusion of space into which one could
imagine oneself walking,”3 an illusion that, in Clement Greenberg’s reading,
34 Walter Benn Michaels
had been jettisoned in modernist painting’s effort to identify what was
“unique and exclusive” to “pictorial art.” Because, according to Greenberg,
“[f]latness” or “two-dimensionality” “was the only condition painting
shared with no other art,” “Modernist painting oriented itself to flatness as
it did to nothing else.”4 So the refusal of drawing in “Morris Louis” can be
identified with the refusal of traditional or sculptural space.
At the same time, however, Greenberg was careful to insist on the limits
of flatness. If in “After Abstract Expressionism” he famously flirted with
the idea of an unmarked but “stretched or tacked-up canvas”5 counting as a
picture, in “Modernist Painting” he had in effect already sought to discount
that flirtation by warning that “the flatness toward which Modernist paint-
ing orients itself can never be an utter flatness” because “[t]he first mark on
a surface destroys its virtual flatness.”6 And that Fried himself shared this
reservation is clear from the fact that, describing the relation between the
rivulets of color on each side and the vast expanse of blank canvas in the
unfurleds, it’s precisely this reservation that he quotes. So if the unfurleds
are resolutely in opposition to the tangible things located in the traditional
space of drawing, they are in opposition also to the utter flatness imagined
in the “stretched or tacked-up canvas.”
Greenberg’s way of resolving this tension between what he took to be
the necessary commitment to flatness and the equally necessary violation of
that commitment was by way of a distinction between two kinds of illusions
painting made possible. If, on his view, modernist flatness works against
the “realistic” depiction of “recognizable objects” and against the kind of
“sculptural” illusion that had characterized earlier painting (that’s the “illu-
sion of space in depth that one could imagine oneself walking into”), it does
not give up illusion altogether. Rather it leaves room for what he famously
calls an “optical” or “strictly pictorial” (as opposed to “sculptural”) “illu-
sion of a kind of third dimension.” Hence even in a painter as committed
to refusing depth as Piet Mondrian, you still get the suggestion of a space
you feel you can look (albeit not walk) into—“a kind of illusion of a kind
of third dimension.” And it is this interest—in the “translation” of three
dimensions “into strictly optical, two-dimensional terms”7—that character-
izes for Greenberg the fundamental demand of modernist painting: to make
manifest both the illusion of depth and the reality of flatness.
The point for Fried is slightly different, though he too is interested in
opticality. Earlier in the Louis essay, with reference to Jackson Pollock, he
both deploys the term and describes the phenomenon (an “illusion” that is
not of “tangibility but of its opposite,” available to “eyesight alone” (ML
106)) in ways that are deeply compatible with Greenberg. But in quoting
Greenberg’s remark that “[t]he first mark on a surface destroys its virtual
flatness,” Fried is more interested in the words “first” and “destroy” than
Greenberg is. Indeed, where Greenberg, as we’ve seen, flirted with the idea
of the unmarked or empty canvas as a kind of telos for modernist flatness,
Fried, describing the “vast expanse” of precisely such a blank canvas in the
Michael Fried’s Theory of Action 35
unfurleds (as if, in fact, the unfurleds were the closest anyone had yet come
actually to offering a blank canvas as a painting), insists on the necessity
of the mark and the desirability of the violence it does to flatness. Right
before quoting Greenberg, Fried says of the “rivulets of color” on either side
of the unfurleds’ vast expanse of canvas that “they simultaneously destroy
and make pictorially meaningful” that blankness. And right after quoting
Greenberg, he says that in the unfurleds, “Louis made major art out of what
might be called the firstness of marking as such, a firstness prior to any act
of marking.” Indeed, insofar as Fried persistently identifies the blank canvas
in the unfurleds with “the blankness . . . of an enormous page” (ML 119),
the mark can be understood in part to play the structural role of writing,
where—with respect to meaning—neither sculptural nor optical illusion (or
for that matter, flatness itself) is exactly relevant.
Some thirty years later, Fried himself would describe his difference from
Greenberg with respect to opticality as a response to what he understood as
the “double role” that concept played in Greenberg’s writing. On the one
hand, Greenberg was making a “global claim about modernist painting,
which in its drive to distinguish itself from sculpture is said to have pursued
opticality along with flatness from the start” (IMAC 20); on the other, he
was deploying it only to characterize a feature of recent painters like Louis.
And it is this second, more local application with which he identifies his
use of the concept, while noting that Greenberg seemed to be undecided
about what his own position was. For example, Fried notes that in the first
(1960) version of “Modernist Painting,” right after describing what the first
mark on a blank canvas does, Greenberg claimed (in a “key sentence”) that
modernist painting seeks “to fulfill the impressionist insistence on the opti-
cal as the only sense that a completely pictorial art can invoke” (quoted in
IMAC 21). But in the later (1965) version, Fried points out, that sentence
disappears, with the effect, as he sees it, of now implying not a particular
interest in returning to the impressionists but “a consistently optical bias
from Manet and impressionism through Mondrian to the present” (IMAC
22). It’s this “global” view of opticality that he associates with Greenberg’s
reductionism—the idea that “there was a timeless essence” to painting “that
was progressively revealed”8—and that Fried wants to deny. And it’s this
reductionism that he identifies with literalism, writing that if Greenberg’s
modernism had discovered that “the irreducible essence of pictorial art was
nothing other than the literal properties of the support, that is, flatness and
the delimitation of flatness,” it’s “easy to see” (IMAC 36) how minimalism
could draw the conclusion that what mattered was not just flatness as such
but literalness as such.
If, however, we look at another difference between the 1960 and the 1965
“Modernist Painting,” the situation becomes a little more complicated. The
sentence Fried quotes in the Morris Louis essay—“the first mark made on
a surface destroys its virtual flatness”—is itself a revision. In the 1960 ver-
sion, Greenberg says not that the first mark made on a surface destroys its
36 Walter Benn Michaels
virtual flatness but that “the first mark made on a canvas destroys its literal
and utter flatness.”9 So although flatness gets destroyed in both versions, in
1960 it’s the literal flatness of the canvas, while in 1965 it’s the virtual flat-
ness of a surface.
What does this revision accomplish? In at least one way, its point seems
a little clearer than does the deletion of “the optical as the only sense
that a completely pictorial art can invoke,” especially if we note that this
isn’t the only time that “literal” disappears from the 1960 text. Just as he
replaced “literal and utter flatness” with “virtual flatness,” Greenberg also
(earlier in the essay) removed “literal” from the phrase “the literal two-
dimensionality which is the guarantee of painting’s independence as an art.”
Why? The literal two-dimensionality goes because paintings aren’t literally
two-dimensional and so the literal flatness must also go because, insofar as
he is identifying flatness with two-dimensionality, they aren’t literally flat.
Which means not that the canvas (unmarked or marked) isn’t in some sense
flat but that the flatness the mark destroys is something else—not a property
of the canvas but a two-dimensionality the canvas never really had.10 In
this sense, the mark that destroys flatness by making possible the illusion
of three-dimensionality does so by destroying what it now constitutes as a
prior illusion—the illusion of two-dimensionality, what Fried calls “appar-
ent” flatness (ML 119). The first mark creates the appearance it is also
understood to destroy. Or rather, it transforms what we might call the origi-
nal literal illusion (literal because, as the trajectory of Greenberg’s revisions
suggests, it’s the illusion that the unmarked canvas is two-dimensional) into
a depicted illusion. And thus, since (as Greenberg has reminded us a page or
two earlier) “pictures themselves . . . exist in three-dimensional space,” the
first mark creates the possibility of seeing the actual three-dimensionality
of the picture as also a kind of illusion—a depicted three-dimensionality—
what Greenberg calls “a kind of illusion of a kind of third dimension.”11 In
this way, both the flatness of the painting (which isn’t real) and the three-
dimensionality of the painting (which is real) are rendered ideal. They are
both representational effects.
From this standpoint, Fried’s idea that there are two lines of thought
about flatness and opticality in Greenberg makes sense even if thinking of
one of them as global and the other as local may not be the most perspicu-
ous way to distinguish them. One way to read Greenberg’s history of paint-
ing is as the progressive confrontation with the “ineluctable flatness of the
support,” a confrontation that culminates in modernism’s valorization of
the purely optical as painting’s essence. On this reading, it’s the physical
facts of the canvas—“the flat surface, the shape of the support, the proper-
ties of pigment”12—that are dispositive, and so it’s this reading that leads
us, as Fried says, to minimalist literalism. Minimalism pierces the veil of
apparent flatness and reveals the three-dimensionality of the painting as
object, hence the irrelevance (going forward) of painting. But, in the reading
I’ve just outlined, the flatness that is ineluctable is doubly so—first as the
Michael Fried’s Theory of Action 37
actual illusion (the appearance of flatness) that minimalism unmasks and
second as the depicted illusion that the first mark makes possible because
it turns the appearance of flatness into the representation of flatness and
because it turns the reality of three-dimensionality into the representation
of three-dimensionality.13
The intimacy of these two readings is visible in Fried’s characterization
of “the emphasis Louis places on the bare canvas in the unfurleds, the sheer
primacy he gives it” (ML 120). The primacy of bare canvas repeats the insis-
tence on the materiality of the support that had culminated in Greenberg’s
at least equally bare “stretched or tacked-up canvas” that already exists as a
picture and that marks the final stage in the painting’s reduction to literalist
three-dimensionality. But here that primacy is conferred on the bare canvas
by the painter (“he gives it”). It’s like the flatness that Greenberg describes
as not just destroyed but created by the first mark. Which is why Fried sees
the rivulets as simultaneously destroying and making meaningful the canvas
into which they’re stained: they turn its “apparent” flatness into a signifying
flatness. And here too, we see the relevance of his description of the blank-
ness of the bare canvas as “the blankness, one feels, of an enormous page.”
The kind of mark made on a “blank page or canvas” (ML 119) offers a dif-
ferent solution to the problem raised by modernism’s refusal of the illusion
of three-dimensionality. That problem, properly understood, was how to
avoid the collapse of the work of art into the reality of three-dimensionality,
and the replacement of sculptural by optical illusion is one way of solving
it. But the redescription of drawing as a kind of writing is another, a way of
making the surface virtual by making it in itself the site of meaning.
Which is not to say that—for painting—the idea of illusion is entirely sac-
rificed. Pointing to the experience of trying to focus intensely (“bear down”)
on the rivulets of paint in each side, Fried describes the beholder as feeling
“physically too close” to the painting to bring them into “simultaneous
focus.” You can’t, for example, compare the rivulets on one side to the rivu-
lets on the other without looking back and forth between them, so you feel
you need to step back to get a better view of the whole. But then—when you
do step back—nothing is changed. Why not? Because your sense of being
“physically too close” is “illusory”; it doesn’t matter where you are. The
“illusory closeness” of the unfurleds belongs “not to one’s actual situation
viewing them, but to the paintings themselves.” Furthermore, it’s precisely
this illusory closeness that “makes the blankness of the canvas seem like that
of an enormous page,” since the sense that you can’t focus simultaneously
and sufficiently on both banks of rivulets produces the experience of the
reader rather than the beholder. No matter how close to or far from the page
you are, there is no way you can read both the beginning of a line and the
end of it simultaneously, and in order to experience the book correctly you
don’t need to. But, transposed from writing to painting, this literal experi-
ence of the book (you can’t read it by focusing on a whole page) becomes a
way to signify the distinctive experience of the painting—you can only see
38 Walter Benn Michaels
it when “your attention is brought to rest on the painting as a whole” (ML
121). And this quality of being a whole is what the painting establishes by
making the beholder’s sense of closeness illusory, by making the question of
where the beholder stands irrelevant, by making its illusion and hence its
meaning belong to itself instead of to the viewer.
Thus the question of what the first mark made on the canvas does leads
us to the description of that mark as establishing the canvas as the site
of an illusion. The illusion produced by the painting’s depiction of three-
dimensional space is repudiated but not in favor of its real flatness (since
the picture plane is flat but no picture is) and not on behalf of its real three-
dimensionality (since everything is three-dimensional) but on behalf instead
of its represented flatness. Hence the identification—in both Greenberg and
Fried—of illusion with meaning; and hence, in Fried’s Louis, the idea that
it’s your experience of the painting (the illusion of being too close) that
makes you understand the irrelevance of your experience. Fried describes
Louis as “the last major painter who did not have to deal explicitly with
the issues” raised by minimalist literalism, the last painter who did not have
to confront the possibility of his paintings being experienced as “a kind of
object” (ML 128). But both in his account of the importance of the illusion
and his account of the structure of the illusion, we can see Fried already
reading Louis against the literalist critique of illusionism. “Three dimen-
sions are real space,” Judd wrote in “Specific Objects”; “that gets rid of the
problem of illusionism . . . which is riddance of one of the salient and most
objectionable relics of European art.”14 Looking at an eight and a half by
fourteen foot canvas in real space, there’s a best place to stand to see it as a
whole; looking at Alpha Pi, you can only see it “as a whole” by discovering
that it doesn’t matter where you stand. The beholder whose illusion (when
pierced) reveals to her the irrelevance of her own position in real space (i.e.,
the irreducibility of the illusion) experiences the difference between herself
as a subject looking at an object and herself as a beholder looking at a
painting.15
But if it makes sense to see Louis not as the “last major painter” who “did
not have to confront the risk that his paintings might be seen as objects”
(ML 128) but rather as the first major painter who did confront that risk,
that’s only because, in the terms in which Fried presents him, he created that
risk for himself. We can begin to see how by remembering Fried’s descrip-
tion of the veils as giving “the impression” of having been determined “by
uniform, impersonal not just natural but elemental forces” (ML 117) and
of the rivulets in the unfurleds as “the manifestation of natural forces” (ML
122). In other words, the painting that established itself “as a whole” by
rendering the beholder’s experience of it irrelevant to its meaning seems to
render the artist’s activity in making it equally irrelevant. It seeks in fact (as
we have already noted) to give the impression that it has “come into exis-
tence” “without the intervention of the artist.” Indeed, the first mark on the
empty canvas that Fried sees as thematized in the unfurleds is even described
Michael Fried’s Theory of Action 39
as something that “happens on, and to, the blank page” (ML 119), as if the
act of marking were best understood as never quite performed, as an event
rather than an act. And this desire to problematize the act of making the
first mark is given a special force by the fact that the very structure of the
phrase—“the first mark made on a canvas”—is, with respect especially to
the unfurleds, misleading since, as Fried says, they are “more accurately”
described as painted “with” rather than “on” the canvas (ML 120). What
he means by this is that Louis poured the paint onto the (blank, unprimed,
and unstretched) canvas and then controlled its flow by manipulating the
canvas itself. So, for example, the natural force of gravity plays a major
role. And any mark of the artist’s agency—anything that looks like it could
have been made by “his hand, wrist, and arm”—is refused. Or when it does
make its way in, it is criticized. The effort in general is to produce paintings
that, looking as if they’d been produced by something other than the human
body (the hand, the wrist, the arm), would look as if they had separated
themselves from the act of making them. And the point of this effort was for
Louis to make sure, Fried says, that he “didn’t allow himself to get into his
paintings in what he felt was the wrong way” (ML 126).
In other words, in order to avoid getting into his paintings in the wrong
way, Louis ran the risk of appearing not to get into them at all. Which, as
a theoretical position rather than an aesthetic decision, had its own attrac-
tions. For example, a year before Fried began writing the Louis essay, the
philosopher Monroe Beardsley (co-author along with the literary theorist
William K. Wimsatt of “The Intentional Fallacy”16) imagined “enjoying an
abstract expressionist painting” at a museum and then discovering that the
painting was “actually made by a child or a chimpanzee or a machine.” The
point of the example, he thought, was that the discovery “does not invali-
date your response.”17 It doesn’t matter whether the painter was a child or
a chimpanzee because (and this was the central tenet of “The Intentional
Fallacy”) what you’re responding to is the painting not the painter’s inten-
tions or (if the painter were a machine or a natural force) the painter’s lack
of intentions. So on this account, neither Louis nor Fried need ever have
worried about getting into the painting in the wrong way because the artist
can never get into it at all; whether the mark looks intentional or not, we
effectively treat it as if it weren’t. Hence when Fried says that “Louis’s paint-
ings, more than those of any previous painter, give the impression of having
come into existence as if of their own accord, without the intervention of
the artist” (ML 126), what, following Wimsatt and Beardsley, he should be
saying is that Louis’s paintings perform the truth of all art—looking as if
they came into existence of their own accord, they make clear that it doesn’t
matter how they came into existence. Looking as if they came into existence
without a painter having done anything, they make clear the irrelevance of
the effort to understand what the painter did.
Of course, Beardsley does not make this point against Fried but—close
enough for jazz—against Stanley Cavell, with whom Fried’s intellectual
40 Walter Benn Michaels
relations at this point in their careers were extremely close. In 1967’s
“Music Discomposed,” Cavell had written that we approach works of art
“not merely because they are interesting in themselves but because they
are felt as made by someone,” and for this reason (because “they are not
works of nature but works of art”) the “category of intention” is “inescap-
able” in speaking of them: “without it, we would not understand what they
are.”18 And although Beardsley in effect doubles down on the idea that the
beholder would not know what the work was by insisting that even the
artist (as monkey or machine) need not know what it is, it’s easy enough
to see the implausibility of his idea that the beholder’s response would be
unaffected by discovering the painting was made by someone or something
who didn’t know what a painting was. That the experience of a bunch of
colors can be enjoyable is obviously true; most of us like sunsets. But insofar
as what you’re enjoying is, say, the way in which the painting refuses (or
insists on) optical instead of sculptural illusion, it’s even more obvious that
discovering it to have been made by someone (or thing) that doesn’t have
the concept of either the optical or the sculptural (or, for that matter, of
refusing and insisting) will indeed invalidate that response. Paint randomly
applied to a canvas can look like a tangible object or not; it can’t continue
the tradition of sculptural illusion, and it can’t refuse to continue it. In other
words, you can always treat the painting as if it were made by no one (this
will be part of what is meant by treating it as an object), but then you will
not be seeing it as a work.
So what is Fried getting at—or what does he think Louis is getting at—
when he insists that Louis’s paintings do not look like they’ve been “drawn
or acted on,” that instead they give the impression that they were made just
as Wimsatt and Beardsley asked us to imagine all works are—without the
intervention of the artist (as if by “natural forces,” like a sunset)? In Wim-
satt and Beardsley, the point of eliminating the artist’s act is to emphasize
the necessity of keeping the artist out of the work. But in Fried’s Louis, as
we have already begun to see, the point is not to keep the artist out of the
work but to keep him or her from entering it in the wrong way. What, then,
is the wrong way?
Fried gives that question a kind of psychological answer with respect to
Jackson Pollock, the painter who, in his refusal of drawing, Fried thinks
of as closest to Louis. Pollock’s “development,” he says, “seems to have
involved a continual struggle between the literalness and specificity of urgent
personal feeling and the impersonal and in that sense abstract demands of
painting itself.” In part, the idea here is that (impersonal) painting required
Pollock to repress (personal) feeling and thus to “dissolve or revoke” the
most “direct means of specifying feeling”—drawing. And here Louis has
an advantage since, as Fried imagines him, Louis’s most urgent personal
feelings may not have been “psychological” in the sense of being concerned
with “relationships and feelings” other than those “connected with paint-
ing itself” and hence need never have been experienced by him in the way
Michael Fried’s Theory of Action 41
that they were by Pollock—as in conflict with (and therefore needing to be
“excised” from) his painting. The way Fried puts this is to say that Louis’s
“imagination” was “radically abstract” in a way that neither Pollock’s nor
any other modernist painter’s was. But of course even this radically abstract
imagination requires Louis to do as Pollock had done and refuse drawing.
Which we can begin to understand better if we remember that it’s not just
the specificity and urgency of feeling that Pollock struggled against but its
“literalness” (ML 126). And if we then remember that it’s not his psychol-
ogy but his body, not his feeling but his wrist and his hand and his arm, that
Louis struggles against.
“Louis’s eschewal of drawing,” Fried says, “amounted to the refusal
to allow his hand, wrist, and arm to get into his paintings: and this . . .
amounted to the refusal to allow himself to get into his paintings in what he
felt was the wrong way” (ML 126). Thus, for example, he says of the florals
that they fail when you come to see “the limits” of the “configurations” “as
determined by the artist’s wrist, which is to say, as drawn” (ML 117). Why
is this a failure? Because when you see the configurations as determined by
the artist’s wrist, you see the painting as a trace of the painter’s body, a natu-
ral rather than an intentional sign—literally “literal.” From this standpoint,
the attempt to make paintings that look like they’ve come into existence
“without the intervention of the artist” is the attempt to make paintings
that look like they’re meant and not just caused by the artist. In fact, it’s
precisely because Louis understands drawing as a failure to mean (the mark
on the canvas is just the index of the painter’s wrist; the painting that is just
an indexical sign of the painter’s body might as well be made by Beardsley’s
chimp) that he understands the act of meaning to require a refusal of the act
of drawing and requires the act of meaning to run the risk of looking like
no act at all.
This is why Fried’s reading of what turned out to be Louis’s last paintings,
the stripes, continues to insist that, because the stripes are “not seen as cir-
cumscribed by a cursive gesture,” “they are not drawn,” while at the same
time describing them as different from the rivulets of the unfurleds because
they are experienced “as in some important sense intentional, as issuing
from a distinctively human and not just natural action” (ML 122). It’s as if
until the stripes, the fact that Louis would not allow the paintings to look
like they were made by an intentional act (drawing) was a function of his
sense that drawing had come to look intentional in the wrong way—that it
looked in the painting like the literal effect of a feeling (Pollock) or in Louis
of a bodily act (the movement of the painter’s wrist). Which gives us what
Cavell, replying to Beardsley, called a “bad picture” of intentional acts.
Anti-intentionalists like the New Critics, Cavell said, see intention as “some
internal, prior mental event causally connected with outward effects.”19 But
that’s not only a “bad picture” of what an intention is, it’s a “bad picture”
of what a work of art is: it pictures the work as “more or less like a physical
object, whereas the first fact of works of art is that they are meant, meant to
42 Walter Benn Michaels
be understood.”20 And, more fundamentally still, it’s a bad picture of what
an act is.
This bad picture is produced by the effort to answer the Wittgensteinian
question we began with: “What is left over if I subtract the fact that my
arm goes up from the fact that I raise my arm?” If, in other words, we
understand the theory of action as the effort to say what’s left over, and the
answer we come up with is “your intention,” we have a model of the act in
which it consists of a physical movement of the body plus an intention and
a model of the work of art in which it consists of the physical object it is
plus some other thing (the artist’s intention) outside it. And if we think of
the intention as external and prior to the work, then it will be (as the New
Criticism thought it was) relevant only as a cause—it will have nothing to
do with the work’s meaning.21 And it’s precisely getting himself into the
painting as its cause that Louis resists. That is, his desire not to come into
it in the wrong way is a refusal to let the work be reduced to an effect of its
causes: the indexical marks of the arm, hand, and wrist that Fried identifies
with drawing.
But it is precisely this picture of the intention as outside the physical act—
as “an extra property” of it—that Cavell, following Elizabeth Anscombe,
means to reject. To take one of Anscombe’s examples, suppose we juxtapose
a tree waving in the wind and Anscombe herself writing “I am a fool” on
a blackboard. We might say that the movements of the tree’s leaves are like
the movement of her hand and distinguish between what the leaves do and
what the hand does by saying that in order to understand the movement of
the woman’s hand as her act, we need to add her intention to write with
it. But our account of what the woman is doing was from the start that
she is writing on a blackboard. “We notice many changes and movements
in the world,” Anscombe says, but “we have no description” of what she
calls “a picked-out set of movements or a picked-out appearance of the tree
remotely resembling ‘She wrote ‘I am a fool’ on the blackboard.’ ” The point
of the “picked-out” here is that we already see the movements of the writ-
ing hand as writing; writing is the description of them. By the same token,
we ask “What does it say?” about “a word or sentence” not about “certain
appearances of chalk on the blackboard.”22 Certain appearances of chalk
are like the tree’s leaves in the wind; they’re not what we see when we see
her writing. The idea, then, is that acts are no more physical movements to
which someone has added intentions than words are marks to which some-
one has added meanings. In Fried’s Louis, marking is meaning.
In a footnote to his claim that the “first fact of works of art are that they
are meant, meant to be understood,” Cavell imagines someone objecting:
“No. The first fact about works of art is that they are sensuous.” To which
he ends up somewhat reluctantly responding: “The first question of aesthet-
ics is: How does that ‘sensuous object’ mean anything?”23 The reluctance,
presumably, is because even that version of the assertion produces too much
of a difference (or the wrong kind of difference) between the sensuous and
Michael Fried’s Theory of Action 43
the meaningful—too much of a sense that art involves adding the mean-
ingful to the sensuous when in fact there could be no meaning that was
not already sensuous. The objection to Beardsley (and to the various forms
of anti-intentionalism for which “The Intentional Fallacy” can serve as a
stand-in) is that he imagines that the work is nothing but a sensuous object,
hence the merely causal relevance of the way it was made.
Perhaps the most visible alternative to Beardsley’s anti-intentionalism at
the time was the kind of intentionalism represented by the work of the phi-
losopher and art critic Arthur Danto. Armed with his own what’s-left-over
understanding of the central problem of the theory of action—an action “is
a movement of the body plus x”—and with a parallel formulation for works
of art—“a material object plus y”24—Danto produced out of works like
Andy Warhol’s Brillo Boxes (1964) exemplary instances of the intention as
an extra property of both the action and the work. For Danto, the aesthetic
equivalent of what do I have to add to my arm going up in order for me to
have raised my arm is what do I have to add to the Brillo boxes in order
to have produced Brillo Boxes.25 But really that question had already been
raised in Greenberg’s account of the “stretched or tacked-up canvas” that
could in itself count “as a picture.” What do I have to add to that canvas to
make it into a work of art? How does that sensuous object mean anything?
Some thirty years after writing it, Fried himself noted that his account of
the unfurleds might “be taken as showing what in fact was required in order
that a large expanse of canvas compel conviction as painting, that is, be
endowed with specifically pictorial, not simply literal, significance” (IMAC
40). In one sense, the answer is simple: paint. It can contain vast stretches
of blank canvas but it can’t be blank—it has to be marked. But here we see
(again) both why it’s crucial that the Morris Louis essay is organized around
the question of the act and why it is so leery of allowing any actual act into
it. The blank canvas isn’t just a limit case (as far as you can go and still have
something that will count as a picture); its attraction to Louis is its utter
repudiation of drawing: you can’t come into it the wrong way. The problem
is that, not having come into it in the wrong way, you look like you haven’t
come into it at all. Or as if the only way you can come into it is with your
mind instead of your hand—as if something that happens in your head is the
way of making the sensuous object mean something.
But you can’t come into anything with your mind. Which is why Fried
turns Louis’s blank canvas into a blank page. The blankness is crucial since
it enables you to avoid not only the illusion of tangible objects but touch
itself (the reduction of painting to the action of your “hand, wrist and arm”
(ML 126)). And the rivulets of paint on the sides—made with rather than
on the canvas and themselves looking “natural” (“elemental” rather than
“intentional”)—repeat (even literalize) the refusal to understand painting as
the movement of your arm. At the same time, however, because the rivulets
of paint turn the blank canvas into an “enormous page” and thus (like Ans-
combe’s blackboard) into a site of inscription, they turn it into a sensuous
44 Walter Benn Michaels
object that is simultaneously a site of meaning. It’s for this reason that these
two different modes of the refusal of drawing are described by Fried as,
together, producing not an actual drawing or even a mark, but “the firstness
of marking as such—prior to any act of marking (e.g. drawing)” (ML 119).
The transformation of canvas into page proleptically describes the act of
marking it as neither the material movement of the hand nor the immaterial
contribution of the mind.
And the terms of this description are made clear in Fried’s account of Lou-
is’s last work, the stripes, which, he says, are not drawn but can nonetheless
“be seen as drawn.” What this means is that they are not “the fruit of any
imaginable act of drawing” since what he calls “the sheer apparent velocity
of their paths across the canvas” makes that impossible; no one could draw
anything as quickly as they seem to have been made. But, “experienced”
nonetheless as “in some important sense intentional,” they are seen “as the
instantaneous, unmediated realization of the drawing impulse, the will to
draw” (ML 122). They embody, in other words, not drawing but the pos-
sibility of drawing—the concept of drawing, the desire to draw, and the
ability to draw—all the things that make it possible to pick out those move-
ments of the hand that constitute drawing (or writing).
It’s for this reason that I’ve wanted to qualify Fried’s description of Louis
as not yet having “to confront the risk that his paintings might be seen as
objects” (ML 128). What his essay argues, at least on my reading, is that
Louis sought to produce and hence confront the risk that his acts might not
be seen as acts, which is different from the question of what a painting is
but is intimately linked to it: we could never see paintings as paintings if we
didn’t already see acts as acts. This, in effect, is the critique of Beardsley’s
(or anyone else’s) anti-intentionalism; it asks us to see works of art as if they
weren’t works of art. But we can also see in what Fried calls the “radical
abstractness” of Louis’s imagination the motive for that anti-intentionalism.
Like certain modernist poets, Louis, he says, was committed to the “ideal
independence” of the work from “the personality of its maker” (ML 127).
Getting your personality into the work was getting into it in the wrong way,
just as getting your body into it was getting into it in the wrong way and as
even imagining that you could get your mind into it was getting into it in the
wrong way. It’s the refusal of these ways that led theorists like Wimsatt and
Beardsley to deny the relevance of the artist’s intentions to the work’s mean-
ing; it’s the same refusal that leads Fried’s Louis to run the risk of seeming
not to get into the work at all. The difference is that—demonstrating the
independence of the work from the personality of its maker by demonstrat-
ing the identity of the meaning of the work (of meaning itself) with the
actions of its maker—Fried’s Louis produces a right way.
We began by noting the identification of the refusal of drawing in Fried’s
Louis with the refusal of sculptural illusion (tangible objects) that Greenberg
identifies with modernism tout court. But we also noted that for Greenberg,
Michael Fried’s Theory of Action 45
the refusal of illusion runs the risk of turning the painting into just such an
object, and it’s for that reason that he insists on the replacement of sculp-
tural with optical illusion. What opticality signals is the work’s ability to
mean—to represent three-dimensionality as well as to be three-dimensional.
And if opticality as such was never as central to Fried as to Greenberg,
the question of meaning certainly was. That’s why, for example, distanc-
ing himself from opticality, he will say in 1986 that it was not any “notion
of opticality” that made Anthony Caro’s work important to him, “it was
the syntactic nature of his art,”26 which he had, in “Art and Objecthood,”
identified with “meaningfulness as such” (AO 162). Hence it makes sense
that insofar as opticality matters in “Morris Louis,” it’s an opticality that,
as I’ve suggested, is identified with the emergence of the blank canvas as a
blank page (hence with writing) and less with the effect of the first mark on
that page than with the act of marking itself. The illusion that matters here
is the “illusive impersonality of Louis’s art” (ML 127), illusive not exactly
because it isn’t really impersonal but because the illusion of “natural” or
“elemental” “forces” is required to make visible the impersonality—the
abstractness—of action itself. In “Morris Louis,” the question of what a
painting is is approached through the question of what painting is.
Notes
1 A much shorter version of Fried’s essay was first published in Morris Louis, the
exhibition catalog (Los Angeles, Boston, St. Louis, 1966–7) and then in Artfo-
rum (February 1967). The larger text that I discuss here appeared first as a book,
Morris Louis (New York: Harry Abrams, 1970).
2 The whole passage reads: “Let us not forget this: when I ‘raise my arm,’ my arm
goes up. And the problem arises: what is left over if I subtract the fact that my
arm goes up from the fact that I raise my arm?” Whether Wittgenstein meant
the question to be answered or whether he himself meant to suggest that, as
posed, it was misleading and should be refused is itself a real question but not
one that I address. For my purposes, the relevant fact is that some philosophers
(my interest is in Arthur Danto, partly because of his importance to the theory
of action and especially because of his importance as a theorist of the work of
art) understood the theory of action as an attempt to answer it, while some other
philosophers (I focus on G. E. M. Anscombe, partly because of her centrality to
a different version of the theory of action and also because of her importance
to Stanley Cavell) understood the theory of action as an attempt to refuse it.
I should say also that while it’s very convenient for me that Cavell was influenced
by Anscombe and that Fried was so close to Cavell, I don’t mean to rest my dis-
cussion on these connections. I would argue rather that the entailments of what
as a kind of shorthand we can call Fried’s modernism led him in this direction.
3 Clement Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” in The New Art, ed. Gregory
Battcock (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1973), 73.
4 Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” 69.
5 Clement Greenberg, “After Abstract Expressionism,” in The Collected Essays
and Criticism Volume 4: Modernism with a Vengeance, 1957–1969, ed. John
O’Brian (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 131.
6 Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” 73.
46 Walter Benn Michaels
7 Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” 73.
8 Michael Fried, “Discussion,” in Discussions in Contemporary Culture, ed. Hal
Foster (Seattle: Bay Press, 1987), 73.
9 Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” 90.
10 Indeed, Greenberg’s effort to replace flatness as a literal property of the can-
vas with flatness as two-dimensionality is made explicit when he alters the
1960 text—“Because flatness was the only condition painting shared with
no other art, Modernist painting oriented itself to flatness as it did to noth-
ing else”—by adding “two-dimensionality” and equating it with “flatness”:
“Flatness, two-dimensionality, was the only condition painting shared with
no other art, and so . . .”
11 Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” 70.
12 Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” 68.
13 Although my own emphasis here is on literal flatness as already three-dimensional
and hence on the necessity to produce the illusion of three dimensions out of an
object that really is three-dimensional, I regard this account as basically com-
patible with Michael Schreyach’s wonderful discussion of Greenberg’s use of
Hans Hofmann to produce the distinction between “ ‘meaningless’ flatness” and
“ ‘re-created’ flatness.” See “Re-Created Flatness: Hans Hoffmann’s Concept of
the Picture Plane as a Medium of Expression,” The Journal of Aesthetic Educa-
tion (49: 1, 2015), 44–67.
14 Donald Judd, “Specific Objects,” in Complete Writings 1959–1975 (Halifax and
New York: The Press of the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design and New
York University Press, 1975), 184.
15 A relevant alternative formulation would be by way of John Cage’s answer to a
woman asking where the best seat would be for a performance of 4’33”: they’re
all “equally good” (Richard Kostelanetz, Conversing with Cage (New York:
Limelight Editions, 1988), 105). Because no set of sounds more belongs to 4’33”
than any other set of sounds, whatever she hears in back will be just as good as
what she would hear in front. But with an unfurled, the irrelevance of where you
stand works just the opposite way. Because the illusion of its closeness belongs to
it, what it shows is not that one experience of the work is just as good as another
but that the meaning of the work (the illusion of its closeness) is independent of
anyone’s experience of it.
16 W. K. Wimsatt, Jr. and Monroe C. Beardsley, The Verbal Icon: Studies in the
Meaning of Poetry (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1954).
17 Monroe C. Beardsley, “Comments,” in Art, Mind and Religion, ed. W. H. Capi-
tan and D. D. Merrill (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1967), 104.
18 Stanley Cavell, “Music Discomposed,” in Must We Mean What We Say? (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 198.
19 Stanley Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” in Must We Mean What We Say?
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 226.
20 Stanley Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 228.
21 On intention as cause in Wimsatt and Beardsley, and how the problem is their
mistaken view of intention and not their view of interpretation, see Jennifer
Ashton, “Two Problems with a Neuroaesthetic Theory of Interpretation,”
nonsite.org (http://nonsite.org/article/two-problems-with-a-neuroaesthetic-the
ory-of-interpretation, 2011).
22 G. E. M. Anscombe, Intention (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1957), 83.
23 Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 228.
24 Arthur Danto, The Transfiguration of the Commonplace (Cambridge, MA: Har-
vard University Press, 1981), 5.
Michael Fried’s Theory of Action 47
25 For a more extended critique of Danto’s conception of the work of art, see
Walter Benn Michaels, “Anscombe and Winogrand, Danto and Mapplethorpe:
A Reply to Dominic McIver Lopes,” nonsite.org (http://nonsite.org/article/ans
combe-and-winogrand-danto-and-mapplethorpe, 2016).
26 Fried, “Discussion,” 71.
3 Why Does Photography Matter
as Art Now, as Never Before?
On Fried and Intention
Robert B. Pippin
1
The temporal reference in Michael Fried’s 2008 book, Why Photography
Matters as Art as Never Before, will have an immediate double implication
for readers of his work on the history of painting and on contemporary
art. First, “as Never Before” has an obvious direct reference to today, the
present age. Photography may have mattered as art before, but it matters
in some way now as never before. Such a title suggests an attempt that goes
beyond a series of readings of some contemporary art photographers. Some-
thing about the work of these artists matters in a shared way art photog-
raphy has never mattered; has never had to matter, one might say. Clearly,
the present age referred to in such a context must especially involve the
current fate of art,1 as it exists in the production and reception of artworks,
catalog copy for gallery exhibitions, what contemporary art museums buy
and show, and the dominant theories of art in the art and philosophy world
(insofar as there is any interest in art in that latter world). This is the world
of literalism, minimalism, postmodernism, installation art, conceptual art,
performance art, and environmental art, not to mention the world of the
vast speculative art market. Second, for Fried, one expects that the pres-
ent state of the artworld (within which some art photography matters so
much) extends and is a moment in the narrative history of modern art he has
been developing for nearly fifty years. This involves a crisis, actually a series
of different but related crises, first attended to by Diderot in his reaction
against the Rococo in the eighteenth century, abstractly summarizable as the
“crisis of theatricality,” and corresponding attempts to “defeat theatrical-
ity” by successive generations of painters in many different ways. In his first
major work, 1980’s Absorption and Theatricality, Fried saw that something
was at stake in Diderot’s criticism that went far beyond localized issues at a
moment in French art critical debates. The fate of pictorial art in modernity
was at stake, and this at a level that involved ambitious philosophical issues,
especially “ontological” ones. That is, a possible, distinct mode of being
of the artwork as such, not as decoration, source of religious inspiration,
commodity, or entertainment was at stake, and this in a way that was as
On Fried and Intention 49
historically inflected for Fried as is his approach to contemporary art pho-
tography. The question of art’s survival as art in modernity was at stake, and
that meant as a significant vehicle of human self-understanding in unique
and intrinsically valuable experiences available in no other mode.
Contemporary art photography “matters,” in other words, because of
some understanding of the way visual art “matters,” or should matter.2
And, given the point just made about its self-understanding, it could cease
to matter. One can, given the modern sensibility, imagine a successful secu-
lar demythologization of art that would be as reductive and deflating as
the modern reimagining of religion in the light of psychology and sociol-
ogy. One cannot only imagine it, one can observe that such things as a
resistance to any distinction between high and low art, the studied, labored
indeterminacy in much contemporary art, claims about the “death of the
author,”3 a concentration on art as a political category, critical theory as
the deconstructive demonstration of the failure of meaning in texts, and the
treatment of art as a mere occasion for various individual responses, as in
neuroaesthetics and affect theory, have largely accomplished this reduction
in the minds of many. For Fried, this question of ontological survival turned
on the embodiment in the artwork of its own understanding of its relation
to its beholder, and so is itself inseparable from an ever-present, implicit the-
matization of conceptions of sociality and world-involvement by subjects,
itself dependent on historical conceptions of and experiences of “world.”
This set of issues is “the problem of theatricality” and occasions the general
response—the creation of the fictional (or, paradoxically, “staged”) “nega-
tion of the beholder.” Such level of abstraction does not, though, do any
justice to the historical variations in such a project, nor to the magnitude of
the stakes involved.
That magnitude resonates in “as Never Before,” already an implicit sug-
gestion, given Fried’s oeuvre as a whole, that some art photography success-
fully resists a contemporary submission to, or even an enthusiastic embrace
of, the very theatricality that Fried sees as an existential threat to art itself,
and that by such resistance is able to raise again the larger issues behind the
struggle against theatricality. How some photographers achieve this is the
main subject of Why Photography Matters.4
2
Fried notes first that certain technical innovations in photography—the pos-
sibility of large tableau format images, made to be hung on a wall, available
to be contemplated at length and closely, as well as digital manipulation
and combination of photographs5—allowed photography to invoke all the
conventions of gallery painting and many elements of artificial composition,
and so to participate in the dialectical narrative that for Fried descends from
the first crisis of theatricality in the history of painting. And he began notic-
ing in photographers like Jeff Wall, Jean-Marc Bustamente, and Thomas
50 Robert B. Pippin
Ruff (around 1980) a concern with the beholder, a thematization of the
relation of the photograph to a beholder, which unmistakably invoked the
Diderotian problematic.
To bring out and justify this invocation, Fried puts to work various theo-
retical notions he had developed elsewhere, and he applies new conceptual
tools for the range of photographers he studies. “Absorptive strategies,”
“to-be-seenness,” the representability (or not) of “mindedness,” “present-
ness” and “instantaneousness,” oubli de soi, and “exclusion” or “nega-
tion” of the beholder all make useful appearances. The notions of world and
worldhood, and of the everyday for Jeff Wall; “good” and “bad” object-
hood in Welling, Wall, and the Bechers; some thoughts from Wittgenstein
for the contrast between the lived world with the pictorial world portrayed
in Struth’s museum photographs and closed off from us (“world-likeness
versus world-apartness” (WPM 125));6 just what conventions of the tableau
form are invoked by the new photography in his accounts of Ruff, Gursky,
and Delahaye, especially the “abstracting and hypostatizing of facingness in
Ruff’s portraits” (WPM 140), an element that fits perfectly within Fried’s
interpretation of the vast significance of Manet for modernism; distance,
and photographing figures from behind in Andreas Gursky as “severing”
(and so showing a world from which the viewer is “banished” or excluded
(WPM 162), a major anti-theatrical strategy in the Diderotian project);
the way Delahaye’s photographs seem to deliberately withhold from the
viewer any indication of where to look; how Struth manages to create some
sense of self-forgetfulness on the part of the sitters for his portraits and the
uncanny role of the unintentional exhibited in their physical resemblances;
the “basic structure of photographic address” at work in Rineke Dijkstra
photographs, “rather than the tragic (or tragicomic) fact about human exis-
tence” (WPM 211). And there is much more; too much to be summarized.
But there is one notion in particular that I want to concentrate on, a
notion that has a complicated and contentious history in both aesthetics and
philosophy of mind and action: intention. It arises in Chapter Nine, in the
first section of that chapter, which discusses Thomas Demand’s “allegories
of intention” (WPM 272) in his photographs.7
3
But first I need to develop some conceptual machinery of my own, although
I believe everything that follows is either implicit in Fried’s approach or
explicitly formulated in different terminology.
The summary just given already suggests something important about the
ontological status of the artwork. Art is such as to exist as, and only as,
its own self-understanding, a self-understanding shared by artist and his-
torical world. Its self-understanding is self-constitutive. There is no art for
the artworld to understand except what is understood to be art. This does
not mean that art is “whatever a community takes it to be.” A form of
On Fried and Intention 51
self-understanding could develop in which what had been art, and what
had mattered as art, ceases to be continuous with its history, and so ceases
to matter as it once had. That is, the fact that practices like art, religion,
and even sport are what they are only as understood to be what they are by
the participants means that the practices have a history;8 in fact are essen-
tially historical. Baseball is constituted by the rules the participants take and
have taken themselves to be following. There are variations (lowering the
pitching mound, allowing a designated hitter for the pitcher) that are not
so discontinuous as to mean that, given such a history, people are playing
another game, but it is easy to imagine changes that, once widely or offi-
cially accepted, do mean one is playing another game. (As would be the case
with the elimination of strikeouts or doubling the number of fielders.)
This is one way in which one of Fried’s most important art historical
claims can be understood; that is, his claim about the role of Manet in
the modernist revolution. Art’s central telos (what became in modernity its
central telos)9—to defeat theatricality by either absorptive depictions, high
drama, history scenes, or in Courbet’s radical suggested merging of beholder
and work—came to be exhausted, no longer worked. Manet’s new anti-
theatrical strategy was to acknowledge the inevitable theatricality of paint-
ing by confronting the beholder, rather than creating the illusion that he or
she does not exist, and to do so by a dramatic facingness in the subjects that
figures the all-over and immediate facingness of the canvas turned toward
the viewer. This acknowledgement of theatricality ingeniously avoids simply
being theatrical.10 However, for Fried, Manet also had to relate this strategy
to the great paintings of the past, to refer to those paintings as a way of
showing that a continuation of the ambition to make paintings worthy of
Raphael, Titian, and Velázquez was still possible in this greatly altered situ-
ation. This framework also suggests the possibility that a rejection of the
telos itself, even a rejection of the idea that paintings could be said to bear
meaning, and so to demand some distinctive attentiveness on the part of the
beholder (“interpretation”), could be possible within an artworld that still
called such objects artworks. But it could be shown that and why this was
not the case, that whatever new game was being played, it could not count
as art, was radically discontinuous with the great art of the past (and so with
“art” itself). I take it that this was part of Fried’s point in his 1967 essay
“Art and Objecthood.”11
A second ontological dimension of a work of pictorial art, a formulation
of why the thing is an artwork and not something else, is more well known.
We want to say: any such work has a distinct form, and it is this form, in the
standard Aristotelian sense, that “accounts” for its unity, a unity in this case
organic (“living”), not additive or mechanical. (The whole is made of parts
or elements, but the whole is also that for the sake of which the parts or ele-
ments exist. Parts and whole are mutually interdependent.)12 But as should
be obvious even from the previous hasty summary, Fried wants to attribute
a form to a work in a philosophically ambitious sense, one that can seem to
52 Robert B. Pippin
involve ascribing a dimension of reflexive subjectivity to the work. In Fried’s
terms, a work can be said to embody an intention to deny, in something
like its address to a beholder, that it is such an address. (So these two points
coincide. The self-understanding noted previously as constitutive, now
understood to involve an understanding of a relation to the beholder, counts
as the object’s form; and in this way as formal and final cause.) Its mode of
theatrical self-presentation is to defeat that very theatricality.13 This is quite
a complicated intentional state to ascribe to a painting, one that obviously
descends from the intention of the artist, but not as such an intention might
be available through biographical research, but in, and only in, the work.
(As we shall see, such an intention is not simply the expression in the work
of some mental state formulated ex ante by the artist.)
This is properly described as not only the work’s intention or form, but, as
just noted, its end or goal. That is, a work can be said to embody a concep-
tion of itself and a conception of the point of its creation and display or pub-
lication; its distinct status as something to-be-achieved. In works that unfold
over time (novels, plays, movies) one can say that a work is realizing such
a formal self-understanding over that time. And it is important that such a
form, its self-understanding, is only its progressive realization, the being-at-
work (to employ an Aristotelian term, energeia) of such a form. In the same
way that an organic being’s health and flourishing can be said to be the end
for which its systems and organs exist and function, that end is achieved
by and consists in nothing but the being-at-work of those parts, so an art-
work can be said to have such an organic form, and that form is its self-
understanding realized over time, or “having been realized” in the stopped
time of a painting. We can then say that to understand a work is to under-
stand this form, this self-realization of its concept of itself in the medium
of the work. We don’t understand such a form as something distinct, as if
a mental representation that exists first in the mind of the artist and then
realized in a sensible medium.14 We understand it only as the emerging self-
understanding of itself at work in the object. So, we “understand” Manet’s
work, or understand it much better, if we understand his work as having
such an end, a new way to deal with the problem of theatricality, and we
understand that by understanding how it can be said to go about doing that.
That is, its, the work’s, self-conception is realized in different ways in differ-
ent paintings and does not refer to what Manet thought. This is the dialecti-
cal dynamic in the ontology, the mode of being of the artwork, that Fried
discovered in the photographers he discusses in Why Photography Matters.15
But this notion of understanding implies something about the attentive
beholder, and that too involves a reflective dimension. Attending to an art-
work as an artwork is not something that can be said to happen to us, or
happen automatically or passively. If we are to have an experience of art, we
must take ourselves to be attending to something that is an artwork. This
self-understanding is not thematized or explicit, as if a second-order intend-
ing. We do not see the artwork, and then observe ourselves so attending. For
one thing, that would require an infinite regress. Nor does such an attending
On Fried and Intention 53
involve rule-following or some method, and certainly not some worked out
theory and so concept of art. But our attention to the work is active and
interrogative as well as contemplative, and that could not happen without
our being aware of ourselves as so doing that.
Put another way, not all painted canvases count as paintings. Some might
be, could be said to be intended to be, decorations for an interior design.
And here the reflexive character of an artwork and the reflexive dimen-
sion of aesthetic experience intersect. In an active attending, we understand
the work to manifest elements that cannot be understood if the work is
ascribed an end limited to decoration or amusement or display of technical
skill alone. Something calls for such an interpretive attending. In Fried’s
corpus, such things as Caravaggio’s repeated theme of severed heads, Char-
din’s absorbed subjects, Manet’s violations of the rules of perspective and
absence of sculptural modeling, all provoke an interrogation that must
itself be self-consciously interrogative.16 And in some cases the form, the
end we see at work in the painting or photograph, even aspires to a level
of generality, general significance, that suggests an ambition that reaches
questions of the nature of art itself, the real, perception; reaches the level
of philosophy.
4
All this brings us to a claim made about the work of Thomas Demand in
Chapter Nine of Why Photography Matters, a claim that does bear on phi-
losophy. Briefly, Demand takes photographs of paper models that he and his
assistants have constructed of scenes, many famous or infamous, some as
ordinary as a kitchen sink. So, while the models evoke a sculptural intention
(Demand’s early training was as a sculptor), the photographs invoke a pic-
torial art, primarily by fixing the beholder’s point of view. A paradigmatic
example would be his 2001 work Poll (Figure 3.1).
This is a treatment of a scene in West Palm Beach where a manual recount
was underway, until stopped by the Supreme Court, to examine and deter-
mine the “intended” choice of 450,000 Florida voters in the 2000 election
contest between Al Gore and George W. Bush. One notes the absence of
writing, or of numbers on the phones, or of writing on the post-its, the
absence of any referential, identifying detail, and, in the large photograph
itself, we can see detectable marks of the paper construction. These are the
elements that require the kind of active interrogation I outlined previously.
Fried provides and supplements a useful summary of Demand’s project
by Dean Sobel:
Fried goes on to complete the summary with a claim from Rosana Mar-
coci: that because Demand’s photographs are laminated behind Plexiglas
and displayed without a frame they are triply removed from the scenes
or objects they depict. This point calls the Plato of the Tenth Book of the
Republic to mind, who criticized artworks in general for their remove from
reality. If we count the object itself as the original, then Marcoci is count-
ing the image of the object (the one used by Demand to create his models)
as one remove, the model as the second, and the photograph as the third.
If we are true Platonists, however, there are really four removes, since the
original for Plato is itself a copy or image of the Idea. As we shall see, this
removal or distance bars any claim that the photograph’s “intentionality” in
the other philosophical sense, its “aboutness,” is due simply to the imprint
of reflected light from the object on photosensitive material. The aboutness
is achieved and Plato’s values are reversed. The distance allows a perspective
on the real, not a distorted image of it.
Fried then remarks on several aspects of these unusual photographs. As
already noted, Demand leaves invisible traces of the imperfection of the mod-
els, flaws that he could have fixed. He takes off any referentially identifying
sign, writing, or image. The object-models are blank, creating a dehistori-
cized endless moment, as if timeless, and an atmosphere of stillness, a kind
of dead, lifeless air. The banality and ordinariness of the objects and scene
are stressed. This creates, quoting Durand, the subject matter as a “dull,
On Fried and Intention 55
obstinate, mysterious presence . . . a suffocating dullness,” one that cannot
“elicit any projected desire or presence on our part” (quoted WPM 266).
It is this unmistakable feature of the works, especially this last point, that
creates the perfect occasion for Fried to remind us that this indifference to,
exclusion of, the beholder (the absence of elicited desire or elicited involve-
ment) is part of an anti-theatrical strategy. There is not only an absence of
anything that would call to mind any human involvement (except, as we
shall see, exactly that unnerving absence). Rather, any such involvement
seems excluded, negated and not just absent. (The models seem constructed
with that effect in mind.) This helps account for the fact that the objects are
contextless, perhaps what it might look like if Heidegger were wrong, and
objects were not normally encountered “within a world,” a “work world,”
but were mere mute present-at-hand (vorhanden) things. Photographs of
them are the last thing that could be considered to have been presented “for
the beholder.” (Again, we must always say, even though they are.)
And there is something else of even greater importance for Fried, an ele-
ment that, I want to say, is connected in a somewhat circuitous way with the
largest theme raised by his whole project—the fate of art in modernity. That
is, in place of “the original scene of evidentiary traces and marks of human
use” Demand wants to show “a counter-image of sheer artistic intention.”
(The work manifesting its being so intended is the ontologically decisive
moment of its self-understanding discussed previously.)17 The bizarre blank-
ness of the objects “throws into conceptual relief the determining force—
also the inscrutability, one might say the opacity—of the intentions behind
them.” Or, “Demand effectively replaces real-world context with a merely
depicted one, every detail and aspect of which is exactly what he intended it
to be” (WPM 271). And, Fried erects a very important barrier to a possible
misunderstanding of these claims: “Demand’s aim is not to make a wholly
intended object—in this case, a wholly digitalized photograph—but rather
to make pictures that represent or indeed allegorize intendedness as such”
(WPM 272). Taking these points together, one can say that the felt inscru-
tability or opacity of identifiable authorial intention is just what allows the
author’s, Demand’s, general intention—to represent or allegorize intended-
ness as such, not a particular intention—to emerge. To make his point a
more general one, Fried then extends his account and shows that there is a
similar kind of dialectical structure, in which some sense of absence allows
an intentional (aesthetic) presence, in several of Thomas Struth’s early
street photographs (Figure 3.2), those “reticent, inexplicit, but meaning-
impregnated cityscapes” (WPM 281). That is, a sense of meaningfulness in
the art, in the photo having been made of this street that way, is opened by
the still, mute, eerie absences in the objects depicted.
So we can say, in the terms introduced earlier, that Fried has tried to exfo-
liate (to my mind, convincingly) in each photograph by Demand (and by
noting common concerns across many) its concept of itself to-be-realized, its
form, the end to be achieved, and he has found a typical modernist concern.
56 Robert B. Pippin
5
I understand the previous discussion to raise a number of questions. The
supervening and most important one is: if Demand’s photographs repre-
sent or allegorize “intendedness as such,” just what thereby has been repre-
sented? It would not be sufficient to say that the photographs of the paper
models represent Demand’s intention to make paper models of real places
and photograph these models. That would be equivalent to saying some-
thing like: Manet’s intention in painting the Olympia was to depict Victo-
rine Meurent in just this way, posing as a courtesan. (This is as informative
as Merle Haggard’s answer when asked why he wrote the song “Okee from
Muskogee”: “Because I was the only one who knew the words.”) As we
noted in discussing formal unity previously, we take the display (or publish-
ing) of an artwork to be purposive. This is part of the dual meaning of inten-
tion, covering what we take the work to mean (what we take “the artist” to
intend it to mean), where what it is “to mean what it does mean” is also the
end or purpose of its production, and so, in that second sense of intentional-
ity, what we want to say the painting or photograph is “about.” So we can
say that representing intendedness as such represents the idea of the bearing
of meaning by a sensible object even as it exhibits that idea by bearing that
meaning, and that the modality of it so bearing meaning is aesthetic, and
in a photographic register. This latter dimension inevitably arises from the
context of photography itself and the question of its possible intentionality,
as discussed previously.
That the register is photographic is crucial to the self-referential reflexive-
ness we have seen in art’s self-constitution, in a particular way in this case.
58 Robert B. Pippin
That is, photographing the life-size paper models accomplishes something
that an exhibition of the models themselves could not do. The photograph
presents itself to us as if the mode in which the work’s content achieves
a form of self-consciousness embodies how the photograph’s own “self-
understanding” is at work. What would look like oddly inadequate paper
copies, when photographed, when seen to be for the photograph as the end
result, or staged for the photograph, become about themselves in a much
more heightened way. Their reproduction or replication in the photograph is
what enables the distinctive reflexivity of an artwork, its realization of some
concept of itself (in this case that realization being of there being such a
concept of itself, or the concept of “intendedness as such”), to be possible.21
There are a number of ways to say what this latter specification (“photo-
graphically aesthetic”) amounts to. Fried has argued that the very absence
of referential markers, and the attending air of strangeness and vacancy, the
exclusion of the beholder or the odd self-sufficient presence and autonomy
of the made objects, intimates such an aesthetic inflection. This is because
of the association of these aspects of the work with the defeat of theatrical-
ity central to establishing the work, any pictorial work in modernity, as an
artwork; all of which is accomplished nondiscursively. Alternately put, the
work itself bears this intention or meaning. It demands something from the
beholder, and so cannot rightly be understood as simply an occasion to-be-
experienced. And this blankness prohibits the invocation of a cognitive con-
ceptual classification, in a way we can identify as having a Kantian point.22
That is, it can invite much more a “free play” of faculties, an imaginative
attending—that distinct modality of aesthetic understanding—than a deter-
minate conceptual classification of its point or purpose. In other words,
what is allegorized or represented is pictorial art itself in its distinctive,
medium-specific mode of being and being intelligible.
But the fact that aesthetic meaning is embodied in this way has a number
of presuppositions and implications. I mean that the work not only embod-
ies an aesthetic intention, but also that the work’s intention is sensibly pres-
ent, public, and requires interrogation. We have already seen the last element
at work. We are stopped short by the oddness and general “indifference”
of the photographed objects. In interrogating this, we take ourselves to be
inquiring about the artist’s intention, but this has little to do with hunting
down evidence of what mental state the artist was entertaining at the onset
of creation, ex ante. We normally have no access to that intention, and,
interestingly, in many contexts, neither does he or she, except in what has
been realized. The work is the only guide we have to its own intended real-
ization, and Fried’s work in many different contexts is as exemplary an indi-
cation of how such an interrogative attending should go on as any we have.
This is worth stressing. Our ordinary sense of intention is of something
mental, an idea in the mind of the artist. And when we say that this inten-
tion is embodied in the work, we often mean that there are signs in the
work to prompt us to think the same idea. But in this account, at least as
On Fried and Intention 59
I understand it, such a strict distinction between mentality and materiality
is not maintained. The artist’s intention can actually be said to take shape in
the process of composing the material work, and the work demands inter-
pretation, for both the artist and the beholder, an interpretation focused on
its material details, for the work to be able to be said to bear meaning at
all. Just as in the case of intention and bodily movement, we should speak
instead of the intention being realized over time in the bodily movement,
and the determinate content of that intention in that realization to be sub-
ject to interpretive interrogation just as much for the agent as for the public
community affected by what was done. Read in Fried’s terms, Demand can
be said to have created a “snapshot” of this process of realization.
The intuitive or ordinary understanding cited previously would have to
mean that the work is first perceived as having the sensible properties it
does, and then, in a second step, an inference would have to occur to what
is represented and then a further inference to meaning or intention. But we
do not see colored rectangles and other shapes which we then infer to be
minimal representations of telephones and notebooks, and then infer that
this means intendedness as such. We see blank telephones and see them in
their strangeness, immediately detect what isn’t present as well, that they
are “there” simply as “intended.” This is all as it is when we understand the
look of another. We don’t see shifting eyes and then infer our friend is lying.
We see the lie in his face, at least we see all this in this way in the Heideg-
gerian and Merleau-Pontyean and Wittgensteinian anti-Cartesian accounts
that have influenced so much of Fried’s narrative and ontology of painting.23
To admit the obvious: this aspect of the relation between intention and
embodiment is difficult to make credible in a brief summary. The connec-
tion just stated will seem to many, intuitively, too tight. We know that, due
to some intervening contingencies, the work can turn out differently from
what was intended, and not that the work is what the intention turned out
to be.24 But the idea is not to deny that there are ex ante intentions, but that
any ex ante representation by the artist of the work to be achieved is highly
provisional, and should be understood to be realized in and expressed in the
work over time, as to-be-achieved, often in ways that could not have been
foreseen but that become extensions and variations of the original intention.
Even accidents are either left in the work or not, displayed or not, mark-
ing the work everywhere with intentionality, even without any ex ante full
formulation. I ascribe this tight imbrication of intention-in-work to Fried
because he reads the intention in the work by placing the work in the con-
text of a narrative account of the fate of art in modernity (the work in
that context manifests that intention)—i.e., the theatricality problematic—
independent of what evidence there is or is not about the artist’s aware-
ness of such a problematic. It is the evidence that he finds in the work that
realizes and so embodies the intention, and this within the historical world
struggling with theatricality at some point in time. The artworks bear the
intentions they do in and only in such a historical world, located within such
60 Robert B. Pippin
a tradition. This is so, even though the language of intention would seem to
restrict us to the artist’s self-understanding. That is misleading. An intention
can be attributed to “the artist of the work” even if forever unacknowl-
edged or even rejected by that actual artist. That is, the public character of
artworks means that the work has entered a domain of interpretability such
that there can be no putative “ownership” of the intention in the work by
the individual artist. Fried will make use occasionally of what Demand has
said in interviews (and Demand is an especially astute commentator on his
own work) but only to support points made by interrogation of the work.
6
This all only introduces the role of the concept of intention in Michael Fried’s
book on photography. But I have tried to suggest that the stakes in those first
pages of Chapter Nine are much greater than they might appear to be. The
conditions necessary for considering artworks as fit subjects for interpreta-
tion turns on the questions of intention, the expression of intention, the his-
torical context of such expression, and the distinctive aesthetic modality of
such embodied expression. That artworks can mean, that the meaning can
be interrogated, and that the mode of meaning is distinctive, “aesthetic,” are
all in play. One modest conclusion, or at least suggestion, from this discus-
sion is that attacks on the notion of intention and interpretation are often
fraught with all sorts of assumptions about the status of such intentions.
These range from assuming a kind of Cartesianism or mentalism about a
subject’s intention (originally private and subsequently transferred into the
work) or about a dualism in the work as if its material embodiment is a kind
of vehicle for some nonmaterial, thing-like, semantic entity. None of those
assumptions has anything to do with Fried’s enterprise, nor with the issue
of intention itself, as I hope this brief excursus might have made plausible.
Notes
1 I shall be discussing here pictorial or more broadly visual art. There are parallels
with the other arts but I will not be treating them here.
2 I discuss Fried’s project in a different register, one that focuses on the “authentic-
ity” or credibility of a work, and which suggests a connection with that (Hege-
lian) problem as a social problem in itself, in “Authenticity in Painting: Remarks
on Michael Fried’s Art History,” Critical Inquiry (31, 2005), 575–98.
3 The paradigmatic case, one explicit about the consequences of this “death”
for the issue of meaning, was Roland Barthes’s 1967 essay “The Death of the
Author,” in Image-Music-Text, trans. Stephen Heath (New York: Palgrave Mac-
millan, 1978), 142–8 (see 142 and 147–8).
4 Fried is very clear on two issues that should be highlighted. He does not mean
that these photographers matter so much because they make better photographs,
of greater artistic quality, than ever before. He lists many great photographers of
the past who are of the highest quality but who do not participate in what Fried is
interested in. Second, he does not mean to imply that the group he discusses are the
only contemporary photographers worth attending to. He lists several others who
On Fried and Intention 61
are world class artists but whose projects do not involve the theatricality problem-
atic. The idea that Fried’s only interest lies in rating all artists on a scale of theatrical
to anti-theatrical is irresponsible and inaccurate. See, among many other examples,
his books Realism, Writing, Disfiguration: On Thomas Eakins and Stephen Crane
(Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1987) and Menzel’s Realism.
5 For an example of the significance of this possibility in thematic terms, see the
discussion of Gursky in Why Photography Matters (from 165). This is not to
say that before digital techniques, photography was “weak in intentionality.”
Daniel Morgan, in his book Late Godard (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 2013), makes this point in an especially interesting way, or shows us how
Godard makes it, especially in Histoire(s) du cinéma. See Chapter Four, and
especially 163–5.
6 This contrast between what is closed off and what allows some exchange is high-
lighted by Fried’s last remarks in the Struth chapter (Five) about the audience
photographed looking at the statue of Michelangelo’s David in Florence. There
persists a myth that Fried’s work is “formalist,” indifferent to “content.” See his
closing remarks on the substance of this relation of “worlds” (WPM 142). I also
discuss the further possibilities suggested by such remarks, a possible comple-
mentarity between “politics” and “ontology,” in Chapter Three, “Politics and
Ontology: Clark and Fried,” in After the Beautiful: Hegel and the Philosophy of
Pictorial Modernism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014), 63–95.
7 There are two other important discussions by Fried of this theme: his later
(2014) discussion of Demand’s work, Pacific Sun, the last chapter in his collec-
tion Another Light, and the second chapter of his 2011 Four Honest Outlaws,
a discussion of the work of sculptor Charles Ray. I cite relevant passages from
those discussions in the following notes.
8 It is a separate question why there should have been art at all, such that it came
to have this history. For Hegel, for example, answering that question requires
another contextualization of art practices, within Geist’s or spirit’s attempt
at comprehensive self-knowledge. In that context, a different sort of question
about discontinuity could be raised.
9 That theatricality becomes a problem for art in modernity is another independ-
ent, crucial issue. See the discussion in my “Authenticity in Painting.”
10 A good formulation of this point by Fried: “That high modernist paintings like
Louis Morris’s ‘Unfurleds’ may be said to face the beholder with extraordinary
directness makes their structural indifference to his or her presence before them
only the more perspicuous” (WPM 270). A good treatment in another medium:
Diderot’s depiction of Lui in Rameau’s Nephew (see Rameau’s Nephew and
Other Works, trans. J. Barzun and R. Bowen (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2001)). It
is part of Lui’s charm, not at all lost on Moi, that he calls attention to his own
theatricality and falseness, making it hard to “accuse” him of theatricality. The
far subtler point is that this acknowledgement is itself a pretense, false, theatrical
in another way. For example, he does not want to succeed in conning people that
he is a good musician. He wants to be regarded as a genuinely good musician.
This is the Hegelian moment in the exchange, something not at all lost on the
Hegel of the Phenomenology of Spirit.
11 Fried writes: “And of course it is true that the desire to distinguish between
what is to me the authentic art of our time, and other work which, whatever the
dedication, passion, and intelligence of its creators, seems to me to share certain
characteristics associated here with the concepts of literalism and theater, has
largely motivated what I have written.” He even notes a whole “sensibility or
mode of being” that he calls “corrupted or perverted by theater” (AO 168).
12 In “Thomas Demand’s Pacific Sun” Fried notes that, by means of the stop
action photography used to record the event, Demand was in effect replacing
62 Robert B. Pippin
the “causality” of the original event (huge waves that caused the ship to rock to
and fro) with his intention (AL 259). It is such a transformation that requires the
logic of teleological, not efficient causality.
13 As I have tried to show in “Authenticity in Painting” and After the Beautiful,
this dialectical relation between an artwork’s theatrical self-presentation, under-
stood as an attempt to defeat theatricality, and a beholder has a deep analogue
to Hegel’s famous dialectical view of basic human sociality as a “struggle for
recognition.” The dialectic emerges because, despite the famous phrase, recogni-
tion cannot itself be the product of a struggle. Trying to be recognized as such,
especially struggling to compel recognition from the other, is futile. Recognition
cannot be coerced or “given.” One is recognized for what is worthy of recogni-
tion, and one achieves recognition most meaningfully when one is indifferent to
being recognized and achieves that for which recognition is appropriate.
14 For a fine example of what it would mean to insist on the (non-psychological)
centrality of intention in the meaning of the work (as opposed to confusing such
a meaning with the work’s effect), but “finding” such an intention only in the
work, see Todd Cronan, Against Affective Formalism (Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press, 2013). See especially his Introduction, “Modernism Against
Representation,” 1–22, and Chapter One, “Painting as Affect Machine,” 23–64.
15 I mean the dynamic of theatricality and anti-theatricality, as described in the
summary remark at WPM 338. See also the remark about bringing “the entire
question of antitheatricality in contemporary art photography into the open as
regards both the works themselves, and, wherever relevant, the discourse around
them” (WPM 344).
16 To say that a work has an aesthetic form is to say that that form, the object of
understanding, is accessible only by attention to the whole work (“after” finish-
ing the poem or seeing the film), retrospectively, and must be actively sought.
Walter Benn Michaels writes: “The book, even when it’s read the first time, is
there to be reread; that’s what we mean when we say that it has a form. That’s
the mark of its insistence that we know and don’t know at the same time, a claim
that is finally not about our psychological state but about the object of our inter-
est” (“The Death of a Beautiful Woman: Christopher Nolan’s Idea of Form,”
Electronic Book Review (http://electronicbookreview.com/thread/electropoetics/
detective, 2007).
17 See also the discussion of such a point with respect to sculpture in “Embedment:
Charles Ray” (AL 102–3).
18 “Photographs and Fossils,” in Photography Theory, ed. James Elkins (New York
and London: Routledge, 2006), 431–50 (discussed by Fried in WPM 335–8).
19 “Every photograph is the result of a physical imprint transferred by light reflec-
tions onto a sensitive surface,” notes Rosalind Kraus in her “Notes on the Index”
(quoted WPM 268).
20 I mean such books as The Transfiguration of the Commonplace (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1981), The Philosophical Disenfranchisement
of Art (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), and After the End of Art:
Contemporary Art and the Pale of History (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1977).
21 Fried formulates a related, similar point in “Thomas Demand’s Pacific Sun.”
Noting another “small turn in the dialectic” (AL 255), he contrasts the strict
indexicality of the photograph with the sheer artistic intendedness of the models.
(The other important dimension of Fried’s interpretation of this work is the rela-
tion between what he has called “presentness” with the “duration” of the events
modeled in the video. This, another opposition that is dialectically transcended,
would require a separate discussion.)
On Fried and Intention 63
22 Its ungraspability, the way the work actually defeats attempts to comprehend it
conceptually, suggests the Kantian sublime, but that is another discussion as well.
23 That the medium is sensible has implications other than those concerning the
object’s sensible bearing of meaning. It also means that its mode of intelligibility
for us is itself a sensible mode. That is, some works, Menzel’s, for example, invite
an empathic imagining of our bodily relation to the world, not just an ocular or
spectatorial one. This can be affective, orientational, involve our sense of motil-
ity. See the discussion in Chapters Three, Four, and Five of Menzel’s Realism.
24 I have tried to present a much fuller account in Hegel’s Practical Philosophy:
Rational Agency as Ethical Life (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2008), especially in Chapter Six, Section VII, where I deal with the problem of
our counter intuitions (see 170–6).
4 Schiller, Schopenhauer, Fried
David E. Wellbery
My argument in what follows takes its point of departure from the observa-
tion that the notion of art and, centrally, of art forms (e.g., painting, pho-
tography, sculpture) operative in Michael Fried’s critical and art historical
work is an open concept. Such concepts highlight the capacity of norma-
tively organized practices to achieve meaningful projections into unforeseen
contexts, in contrast to the “closed” character of taxonomical concepts,
the meaning of which is established with reference to a fixed set of abstract
properties.1 Phrased in Hegelian patois, the thought brings art into view
as the historical exfoliation of its self-understanding or as the realization
(the becoming “actual”) of its concept. Art, on this view, is the ongoing
elaboration of a concrete answer to the question: what is art? Or better:
what can or must art be at a particular historical juncture? In the abstract,
of course, such thoughts come cheap, but for both the critic and the histo-
rian (inseparable offices) the real work is accomplished when the singular
event of innovation is seen and known as the disclosure of an unantici-
pated possibility of the practice as formerly conducted and understood. Call
this synthetic intuition. It is the crystallization point of genuine insight or
knowledge in matters aesthetic, as exhibited, for instance, in this remark by
Fried on a sculpture by Anthony Caro: “Deep Body Blue explores possibili-
ties for sculpture in various concepts and experiences that one would think
belonged today only to architecture: for example, those of being led up to
something, of entering it, perhaps by going through something else, of being
inside, of looking out from within” (TSAC 180). The specific sculptural
accomplishment is grasped as the revelation of an unheard-of possibility of
sculptural meaning. Note, however, that the idea of the disclosure of new
possibilities of meaning includes an aspect of answerability. Innovation, qua
projection or conceptual actualization, does not amount to mere deviation,
but requires responsiveness to the achievement embodied in the tradition(s)
Schiller, Schopenhauer, Fried 65
the artistic innovator seeks to inherit and make his or her own. This norma-
tive demand holds even and especially for cases of the radical or revolution-
ary transformation of antecedent artistic practice. Hence the conclusion of
the just cited essay on Caro: “In the radicalness of their ambition both [the
two sculptures discussed: Deep Body Blue and Prairie] have more in com-
mon with certain poetry and music, and certain recent painting, than with
the work of any previous sculptor. And yet this very radicalness enables
them to achieve a body and a world of meaning and expression that belong
essentially to sculpture” (TSAC 184).
The interlacing of normativity and innovative projection implicit in
Fried’s open concept of artistic practice sponsors an approach both to the
criticism of contemporary work and to the study of the history of art that
can be usefully compared with dramatic emplotment. Inquiry focuses on the
challenges and impasses that must be overcome if works capable of eliciting
conviction are to be achieved. Such challenges are configured within situa-
tions of conflict among competing value investments that, in their dialecti-
cal tension, constitute the historical state of play or motivational situation
within which a given artistic project seeks to realize itself. A vivid example
is provided by the prodigious early essay “Shape as Form: Frank Stella’s
Irregular Polygons” (1966). Fried’s overall strategy there is to show how the
works by Frank Stella under consideration respond to a conflict that had
emerged in the development of modernist painting in the US, a “conflict
between opticality and the literal character of the support” (SF 87). Those
few words, although they capture the essence of the matter, hardly do justice
to the richness and complexity of Fried’s construction of the “dialectical”
(his term; see SF 78) process that led to the threshold moment of Stella’s
polygon paintings, a construction exemplified through nuanced accounts
of preceding work by Kenneth Noland and Jules Olitski. Nonetheless, the
larger point bearing on the strategy of analysis is clear. The force field of
competing investments out of which the artistic (in the case at hand: paint-
erly) project achieves itself must be reconstructed if the specific thrust of
that project is to be understood. “It is only in the presence of this conflict
[between opticality and the literal character of the support] that the ques-
tion of whether or not a given painting holds or stamps itself out as shape
[Stella’s project] makes full sense” (SF 87).
The strategy of reconstruction of motivational complexes evinced in
the early essay on Stella remains a constant across Fried’s work, as can be
shown with respect to the groundbreaking essay on “Géricault’s Romanti-
cism” from Another Light (2014). A pair of intricately woven sentences
summarily stating the essay’s argument perspicuously displays the configu-
ration of conflict-riven situation and emergent artistic response:
But what set Géricault apart from Gros or any other artist of the Napo-
leonic generation (also from his teacher Guérin) is the overriding ambi-
tion, manifest in every stroke of his brush, to reclaim for painting certain
66 David E. Wellbery
powers that it was on the verge of losing (more strongly, that it had
in effect already lost)—above all the power of representing dramatic
and expressive action of a Diderotian stamp, action that not only was
not primarily intended to be beheld but would on the contrary be so
directed toward, so caught up in the accomplishment of its impassioned
purpose as to refute the very possibility that the beholder had been
taken into account. And what in my view largely determined the course
of Géricault’s baffled and in the end tragically frustrated and incomplete
career was an inherent tension or contradiction between that radically
antitheatrical ambition and what had become the extreme difficulty, the
near-impossibility, of realizing such an ambition in large-scale, multifig-
ure, narratively coherent tableaux that would in effect undo or reverse
the retreat from action and expression that [in the foregoing essay of
Another Light on the late David] I have traced in the Sabines and Leoni-
das and beyond them in the “Anacreontic” works.
(AL 64)
1
Schiller’s so-called Kallias-Letters, written to his friend Gottfried Körner
during the first two months of 1793, document his effort to order his own
ideas about the nature of the beautiful, including beauty in the arts, in the
wake of his study of Kant’s Critique of the Power of Judgment (1790).2 Key
intellectual decisions made in these letters lay the foundation for Schiller’s
influential treatises On the Aesthetic Education of Man in a Series of Let-
ters (1795) and On Naïve and Sentimental Poetry (1795–6). Historically
viewed, the Kallias-Letters mark a transition from Kant’s construction of
the beautiful in the third Critique to the systematic philosophy of art vari-
ously developed in the work of Schelling, Hegel, and Schopenhauer.3 Kant,
of course, had demonstrated that, by virtue of its logical grammar, the aes-
thetic judgment claims a validity beyond merely idiosyncratic pleasure; it
appeals to and, as it were, courts universal assent. Such assent, however, is
not, as in the case of judgments of knowledge, postulated in the act of judg-
ment itself, for there is no concept here to be truthfully applied. The implicit
claim to universality rests, rather, on the felt harmony of the faculties in the
perceptual-imaginary construal of the object under consideration and in the
felt “communicability” of that harmony. The process of reflective attention
unfolds as a free play of the imagination that, although not determined by a
particular concept of the understanding, nonetheless is attuned to that fac-
ulty and thus to knowing cognition in general (Erkenntnis überhaupt). The
argument is alembicated and philosophical debates regarding its meaning
and validity continue unabated today. In the present context of discussion,
however, a three-sentence sketch suffices to identify the source of Schiller’s
dissatisfaction with Kant’s theory. That dissatisfaction is congruent with the
complaint formulated by Hegel in “Belief and Knowledge” (1802), where
he states that in Kant’s theory “the beautiful becomes something that is
related solely to the human cognitive capacity and to the harmonious play
of the various powers, thus to something merely finite and subjective.”4 It is
no accident that in the Lectures on Aesthetics Hegel praises Schiller for hav-
ing “broken through” the Kantian “subjectivity and abstraction of think-
ing.”5 By locating the ground of the beautiful entirely within the subjective
68 David E. Wellbery
sphere of the faculties, Kant had, to be sure, elevated aesthetic judgment
beyond mere personal preference, but he had, at least on the assessment of
his successors, provided no credible link between the object itself and the
form of subjective experience upon which the universality of the judgment
was said to rest. That this object rather than another sets the imagination
into free play comes to seem entirely accidental and beauty, isolated within
the sphere of finite subjectivity, loses its place in the world.
Of course, Schiller recognized that overcoming the limitations of what
he himself classified as Kant’s “subjective-rational” theory could not be
achieved by recurring to one of the available theoretical models that had
emerged in the course of the eighteenth century. The “objective-rational”
theory propounded in Baumgarten’s Aesthetica (1750–8) claimed to find
descriptive criteria—so-called “perfections”—for the application of the
concept of beauty, while Burke’s “subjective-sensuous” theory, advanced
in A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime
and Beautiful (1757), amounted, as Kant too had noted, to mere empiri-
cal psychology. What was called for was a fourth theoretical option: an
“objective-sensuous” conception of beauty that would not only stress the
perceptual-imaginary nexus of the beautiful, but also successfully bind that
experience to an objective ideal. In a stunning philosophical coup de théâtre
Schiller supplies this desideratum by shifting the playing field from theoreti-
cal reason (beauty as some kind of “known”) to practical reason (beauty as
the appearance of a practical idea). Beauty, he avers in the Kallias-Letters, is
freedom in phenomenal appearance (Freiheit in der Erscheinung).
Although Schiller holds it to be deducible from the concept of reason, this
thesis constitutes a bold and surprising stroke of the theoretical imagina-
tion, the thrust of which is inextricably to unite artistic achievement with the
highest aspirations of human life. Beauty becomes the objectification or per-
ceptually accessible correlative of human freedom conceived not merely as
unconstrained play, as in Kant, but as autonomy, the capacity to act accord-
ing to a self-given law, and thus as the very character of the rational will.
But how can this be? How can freedom come to presentation in a perceptual
object or array if “freedom as such can never be given to the senses and
nothing can be free other than what is supra-sensible”?6 With this question
we encounter for the first time an indication that Schiller’s entire conception
of beauty teeters, as it were, on the brink of impossibility or, to phrase it in
a manner that echoes Fried’s discussion of Diderot, that his conception is
the design of a “supreme fiction” (see AT 71–106).7 As we shall see, later
in the Kallias-Letters this aspect of Schiller’s argument—securing the defini-
tion of beauty through a kind of ontological fiction—returns yet more insis-
tently. At this point, the theoretical bridge between sensuously accessible
appearance and supra-sensible freedom is established via the notion of sta-
tus endowment. The beautiful appearance is such that the beholder regards
it as if it were a self-determining being, as if this idea—self-determination,
the very form of a free being—were the rule for understanding the object in
Schiller, Schopenhauer, Fried 69
question. This is not baldly to claim that the object is a free being, which
would be absurd, but to apply the idea of freedom in a regulative fashion: as
the paradigm for synthesizing the array of sensuous and significant aspects
displayed. Clearly, however, not just any object will solicit such an attribu-
tion or, to phrase the matter differently, will earn our recognition as quasi-
free. There must be something “in” or “about” (prepositions fail here) the
object apprehended to which such status endowment responds. But what?
It will not be a descriptive property such as symmetry, nor a cluster of such
properties, as in the six perfections of the beautiful identified by Baumgar-
ten. Nor, obviously, will a specific causal efficacy, as in Burke’s model, do
the trick. What is required (and the tautological ring of this formulation
is intentional) is that the object in question be thoroughly and exclusively
itself: that is, that it exhibit its self-determination. “Freedom in phenomenal
appearance is thus nothing but the self-determination of a thing insofar as
it [such self-determination] reveals itself to intuition. It is opposed to every
exogenous determination just as moral action is opposed to every deter-
mination by material causes.”8 The thought here is as remarkable as it is
difficult to express. Beauty is a predicate applied to objects that appear as
achieving their being out of themselves. In this thought Schiller believes to
have found the bridge between the subjective ground of universality in the
aesthetic judgment and the object attended to. With evident satisfaction he
writes to Körner: “I think that some of your doubts should now begin to
vanish, at least you see that the subjective principle can indeed be led over
into the objective.”9
We shall ponder the tenuousness of this bridge presently. At this point
I want to consider three important implications for the understanding of
the aesthetic (or beautiful) object that Schiller draws from the notion of
self-determination. These implications bear not on this or that property;
the method of discriminating empirical objects according to the presence
or absence of distinguishing features has been dispensed with altogether.
Rather, they characterize the aesthetic object in terms of its mode of being.
Their drift is ontological, although the formulation of the ontological issue
in each case makes use of a different vocabulary. Schiller’s discussion is of
extraordinary interest (not to mention historical importance) throughout,
but considerations of space allow for only a cursory treatment.
The crucial inference for Schiller, not the least because of its entwine-
ment with Kant’s aesthetics, is certainly the thought that the beautiful object
appears as natural. What is meant by this is not the traditional (mimetic)
notion that art in some way represents the objects of nature. A more proxi-
mate conception is the Diderotian view as explicated by Fried: “In short,
for Diderot pictorial unity was a kind of microcosm of the causal system of
nature, of the universe itself; and conversely the unity of nature, apprehended
by man, was, like that of painting, at bottom dramatic and expressive” (AT
87). Like Diderot, Schiller is concerned to align the very complexion of the
aesthetic object—not simply its represented content—with nature, but the
70 David E. Wellbery
path he cuts toward this conceptual end does not run via the idea of the
causal nexus constitutive of nature as totality. On the contrary, a significant
(if little noticed) aspect of Schiller’s thought in the Kallias-Letters is the
abandonment of the modern scientific idea of nature as the encompassing
network of mechanical causality for the sake of a conception that can be
thought of as Aristotelian: “[The word] nature expresses only that through
which [an object] is that determinate thing that it is.”10 Nature, we might
barbarously say, is the self-being of the object, its self-determination as that
being which it is. And this implies that nature is the equivalent of freedom
(as self-determination) in the domain of sensuous objects,11 or as Schiller
puts it in a suggestive surmise: “It is, as it were, the personhood of the thing,
that through which it is distinguished from all other things not of its kind.”12
The second implication of the concept of beauty that requires mention if
the entirety of Schiller’s vision is to be brought into view may be termed the
doctrine of hermeneutic immanence: “A form is therefore beautiful only if it
explains itself; explaining itself here means to explain itself without the help
of a concept.”13 Like the concept of nature, this specification bears on the
mode of being of the beautiful object, specifically on the type of intelligibil-
ity appropriate to that mode. Qua self-determining or, in Schiller’s sense,
natural being, the beautiful object gives itself the rule that, in its appearance,
it actualizes. It is, therefore, a self-explicating appearance, not, of course,
in the sense that it wears a label declaring its intended meaning, but in the
sense that it is intelligible, and intelligible solely, in and through the very
terms (similarities, oppositions, rhythms, processes, tensions, resolutions)
that it itself provides.
The final implication to which attention needs to be directed, an implica-
tion of immense importance for aesthetic theory generally, is what I should
like to call Schiller’s notion of endogenous form. Here all “formalist” asso-
ciations must be held at bay. Recall that Schiller’s coup de théâtre was to
align aesthetic theory with the Kantian notion of practical reason. That
notion likewise sponsors Schiller’s notion of form. In his second letter to
Körner Schiller writes:
Practical reason and determination of the will from mere reason are
one and the same. The form of practical reason is the immediate rela-
tion of the will to representations of reason, that is, to the exclusion
of every exogenous principle of determination; for a will which is not
determined purely by the form of practical reason is determined from
outside, by what is material and heteronomous. To adapt or imitate
the form of practical reason thus merely means not to be determined
from the outside but from within, to be determined autonomously or to
appear to be determined thus.14
2
Only twenty-five years separate Schiller’s Kallias-Letters from Schopenhau-
er’s The World as Will and Representation (1818), but the latter work seems
nonetheless to inhabit a different world. Not that everything has changed.
The major task of philosophical aesthetics remains the two-pronged con-
struction of a specifically aesthetic form of object and a specifically aes-
thetic form of subjective experience, but with Schopenhauer each of these
components appears in a different guise. In evaluating this difference, it
is important to keep in mind that Schopenhauer’s influence began only in
the final decade of his life (1788–1860) and flourished during the latter
portion of the nineteenth and the first two decades of the twentieth cen-
turies. Although he was trained in classical German thought and revered
Kant, Schopenhauer’s voice had its greatest resonance in the post-classical
era of realism and scientism and then in the aestheticism of the fin de siècle.
His thought imprinted itself on the work of such major authors as Guy de
Maupassant, Leo Tolstoy, Thomas Hardy, Marcel Proust, Thomas Mann,
and Franz Kafka. Both Wagner and Nietzsche are unthinkable apart from
Schopenhauer’s influence. All this is to say that in terms of Fried’s narrative
of modern art we have come a long way from Diderot and Schiller.
One measure of this distance is the fact that for Schopenhauer the nega-
tion or bracketing of the technical dispositif is no longer an issue. There
remains, of course, a distinction of experiential types and the necessity of
crossing from one to the other, but this passage is simply that between nor-
mal and exceptional and requires nothing more than an adjustment of cog-
nitive attitude. “Every single thing is beautiful,” Schopenhauer writes, even
the “most insignificant,” so long as it is regarded in “purely objective, will-
less contemplation.”23 It is as if a mental switch were available, enabling
subjects to transform their world by doing nothing more than contemplat-
ing a given object in isolation. Aesthetic isolation, however, bears immense
metaphysical and spiritual consequences. We might say that it is the isola-
tion not of things, beyond whose edges there is always something more, but
of worlds, whose edges have no other side. Expressed in Schopenhauer’s
vocabulary, this means that aesthetic attention detaches its object from the
nexus of relations that ramify along the paths set down by the fourfold prin-
ciple of reason. Although a representation, the aesthetic object is relevantly
76 David E. Wellbery
determined neither by spatio-temporal relations to other objects, nor by
causal relations, nor by reasons, nor as a motive for action. Schopenhauer’s
epistemology teaches, however, that all empirical objects are by definition
individuated within such relational networks. To be an object just is to be
relative to others, differentially defined within a boundless web of cross-
references. Consequently, the object contemplated in aesthetic isolation is
not an empirical object at all. What is it then? Schopenhauer’s answer is that
it is an Idea or, as he sometimes specified, a Platonic Idea. This contention
hooks up, of course, with his metaphysics of nature, to which I shall return
later in the chapter.
Access to this crucial thought of Schopenhauer’s is provided by entries
Wittgenstein made in his diary on October 7 and 8, 1916.24 There Witt-
genstein claims that, just because aesthetic contemplation sequesters its
object, it apprehends that object against the background of the entire world.
This gives us the universality Schopenhauer’s notion of Idea implies: each
aesthetic object discloses, from a certain perspective, the character of the
world. Wittgenstein takes as an example (for any object will do) the stove
in the corner of his room, which, when regarded aesthetically, comes to
stand in for the world tout court. Perhaps (Wittgenstein’s notes don’t make
this explicit) the stove gives us a world that is burning within, that is slowly
but relentlessly rusting, that requires our labor and repays that labor with
warmth, and that strikes us as opaque, mute, and awkwardly squatting.
Aesthetically contemplated, these stove-features become world-features,
and something like this seems implied in Schopenhauer’s notion of Idea. For
the Idea is an intuited universal; it is intuitively grasped, but has exemplary
generality. Hence the Platonic reference: Ideas are archetypes of the Will’s
manifestation. And for Schopenhauer, of course, the Will is the inner nature
of the world. So there is indeed exceptional insight here, a state of mind and
an intentional content entirely heterogeneous to empirical knowing. One
is no longer enmeshed in the relativity of time, space, causality, and desire.
According to Wittgenstein—and here he is citing Schopenhauer—to view
the world aesthetically is to view it sub specie aeternitatis.
We have moved from an aesthetics of formal achievement and heightened
self-awareness to an aesthetics of disclosure. Art, in other words, becomes
the site where a metaphysical content inaccessible to quotidian human cog-
nition manifests itself. We can glean the basic outlines of Schopenhauer’s
aesthetics of revelation (his term is Offenbarung) from his treatment of
architecture, the lowest art because the Idea it discloses governs the sim-
plest and crudest levels of the Will’s objectivity. These are exhibited in such
qualities of the building material (stone) as weight, cohesion, rigidity, and
hardness, as well as in the opposed phenomenon of light. Such qualities
are omnipresent in experience, but, in the normal course of things, they
are desultorily perceived and recede into inconspicuousness. The artwork
brings these phenomenal features into a relationship of tense opposition
such that they come to the fore and manifest themselves as such within
Schiller, Schopenhauer, Fried 77
the artistic array. As regards architecture in particular (Schopenhauer’s
paradigm is the Greco-Roman use of columns), a dynamic strife (Kampf)
between gravity and rigidity, secondarily between opacity and light, is dis-
closed. The aesthetic (as opposed to, say, the political or representational)
function of architecture is to produce arrangements in which the drama of
matter itself—this is its Idea—is perspicuously displayed.25 Such disclosure
takes place in each of the arts, although in each art a different level of the
Will’s objectification—a different Idea—is brought to revelation.
Readers of Martin Heidegger’s “Origin of the Work of Art” (1936) will
have noticed in the foregoing a number of striking echoes, for example, the
emphasis on disclosure, the insistence on art’s metaphysical or ontological
import, and the conception of artistic unity as strife. (These suggest that
Heidegger’s frequent dismissals of Schopenhauer were either blind or self-
serving.) Be that as it may, the important point in the present context is that
Schopenhauer’s conception of art as revelation allows us to see the specific
link between aesthetic experience and philosophy. Metaphysical inquiry, on
Schopenhauer’s view, is a hermeneutic enterprise the task of which is to deci-
pher or interpret a meaning. Art provides an intuitive apprehension of just
such meanings. For the Idea art discloses and enables me to apprehend is
not, Schopenhauer insists, the spatial array deployed before the viewer, but
rather the “pure meaning” (reine Bedeutung) informing that spatial con-
figuration, something that is itself without extension.26 Full appreciation of
this claim would require examination of the Neo-Platonic background of
Schopenhauer’s concept of Idea, a matter I cannot delve into here. But we
can take a stab at characterizing the pure meaning that art, in all its rep-
resentational forms from architecture to tragedy, makes salient, such that
even a work of architecture “speaks to me.”27 It is the conflict within the
Will (hence within all of Being), or better: the character of Will (and Being)
as self-conflict. If this meaning speaks to me, it is because I, too, am Will,
which is to say that in art the Will comes to know itself in its meaning. It is
also to say that all art, since its meaning is unavoidable and unappeasable
conflict, is, broadly speaking, tragic, and that tragedy, narrowly speaking,
is the representational art form where this tragic character is most fully
revealed. For this reason tragedy for Schopenhauer marks the transition
from aesthetics to ethics.
A brief consideration of the subjective side of aesthetic experience is in
order here. The metaphysical interpretation of nature developed in Book
II of The World as Will and Representation had shown that cognition is
a function of the higher forms of the Will’s objectification; that sensory
mechanisms, nerves, and brain, just like all other components of the organ-
ism, are in service to the Will; and that their artifact—representation—is
likewise a means for the fulfillment of the manifold needs characteristic of
animal life. Moreover, the entire relational network established according
to the principle of sufficient reason, which is to say, the world of spatially
and temporally differentiated, causally interconnected objects, is centered
78 David E. Wellbery
on one such individuated entity, the animal or human body, with its desires
and needs. One’s very sense of oneself as an individual, then, is inseparable
from the project of self-maintenance. Viewed against this background, the
noteworthy feature of aesthetic experience is that all the urgencies that hold
an individual in their grip—the needs, desires, cares, anxieties, sufferings—
fall away within this experience. The aesthetically relevant subject is not the
individual at all, but, as it were, a disembodied, impersonal cognitive func-
tion, what Schopenhauer calls the “pure, will-less, painless, timeless subject
of cognition.”28 It is hard to know how to make sense of this. A first level of
interpretation might argue that references to the pure subject of cognition
attempt to capture an essential phenomenological trait of aesthetic experi-
ence. The world of the artwork, after all, seems to concern me only insofar
as it reveals itself to me. I contemplate the aesthetic object not from a posi-
tion within a world I share with it, but, as Wittgenstein noted, as if from the
outside. My activity is replete with contemplation in the sense that I forget
all else, even and especially myself. With such phenomena in view, to speak
of the subject of aesthetic experience as the “limpid eye of the world” can
acquire descriptive traction.29
But of course Schopenhauer is not interested just in phenomenology. The
point of his entire discussion bears on what I referred to previously as the
exceptionality of aesthetic experience. He wants to make out in aesthetic
experience not merely a way of relating to a particular class of objects (say,
beautiful ones) within the world, but a categorically different sort of experi-
ence. Aesthetic experience is not continuous with the experiences human
subjects have under normal (one might say: natural) conditions. Rather, it
is the momentary suspension of that normality, which is to say: of experi-
ence as the apprehension of individuated objects from the standpoint of
incarnate subjectivity. The categorical difference at issue rests, then, on a
realignment of the metaphysical relationship between Will and cognition.
Aesthetic experience occurs when cognition (Erkenntnis) “suddenly tears
itself loose”30 from its subservience to the Will and contemplates its object
independently of the principle of sufficient reason. Both the suddenness and
the violence highlighted by Schopenhauer’s language are suggestive of the
radical heterogeneity of aesthetic experience. Getting there requires a meta-
physical leap. Commentators have pointed out that Schopenhauer’s descrip-
tion of aesthetic experience is one of the most nuanced in the philosophical
literature. For Schopenhauer, however, the philosophical task is not to get
the phenomenology right, but to solicit its metaphysical meaning. From
this hermeneutic perspective, aesthetic experience provides compelling evi-
dence that emancipation from our Will-tethered condition is a real possibil-
ity. Employing a formulation that stresses the proximity of aesthetics and
morality, but also brings out the religious sensibility that animates Schopen-
hauer’s thought, one might also say: aesthetic experience has the metaphysi-
cal significance of episodic salvation. Seldom has art been expected to bear,
and bear alone, such spiritual weight.
Schiller, Schopenhauer, Fried 79
In order to bring the picture of Schopenhauer’s aesthetics sketched here
into alignment with Fried’s narrative a brief excursion into the jungle of
Schopenhauer’s metaphysical views is necessary. The basic thesis is well
known: the inner nature of the world is Will. The status of that claim,
however, is not obvious. An effort to unpack its significance must start by
inquiring who asks the metaphysical question. Importantly, it is not the
investigator qua subject-of-knowledge, for that subject is anyone and no
one, a “pure” subject. Rather, it is the investigator considered as a mortal
individual, an incarnate denizen of that very world whose internal nature
and meaning are metaphysically at issue. As we have seen, everything within
that world is given to the individual as an object of representation, but
among all those objects there is one that constitutes an epistemic exception,
and that is the individual’s body. Of course, it too is given as an object:
extended in space, enduring in time, causally affected by other objects. But
it is also given as my body (Leib), and to my own body I relate not as sub-
ject to object, but, as it were, in radical intimacy, in the mode of identity.
Schopenhauer describes this non-observational self-awareness as “imme-
diate familiarity” (unmittelbar bekannt). In such felt embodiment my will
manifests itself as will (not as representation). Every bodily action—waving
to someone, for example—is immediately familiar to me as an act of my
own will. The act of will and the waving of my hand do not become present
as distinct phenomena, one the cause, the other the effect. They are one and
the same. That the lived body is given in terms of these two aspects—as will
and as objective appearance—is for Schopenhauer the immediately intuited
and absolutely self-evident fact upon which his entire metaphysics rests. For
this reason, Schopenhauer refers to the identity-in-embodiment of the dual
aspects as the philosophical truth kat’ exochen. His entire metaphysics rests
on the evidence of this corporeal cogito: the revelation that the world is Will
and representation throughout.
Introducing my remarks on Schopenhauer, I casually employed the term
“realism” to designate the cultural milieu emergent in the second half of the
nineteenth century, the milieu in which Schopenhauer found his first genera-
tion of avid readers. Several motifs touched on in the course of the foregoing
have specified the sense in which the philosopher’s views fit a realist outlook:
an emphasis on force and energy, on materiality, on objectivity; the aesthetic
attention even to “insignificant” objects; a certain scientism and, more gen-
erally, a robust acceptance of worldly immanence; an unremitting pessimism
that blends into a tragic vision of human life. All this suggests that, if we
are to find in Fried’s work a source of illumination for our understanding
of Schopenhauer, we should turn to the trilogy on the realists Eakins, Cour-
bet, and Menzel.31 The guiding theme running through all three studies—the
theme that lends Fried’s notion of realism its highly original slant—is the
notion of embodiment, and this theme provides, of course, the link to Scho-
penhauer’s aesthetic theory. Each of the great realist painters inflects artistic
embodiment in a distinct way and my impression is that Courbet’s art, as
80 David E. Wellbery
Fried teaches us to see it, provides the best framework for interpreting the
historical significance of Schopenhauer’s aesthetics. Certainly Schopenhauer
shares with Courbet the audacity of spirit required to work through an idio-
syncratic inspiration in the full radicalness of its implications.
The part of Fried’s masterful account of Courbet’s art that is especially
relevant to an understanding of Schopenhauer bears on the artist’s produc-
tion of the 1840s, especially the self-portraits and related works. The core
argument can be reconstructed (needless to say, in a reduced, simplifying
version) in three steps. First, Courbet remains committed to the absorp-
tive aesthetic, which is to say: to an aesthetic program that defeats theat-
ricality and secures the “nonexistence” of the beholder within the scene
of representation by depicting figures completely absorbed in their activity,
hence oblivious to the presence of the beholder. Second, in Courbet’s work
the absorptive program is nevertheless radicalized through compression.
In other words, the positions of painted figure beheld and beholder—of
depicted actor and viewer—are now conjoined in the duality of the painter’s
being: on the one hand, the corporeal activity that brings forth the picture;
on the other hand, the act of beholding implied in the artist’s position as
first viewer of the resulting canvas. The ontological partition that threat-
ens the successful achievement of a genuinely engrossing tableau is felt to
run through the artist himself. Third, a solution to this problem is sought
in an aesthetics of corporeal merger, an extravagant program that brings
the painter into the painting (thereby suspending the role of beholder to
which his first-viewer status condemns him) not merely representationally
(as depicted figure: clearly that would be no solution), but in and through
the painterly realization of bodily gesture, especially such gestures as are
accomplished in the activity of painting. As it were, the artist strives to
materialize his own energetic activity—his embodiment as painter—in the
painted product. One might think of this as a transfusion of corporeal effort
and gesture into the painting such that embodiment bodies forth from the
canvas. This would indeed heal, if only in a kind of impossible ontological
transgression, the dehiscence between action and viewing that opened up
the artistic problematic in the first place.
My claim is that we see in Schopenhauer’s thought a kindred extrava-
gance, that is, the effort to think of aesthetic intuition (and for Schopen-
hauer aesthetic intuition is the hallmark of both the artist and the recipient)
as a kind of ontological merger: an achieved unity of the two aspects of the
world. The most remarkable account Schopenhauer offers of such intuition
unfolds across a cascade of elaborate rhetorical periods that occupies more
than three full pages of The World as Will and Representation. The follow-
ing excerpts from this breathtaking passage collect those formulations that
are most germane to the case I am making:
3
Through the thought that art unfolds historically as self-interpretation and
thus as the realization of its concept, Fried conceives of answerability as
responsible faithfulness to the inherited achievements of past art. In the the-
oretically most ambitious of his early essays, “Art and Objecthood,” Fried
captures this point in a sharply etched contrast:
For Judd, as for literalist sensibility generally, all that matters is whether
or not a given work is able to elicit and sustain (his) interest. Whereas
within the modernist arts nothing short of conviction—specifically, the
conviction that a particular painting or sculpture or poem or piece of
music can or cannot support comparison with past work within that art
whose quality is not in doubt—matters at all.
(AO 165)
Notes
1 For the relevant concept of projection see Stanley Cavell, “Projecting a Word,”
a section of his “Excursus on Wittgenstein’s Vision of Language,” in The Claim
of Reason (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 180–90.
2 Friedrich Schiller, “Kallias, oder über die Schönheit. Briefe an Gottfried Körner,”
in F.S., Werke und Briefe, vol. 8: Theoretische Schriften, ed. Rolf-Peter Janz et al.
(Frankfurt a.M.: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1992), 276–329. English transla-
tion: “Kallias or Concerning Beauty. Letters to Gottfried Körner,” in Classical
and Romantic German Aesthetics, ed. J. M. Bernstein (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2003), 145–83. In the following, I quote from the English edi-
tion of the Kallias-Letters, with occasional modifications of the translation.
3 The significance of the Kallias-Letters as a bridge to idealism is brought out by
Dieter Henrich, “Beauty and Freedom: Schiller’s Struggle with Kant’s Aesthet-
ics,” in Essays in Kant’s Aesthetics, ed. Ted Cohen and Paul Guyer (Chicago and
London: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 237–60.
4 G. W. F. Hegel, Werke, ed. Eva Moldenhauer and Karl Markus Michel (Frank-
furt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1970), vol. 2, 324 (translations here and throughout by
D. E. W.).
5 Hegel, Werke, vol. 13, 89.
6 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 151.
7 The phrase is borrowed, of course, from Wallace Stevens.
8 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 154.
9 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 155.
10 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 163.
11 He writes: “I prefer the term nature to that of freedom because it connotes both
the realm of the senses, to which beauty is restricted, and, in addition to the con-
cept of freedom, likewise alludes to the sphere of the sensuous world” (Schiller,
“Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 162–3).
12 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 163.
13 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 155.
14 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 150.
15 Friedrich Schiller, Werke und Briefe, vol. 8: Theoretische Schriften, ed. Rolf-
Peter Janz et al. (Frankfurt a.M.: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1992), 641 (Letter
22). My translation of Schiller’s formulation (daß er den Stoff durch die Form
vertilgt) is interpretive.
16 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 153.
17 See Frederick Beiser, “An Objective Aesthetics,” in his Schiller as Philosopher:
A Re-Examination (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 47–76 and Stephen
Houlgate, “Schiller and the Dance of Beauty,” Inquiry (51: 1, 2008), 37–49.
18 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 153. Compare 166: “What would
nature be in this sense? The inner principle of the existence of a thing, which can
at the same time be seen as the ground of its form: the inner necessity of form.”
19 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 162.
86 David E. Wellbery
0 Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning Beauty,” 162.
2
21 Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment, trans. J. H. Barbard (New York: Hafner,
1951), 145–9 (pars. 43–4).
22 “Schönheit ist Natur in der Kunstmäßigkeit” (Schiller, “Kallias or Concerning
Beauty,” 162).
23 Arthur Schopenhauer, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Wolfgang Freiherr von Löhneysen,
5th edition, 4 vols. (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1995), vol. I, Die Welt als Wille
und Vorstellung, vol. I, 298, my translation. Throughout I cite from this edition
using the abbreviation WWR I, and indicating the paragraph number (in this
case: Par. 41). This method of citation makes for easy consultation of the English
translation: Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Representation, trans.
E. F. J. Payne, 2 vols. (New York: Dover, 1996).
24 Ludwig Wittgenstein, Werkausgabe, vol. I, Tractatus logico philosophicus,
Tagebücher 1914–1916, Philosophische Untersuchungen (Frankfurt a.M.:
Suhrkamp, 1984), 178–9.
25 Schopenhauer, WWR I, par. 43.
26 Schopenhauer, WWR I, par. 41.
27 Schopenhauer, WWR I, par. 41.
28 Schopenhauer, WWR I, par. 34.
29 Schopenhauer, WWR I, par. 36 (klares Weltauge).
30 Schopenhauer, WWR I, par. 34.
31 Realism, Writing, Disfiguration: On Thomas Eakins and Stephen Crane; Cour-
bet’s Realism; Menzel’s Realism: Art and Embodiment in Nineteenth-Century
Berlin.
32 Schopenhauer, WWR I, par. 34.
33 In Flaubert’s ‘Gueuloir,’ Fried draws on the work of the philosopher Félix
Ravaisson (1813–1900), concentrating especially on the theme (Ravaisson’s cen-
tral theme) of habit. This provides him an opportunity briefly to revisit some of
the themes of Courbet’s Realism (see FG 62–85). Ravaisson, who studied with
Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling, has views on the relationship between Will
and nature that deserve comparison with those of Schopenhauer, although I am
not aware of any direct influence. Taken together, Fried’s book on Gustave Flau-
bert and his studies of the realist painters, especially Courbet, broach the topic
of the metaphysical imagination of realism, a full treatment of which would
certainly have to consider Schopenhauer.
34 Friedrich Nietzsche, Digital Critical Edition of the Complete Works and Letters,
ed. Paolo d’Iorio, based on the critical text by G. Colli and M. Montinari (Ber-
lin/New York: de Gruyter 1967–). “The Case of Wagner” is available at: www.
nietzschesource.org/#eKGWB/WA. The cited passage is from the “Postscript”
(Nachschrift).
35 Nietzsche, “The Case of Wagner,” section 8.
36 Nietzsche, “The Case of Wagner,” Postscript.
37 Nietzsche, “The Case of Wagner,” section 6.
5 Deep Relationality and
the Hinge-like Structure
of History
Michael Fried’s Photographs
Stephen Mulhall
Although I have written once before about Michael Fried’s Why Photogra-
phy Matters as Art as Never Before, in a short essay published as a “Critical
Commentary” in the British Journal of Aesthetics,1 I didn’t there articulate
(let alone attempt to answer) the question that his book raised for me more
insistently than any other: the question of what conception of the nature of
photography underlay its overlapping accounts of the various bodies and
series of photographic works of art that it discusses.
After all, those accounts continuously declared Fried’s conviction that
some contemporary art photography could be understood only in relation
to topics that determined the nature of pictorial modernism; and his influ-
ential account of the value of the works of high modernism in American
painting of the 1950s and 1960s located it in the way such works acknowl-
edged the essential features of their medium, and so its distinctness as one
artistic medium among others. And even if that idea of the essence of a
medium was, as it were, historicist—adverting not to the irreducible, ahis-
torical essence of all painting, but rather that which, at a given moment, is
capable of generating (in both artist and audience) the conviction that the
relevant work is a great painting, despite, for example, its refusal to provide
representational content or traces of brushwork on the painted surface—it
still involves the disclosure of some features as essential to its being a con-
temporary exemplar of that long artistic tradition, as opposed to any other.
It would seem to follow that any photographs produced by artists under-
stood to be grappling with the conditions of modernism would necessarily
constitute acknowledgements of the essential nature of photography, and
so must amount to disclosures of what essentially distinguishes photogra-
phy from, say, painting (or video or cinema). An immediate difficulty with
this conclusion is that Fried’s own account aims to disclose a deep conti-
nuity between modernist, and in particular high modernist, painting and
the relevant strands of contemporary art photography; hence it appears to
require that he apply a range of concepts (beholding, absorption, world-
hood, objecthood, theatricality) whose sense had been worked out as part
of working out how modernist painting acknowledged the conditions of
88 Stephen Mulhall
its own medium to works of art that appeared to belong to a very differ-
ent medium. A further difficulty is that the relevant photographic works
were largely produced under a very different technological regime than that
of analog photography (involving the registration of light on film): both
their scale and their content were a function of (sometimes quite radical)
advances in a variety of primarily digital photographic techniques (relating
to the capture, manipulation, and printing of the relevant images), and so
they inevitably raised the question of whether the concept of a photograph,
and so that of a distinctively photographic medium, still retained a univo-
cal sense. Might not those differences of technology and technique even be
sufficient to license the judgment that a photograph by Jeff Wall and one by
Cartier-Bresson were essentially different kinds of object—even that what
Wall calls a photograph is closer to a painting than it is to a photograph
produced by analog means?2
This might address the immediate difficulty I raised, although only at the
cost of jettisoning Fried’s conviction, patent throughout his book, that he is
disclosing the nature of a new photographic regime rather than a new phase
in long (related series of) regimes of painting. But it would only heighten
the bewilderment induced by Fried’s apparent lack of interest in explicitly
confronting this issue. That is to say, although his discussion of a given pho-
tographer’s body of work (or portion of a larger such body) always brings
out the way in which it acknowledges some determining condition or condi-
tions of its own possibility, he offers no general account of how each such
condition relates to those acknowledged in other such bodies of work (that
is, no account of what kind of work these contemporary works actually are,
if indeed they are a single kind, as opposed to being each a kind unto them-
selves), or of how they stand—aesthetically and ontologically speaking—in
relation to photographic works produced under analog conditions.
It’s worth emphasizing that this sense of something missing from Fried’s
account will persist even if one takes fully on board Wittgensteinian qualms
about the universal pertinence of the Merkmal model of definition in terms
of necessary and sufficient conditions. For one might still reasonably expect
the composer of this group portrait to say at least as much about the over-
lapping family resemblances making up the kind(s) of photographic art-
work his book aspires to disclose as he did (and assigned great importance
to being able to do) with respect to the evolving collective ontological self-
understanding embodied in the kinds of modernist and high modernist
paintings that formed the subject of so many of his previous writings.
In this essay, I will attempt not so much to fill in this apparent lacuna in
Fried’s account as to explain why it might be merely apparent. In so doing,
I will take my bearings from both my critical commentary and the longer
essay on Fried’s larger body of work that preceded it, although in ways that
will also reveal certain limitations and unidentified possibilities latent in
both.3 I will also try to take into account work that Fried has produced since
the publication of Why Photography Matters.
Michael Fried’s Photographs 89
1. Portraits and Typologies
Looking again at Fried’s book, it now seems to me that he does in fact con-
front the frustrated expectation I have just articulated, or rather provides a
justification for frustrating it, when in the final chapter he gives an account
of the work of the Bechers, photographers of the highest interest in their
own right, and extremely influential figures for many of the German pho-
tographers discussed in other chapters (Andreas Gursky, Thomas Ruff, and
Thomas Struth were students of Bernd Becher). Beginning in the 1960s, Bernd
and Hilla Becher traveled extensively across Europe and the US to photograph
various structures—water towers, cooling towers, gasometers, lime kilns,
and so on—on industrial sites; using analog cameras with long exposures or
fine-grained film to capture real detail and depth of field, the resultant black-
and-white photographs were taken from raised, head-on vantage points, with
each structure’s environment cropped to a minimum but in such a way as to
capture its rootedness in the ground. As indicated by the title of their first
book—Anonymous Sculptures: A Typology of Technical Construction—their
concern was typological: from each category of structure, they selected a small
number of photographs and arranged them in a grid structure, whose point—
as Fried emphasizes—is “above all comparative: the viewer is thereby invited
to intuit from the . . . individual instances the latent ‘presence’ or operation
of a single type and at the same time to enjoy a heightened apprehension of
the individuality or uniqueness of the particular instances relative both to one
another and to the latent or implied type” (WPM 309).
Fried interprets this typological concern in the light of G. W. F. Hegel’s
distinction between the genuine or true infinite and its spurious or bad coun-
terpart, which is designed to help us grasp the finitude or determinateness—
call it the genuine individuality—of objects. By virtue of their typological
mode of presentation, the objects depicted in the Bechers’ work are made
internally contrastive with one another, so that our perceptual mode of
address to their individual instances is strongly but non-coercively struc-
tured or directed, both within a given group and between different groups.
This format prevents us from attempting to perceive any individual object
of a given type “in itself,” as it were: for so encountered,
[A]ny form of life and every concept integral to it has an indefinite num-
ber of instances and directions of projection; and this variation is not
96 Stephen Mulhall
arbitrary. Both the “outer” variance and the “inner” constancy are nec-
essary if a concept is to accomplish its tasks—of meaning, understand-
ing, communicating etc., and in general, guiding us through the world,
and relating thought and action and feeling to the world.7
Although this book singles out artists whose work seems to me to prove
the current vitality of high modernist themes and issues, it also dem-
onstrates that that vitality is not tied to a specific medium, or to put
this more strongly, that the question of medium-specificity, while not
exactly irrelevant to the artists I discuss—Ray’s commitment to sculp-
ture and Marioni’s to painting are definitive for both of them, while
Sala’s pursuit of presentness finds a perfect home in video—no longer
plays the kind of role that it did at an earlier moment in the history of
modernism. That is, I would no longer wish to argue that for a work of
contemporary art to matter deeply it has in all cases to be understood
as doing so as an instance of a particular art or medium. My conviction
as to Sala’s accomplishment is in no way dependent on an appreciation
of a standing canon of previous video art; and in the case of Gordon, it
is not at all clear how the concept of a medium bears on my analyses of
Play Dead; Real Time or Déjà vu.
(FHO 204)
Notes
51: 1 (2011), 95–8.
1
2 This last suggestion is a possibility emphasized and exploited in Diarmuid Costel-
lo’s fine essay “On the Very Idea of a ‘Specific’ Medium: Michael Fried and Stanley
Cavell on Painting and Photography as Arts,” (Critical Inquiry (34: 2, 2008),
274–312), although in ways that differ significantly from (as well as overlap with)
the response canvased in this paper.
3 That essay is “Crimes and Deeds of Glory: Michael Fried’s Modernism,” British
Journal of Aesthetics (41: 1, 2001), 1–23.
Michael Fried’s Photographs 103
4 See the introduction to his Pursuits of Happiness: The Hollywood Comedy of
Remarriage (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976), 1–42.
5 See Chapters Five, Eleven, and Fourteen of The World Viewed: Reflections on the
Ontology of Film (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971).
6 See The Claim of Reason: Wittgenstein, Skepticism, Morality, and Tragedy
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 168–90.
7 Cavell, The Claim of Reason, 185.
8 Cavell, The Claim of Reason, 73.
9 Cavell, The Claim of Reason, 77–8.
6 Becoming Medium
Stephen Melville
This, scare quotes and all, is a good enough representation of the frame-
work within which Fried’s thinking about art “gradually found its voice”
(IMAC 28)—but the finding of that voice entailed breaking that frame
apart, placing the notion of medium in a new, difficult, and still largely
unanswered question.3
For all its centrality in Fried’s early criticism, the notion of medium has
tended to rather come and go in his subsequent, largely but not entirely,
historical writing, frequently seeming to be eclipsed by the quasi-dialectic
of absorption and theatricality that first becomes fully explicit in his 1980
book on painting in the age of Diderot, is continued in the studies of Gustave
Courbet and Édouard Manet that follow it, and plays a leading role in his
later critical writings on contemporary photography. The passage between
the emphasis on medium and the accounts cast in terms of absorption and
theatricality is essentially operated by a certain appeal to “the tableau,” a
term whose historical basis is clear enough—the French art and criticism of
the eighteenth century—but whose weight in relation to “medium” is, at
best, uncertain. And this uncertainty brings others in its wake—both about
the relation between the critical and the historical in Fried’s work and about
Becoming Medium 105
the scope and limits of the modernism to which the notion of medium had
seemed so central.4
The distinct re-emergence of the term “medium” in Fried’s recent work
on Caravaggio at a historical moment well outside the normal purview of
modernism and prior to the emergence of the tableau offers, I think, a valu-
able opportunity to explore its possible centrality both to Fried’s work and
to our dealings with art more generally. This essay will thus proceed in
three steps: an initial review of aspects of the notion as it emerged out of
conversations between Fried and Stanley Cavell around the time of “Art and
Objecthood”; a look at the term as it figures in the rather different context
of Caravaggio; and an attempt to make some sense of these gleanings by
appealing to elements of G. W. F. Hegel’s aesthetics which couple historical
concerns with a focus on the individual arts in ways that both answer well
to the full range of Fried’s work and can pose distinctive questions to it.
1
One might start by simply noting that both Fried’s and Greenberg’s general
sense of the word “medium”—as at least roughly naming what one might
otherwise call “the individual arts” (painting, sculpture, architecture, and
so on)—is itself a notably late extension of the word’s meanings: at its core
is the (itself fairly late) use of “medium” for the element in which a pigment
was bound and suspended—water, oil, albumen, or whatever—which was
itself further extended to something like “the physical basis of an art” and
then opened out to the various previously distinct senses of “medium” as an
intervening form or substance through which something is communicated—
so that when we now speak of painting as a medium, we end up pointing,
all at once and not always entirely happily, to a somewhat shaky physical
basis (“pigment on a surface”) and something like a general capacity for
meaning or expression.5 This lateness of the word may be an accident. But
it might also be a dimension of it—as if a certain belatedness were internal
to its meaning or to its capacity to mean.
As early as 1965’s “Three American Painters,” Fried remarks of his own
argument that
the notion that there are problems “intrinsic” to the art of painting is,
so far as I can see, the most important question begged in this essay.
It has to do with the concept of “medium,” and is one of the points
philosophy and art criticism might discuss most fruitfully, if a dialogue
between them could be established.
(TAP 262n)
[The play of tense and voice here can seem odd: the first sentence is
devoid of agency and cast largely in the past; the second appears to speak
more directly from (and for?) the present; the question of medium seems to
Becoming Medium 107
slide—weaving or slipping—uneasily between. In Cavell’s subsequent work,
genre and its kin will play notably larger roles than medium. The balancing
of the one with or against the other is a particular and interesting feature of
his writings on film; in music and literature, it appears that form/genre more
nearly supplants or masks medium.]
And finally:
Grant that these media no longer serve, as portraits, nudes, odes, etc.
no longer serve, for speaking and believing and knowing. What now is
a medium of music?9
[Cavell’s shift to stipulation dissolves the play of tense and agency in the
earlier sentence into the simpler statement of a problematic present, and
in that statement implies the only sensible answer: when nudes and por-
traits no longer serve, painting emerges; when odes no longer serve, poetry
emerges; when work songs and arias no longer serve, what emerges will be
music (or it will be nothing). And that last, at least in the moment of Cavell’s
writing, remains a task unaccomplished: that medium is yet to be discovered
or invented out of itself. If we take the then-and-now seriously, we should
want to say that before the medium can be discovered or invented out of
itself, it must have been discovered or invented within itself and that it must
have been discovered there in the things people have done—things they have
made or said or sung or played.]
This whole movement of thought has followed on the opening remark
that “what needs recognition is that wood or stone would not be a medium
of sculpture in the absence of the art of sculpture”—which is to say, in gen-
eral, that medium is a consequence before it is a condition of work.10 It is a
shape or condition an art assumes in both senses; that’s what it means to say
that a medium is essentially self-critical.
To say in this way that a medium is always becoming medium is to say
that it is essentially historical, and it is at least not clear that this recogni-
tion is adequately served by Cavell’s more general framing of the issues in
terms of an opposition of the modern and the traditional. Cavell writes, for
example, that “it is perhaps fully true of Pop Art that its motive is to break
with the tradition of painting and sculpture; and the result is not that the
tradition is broken, but that these works are irrelevant to that tradition,
i.e., they are not paintings, whatever their pleasures.”11 While that can seem
powerfully right, it can also seem to miss out on or render unthinkable the
actual force of rupture as constitutive of any medium’s history.
In particular, the term “tradition” is being asked, or permitted, to do
too much work here, standing both for something one has good reason
to call “tradition” and as a broader and less clearly justified term for the
way the art of the past hangs together. When Cavell writes, for example,
that “when there was a tradition, everything which seemed to count did
count,”12 he must mean that the given forms within a culture are in fact
108 Stephen Melville
fixed—representations of the god just are things that look like that and
questions of their being painting or sculpture, of their being rendered in one
style or another, simply do not arise, have no ground upon which to arise,
and so whatever—however different or outré it may appear to us—counts
for the keepers of such tradition (priestly caste, artistic guild, common or
nascent practice) will count (and if it doesn’t, then it is simply not part of the
tradition—is irrelevant or botched, breaking never among its possibilities).
It’s not, after all, that cultures we describe as “traditional” don’t change; it’s
that whatever change they do absorb or undergo doesn’t count as rupture—
so one might, in a certain mood, say that the obvious success of Pop Art
bears witness to what continues to be deeply traditional in us—that Pop Art,
whatever its claimed motives in relation to the past of sculpture and paint-
ing, finally participates deeply and unproblematically, even comfortably, in
our complex rituals of decoration and prestige.
The point, of course, is not to choose between versions of Pop Art but to
refuse the equivocation on “tradition” that makes both versions plausible,
and that drives Cavell to the further, deeply uneasy assertion that
what looks like “breaking with tradition” in the successions of art is not
really that; or is that only after the fact, looking historically or critically;
or is that only as a result and not as a motive: the unheard appearance
of the modern in art is an effort not to break, but to keep faith with
tradition.13
Where an art “really does challenge the art of which it is the inheritor and
voice”14 (and this is clearly the strong line through Cavell’s thoughts, the
line along which Caro’s work, and not Duchamp’s, places sculpture as such
in question), the appeal to tradition can only ever undercut the real force
and consequence of such challenges. Cavell’s phrasing of this challenge in
terms of inheritance and voice seems usefully closer to the mark, suggesting
that the difficulties here are more nearly those of keeping faith with some-
thing like one’s self.
The point shows particularly clearly where we imagine the relations that
hold together the successions of art to be essentially “interpretive.” Gadam-
er’s formulation here is exemplary:
2
In The Moment of Caravaggio, Fried writes that a number of features he
takes to be characteristic of Caravaggio’s art, and particularly clearly on
view in his Judith and Holofernes,
This sentence itself repeats and gathers together several earlier sentences
making essentially the same point, the most interesting of which modifies
this emergence as “decisive and irrevocable” (MC 153), terms I take to
specify this event as historical in the strong sense that it marks a change
not in what may be predicated of a thing but in the subject of any future
predication, with the new subject here identified both as “a new medium
of painting” and as “the gallery picture” (a term opposed on the one hand
to a prior subject, the altarpiece—and to a lesser degree the fresco—and on
the other to the tableau or easel picture that will emerge in its place or on
its ground). That is, I understand Fried’s claim for Caravaggio to be wholly
of a piece with the claims made in his criticism, for example, of the work of
Morris Louis—that in it we see an act of self-criticism sufficiently radical to
count as a discovery or invention of painting: “discovery” because it’s not
as if painting does not already exist, and “invention” because it is as if what
has been called painting is shown in this moment to have fallen short of
actually being painting (a moment, then, of painting’s becoming medium).
The grammar of such moments is difficult: there is, or should be, a strong
temptation to say of this moment—of any such moment—that it is a matter
of painting’s becoming medium tout court (that is, whatever it was prior to
this moment, it was not a medium), just as there should be a temptation to
imagine this moment as the emergence of a new medium within painting
and assimilate that new medium to a particular format (the gallery picture)
110 Stephen Melville
or technique (say, stain painting in the case of Louis, a formulation Cavell
seems repeatedly drawn to in his discussion in The World Viewed17). The
first temptation is, at a minimum, overly dramatic (in the current instance
leaving us at a loss before, say, Titian), while the second risks losing the full
force of the considerations that inform our interest in questions of medium
in the first place (in effect opening the way toward the view of medium
advanced by Rosalind Krauss, drawing heavily on certain of Cavell’s for-
mulations, which effectively reduces medium to what we now more often
call “a practice”18). It’s difficult to find the right way to speak of a medium’s
becoming, its being the outcome of a self-criticism that is the actual shape
of its self.
When we can hold on to this thought, we can see that what eventually
emerges in European art as the tableau is a certain consolidation and, in
some measure, defense against what Caravaggio has made of painting and
does not raise the question of painting’s medium in anything like the way
Caravaggio’s work does; we have to wait on Édouard Manet before painting
finds itself in such deep question again. And we may also see more clearly
what it is we take Caravaggio to have broken with or deeply transformed—
a painting that is inarguably painting but is so, for better and for worse,
only by being also a continuous negotiation, above all as fresco and altar-
piece, with architecture and sculpture, thus not yet autonomous, not yet
articulated within and against itself.19
We can hold talk of medium and format properly together only insofar
as we recognize that the gallery picture is itself simply the most obvious
feature and effect of a considerably more complex transformation that can
be summarily put in terms of a series or system of cuts both integral to Cara-
vaggio’s act of painting (between what Fried calls absorption and address,
immersion and specularity, painter and painting, painting and beholder,
painting and architecture) and repeatedly figured within that painting (most
prominently, but far from solely, as beheading). One effect of this complex
cutting is the emergence of painting as, in a new sense, autonomous, bound
to its internal division from itself. Another is its opening on, so to speak,
both sides of the canvas, into what can now only be called “experience”—
that which is obliged to expression and has no existence apart from it.
Put this way, it becomes clear that “medium” has to do some part of its
meaning in opposition to some other term—say, “individual art”—that it
both repeats and reaffirms and moves significantly beyond in the direction
of its “self”—as if, in each instance, operating a passage from an art that
may be more or less conscious of itself to an art that has the shape of a self,
finding itself over and against an other that is also, always, internal to it.
3
The difference thus posed between an art conscious of itself and an art
assuming the shape of a self is of some consequence. In The Self-Aware
Becoming Medium 111
Image: An Insight into Early Modern Meta-Painting Victor Stoichita, draw-
ing on and continuing the work of Hans Belting, has recently offered a
strong account of the emergence of the tableau through the image’s devel-
oping meta-pictorial consciousness of itself (so the works that interest him
turn on a variety of explicitly reflexive moments where paintings figure
themselves—as, for example, doors or windows and so on).20 The implicit
outcome of this history, beyond the book’s historical scope but strongly
foreshadowed in its closing, will be art’s dissolution into its own philo-
sophical self-understanding: the Dantoesque position Belting and Stoichita
share. Fried shows a considerable and somewhat surprising sympathy for
Stoichita’s project, but there is in fact nothing in common between Stoi-
chita’s reflexive tropes and the complex figurative work done by, to choose
an example that can appear fairly close to some of Stoichita’s, Caravaggio’s
David holding Goliath’s/Caravaggio’s head before him.21
The self-consciousness that matters to Fried’s construal of medium is
much closer to the self-consciousness of G. W. F. Hegel’s Phenomenology of
Spirit—essentially movement, unable to grasp itself except through its rela-
tion to an otherness it also is, its identity a goal and not a given.22 Nothing in
Stoichita’s account comes close to the pivotal role of severance, of painting’s
cutting itself out from itself, that Fried finds in Caravaggio, and indeed Car-
avaggio does not figure at all—cannot figure at all—along Stoichita’s path.23
And Hegel is a useful guide not only here. He is after all the only major
philosopher to have taken a sustained interest in questions of the individual
arts in both their historicity and their expressive specificity. And just because
Hegel does not have a distinct notion of medium, he provides a ground on
which to begin to ask about “medium” as a shape one or another individual
art might assume under one condition or another.
Like Fried, Hegel understands the history of art to be a part of the history
of thought. In particular, he takes it that the specific task of art is to think
or work through key questions about the materiality of expression. The
Lectures on Fine Art thus takes off, in both its historical and formal aspects,
from questions of the apparent arbitrariness and problematic materiality
of the mark and finds such resolution it does in an achieved peace with the
terms of linguistic, and specifically philosophic, expressivity—“the prose of
thought,” Hegel says: Hegel’s prose.24
Hegel has no particular story to tell about the origins of the individual
arts; they are more or less given as things people do.25 An individual art
can be described in three general ways: (1) it is a very general kind of form;
(2) as such, it manifests an affinity for particular kinds of content; and (3)
it carries within itself a particular relation to the other arts among which
it finds itself. This last is not particularly emphasized by Hegel, but plays a
clear role throughout his aesthetics and opens up a particular approach to
questions of medium and medium-specificity.
The affinity for content establishes for Hegel an important historical
dimension to the arts, and, without subscribing to any particular view of
112 Stephen Melville
the actual history he proposes, it seems worth holding on to the thought
that particular “moments” may bring one or another form of art to the
fore—to a certain kind of dominance—because of the content proper to
that moment. Thus, for example, Hegel takes it that art’s earliest moment
must be one in which content is more or less inchoate and so demands a
container that is above all accommodating—can hold whatever you can put
in it, whether those contents can hold themselves together or not: a bucket
perhaps, or, more to Hegel’s point, an essentially arbitrary measure that
does the minimal job of rendering the sheer flood of the world articulate and
addressable. This is the core of what Hegel will call “architecture,” which is
thus first of all an art of marking, orientation, and procession, as in a field
of menhirs or the Temple of Luxor. In its independent, or dominant, mode
architecture takes its relation to the other arts to be of a piece with its rela-
tion to the world; they are simply part-by-part components of it—sculpture,
painting, and writing have no independent standing but simply contribute
their bits to the architectural articulation of the world. So, for example,
Hegel writes of the Egyptian temple:
Notes
1 The tendency to invoke some shared reference to or foundation in Kant has,
I think, been particularly unhelpful.
2 Clement Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” in The Collected Essays and Criti-
cism Volume 4: Modernism with a Vengeance, 1957–1969, ed. John O’Brian
(Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 86.
114 Stephen Melville
3 The break with Greenberg is most explicitly marked in “Art and Objecthood” ’s
frequently cited footnote 6, which rejects any claim about a presumed essence
of pictorial art in favor of “what, at a given moment, is capable of compelling
conviction, of succeeding as painting” (AO 168–9n). The current essay can be
thought of as moving almost entirely within the phrase “at a given moment,”
particularly as its sense may seem deepened and transformed by Fried’s lectures
on Caravaggio, published as The Moment of Caravaggio.
4 Fried addresses the question of criticism and history in the introduction to his
1998 collection of the early critical writings (see IMAC 47–54).
5 Stanley Cavell introduces “medium” as “a material-in-certain-characteristic-
applications” (see “A Matter of Meaning It,” in Must We Mean What We Say?
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 221.
6 Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 221. Fried cited both of the Cavell essays as
forthcoming in “Art and Objecthood.”
7 Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 221.
8 Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 221.
9 Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 221.
10 Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 221.
11 Cavell, “Music Discomposed,” in Must We Mean What We Say? (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1976), 207.
12 Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 216.
13 Cavell, “Music Discomposed,” 206.
14 Cavell, “A Matter of Meaning It,” 219.
15 Hans-George Gadamer, Truth and Method (second, revised edition), trans. Joel
Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshal (New York: Continuum Press, 1989), 306.
16 Jean-Luc Nancy, “Sharing Voices,” in Transforming the Hermeneutic Context:
From Nietzsche to Nancy, ed. G. Ormiston and A. Schrift (Albany: State Univer-
sity of New York Press, 1990), 234.
17 See particularly his discussion of automatisms (The World Viewed: Reflections
on the Ontology of Film, Enlarged edition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1979), 101–7).
18 See Rosalind Krauss, A Voyage on the North Sea: Art in the Age of the Post-
Medium Condition (London: Thames & Hudson, 2000).
19 In The Discovery of Pictorial Composition: Theories of Visual Order in Painting
1400–1800 (London: Yale University Press, 2000), Thomas Puttfarken argues
that Renaissance painting lacks pictorial composition, which is to say that it
aims at “an impression of real presence, an appearance of life-size figures stand-
ing out, in relievo, from the surface on which they are painted” (124) and not at
the “formal, geometry-based or planimetric pictorial composition” (8) he takes
to be embodied in the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century tableau. It seems to
me that the more accurate and powerful phrasing of the argument takes it as ask-
ing not about composition but about medium, about a passage from something
imagining itself as sculpture to something obliged to call itself painting. It’s very
much to the point that Puttfarken sees himself as defending what he takes to be
real painting against the Greenbergian dead end implicit in the emergence of the
tableau.
20 See Victor Stoichita, The Self-Aware Image: An Insight into Early Modern Meta-
Painting (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), and Hans Belting,
Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image before the Era of Art, trans. E.
Jephcott (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). For both Stoichita and
Puttfarken, the emergence of the tableau is a key moment in the history of paint-
ing in a way it is, I think, finally not for Fried.
21 So, for example, Fried writes that
Goliath’s expression might be said to “reflect” David’s, or perhaps it is
David’s that does the “reflecting,” as is hinted by the mirror-like gleam of
Becoming Medium 115
David’s naked sword . . . And this is to say that even as David with the
Head of Goliath allegorizes the specular “moment” of the handing over of
the painting to the realm of visuality, it also allegorizes the inseparableness of
that “moment” from the notionally prior one of immersion, here associated
with the mutually “reflective” rapport between the two antagonists.
(MC 63–4)
What we are asked to see here is not a painting’s more or less adequate reflexive
grasp of its format but its active struggle for the visibility that is its achievement,
its active thinking itself through what Fried calls “the internal structure of the
pictorial act” (MC 206). Fried has at times been fairly strongly drawn to Sto-
ichita’s way of putting things: in the same footnote to “Three American Paint-
ers” that I cited at the beginning of this essay, he writes, “I am convinced . . .
that it makes sense to speak of painting itself having become increasingly self-
aware . . . during the past century or more,” before redirecting the reader’s atten-
tion to the question of medium, and it is worth noting that the claim for Frank
Stella’s “deductive structure” advanced in “Three American Painters” can be
assimilated to Stoichita’s terms in a way the subsequent revision occasioned by
the experience of Stella’s Irregular Polygons in “Shape as Form” cannot.
22 Hegel writes: “But in point of fact self-consciousness is in the reflection out of
the being of the world of sense and perception, and is essentially the return from
otherness. As self-consciousness, it is movement . . . self-consciousness is Desire
in general” (Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. A. V. Miller (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1977), 105).
23 Caravaggio can and does figure for Puttfarken insofar as his painting takes the
ambition to real presence to a new extremity. What Puttfarken does not see is
how, in this effort to (as Cavell would put it) “keep faith with the tradition,”
Caravaggio ends by breaking it (Fried comments briefly on this issue in AC
206n).
24 G. W. F. Hegel, Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art, trans. T. M. Knox, 2 vols.
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), 1: 89. It is not accidental that Hegel’s descrip-
tion of the achievement of classical sculpture echoes his frequent descriptions of
dialectical argument:
[E]ach part is completely there independently and in its own particular char-
acter, while, all the same, owing to the fullest richness of the transitions it
remains in firm connection not only with its immediate neighbor but with the
whole. Consequently the shape is perfectly animated at every point; even the
minutest detail has its purpose; everything has its own particular character, its
own difference, its own distinguishing mark, and yet it remains in continual
flux, counts and lives only in the whole.
(2: 725–6)
25 The most pertinent origin story—about a boy who “throws a stone into the
river and now marvels at the circles drawn in the water as an effect in which he
gains an intuition of something that is his own doing”—is cited and interestingly
discussed by Fried in his Courbet book (see CR 276–7 and Aesthetics, 1: 31).
26 Hegel, Aesthetics, 2: 644.
27 Minimalism can in this light appear distinctly architectural.
28 Aesthetics 2: 718. While Greenberg’s actual relation to the Kant of The Critique
of Judgment is, at best, muddled, Fried’s relation to Kant, who is not a terribly
insistent presence in his work, is considerably sharper and better informed; but
it’s not clear how important that relation finally is to him. What is clear—clearer,
in any case—is the pivotal place the experience of Anthony Caro’s sculpture
holds in his criticism. Arguably both Fried and Hegel place what they take to be
art’s fullest achievement and deepest standard in notable tension with its actual
historicity.
116 Stephen Melville
29 I am of course implicitly taking Hegel’s “Romantic” to be our modern and fur-
ther taking that to mean essentially historical, momentary in its structure.
30 See, for example, Hegel’s contrast between Mary as a painterly subject and
Niobe as sculptural in her grief (Hegel, Aesthetics, 2: 825–6).
31 Ellipsis, both grammatical and geometrical, is one of the major figures through
which Fried articulates aspects of Caravaggio’s achievement.
32 On this, see Fried’s recent essay “No Problem,” Representations (135: 1, 2016),
140–9.
7 Formalism and the Appearance
of Nature
Richard Moran
Among other things, this passage registers a deep ambivalence about the
power of poetry, and the very idea of submitting oneself to this power, an
ambivalence which threatens to spread to a generalized anxiety about the
influence of another person on one’s feelings or belief at all. Within the
terms given here, it is difficult even to describe the situation of direct artistic
address to an audience which doesn’t collapse into some form of the intent
to pander to or manipulate them; or in Mill’s deliberately aggressive terms
“to work upon the feelings, or upon the belief, or the will, of another.” It is
not that every utterance which is directed upon the feelings of another can
be rightly described as seeking to “work upon” those feelings, but in Mill’s
essay the naturalness and spontaneity of poetic utterance are conceived as
precluding any consciousness of such an aim. This cannot be a stable solu-
tion, even in Mill’s own terms. He tells us that the poet’s utterance is not
made with “the desire of making an impression upon another mind,” and
yet it is clear from elsewhere in the essay that “making an impression upon
another mind” is quite an important criterion of value in poetry. As we
might expect, poetry that fails utterly to do this fails as poetry.
In the anti-theatrical tradition, how does “making an impression” as such
get cast in terms of the exhaustive options of either vain self-display or
emotional manipulation? This question applies equally to Fry, for whom
the artist must indeed address our emotions, and yet must somehow appear
not to do so, or do so without “a view to the effect to be produced on the
spectator”; or he must somehow make a difference to what we feel while
exhibiting a “complete indifference to what effect the right expression might
have on the public.” And yet Fry is equally insistent that the artist is in the
business of making a difference to what his audience feels, that he aims at
making a particular impression, and indeed that the experience of art is
characterized by the audience’s recognition of this aim:
Hence not only does Fry insist that the artist “made this thing in order to
arouse precisely the sensations we experience,” and that “sensations are so
arranged that they arouse in us deep emotions,”8 but he equally insists that
our recognition of this purpose is essential to the aesthetic judgment proper:
In spirit this is not too far from an outburst of Diderot’s which Fried
quotes in his first book, by way of compactly illustrating the relations of
absorption and the contrary terms of self-consciousness, theatricality, self-
display, and mannerism:
It is rare that a being who is not totally engrossed in his action is not
mannered.
Every personage who seems to tell you: “Look how well I cry, how
well I become angry, how well I implore,” is false and mannered.
(AT 99)
And, as we’ve seen, in the words of both Keats and Diderot, as well as
other figures in the anti-theatrical tradition such as Mill and Fry himself, the
self-conscious display of itself on the part of the artwork is read not simply
as mannered or vain, but also in terms of some ulterior motive, some base
instrumentality in the artwork’s relation to us. Keats puts it in terms of
“poetry that has a palpable design upon us,” and Fried picks up on the spe-
cially inflected senses of the words “design” and “having designs” in Fry’s
language (beginning with “Vision and Design”): “unconsciousness lines up
with antitheatricality, not having a design on an audience.”11
Part of what I think we can hear in such passages is the anti-theatrical crit-
ic’s proper anxiety over the question of how it is that an artist gains the right
to the attention and response of an audience at all. In the encounter with the
work of art we are indeed solicited, appealed to, and a kind of responsive-
ness is asked of us that we don’t normally feel simply obliged to provide
even to the perfectly real people we encounter in our daily lives. Outside
of aesthetic contexts, courting or soliciting some emotional response from
a person is not something done for free, but presumes some prior relation-
ship of trust, shared history, and mattering to each other. Without such a
context, such an appeal is normally not only an affront of sorts, like being
buttonholed in the street, but fails even to make ordinary sense. Why should
it be different in the case of the artist? How can he simply show up, come
before us with his “expression or utterance of feeling,” and think that he has
earned the right to ask us to respond?
Formalism and the Appearance of Nature 123
But this anxiety, whatever it ultimately is, has to spread much more gen-
erally. That is, the suspicion of this or that aim or design on the part of the
artwork, this or that instrumentality, is destined to evolve into or reveal
itself as a quite general rejection of any “external aim” or objective to the
work of art. This is the formalist moment in the anti-theatrical dialectic.
It is this thought which gives us the very distinctions between something
internal and something merely external to the enterprise, as well as the
ideas of autonomy, existing for-its-own-sake, and self-sufficiency. For Fry as
well as for Kant “form” itself is the name for what remains after we have
abstracted from whatever contingent external relations and aims the art-
work may have attached to it, and revealed its internal necessities. “Form”
is the artwork nobly refusing to serve any master but itself, and too proud
and self-sufficient to need to solicit the admiration or tears of an audience.
The thought is that if we speak of art as determined by any aim or purpose
at all, then art is being reduced to something merely instrumental, a means
to an end, and hence in principle a replaceable means.
In Fried’s lecture, we can see Fry’s rejection of theatrical display and
appeal as taking him further into a formalist conception of painting, laid out
in the markedly Kantian terms of autonomy, necessity, internal relations,
unity, and law. For instance, Fried describes Fry’s recasting of the rhetorical
art of the High Renaissance as involving “an appeal to qualities of form or
design, which being closed in on themselves, in that sense wholly internal
to the work in question, rather than addressed to a beholder, provided an
antitheatrical ‘core’ that far outweighed in significance all other aspects of
the work.”12 And later Fried invokes a further range of Kantian concepts in
saying that “Fry imagines the finished painting to be wholly autonomous
with respect to the real world.”13
One strain in the idea of “autonomy” is in the idea of independence. In
the case of painting we can identify three dimensions of independence. As
with the work of art generally, a painting is different from other artifacts
such as instruments, clothes, or furniture in that it is not created to serve
any end that precedes it. The meaning and value of a work of art are not
determined by how well it serves any end, whether practical, moral, or reli-
gious. Second, in the case of painting, the modernist period is characterized
by various struggles of emancipation from the dependence on the visual
world, from the idea of pictorial representation itself. The meaning or value
of the painting is explicitly and self-consciously presented as independent
of visual appearance and its “faithful” depiction, and the visual world is
conceived of as “external” to the painting, as much as any instrumental aim
is to the work of art as such. And finally, the work of art is independent of
the audience itself, whether the solicitation of the audience, the pleasure, the
taste, or perhaps even the comprehension of the audience. Here in a differ-
ent but related register, the “audience” is figured as “external” to the work
of art and for the artist to turn his attention there and seek its applause (or
understanding?) can be no less a corruption than would be to treat a work
of art as a tool in the service of some external aim. The painting as art is
124 Richard Moran
independent of any instrumental aim (rejection of art as either moralistic or
mere entertainment), independent of the representation of the visual world
as a criterion of value, and independent of the taste of the audience, or the
need to gratify its needs or gain its applause.
The “autonomy” of the work of art, like the “autonomy” of the Kantian
moral agent, does not merely imply that the work of art or the person is
“independent” with respect to something else, whether an audience or other
people generally. For what is being rejected in the declarations of indepen-
dence here is a kind of normative dependence or subordination. A practical
aim, faithful representation, or the responses of an audience are all denied as
criteria of success for the work of art; the success or failure of a work of art
is not determined by anything “outside” the work of art itself (which con-
cept is thus being re-defined, as separate from the world of crafts) but by its
own “inner necessities.” As with the characterization of the Kantian moral
agent, “autonomy” is first of all the notion of “self-rule,” and the meaning
of “independence” in these other contexts will be dependent on the under-
standing of the specific conditions of self-rule. Success or failure, goodness
or badness, is determined by nothing that is not internal to the concept in
question, whether that be good action, moral personhood, or the work of
art. It is determined by no laws that it has not given itself. In his address to
the British Psychological Society in 1924, “The Artist and Psychoanalysis,”
Fry is chiefly concerned to reject a notion of the artwork as having its mean-
ing outside itself, that is, in some symbolism, and insists on the work of art
as “completely self-consistent, self-supporting, and self-contained.”14 Both
symbolism and dramatic appeal count as external dependencies which the
work of art may partake of but are impurities obscuring what the artwork
is in and of itself: “None the less in proportion as an artist is pure he is
opposed to all symbolism.”15 Fried argues persuasively that “Fry’s notion of
pictorial unity is itself essentially anti-theatrical”16; what this shows is that
“theater” and its appeal to an audience function as the name for external
dependencies of the artwork quite generally, “unity” being now a figure for
the completeness and self-sufficiency of the work of art. Hence the anti-
theatrical critic, in his rejection of any heteronomous aims for the artwork,
sees his work as the paring away of such external dependencies so as to
reveal the operation of a unifying law: pictorial unity, Fry tells us, is “a unity
where all the parts are bound to each other inevitably,”17 and “this percep-
tion of unity and necessity is very like the perception and comprehension of
a natural law.”18
The insistence on unconsciousness of any deliberate aim on the part of
the artwork or performer is itself an important stage in Kant’s developing
formalist argument, and grows out of an anti-theatrical animus he inherits
from Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Throughout The Critique of Judgement Kant
notoriously privileges both the beautiful in nature over the beautiful in art,
and the “naïve” expression over any deliberate expression with an intent to
convey something. In both cases the active intervention of the human will is
Formalism and the Appearance of Nature 125
pictured as a basically corrupting or falsifying barrier between us and some-
thing genuine. Passivity or unconsciousness in expression has a probative
power necessarily lacking in any deliberate self-display. Given its status as a
human artifact with an internal relation to a possible audience, the work of
art is under constant threat of revealing itself as “intentionally aimed at our
liking,”19 and therefore both flattering and falsifying. The language of the
anti-theatrical is unmistakable in passages like the following:
But in art a product is called mannered only if the way the artist conveys
his idea aims at singularity and is not adequate to the idea. Whatever
is ostentatious, precious, stilted, and affected, with the sole aim of dif-
fering from the ordinary (but without spirit), resembles the behavior
of those who, as we say, listen to themselves talking, or who stand and
walk as if they were on a stage so as to be gaped at, behavior that
always betrays a bungler.20
One still cannot show with certainty in any example that the will is here
determined merely through the law, without another incentive, although
it seems to be so; for it is always possible that covert fear of disgrace,
perhaps also obscure apprehension of other dangers, may have had an
influence on the will. Who can prove by experience the nonexistence of
a cause when all that experience teaches is that we do not perceive it?23
Notes
1 Indeed, in his introduction to his art criticism, Fried expresses reservations about
his early invocation of “formal criticism,” particularly in “Three American
Painters” (see IMAC 17).
2 I will be referring to the text of “Roger Fry’s Formalism,” Fried’s original lecture
delivered on November 2 and 3, 2001 at the University of Michigan, and which
has since been published in modified form in Another Light (195–223). The lec-
ture is available at the University of Utah’s library of The Tanner Lectures on
Human Values at http://tannerlectures.utah.edu/lecture-library.php. Fried’s text
is available at http://tannerlectures.utah.edu/_documents/a-to-z/f/fried_2001.pdf.
3 Fried, “Roger Fry’s Formalism,” 7.
4 Roger Fry, “An Essay in Aesthetics,” in Vision and Design, ed. J. B. Bullen
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), 17.
5 Fry, “An Essay in Aesthetics,” 8.
6 John Stuart Mill, “What Is Poetry?” in Literary Essays, ed. Edward Alexander
(Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1967), 56–7.
128 Richard Moran
7 Fry, “An Essay in Aesthetics,” 21 (my emphasis).
8 Fry, “An Essay in Aesthetics,” 26
9 Fry, “An Essay in Aesthetics,” 26 (my emphasis).
10 John Keats, “Letter to J. H. Reynolds (Feb 3, 1818),” in Selected Letters of John
Keats, ed. Grant F. Scott (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 86–7.
11 Fried, “Roger Fry’s Formalism,” 21 (see also AL 210).
12 Fried, “Roger Fry’s Formalism,” 16.
13 Fried, “Roger Fry’s Formalism,” 25.
14 Roger Fry, “The Artist and Psychoanalysis,” in A Roger Fry Reader, ed. Chris-
topher Reed (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 362.
15 Fry, “The Artist and Psychoanalysis,” 362.
16 Fried, “Roger Fry’s Formalism,” 14.
17 Quoted in Fried, “Roger Fry’s Formalism,” 18.
18 Quoted in Fried, “Roger Fry’s Formalism,” 18.
19 Immanuel Kant, The Critique of Judgment, trans. Werner Pluhar (Indianapolis/
Cambridge: Hackett, 1987), 168; Ak. 301.
20 Kant, The Critique of Judgment, 188; Ak. 319.
21 Kant, The Critique of Judgment, 174; Ak. 307.
22 Roger Fry, “Retrospect,” in Vision and Design, ed. J. B. Bullen (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1981), 209–10 (see Fried, “Roger Fry’s Formalism,” 12).
23 Immanuel Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, trans. Mary
Gregor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 30; Ak. 419. Earlier he
insists that “it is absolutely impossible by means of experience to make out with
complete certainty a single case in which the maxim of an action otherwise in
conformity with duty rested simply on moral grounds and the representation of
one’s duty” (19; Ak. 407).
24 Fry, “Retrospect,” 210.
8 Michael Fried, Theatricality,
and the Threat of Skepticism
Paul J. Gudel
I begin with the assumption, which this essay will try to clarify, that the phe-
nomenon of modernism in the arts demands new terms of criticism, beyond
the traditional “good art” and “bad art”; understanding the necessity of
these new terms of criticism is one way of gaining access to the nature of
modernism itself. These new terms include Clement Greenberg’s “decora-
tion,” “entertainment,” and “kitsch”; Stanley Cavell’s “fraudulence”; and
Michael Fried’s “theatricality.”
The concept of theatricality structures not only Fried’s writings on
contemporary art,1 but his work on the development of eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century French painting as well.2 The main task of this essay,
then, will be to explicate this crucial notion. As the very title of Fried’s
most famous essay itself indicates, theatrical works present themselves as
“objects,” which Fried understands as being in opposition to “works of
art.”3 The key characteristic of theatrical (or “literalist”) art is that it proj-
ects “objecthood as such” (AO 151).
Let me follow a clue contained in a tantalizing but undeveloped claim
from David Carrier that while modernist art exemplifies the beautiful, the-
atrical art for Fried is “based loosely upon the notion of the sublime.”4 By
this Carrier means that theatrical art is “formless”:
When I was teaching at Cooper Union in the first year or two of the
fifties, someone told me how I could get onto the unfinished New Jer-
sey Turnpike. I took three students and drove from somewhere in the
Meadows to New Brunswick. It was a dark night and there were no
lights or shoulder markers, lines, railings, or anything at all except the
dark pavement moving through the landscape of the flats, rimmed by
hills in the distance, but punctuated by stacks, towers, fumes, and col-
ored lights. This drive was a revealing experience. The road and much
of the landscape was artificial, and yet it couldn’t be called a work of
art. On the other hand, it did something for me that art had never done.
At first I didn’t know what it was, but its effect was to liberate me from
many of the views I had had about art. It seemed that there had been a
reality there that had not had any expression in art.
The experience on the road was something mapped out but not
socially recognized. I thought to myself, it ought to be clear that’s the
end of art. Most painting looks pretty pictorial after that. There is no
way you can frame it, you just have to experience it. Later I discov-
ered some abandoned airstrips in Europe—abandoned works, Surreal-
ist landscapes, something that had nothing to do with any function,
created worlds without tradition. Artificial landscape without cultural
precedent began to dawn on me. There is a drill ground in Nurem-
berg large enough to accommodate two million men. The entire field is
enclosed with high embankments and towers. The concrete approach is
three sixteen-inch steps, one above the other, stretching for a mile or so.
(quoted AO 157–8)
Fried says that Smith’s turnpike experience revealed to him the “conven-
tional nature of art.” Smith experienced the turnpike and drill ground as
“empty situations,” “as though [they] reveal the theatrical character of lit-
eralist art, only without the object; that is, without the art itself” (AO 159).
In other words, the essence of the literalist experience consists in the very
fact that it puts you in the position of a theatrical spectator, rather than in
what is presented to you when you are in that position. It is as if what is
gratifying about the experience is precisely the sense of being a theatrical
spectator, it no longer mattering very much what you are actually watching
“on the stage.”
Smith says about his turnpike experience: “The road and much of the
landscape was artificial, and yet it couldn’t be called a work of art.” Why
not? We probably don’t feel much of a temptation to call the turnpike a
work of art in the first place. What is most striking about Smith’s account
Fried, Theatricality, and Skepticism 131
is that he appeared to find the discovery that the turnpike couldn’t be called
a work of art surprising, even revealing. Fried remarks that Smith felt he
had “no way to ‘frame’ his experience, that is, no way to make sense of it
in terms of art, to make art of it” (AO 131). Smith could not “frame” his
experience because it is already framed, already artificial or artifactual. Yet
for Smith it’s not art. This experience seemed to suggest to Smith both the
end of traditional art (“Most painting looks pretty pictorial after that”) and
an alternative approach to art making that would capture the openness and
endlessness of his drive on the turnpike.
The key phrase that explains Smith’s experience is “something that had
nothing to do with any function.” What attracts Smith are things made by
humans that seem to have no relation to any human purpose. What attracts
him are objects that are human-made, artificial, but which are freed from
the burden of meaning anything. Carrier is right, therefore, to see a connec-
tion between literalist art and the sublime. This is not because literalist art
just is “formless matter.” It is not. Rather, the literalist effect depends on
seeing human acts as sublime. This is done by taking them completely out
of context.7 Not just out of their normal context, but out of all contexts.
There is therefore a striking parallel between what the literalist does and
what, according to Cavell in The Claim of Reason, the material object skep-
tic does. Cavell argues that the assertions that get the classic arguments of
material object skepticism going are assertions made in what he calls “non-
claim contexts.”8 Cavell finds that the skeptical argument in philosophy
generally begins with an appeal to a certain kind of example, the postula-
tion of a situation in which we can be brought to see that the validity of
human knowledge as a whole is at stake in the example of knowing under
consideration. Cavell characterizes this situation as one in which I am to be
imagined as having no reason for making a claim to know that, for example,
I see an envelope here, or that I am seated before the fire. In other words, the
epistemologist’s classic examples are kept so bare of context that there is no
point to my saying, “I know I am sitting here before the fire,” except that it
is apparently true that I am sitting before the fire.
Cavell takes up one example of the typical argumentative moves of classic
epistemology; his argument would be equally applicable to any other of the
array of usual moves. The example Cavell uses is: “Do you see all of it?” The
philosopher first asks you to imagine a situation in which you are to make
a claim to know something. For example: “I know that there is an envelope
here before me,” when the envelope is in plain view in front of you. The
philosopher will then ask, “How do you know it is there before you?” The
desired answer, and seemingly the only available answer, is, “Because I see
it.” The skeptical argument then consists of an undermining of this basis for
the knowledge claim, but this must be done in such a way as to undermine
all claims to knowledge, otherwise the result is not philosophical skepti-
cism. The philosopher will say, “Do you see all of it?” The interlocutor is
forced to admit she does not. (She does not, for example, see the back of it.)
132 Paul J. Gudel
It follows that we cannot be certain that an envelope is there. If we could
see the back, perhaps we would find no back half of the envelope at all! We
can’t be certain it is there if we can’t see it, can we?
Cavell responds to this traditional scenario by arguing that the philos-
opher’s example must be an actual, particular claim to know something,
because the philosopher’s sense of having made a discovery about human
knowledge, his sense that his conclusion conflicts with what we ordinarily
think we know, depends on his showing that our ordinary methods of assess-
ing knowledge claims, when applied to such a claim, produce the skeptical
result. Yet the philosopher’s example is not an example of a particular claim
to know, because the supposed knowledge claim, “I know there is an enve-
lope here before me,” does not meet the grammatical requirements for the
use of the expression “I know.” Just as it is part of the grammar of “volun-
tary” that it only has application to an action when that action is fishy,9 so
it is part of the grammar of what it means to make an assertion that what
is asserted be informative to someone (the intended hearer). Asserting, like
any other activity, has its conditions. Cavell makes the point this way:
The fact that something is true is not a reason for saying anything; you
must in addition have some point you are trying to make.11
The philosopher imagines us saying “I know there is an envelope before
me” in a situation in which there is no reason to make that claim.12 This
is what Cavell means by saying the philosopher’s context is “non-claim.”
Moreover, the philosopher’s context has to be non-claim. If the philosopher
were actually to imagine a context in which it were really appropriate to say
“I know there is an envelope before me because I see it,” the failure of that
knowledge claim would not give rise to a general skeptical conclusion. The
context itself would dictate how the failure of the claim could be corrected.
This is because we would ordinarily say “I know because I see it” only in
cases where there is some specific reason to believe the thing is not there, or
Fried, Theatricality, and Skepticism 133
that I am not in a position to see it (perhaps the light is bad, or it is hidden
by some other object). In that situation, when it is shown to me that I do
not know the object is there because “I don’t see all of it,” the appropriate
response is not to conclude “we can never know with certainty.” It is to turn
on the light, for example, or go over to the object and pick it up. The skeptic’s
argument must begin with an example that asserts a claim to knowledge that
looks ordinary enough; that is the basis of its plausibility. But the skeptic’s
argument also requires that his example not assert a genuine claim to knowl-
edge, since if it did, doubts cast upon this particular claim would not under-
mine the status of human knowledge as a whole. The philosopher’s dilemma
is that he must be using “know” and “see” in our ordinary sense if the skepti-
cal conclusion is to have any sense of conflict with our ordinary beliefs, yet
if his conclusion is to have the desired generality, and lead to the skeptical
conclusion, these words must be used apart from their normal grammar.
The point of this is not that the philosopher “cannot say” the things he
does. Rather, it is “you cannot say something, relying on what is ordinarily
meant in saying it and mean something other than what would ordinarily
be meant.”13 And note also that Cavell is not arguing that what the skeptic
is saying is false. We certainly do not want to say I do know there is a green
jar on my desk. Rather, we don’t have presented to us a situation in which
a claim of knowledge seems to have any application one way or the other.
And Cavell is not arguing that what the skeptic says is nonsense or mean-
ingless. We all can understand what the traditional epistemologist is saying.
What I want to claim is that the traditional philosopher’s assertions are
theatrical in just the sense in which Fried uses the term. That is, these asser-
tions are made in contexts wholly detached from any discernible need or
purpose in making them.14 They can only be made sense of as pure “dis-
interested” observations, statements made from a place removed from the
scene of human interests and concerns. They purport to be speech acts with-
out action. Cavell’s intent in The Claim of Reason is not to “refute” the
skeptic but to show that to speak in a non-claim context is to act, and to act
in a self-defeating way.
Likewise, Fried’s literalist acts, produces an object, and presents it to us
and for us. For the skeptic, the question that has no application to his asser-
tions (such as “You don’t see all of it”) is, “Why do you say that?” You
cannot ask about the point of the skeptic’s statements. If there were such a
point, the general skeptical conclusion would not follow. Likewise for the
literalist, you cannot ask, why do you present that object to us? The literalist
object defeats these questions. This is the source of its specific effect.
Let me try to expand on these ideas by going back to somewhat more
familiar deployments of them. In expounding Wittgenstein’s thought about
the relation of pain and pain behavior, Hannah Pitkin says:
[W]hy does Wittgenstein say we attribute pain only “to human beings
and what resembles them,” rather than “to animate creatures”? What
134 Paul J. Gudel
it suggests is that the concept of pain did not originate in our detached
observation of animal behavior, as a label for referring to what animate
creatures sometimes are observed to do, but in our human need to com-
municate about our own pain or that of the person to whom we speak. It
suggests that we don’t talk about pain primarily out of scientific curios-
ity, just commenting on the passing scene, but in order to get someone
to take some action. Talk about pain occurs among human beings who
experience and express pain and respond to it, in contexts involving such
activities as comforting, helping, apologizing, but also warning, threaten-
ing, punishing, gloating. Part of what we learn in learning what pain is,
is that those in pain are (to be) comforted, gloated over, and the like, and
that we ourselves can expect such responses to indications of our pain.15
Only of an infinite being is the world created with the word. As finite,
you cannot achieve reciprocity with the one in view by telling your story
to the whole rest of the world. You have to act in order to make things
happen, night and day; and to act from within the world, within your
connection with others, foregoing the wish for a place outside from
which to view and direct your fate. These are at best merely further
fates.19
The literalist work gives you the experience of being in “a place outside,”
and gives you the feeling that it is in this place that you are most authenti-
cally yourself (because most autonomous, least limited or oppressed by con-
vention). In contrast, Cavell insists that accepting the world, and becoming
a self, entails accepting the claims of the world upon us.
This explains some of what Cavell says in the difficult and enigmatic chap-
ter in The World Viewed entitled “Excursus: Some Modernist Painting.” In
denying there that modernist paintings can be said to share a “style,” Cavell
says:
Notes
1 See ML, AC, TAP, and AO.
2 See MM, CR, and AT, as well as “Painting Memories: On the Containment of
the Past in Baudelaire and Manet,” Critical Inquiry (10: 3, 1984), 519; “Thomas
Couture and the Theatricalization of Action in 19th Century French Painting,”
Artforum (10: 1970), 36; and “Manet’s Sources: Aspects of His Art, 1859–
1865,” Artforum (7: 1969), 28.
3 Fried says that “modernist painting has come to find it imperative that it defeat
or suspend its own objecthood.” When modernist paintings fail as art, it is
because they are “experienced as nothing more than objects” (AO 151).
4 David Carrier, “Greenberg, Fried, and Philosophy: American-Type Formalism,”
in Aesthetics: A Critical Anthology, ed. G. Dickie & R. Sclafani (New York:
St. Martin’s Press, 1977), 464.
5 Carrier, “Greenberg, Fried, and Philosophy,” 466.
6 George Dickie, Art and the Aesthetic: An Institutional Analysis (Ithaca: Cornell
University Press, 1974), 42.
Fried, Theatricality, and Skepticism 137
7 This is what Smith is referring to when he speaks of “created worlds without
tradition,” i.e., without a context to provide any meaning for them.
8 Stanley Cavell, The Claim of Reason: Wittgenstein, Skepticism, Morality, and
Tragedy (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 217.
9 See Stanley Cavell, “Must We Mean What We Say?” in Must We Mean What We
Say? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 6–14.
10 Cavell, The Claim of Reason, 205.
11 See Cavell, The Claim of Reason, 206.
12 Traditional epistemologists often feel the oddness of the example, and deal with
it by saying that the assertion “I know there is an envelope before me” is not one
we would ordinarily make because the fact it records is so obvious. But to say an
assertion is obvious is not to give that assertion a normal context. Rather, it is an
alternative to providing such a context (see Cavell, The Claim of Reason, 214).
13 Cavell, The Claim of Reason, 212.
14 Cavell writes:
There must, in grammar, be a point in your saying something, if what you say
is to be comprehensible. We can understand what the words mean apart from
understanding why you say them; but apart from understanding the point of
your saying them we cannot understand what you mean.
(The Claim of Reason, 206)
The shift in focus from what your words mean to what you mean, Cavell calls
“restoring the voice” to its proper place in philosophy—a philosophical project
which is more revolutionary than has often been appreciated (see 205–6).
15 Hannah Pitkin, Wittgenstein and Justice: On the Significance of Ludwig Witt-
genstein for Social and Political Thought (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London:
University of California Press, 1972), 137–8.
16 Perhaps this is why Fried calls it “ideological” (AO 148).
17 A perfect description of Tony Smith’s turnpike experience. The purity of the
“passing scene” quality of that experience revealed to Smith that this was the
truth of human existence.
18 David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature, ed. Lewis Amherst Selby-Bigge
(Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1888), 268–71.
19 Stanley Cavell, Pursuits of Happiness: The Hollywood Comedy of Remarriage
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981), 109.
20 Stanley Cavell, The World Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology of Film, Enlarged
edition (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 1979), 240n.
21 Stephen Melville has discussed this paradoxical quality of Fried’s thought with
great sensitivity (see Philosophy Beside Itself: On Deconstruction and Modern-
ism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 1986), 8–18).
In parallel fashion, Cavell has argued that philosophical skepticism can never
be refuted once and for all, but can only be acknowledged as an inherent temp-
tation in human thought and language, an inherence which is a condition of
humans’ ability to make meaning (see “Knowing and Acknowledging,” in Must
We Mean What We Say? 238–66; see also Stephen Mulhall, “Wittgenstein’s Pri-
vate Language: Grammar, Nonsense and Imagination,” in Philosophical Investi-
gations §243–315 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007).
22 But this would not be so paradoxical in psychoanalysis, for example.
9 Michael Fried’s Intentionality
Rex Butler
Notes
1 Cited in Yve-Alain Bois, “Strzemiński and Kobro: In Search of Motivation,” in
Painting as Model (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), 146.
2 Bois, “Strzemiński and Kobro,” 139–41.
3 Wladyslaw Strzemiński, “Unism in Painting,” cited in Bois, “Strzemiński and
Kobro,” 137.
4 Bois, “Strzemiński and Kobro,” 151.
5 Bois, “Strzemiński and Kobro,” 151.
6 Yve-Alain Bois, “Ryman’s Tact,” in Painting as Model, 224.
7 See Edward Colless, “The Imaginary Hypermannerist,” in The Error of My
Ways: Selected Writing 1981–1994 (Brisbane: Institute of Modern Art, 1995),
69–70.
8 Quoted in Ingrid Goetz, “Written Interview with Joseph Marioni,” in Mono-
chromie Geometrie (Munich: Sammlung Goetz, 1996), 66.
9 Henry Staten, “Joseph Marioni: Painting Beyond Narrative [Joseph Marioni:
Malerei jenseits von Narrativität],” Kunstforum International (88, March–
April, 1987), 184.
10 Walter Benn Michaels, “Photographs and Fossils,” in Photography Theory, ed.
James Elkins (London: Routledge, 2007), 438.
11 Stanley Cavell, “Knowing and Acknowledging,” in Must We Mean What We
Say? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 250.
12 Stanley Cavell, “Must We Mean What We Say?” in Must We Mean What We
Say? (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 31.
10 On the (So-Called) Problem
of Detail
Michael Fried, Roland Barthes,
and Roger Scruton on Photography
and Intentionality
Diarmuid Costello
I only wanted Uncle Vern standing by his new car (a Hudson) on a clear
day. I got him and the car. I also got a bit of Aunt Mary’s laundry, and
Beau Jack, the dog, peeing on a fence, and a row of potted tuberous
begonias on the porch and 78 trees and a million pebbles in the drive-
way and more. It’s a generous medium, photography.3
I shall come back to the stakes of this claim for Fried. But note here that
all parties to this debate agree, more or less, in their underlying conceptions
of photography; where they disagree is in the conclusions they draw for its
On the (So-Called) Problem of Detail 153
standing as art. The significance they attach to the fact that photographs
routinely include much that was not intended by the photographer is a
case in point: what strikes a photographer like Friedlander as the medium’s
“generosity” may strike a critic like Scruton, hyperbolically, as making the
photographer a “victim” of her own process, but the understanding of pho-
tography underlying these evaluations is the same. Note, for example, that
Barthes and Scruton agree on this score: there is much in the photograph
that the photographer cannot control, so could not have intended. So much
the better, according to Barthes, so much the worse according to Scruton;
for Fried, it turns out, it is rather harder to say.
Call this the “Orthodox” conception of photography. Underlying different
emphases, it is the view that photography is at bottom an automatic process
in which a mechanical apparatus, rather than a human being, is responsible
for the projection of a three-dimensional scene onto a two-dimensional,
light sensitive surface that records momentary states of that scene accord-
ing to a set of agent-independent protocols. “Agent independent” not in
the sense that photography reduces to a set of natural processes—as call-
ing photography a “discovery” rather than an “invention” implies—since
human designers determine the parameters according to which cameras,
lenses, film stocks, and computer algorithms operate; but in the sense that
once initiated the process of image-generation takes place independently of
the photographer. Call this the “encapsulation thesis”: photographers can
determine input, and they may subject what is output to various forms of
manipulation, but the informational channel from input to output is imper-
vious to human intervention. Note that this applies, mutatis mutandis, to
digital post-production: one must first have the outputs to go to work on.
Because the mechanics of photographic image-formation bypass the fal-
lible mental states of human beings, it is not susceptible to false beliefs,
non-systematically selective attention, subjective preferences, negligence,
or other forms of unreliability, epistemic or otherwise. The upshot is that
photography delivers images that depend causally and counterfactually on
what was before the camera during the moment of exposure. This, taken in
conjunction with the laws of optics and chemistry, and how the variables
of camera and image-processing are set, causes the photograph to look the
way it does, and, assuming all are held constant, had what was before the
camera at the moment of exposure been different, the image would have
differed accordingly.
This set of assumptions is implicated by the writings of Scruton, Fried,
and Barthes alike. For Scruton, the upshot is that while we can take an
aesthetic interest in the objects or scene that the photograph makes per-
ceptually available, we cannot take an aesthetic interest in the photograph
as a representation of those objects or scene. For the photograph is not an
expression of the artist’s thoughts or feelings about those objects or scene,
which we might take as an object of aesthetic appreciation; it is a record
of how that scene looked under certain conditions. Rather than being a
154 Diarmuid Costello
window onto the thoughts, beliefs, feelings, or intentions of the photog-
rapher, the photograph is a window onto the world it makes perceptually
available. To this way of thinking, when we take what we believe is an aes-
thetic interest in a photograph, we unwittingly treat it as a surrogate for the
objects or scene it makes available.
This set of claims is manifestly false, but my goal is not to demonstrate
this here; it is to point out how naturally they fall out of the standard way of
conceiving photography.5 Though Fried is rightly critical of Scruton’s views
about the possibility of photographic art, he actually shares the concep-
tion of photography that motivates them. This is hardly a claim that Fried
himself would endorse, of course, but that may be because the conception
I have in mind is so pervasive, and so basic, as to seem more a statement of
the obvious than anything amounting to a “theory” properly so-called; yet
it nonetheless entails a set of commitments about the nature of photography
that can be traced all the way back to photography’s pioneers. Indeed, that
it can may explain its air of self-evidence; it all but grounds contemporary
folk theory of photography.6 That he shares these underlying assumptions
may explain why, for example, Fried is exercised by a similar set of concerns
about photographic detail, notably the opacity to intention that photogra-
phers’ inability to fully control it is taken to occasion—even if he draws
quite different conclusions to Scruton:
Such concerns only arise if one believes the standard story about photo-
graphs coming into being is basically correct. Berger’s “weak intentionality”
thesis, for example, is the contention that photographs originate in a “single
constitutive decision” on the part of photographers as to when to capture
an image.7 That this is the extent of the photographer’s control over the
image is as clear an expression of Orthodoxy as one might hope for. Fried
effectively grants this thesis, with respect to the determination of detail,
and in this he concurs with Scruton. Unlike Scruton, he does not take this
to preclude using photography to convey “the strongest imaginable inten-
tions.”8 Indeed, it is something that talented photographers exploit. This
pattern of granting the basic assumptions of Orthodoxy, while contesting
On the (So-Called) Problem of Detail 155
the anti-aesthetic conclusions often—though by no means universally—
taken to follow from them, permeates Fried’s work on photography.9 Locat-
ing Fried’s settled position on the significance of intention for photography
is nonetheless no simple matter, as his references to Barthes’s punctum, once
set alongside his reading of Thomas Demand, bring out.
Simply put, [Demand] aims above all to replace the original scene of
evidentiary traces and marks of human use—the historical world in
all its layeredness and compositeness—with images of sheer authorial
intention, although the very bizarreness of the fact that the scenes and
objects of the photographs, despite their initial appearance of quotidian
“reality,” have all been constructed by the artist throws into conceptual
relief the determining force (also the inscrutability, one might almost
say the opacity) of the intention behind it . . .
[P]erhaps the best that can be said is that Demand seeks to make pic-
tures that thematize or indeed allegorize intendedness as such.26
Notes
1 I would like to thank Mathew Abbott, Jason Gaiger, Dominic McIver Lopes, and
Stephen Mulhall for their comments on this paper in draft, and the audiences of
the first Frankfurt-Warwick Seminar in Aesthetics (Frankfurt, April 2017) and
the Art, History and Perception workshop (Toronto, May 2017).
168 Diarmuid Costello
2 See, for example, Elizabeth Eastlake, “Photography” (1857) in Classic Essays on
Photography, ed. Alan Trachtenberg (New Haven: Leete’s Island Books, 1980),
or Peter Henry Emerson’s retraction of his earlier defense of photography’s
artistic capacities in “The Death of Naturalistic Photography” (1891) in Pho-
tographic Theory: An Historical Anthology, ed. Andrew Hershberger (Oxford:
Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 89. For the conceptual history, see “Pictorial and Pure
Photography,” in my On Photography: A Philosophical Inquiry (London: Rout-
ledge, 2017).
3 Friedlander, “An Excess of Fact,” in The Desert Seen (New York: D.A.P, 1996), 104.
4 Oliver Wendell Holmes, “The Stereoscope and the Stereograph,” The Atlantic
(June 1859) in Trachtenberg, Classic Essays, 78–9.
5 On what is wrong with these claims see: Dominic McIver Lopes, “The Aesthetics
of Photographic Transparency,” Mind (112, 2003), 433–48; Dawn M. Wilson
(née Phillips) “Photography and Causation: Responding to Scruton’s Scepti-
cism” and David Davies, “Scruton on the Inscrutability of Photographs,” British
Journal of Aesthetics (49: 4, 2009), 341–55; Peter Alward, “Transparent Repre-
sentation: Photography and the Art of Casting,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art
Criticism (70: 1, 2012), 9–18; and “Aesthetic Scepticism and Its Limitations,” in
On Photography.
6 See “Foundational Intuitions and Folk Theory,” in On Photography.
7 See “Appearances,” in Understanding a Photograph, ed. Berger (London: Pen-
guin, 2013), 65, as discussed in Walter Benn Michaels, The Gold Standard and
the Logic of Naturalism: American Literature at the Turn of the Century (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 1988), 236–8.
8 Fried rarely cites Scruton directly, but see “Density of Decision: Greenberg
with Robert Adams,” nonsite.org (http://nonsite.org/article/density-of-decision,
2016) for an exception.
9 “By no means universally” because not all versions of Orthodoxy end in aes-
thetic skepticism. See “Transparency and Its Critics,” in On Photography.
10 See also AT 103, 131, 153, and 157–8. For an overview, see IMAC, 47–54.
11 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, trans. Richard
Howard (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1981), §20/47e. Look back at
my epigraph from Scruton: Barthes may celebrate what Scruton condemns, but
they agree on the underlying facts about photography.
12 Barthes, Camera Lucida, §10/26e.
13 Barthes, Camera Lucida, §10/27e.
14 Barthes, Camera Lucida, §11/27–8e.
15 Barthes, Camera Lucida, §19/45e, §19/43e, and §22/53e.
16 Barthes, Camera Lucida, §22/53e.
17 Barthes, Camera Lucida, §10/26e.
18 Fried is alive to this implication. Immediately after my citation from “Barthes’s
Punctum” (WPM 100), he continues: “Perhaps, more precisely, [the punctum]
is an artefact of the encounter between the product of that [photographic] event
and one particular spectator or beholder.”
19 Barthes, Camera Lucida, §23/55e.
20 Michaels, who stresses the centrality of individual experience to the punctum,
nonetheless believes “privacy is not . . . the central issue” and that the punc-
tum is not “intrinsically private.” This is because understanding the punctum
in these terms rules out Barthes’s second punctum, the “that has been.” But
this is only a worry if one thinks the two halves of Camera Lucida add up to
a single, internally coherent theory. See Michaels, “Photography and Fossils,”
in Photography Theory, ed. James Elkins (New York: Routledge, 2007), 439.
See also his The Beauty of a Social Problem (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2015), 1–42.
On the (So-Called) Problem of Detail 169
21 Michaels, “Photographs and Fossils,” 431–450. Fried acknowledges the worry
in “Barthes’s Punctum,” Critical Inquiry (31: 3, 2005), 572–3, but has yet to
really engage with it. See also WPM 270–1 and 345–6.
22 When a viewer animates a photograph in this way, they endow it with what Bar-
thes calls a “blind field,” or life beyond the frame. See Camera Lucida, §23/57e.
23 For Michaels, not only does this make the significance of photographs depend-
ent on the response of particular viewers, it pushes Barthes’s interest in photog-
raphy beyond the realm of art. This is not a worry for Barthes, given that his
interest in photography is expressly not an interest in photography as art; but
it ought to be a worry for Fried, given that “theatricality” pertains explicitly to
modes of artistic address. See Michaels, “Photographs and Fossils,” 440.
24 In a more recent paper on Demand’s reconstruction and reanimation of just over
two minutes of onboard footage from one of the dining rooms of the ocean liner
Pacific Sun while being buffeted by high swells, Fried stresses the scale of such
an undertaking: the amount of expertise, labor, and sheer will required to pull
off this seemingly simple, but in fact immensely complex, task (see AL 251–69).
25 Michaels, “Photographs and Fossils,” 443–4.
26 Fried, “Without a Trace,” 202–3.
27 This is reminiscent of Stanley Cavell’s idea of “attunement in judgement,”
underlying the possibility of agreement or disagreement in this or that particular
judgment. See, for example, The Claim of Reason: Wittgenstein, Skepticism,
Morality and Tragedy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 29–36; and
“Declining Decline: Wittgenstein as a Philosopher of Culture,” in This New Yet
Unapproachable America: Lectures After Emerson After Wittgenstein (Albu-
querque: Living Batch Press, 1989), 40–52.
28 Demand’s source images reveal that he does much more than simply “recon-
struct” pre-existing scenes. This seriously underplays the degree of editorializing
undertaken in their three-dimensional realization. To take just one example: the
disappearance of not one but three kettles and two milk or coffee pans from
Saddam’s kitchen. What does this signify?
29 Fried, “Without a Trace,” 202.
30 Fried, “Without a Trace,” 202 (my italics). On the difference between mean-
ing and intention in debates about photography more generally, see Michaels:
“I Do What Happens: Anscombe and Winogrand,” nonsite.org (http://nonsite.
org/article/i-do-what-happens, 2016), Lopes, “Making, Meaning, and Meaning
by Making,” and Michaels, “Anscombe and Winogrand, Danto and Mappletho-
rpe: A Reply to Dominic McIver Lopes,” nonsite.org (http://nonsite.org/article/
making-meaning-and-meaning-by-making, 2016).
31 I pursue a similar question concerning the relation between “theater” and “theatri-
cality” in “On the Very Idea of a ‘Specific’ Medium: Michael Fried and Stanley Cavell
on Painting and Photography as Arts,” Critical Inquiry (34: 2, 2008), 274–312.
32 The reference is to Barthes’s response to Kertész (see Barthes, Camera Lucida,
§19/45e).
33 Compare Michaels’s remarks on the photographic image being as close to a
fossil as a picture of a fossil in “Photographs and Fossils,” 435–6, and 440n.
Michaels is excellent on Barthes and Fried, but everything he says about Walton
is better said of Scruton. Photographs may be “transparent” for Walton but,
unlike for Scruton, they are still a kind of picture. The paper is called “Trans-
parent Pictures.” For Walton photographs are both pictures and traces; for
Scruton transparency entails invisibility. See Walton, “On Pictures and Photo-
graphs: Objections Answered,” in Film Theory and Philosophy, ed. R. Allen &
M. Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 60–75. On the distinction
between “skeptical” and “non-skeptical” Orthodoxy, see “Transparency and Its
Critics,” in On Photography.
170 Diarmuid Costello
34 What follows is the outline of an argument developed more fully in “What’s
So New about the ‘New’ Theory of Photography?” Journal of Aesthetics and
Art Criticism (75: 4, 2017). The origins of this argument can be traced, via
Wilson (née Phillips), in “Responding to Scruton’s Scepticism,” back to Patrick
Maynard’s account of photography as a branching family of technologies for
marking surfaces through the agency of light in The Engine of Visualisation:
Thinking through Photography (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987). It has
been developed in more or less restrictive ways by Paloma Atencia-Linares, “Fic-
tion, Non-Fiction, and Deceptive Photographic Representation,” The Journal
of Aesthetics and Art Criticism (70: 1, 2012) and Lopes, in The Four Arts of
Photography: An Essay in Philosophy (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2016). For an
overview see “Aesthetic Scepticism and Its Critics,” in On Photography.
35 My epigraph is taken from a discussion between Wall and Demand; Wall is
disputing Demand’s observation that his (Wall’s) photographs are full of detail.
More fully: “I don’t think that there are details in photographs . . . there is no
detail in photography, there’s only focus—because once there is a focal plain,
given a certain resolution of the film and lens and so on everything in it is sharp.
Therefore what’s a detail? There is no detail, everything in it [the focal plain] is
the same.” See: www.youtube.com/watch?v=07Uu_TQPORk, at 27.55.
11 The Aesthetics of Absorption
Magdalena Ostas
Figure 11.2 Jeff Wall, After “Invisible Man” by Ralph Ellison, the Prologue, 1999–2001
(The Museum of Modern Art, New York City, transparency in lightbox 174 × 250.5cm; image
courtesy of the artist)
178 Magdalena Ostas
yielded itself up to depiction” (WPM 47). In this reading Fried contrasts
the Invisible’s Man’s own reserved pose of absorption as he sits turned
away from us and toward the interior picture-space, his face mostly unre-
vealed, with the unbelievable profusion of sheer objects and elements in his
surrounding environment, so that the Invisible Man’s “hole” comes into
view for us as viewers just as we have manifest evidence of it receding for
him. The Invisible Man’s reflectiveness strangely becomes an abstract con-
dition of the possibility of his “hole” and the immense volume and clutter
of objects within it appearing so materially in the image for us. Both the
Invisible Man and his “hole” shed their invisibility, in a sense, by seeming
to be unseen. All of the physical elements and objects that populate the
room and comprise the composition of After “Invisible Man,” in addition,
reflect a very elaborate orchestration, one that in the photograph has the
unmistakable look of an unreality. As a collection of objects, the scene is
also self-evidently (and allusively) fictitious, so that the thought of Wall’s
picture being some version of a snapshot or documentary photograph does
not occur to its viewer. That is not the logic of Wall’s near-documentary
work. Fried thus shows that the implausibility of the pictured room in After
“Invisible Man” surprisingly does not obstruct the sense of the image’s giv-
ing us what he, following Heidegger, calls the “worldhood” (WPM 49) of
the world that surrounds the depicted figure.
We can see that theatricality, absorption’s counter-concept, emerges here
as something different from a register of artistic principles, values, or inher-
ited interests. “Theatricality” in Fried’s writing on photography names a
threat to an artwork’s world, its very existence, as it describes the possible
puncturing of that world by the look of the beholder. The perception of
such a look threatens not just to disturb or unsettle that world, but now to
void it and deflate its integrity entirely, rendering it unconvincing, uncom-
pelling as that world. With the insinuation of the beholder’s look, such a
world becomes a world just waiting to be looked at, already conscripted and
camera-ready, figuring on the viewer’s likes, dislikes, and various expecta-
tions. For this reason it is important for Fried to differentiate painting and
photography’s elementary visuality—their being artistic mediums that nec-
essarily are seen—from theatricality in the sense he develops. In his readings
of Manet, Fried describes the elementary situation of looking that paint-
ing involves as “the inescapable or quasi-transcendental relation of mutual
facing between painting and beholder,” and for Fried it is only the most
simplistic understanding of what “mutual facing” entails that grasps the
situation of beholding as “essentially visual” (MM 397). Manet’s commit-
ment to the quality of “strikingness” in his paintings, for instance, has a
metaphysical consequence for Fried that is not at all the same as visual
impactfulness. This is a central axis of distinction in Why Photography Mat-
ters, where Fried argues that contemporary art photography inherits the val-
ues of the Western anti-theatrical tradition at the same time that it confronts
“to-be-seenness” with a renewed imaginative seriousness. Fried makes the
The Aesthetics of Absorption 179
wonderfully vivid suggestion at one point in a related discussion of Cara-
vaggio that a painting can actually face away from its viewer:
vision.15 Fried also reads Friedrich’s insistence on placing the act of looking
at the center of his compositions as an “allegory of subjective orientation in
Kant’s sense” (AL 122):
between right and left is also, by its very nature, an experience of one-
self as a subjective center, a fact reflected in Friedrich’s commitment to
the central axis—to uprightness—in picture after picture. One might
think of that centeredness and uprightness as a kind of universality but
not the universality of what the world might be imagined to look like
if cognition were not grounded in subjective feeling as Kant suggests
(that is, if it were wholly objective, without reference to the experienc-
ing subject); by the same token, the subjectivity in question is not mere
subjectivity, a kind of unanchored and essentially formless responsive-
ness to visual or say sensuous stimulus in all their multifariousness and
profusion.
(AL 136)
Notes
1 Lisa Zunshine reads Fried’s concept of absorption as a way of thematizing our
access to others’ minds in a suggestive but strangely situated way that seems to
miss the stakes of Fried’s concept. Because she attributes the beholder’s inter-
est in the representation of absorbed human figures to our common cognitive-
evolutionary adaptations and neural circuits, Zunshine bypasses altogether
how absorption emerges as a horizon of concern for painting specifically in
response to questions of form, medium, and art historical context. She argues
that Fried’s concept of absorption captures the cognitive-evolutionary impulse
to render the human body transparent by catching it in moments of sponta-
neity and self-forgetting, and that the paintings Fried reads in Absorption and
Theatricality actually “flatter our mind-reading adaptations” (192) and offer
“sociocognitive satisfaction” because they “present us with an illusion of direct
unmediated access to the subjects’ mental states” (195). There is something to
Zunshine’s emphasis on the paradox of evident or external inwardness in the
paintings Fried considers, but her insistence on understanding this visual strat-
egy and complexity as a pseudo-biological “cognitive paradox” (183) is per-
plexing. Why should this biological paradox structure threads in the history of
the visual arts? What does it mean to say, more generally, that an art form or
a particular artwork evidences our evolutionary inclinations? Are there other
strategies, for instance, whereby painting engages the philosophical problem of
other minds and deciphering others’ bodies? Why does painting become centrally
188 Magdalena Ostas
occupied with complex visual strategies for representing and eliciting absorption
specifically in the eighteenth century? Zunshine does not offer guidance on such
questions, which her cognitive-literary account raises (see “Theory of Mind and
Michael Fried’s Absorption and Theatricality: Notes toward a Cognitive His-
toricism,” in Toward a Cognitive Theory of Narrative Acts, ed. Frederick Luis
Aldama (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2010), 179–203).
2 Robert B. Pippin, “Authenticity in Painting: Remarks on Michael Fried’s Art
History,” Critical Inquiry (31, 2005), 591.
3 Toril Moi, Henrik Ibsen and the Birth of Modernism: Art, Theater, Philosophy
(Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), 115.
4 W. J. T. Mitchell, What Do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images (Chi-
cago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 42.
5 My reference here is to the notion of “conviction” that Walter Benn Michaels
develops in his discussion of Fried’s criticism:
[T]he address to the subject becomes the appeal to the subject’s interest, while
the address to the spectator appeals to his or her sense of what is good, of what
compels conviction. And if one more or less inevitable way to understand
this distinction between paintings he likes and paintings he doesn’t, Fried’s
insistence that good paintings compel conviction seems designed precisely to
counter this objection, to counter the criticism that the difference between
interesting and convincing objects is just the difference in our attitude toward
those objects. For what makes conviction superior to interest is the fact that
interest is essentially an attribute of the subject—the question of whether we
find an object interesting is (like the question about how the waterfall makes
us feel) a question about us—whereas objects that compel conviction do not
leave the question of our being convinced up to us. Compelling conviction is
something the work does, and it is precisely this commitment to the work—it
is good regardless of whether we are interested—that Fried wants to insist on.
(The Shape of the Signifier: 1967 to the End of History
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 87)
6 Pippin, “Authenticity in Painting,” 578.
7 Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment, ed. and trans. Werner Pluhar (Indian-
apolis and Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, 1987). For a discussion
of the connection between Kant’s development of the idea of aesthetic judg-
ment and Fried’s argument in Absorption and Theatricality, see my analysis in
“Kant with Michael Fried: Feeling, Absorption, and Interiority in the Critique of
Judgment,” Symploke (18: 1–2, 2010), 15–30. See also Michael Thomas Taylor,
“Critical Absorption: Kant’s Theory of Taste,” MLN (124: 3, 2009), 572–91.
Taylor also argues with different emphases that Kant’s theory of taste describes
an intensification of absorption (577).
8 Kant, Critique of Judgment, 55.
9 Hannah Arendt, Lectures on Kant’s Political Philosophy, ed. Ronald Beiner
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 73.
10 Kant, Critique of Judgment, 45.
11 Kant, Critique of Judgment, 44; and Fried, “Art and Objecthood,” and AO 151.
12 Michaels, The Shape of the Signifier, 89.
13 Kant, Critique of Judgment, 68.
14 Kant, Critique of Judgment, 44.
15 Joseph Leo Koerner, Caspar David Friedrich and the Subject of Landscape, 2nd
ed. (London: Reaktion Books, 2009), 11 and 76.
16 Koerner, Caspar David Friedrich, 212 and 247.
17 Koerner, Caspar David Friedrich, 138 and 135.
12 Grace and Equality, Fried
and Rancière (and Kant)
Knox Peden
The accomplished work is thus not the work that exists in itself like a
thing, but the work which reaches its viewer and invites him to take
up the gesture which created it and, skipping the intermediaries, to
rejoin, without any guide other than a movement of the invented line
(an almost incorporeal trace), the silent world of the painter, henceforth
uttered and accessible.11
But already with our first oriented gesture, someone’s infinite relation-
ships to his situation had invaded our mediocre planet and opened an
inexhaustible field to our behavior. All perception, all action which pre-
supposes it, and in short every human use of the body is already primor-
dial expression. Not that derivative labor which substitutes for what
Grace and Equality, Fried and Rancière 195
is expressed signs which are given elsewhere with their meaning and
rule of usage, but the primary operation which first constitutes signs
as signs, makes that which is expressed dwell in them through the elo-
quence of their arrangement and configuration alone, implants a mean-
ing in that which did not have one, and thus—far from exhausting itself
in the instant at which it occurs—inaugurates an order and founds an
institution or a tradition.14
This way is precisely, says Agee, the only serious attitude, the attitude of
the gaze and speech that are not grounded on any authority and do not
ground any; the entire state of consciousness that refuses specialization
for itself and must also refuse every right to select what suits its point of
view in the surroundings of the destitute sharecroppers, to concentrate
instead on the essential fact that each one of these things is part of an
existence that is entirely actual, inevitable, and unrepeatable.24
“Beyond science and art,” Rancière continues, “beyond the imagined and
the revisive, the full state of consciousness that perceives the ‘cruel radi-
ance of what is’ must still pass through words.” Refusing specialization
and disparaging the revisive, the concern here is aesthetic precisely in its
exclusion of the epistemological. This is the unity of an aesthetic that works
contrary to selection, but is no less purposive for it. We can contrast this
with Michaels’s approach, where the aesthetic is marshalled in the service
of the epistemological by formalizing the fact that economic inequality is
to be known inferentially rather than grasped or “known” through affec-
tive sympathies. Evans’s photographs promote this separation in their for-
mal beauty. Agee’s aesthetic is motivated by the problem of how meaning
traverses heteronomous forms, how nature becomes deformed to become
art, in this case the art of prose. Rancière finds in Agee something like the
Cézannian imperative to make art and nature the same:
Here we see Rancière accentuating the indistinction between the art that
is produced by artists, i.e., the artwork that is Let Us Now Praise Famous
Men, and the “art” that is produced by the sharecroppers themselves. Lit-
eralism threatens because, if the arrangement of cutlery on a wooden shelf
is deemed beautiful, as beautiful as a Greuze painting (or at least inviting
comparison), then the unity of the action that is essential to art is undone.
But the point is that these images aren’t beautiful in themselves, not least
because they aren’t images prior to the “coherent deformation” that Evans
undertakes with his camera and Agee with his pen.
Grace and Equality, Fried and Rancière 201
Rancière continues: “To see each thing as a consecrated object and as a
scar: for James Agee, this programme demands description that makes sen-
sible at the same time both the beauty present at the heart of misery and the
misery of not being able to perceive this beauty.”27 Rancière understands
full well that these people are “damaged,” a damage that extends to their
aesthetic capacities. The difference between James Agee and Floyd Bur-
roughs is ineliminable, a consequence of fate—a crushing weight of neces-
sity that proceeds by division and, in capitalism, takes particular forms.
“In order to sense this beauty, one has to be there accidentally, a specta-
tor coming from elsewhere with eyes and a mind filled with the memory
of performances and pages that have already consecrated the relationship
between art and chance.”28 Rancière is stressing the fortuitous quality of the
encounter between Agee’s gaze and the Burroughs’s kitchen. But to stress
the fortuity of the encounter is not at all to suggest that Agee’s vision is not
imbued with intention (in both Fried’s sense and the broader phenomeno-
logical one). What is more, a similar description—in fact the same exact
description—could express the relationship between Demand’s Pacific Sun
and the ocean liner Pacific Sun. In order to sense the potential for beauty
in an uncanny scene on YouTube, of unpredictable motion filmed from a
fixed point, one has to be there accidentally, in the sense of being one con-
sumer among others of memes and viral images, a spectator coming from
elsewhere with eyes and a mind filled with the memory of performances
and pages that have already consecrated the relationship between art and
chance. An education in art school and a career as an artist ought to cover
it, in Demand’s case.
The political function of art requires this discrepancy, the one borne from
the fortuitousness of a double encounter between different knowledges,
between artist and subject (-matter) and artist and spectator. Rancière
writes: “The aesthetic idea is the indeterminate idea that connects the two
processes that the destruction of the mimetic order left separated: the inten-
tional production of art which seeks an end, and the sensible experience of
beauty as finality without end.”29 Michaels treats Rancière as purveying an
aesthetics of indeterminacy, one that can be traced to Roland Barthes’s privi-
leging of the punctum over the studium. But Rancière’s point, pursued oddly
enough in a critique of Barthes (among other places), is that such indeter-
minacy is merely an index of the fortuity of the encounter, a fortuity that
evaporates once the determinations of intelligibility take hold and form.30
This fortuity is the equality of intelligence, the fact that anyone could see or
could have seen, that anyone could have been or could be exposed to signs
and images that lead one to see otherwise. But what happens in the encoun-
ter is precisely the forging of the unity that is dear to Merleau-Ponty, and to
Fried. The intentional production of art which seeks an end is essential to
the production of art; it’s pleonastic to say it. But once produced, the result
is a finality without end: a bounded unity that is inexhaustibly interpretable,
but only interpretable because it is the consequence of actions.
202 Knox Peden
3. After Kant
In a long endnote in Another Light, Fried responds to Michaels’s assess-
ment of his position in “Neoliberal Aesthetics,” focusing in particular on
the idea that John Cage’s 4’33” is a radicalization of the antinomic collapse
of absorption (deny the beholder) into pure theatricality (all that matters is
the beholder’s experience) first ventured in Barthes’s Camera Lucida via the
primacy accorded the punctum. Fried’s response is instructive, for in a first
instance it eschews a historicizing vision of art, focusing instead on “aes-
thetic strategy” as a local, intentional matter for particular artists, only to
reassert that the “moments of crisis” in which we see such strategies put to
work are cases in which the absorptive tradition “as a historically develop-
ing force . . . most fully emerges” (AL 274n).31 In the first instance, again,
Fried counters his “necessarily dialectical” approach to the antinomic one
Michaels sketches, but insists that his dialectical stance is on the side of the
Diderotian angels against the Kantians devoted to “avoiding any manifesta-
tion of intention, indeed of rejecting intention as such.” This is a powerful
moment—buried in an endnote, naturally—in that it pushes back against
the absorption of Friedian aesthetics into the Kantian-Hegelian, at any rate
German idealist framework being pursued by Pippin and others. What com-
plicates matters is that Fried uses the term “dialectical” to describe his posi-
tion against the Kantians. But what I see here in this Diderotian dialectic is
formally isomorphic to the concern for reversibility that is at the heart of
Rancière’s concerns, which also trace back to Kant. The reversibility of the
aesthetic between subject and object, spectator and work, is not a dialectical
relationship for being binary. It is not a dialectic that stresses the active and
the passive around the medium of negation; rather the sense of the work is
made in the encounter between actions, the action that made the work and
the action that regards it. Hegelian dialectics requires privileging one rela-
tion above others: negation. A consequence of this is that one unit of the
relation is active and the other passive. One negates; the other is negated.
And thus art (but not just art) history proceeds in a way that is endowed
with sense that is legible after the fact. Yet crucial for Rancière is the idea
that the spectator is never passive, but always active, negotiating the forms
he or she brings to the scene with the forms he or she finds in the scene.32
The legibility is never settled. To say “the aesthetic idea is the indeterminate
idea” is not to promote an aesthetics of indeterminacy. It is to highlight the
strategic nature of the aesthetic as such, as the place where the finite and the
infinite negotiate in bounded unities, unities that are formed by the work in
its existence as art, which is to say, in its existence as an object made for the
purpose of being beheld.
Personally, I find it regrettable that in the next beat in his note Fried
goes back to describing the absorptive tradition as “a historically develop-
ing force” in notes that ring Hegelian. It’s too metaphysically historicist,
but a charitable reading acknowledges that such a force is but a metaphor
for a roster of heroic efforts, rather than a cipher for art historical Spirit.
Grace and Equality, Fried and Rancière 203
Rancière too rejects any teleological framework, within aesthetics or with-
out, much to the chagrin of his political detractors. Rancière and Fried both
point back to Kant, but they do so in ways that suggest other avenues out of
Kantian aesthetics beyond the Hegelian.33 In some sense, they point toward
an Althusserian or Davidsonian rationalism, in which conceptual dualism is
premised on ontological monism, and which is also a way of pointing back
to Spinozism. Moments of suspension, when equality rearranges distribu-
tions, are intermittent or they will not be.34 Regardless, they don’t endow
history with meaning. If history names anything unique at all, it is but the
agglomeration of such intermittencies. Likewise, presentness is only pres-
entness to the extent that it is not all the time; otherwise it would be the
unformed, mere presence of the literalists. But these instances of grace do
nothing to disrupt or undermine the natural world; they are not metaphysi-
cal exceptions in virtue of being aesthetic experiences. As Rancière writes,
“the exceptional is always ordinary.”35 What they do is point to the finitude
of our knowledge and awareness and the possibility that it could always be
otherwise, not merely in fact, but also in principle. For Spinoza, miracles
are consequent on a dearth of knowledge, but they are no less miraculous
for being so. The encounter with something that seems to be beyond form—
sublime nature, or literalist art—will aggravate our demand for form. By
contrast, instances of equality and absorption stimulate it; they remind us
that we can’t do anything in the world without it.
Many will find it surprising that I have striven to establish common
ground between Fried and Rancière, given the discrepancies between their
projects. But the surprise is part of the point. According to Davidson, any
animal can be startled, but only rational animals can be surprised.36 To be
startled is to have the force of natural causes impinge on the senses. But to
be surprised requires becoming aware that a previously held belief is false,
in this case, the belief, perhaps not explicitly formulated in the mind, of
what the most immediately subsequent moment in time beckons. A similar
experience confronts the emancipated spectator who becomes absorbed in
aesthetic experience. One is surprised to learn that a world that is meta-
physically exhausted by natural causes is not actually exhausted by them.
One discovers that action is possible.
Notes
1 Jacques Rancière, Althusser’s Lesson, trans. Emiliano Battista (London: Con-
tinuum, 2011).
2 Jacques Rancière, Proletarian Nights: The Workers’ Dream in Nineteenth-
Century France, trans. John Drury (London: Verso, 2012); The Names of His-
tory: On the Poetics of Knowledge, trans. Hassan Melehy (Minneapolis: Univer-
sity of Minnesota Press, 1994).
3 Jacques Rancière, On the Shores of Politics, trans. Liz Heron (London: Verso,
1995); Disagreement: Politics and Philosophy, trans. Julie Rose (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1998).
4 Jacques Rancière, The Politics of Aesthetics, trans. Gabriel Rockhill (London:
Bloomsbury, 2013).
204 Knox Peden
5 The implications of this methodological dispositif are explored in Jean-Philippe
Deranty and Alison Ross, Jacques Rancière and the Contemporary Scene: The
Philosophy of Radical Equality (London: Continuum, 2012).
6 See, for example, Hal Foster, “What’s the Problem with Critical Art?” London
Review of Books (35: 19, 2013), 14–15. The most illuminating review of Ais-
thesis is Jean-Philippe Deranty’s “The Symbolic and the Material: A Review of
Jacques Rancière’s Aisthesis: Scenes from the Aesthetic Regime of Art,” Parrhe-
sia (18, 2013), 139–44.
7 Walter Benn Michaels, The Beauty of a Social Problem: Photography, Auton-
omy, Economy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015), 43–70.
8 See “Orientation in Painting: Caspar David Friedrich,” in Another Light (111–
49), which takes inspiration from Kant’s essay “What does it mean to orient
oneself in thinking?” Fried suggests the polemic with Spinozism in this piece is
incidental to what he finds of value in it. I’m not so sure.
9 Robert B. Pippin, After the Beautiful: Hegel and the Philosophy of Pictorial
Modernism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014). Compare Eli Fried-
lander, Expression and Judgment: An Essay on Kant’s Aesthetics (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 2015). Friedlander also finds common ground
between Fried’s work and Kant’s aesthetics, but without any gestures toward
a historicization or socialization of the aesthetic in Hegelian terms. This is not
surprising given that Friedlander’s concern for the place of the aesthetic in the
production of meaning is informed by the deeply anti-historicist position of Wal-
ter Benjamin. More surprising are the points of connection between this view
and my own, which stresses rationalist elements.
10 In Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Signs, trans. Richard C. McCleary (Evanston, IL:
Northwestern University Press, 1964), 39–83 (French edition: Signes (Paris: Gal-
limard/Folio, 1960). Compare Adventures of the Dialectic, trans. Joseph Bien
(Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1973).
11 Merleau-Ponty, “Indirect Language and the Voices of Silence,” 51; 83f.
12 Merleau-Ponty, “Indirect Language and the Voices of Silence,” 52; 84f.
13 Merleau-Ponty, “Indirect Language and the Voices of Silence,” 54; 87–8f.
14 Merleau-Ponty, “Indirect Language and the Voices of Silence,” 67; 108f.
15 Despite his hostility to Merleau-Ponty, Althusser makes a similar point in his
programmatic introduction to Reading Capital regarding the field of vision
within a given problematic, be it ideological or scientific: “In other words, all its
limits are internal, it carries its outside inside it. Hence, if we wish to preserve
the spatial metaphor, the paradox of the theoretical field is that it is an infinite
because definite space, i.e., it has no limits, no external frontiers separating it
from nothing, precisely because it is defined and limited within itself, carrying
in itself the finitude of its definition, which, by excluding what it is not makes
it what it is” (Louis Althusser et al., Reading Capital: The Complete Edition
(London: Verso, 2016), 25). For Fried, the frame of the artwork is crucial to the
extent that it bestows unity, thereby allowing for an inexhaustible exercise of
interpretation. For Merleau-Ponty, Althusser, and indeed Rancière the unity is
not dependent upon physical features but rather this inexhaustible boundedness
as a matter of what Georges Canguilhem called “the function of a form” (as
opposed to simply “a form”). Compare as well Badiou: “I would even happily
argue that the work of art is in fact the only finite thing that exists—that art cre-
ates finitude” (Alain Badiou, Handbook of Inaesthetics, trans. Alberto Toscano
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005), 11).
16 Donald Davidson, Essays on Actions and Events, 2nd edition (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2001), 3–19; 207–25.
17 Compare Mark A. Wrathall, “Motives, Reasons, and Causes,” in The Cam-
bridge Companion to Merleau-Ponty, ed. Taylor Carman and Mark B. N.
Hansen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 111–28.
Grace and Equality, Fried and Rancière 205
8 Rancière, “Aisthesis,” 93–109.
1
19 Rancière, “Aisthesis,” 95.
20 Rancière, “Aisthesis,” 101.
21 Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Basic Writings, ed. Thomas Baldwin (London: Rout-
ledge, 2004), 276.
22 Rancière, “Aisthesis,” 245–62. Evans’s photographs are given their due in
Jacques Rancière, “Notes on the Photographic Image,” Radical Philosophy
(156, 2009), 8–15.
23 Michaels, The Beauty of a Social Problem, 133–43.
24 Rancière, “Aisthesis,” 250.
25 Rancière, “Aisthesis,” 250.
26 Rancière, “Aisthesis,” 253.
27 Rancière, “Aisthesis,” 253 (my emphasis).
28 Rancière, “Aisthesis,” 255.
29 Rancière, “Notes on the Photographic Image,” 15.
30 Jacques Rancière, The Future of the Image, trans. Gregory Elliott (London:
Verso, 2007), 10–11.
31 The key passage is worth quoting in full:
In other words, there is a crucial distinction to be made between the inher-
ently, necessarily dialectical (i.e., non-antinomic) status of antitheatricality
as an aesthetic strategy and the (not at all Diderotian; rather, more nearly
Kantian) project of avoiding any manifestation of artistic intention, indeed
of rejecting intention as such, a project that, as Michaels says, is bound to
emphasize the beholder’s response in precisely the respects castigated in “Art
and Objecthood.”
(AL 273n)
32 Jacques Rancière, The Emancipated Spectator, trans. Gregory Elliott (London:
Verso, 2009).
33 On Rancière’s ambivalent relationship to Hegel, see Alison Ross, “Equality in
the Romantic Art Form: The Hegelian Background to Jacques Rancière’s ‘Aes-
thetic Revolution’,” in Jacques Rancière and the Contemporary Scene, ed. Der-
anty and Ross, 87–98.
34 Compare Andrew Gibson, Intermittency: The Concept of Historical Reason
in Recent French Philosophy (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012),
220–2.
35 Jacques Rancière, Dissensus: On Politics and Aesthetics (London: Continuum,
2010), 213.
36 Donald Davidson, “Rational Animals,” in Subjective, Intersubjective, Objective
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 95–105.
13 Diderot’s Conception of Aesthetic
Subjectivity and the Possibility
of Art
Andrea Kern
1
One of the first paintings that Fried uses to introduce the idea of a dramatic
aesthetic approach is Chardin’s Un Philosophe occupé de sa lecture (1753).
None of the painting’s commentators have failed to notice the obliviousness
of the reading philosopher it depicts. So, for example, Abbé Laugier writes:
The painter has given him an air of intelligence, reverie, and oblivious-
ness that is infinitely pleasing. This is a truly philosophical reader who
is not content merely to read, but who meditates and ponders, and who
appears so deeply absorbed in his meditation that it seems one would
have a hard time distracting him.
(quoted AT 11)
208 Andrea Kern
Another representative example of absorbed reading can be found in
Carle Van Loo’s La Lecture espagnol (Reading from a Spanish book), whose
exhibition at the Salon of 1761 prompted this praise from an anonymous
contemporary critic in the Journal Encyclopédique:
I will return to this comment again in what follows. Let us first determine
how Fried understands it. Depicting a woman whose body is so animated
by her infatuation, as Diderot writes, that she almost appears to have lost
any conscious idea of herself, the picture can only be beheld if the spectator
(that is, oneself) is negated. Insofar as these works’ contents depend on the
fact that they can only be beheld by assuming the absence of observation,
they create precisely that which they need in order to make the depiction
of such content possible: namely, a spectator who forgets himself. Because
the negation of the spectator is the condition that makes possible the con-
tents of these works, it also represents the condition of possibility of the
works themselves. In other words, these works are constituted such that
they enable their own contemplation and, with that, enable themselves as
works, precisely by calling forth a spectator who has no conscious sense of
himself as spectator. As Fried writes of the Greuze painting cited previously:
“The denial of the beholder that her condition implies is given added point
by the way in which, although facing the beholder, she appears to look
through him to her lover” (AT 61).
We find this aesthetic strategy most fully spelled out, according to Fried,
in Diderot’s dramatic conception of painting. Diderot describes an aesthetic
imperative in his essays, Fried claims, to which works of art must bend in
210 Andrea Kern
order to be judged to be successful, or beautiful. This imperative is meant
to apply in equal measure to the fine arts and the theatrical arts. It relates
to the content of the depiction as well as to the manner of representation
as this relates to the spectator. In relation to the content of the depiction,
the imperative takes effect as the demand for dramatic unity, which in the
broadest sense refers to the idea of a unity of elements that are essentially
related to one another and conveyed together through actions and emo-
tions. In relation to the manner of representation, the imperative becomes
operative as the demand to represent the content thus determined in a way
that refuses to acknowledge the fact that the artwork was created for a
spectator to behold it. A “fourth wall,” so to speak, should stand between
the scene of the painting or the scene being staged, on the one hand, and the
spectator, on the other. Diderot makes his now famous theory of the fourth
wall explicit in his consideration of the Dutch painter Laîresse:
Laîresse claims that the artist is allowed to make the spectator enter
the scene of his painting. I don’t believe that at all; and there are so few
exceptions that I would gladly make a general rule to the contrary. That
would seem to me to be bad taste, as much as if an actor addressed
the parterre. The canvas encloses the entire space and there is no one
beyond it. When Suzanne reveals herself naked to my eyes, countering
the gazes of old men with all the veils enveloping her, Suzanne is chaste
and so is the painter; neither one of them knew that I was there.1
Let the stage have neither foreground nor background, but let it be a site
set aside for you instead in which no one sees you. Once in a while, one
must have the courage to turn one’s back on the audience, and must never
think of it. Every actress who addresses herself to her audience deserves
to hear a voice from the parterre crying: “Mademoiselle, I am not here!”2
The recognition that paintings are made to be beheld and therefore pre-
suppose the existence of a beholder led to the demand for the actual-
ization of his presence: a painting, it was insisted, had to attract the
beholder, to stop him in front of itself, and to hold him there in a perfect
trance of involvement. At the same time . . . it was only by negating the
beholder’s presence that this could be achieved: only by establishing the
fiction of his absence or nonexistence could his actual placement before
and enthrallment by the painting be secured.
(AT 103)
2
I mentioned in my opening remarks that Fried distinguishes two aesthetic
conceptions in Diderot’s writings that appear to stand in prima facie tension
with one another, but which he then claims represent two ways of achieving
the same purpose—that is, both conceptions strive to realize a particular
mode of relation between work and spectator that he believes constitutes
the normative ideal of Diderot’s aesthetic theory. Beautiful works of art are
those that negate the spectator. However, Fried suggests, there are two dif-
ferent ways to achieve this purpose and hence two different conceptions
of art reflecting this difference. Fried calls the second conception, which
Diderot outlines in exemplary form in his description of particular land-
scapes by Vernet, the “pastoral” conception of painting. Diderot describes
Vernet’s paintings, it will be recalled, via the fiction of a promenade during
which he discusses the “view” (or the painted landscape) with an imaginary
companion. In other words, Diderot frames his description of these paint-
ings with the claim that he is merely describing various areas famous for
“the beauty of their landscapes.”4 As he and his companion progress, he
repeatedly breaks off his descriptions of the scenery to insert fictional con-
versations. Among other things, the wandering companions discuss whether
Vernet would have been able to paint the first scene they come upon as
“beautifully” as it appears in nature, or whether he would, as the first-
person narrator claims to his dissenting companion, have rendered it even
more beautiful in paint. Thus the pictorial representation of the scene might
have “doubled” the “enchantment” they experience in contemplating the
Diderot and Aesthetic Subjectivity 213
natural scene itself.5 For it is in this, according to Diderot, that all works
that cause us aesthetic pleasure consist, whether artificial or natural: they
must enable the spectator to enter into a state of enchantment. It is a state of
enchantment, as Diderot seems to argue in this passage, in which aesthetic
experience, at every moment of its performance, consists. No experience
of beauty, Diderot thinks, be it of nature or of art, occurs without a state
of enchantment. The point of the subsequent narrative between the com-
panions is thus to unfold the relevant notion of enchantment and to give a
deeper account of it.
The companions initially wonder how a “work of nature” and a “work
of art” compare in their ability to transport the spectator into a state of
enchantment. In his description of the second scene they encounter, Diderot
provides the answer, which appears perplexing on the face of it. The first-
person narrator claims that this view produces an effect on him that oth-
erwise only the very best paintings manage, namely, it liberates the “fiery
powers of the imagination.”6 Diderot writes:
Ah! My friend, how beautiful nature is in this little spot! Let us stop
there. The heat of the day is beginning to be felt, let us lie down next
to these animals. While we admire the work of the Creator, the con-
versation of this shepherd and this peasant woman will divert us. Our
ears will not disdain the rustic sounds of the cowherd who charms the
silence of this solitude and beguiles the tedium of his condition by play-
ing the flute. Let us rest. You will be next to me, I will be at your feet,
tranquil and safe, like this dog, diligent companion of his master’s life
and faithful keeper of his flock.
(quoted AT 120)
There is an old man who has stopped playing his guitar in order to
hear a young shepherd playing his reed-pipe. The old man is seated
under a tree . . . A young girl stands next to him. The boy is seated on
the ground, a short distance away from the old man and the girl. He
has his reed-pipe in his mouth . . . The old man and the girl are listen-
ing intently. On the right-hand side of the scene are some rocks at the
foot of which a few grazing sheep can be seen. This composition goes
straight to the soul. I actually find myself there. I shall remain leaning
against this tree, between this old man and his young girl, as long as the
boy plays. When he will have stopped playing, and when the old man
places his fingers on his balalaika once again, I shall go and sit next to
the boy . . . A painting with which one reasons in this way, which puts
you in the scene, and from which the soul receives a delicious sensation,
is never a bad painting.
(quoted AT 121)
3
Fried argues that the two conceptions of painting—the dramatic and the
pastoral—are unified in their striving to achieve a common objective, one
which rests upon a shared consciousness of a problem in the relationship
between work and spectator. However, one might want to object, contra
Fried, that it makes a difference whether a work attempts to pull the spec-
tator into the painting and turn him into a participant in it or whether it
makes an effort to exclude him from the painting instead. In the former
case, the work should call forth a spectator who interacts with the things
of the depicted world, and in the latter case, it should elicit a spectator
who stands before it passive and absorbed. That both spectators lack a con-
scious sense of their contemplation admittedly indicates a similarity in the
two conceptions. Yet it is implausible that this overlap renders the differ-
ence between the two ways of beholding a work irrelevant. Let us observe,
therefore, how Diderot describes the dramatic and pastoral conceptions of
painting more precisely.
Diderot describes Greuze’s young lover throwing a kiss to her beau as
follows: “She no longer knows what she is doing; nor, almost, do I know
216 Andrea Kern
what I am writing.” Just as the absorbed lover who is the object of my
attention no longer knows what she is doing, so am I no longer sure what
I am doing while I behold a successful work, nor how I might summon it
before me here again as I write. Thus, according to this passage, a certain
kind of absorption is not merely the topic of this painting, but identified
with the very state of mind into which I should fall when beholding suc-
cessful works. But what sort of absorption is indicated in this case? Fried
wants to say that the negation of the spectator that successful works should
achieve, according to Diderot, consists in the spectator’s lack of a conscious
sense of himself as spectator. Thus, being in front of a successful work is to
be in an absorbed state of mind in the following sense: one is conscious of
the figures and events of the painting without being conscious of oneself as
a beholder of these events and figures. In this sense one is fully absorbed in
what one does, namely beholding. But when Diderot says that he no longer
has any conscious connection to his current act of writing, he confronts us
with a paradoxical speech act which suggests a more radical conception of
the state of absorption he has in mind—for precisely by writing that he is
unconscious of his activity, he reveals that he is conscious of it. So I believe
that he has in mind a more radical understanding of what is at stake when
he thinks of the spectator as someone who has to be negated than the kind
of negation we have explored thus far. What Diderot describes, as I will
argue in what follows, is an effacement of the self not only as the subject
of an act of beholding, but as the subject of acts in general, whether these
are acts of doing and desiring or acts of thinking and feeling. This type of
negation is logically impossible, which Diderot points to explicitly when he
writes that he no longer knows what he is doing as he writes. At the same
time, this type of negation is logically necessary for something to be an art-
work in Diderot’s sense.
The reason for this simultaneously impossible and necessary “efface-
ment” lies in Diderot’s fundamental conception of what it means to be an
object of aesthetic contemplation, whether this is a work of nature or of
art. That something is an object of aesthetic contemplation means, accord-
ing to Diderot, as we saw previously, that while beholding it we enter into
a state of “enchantment” in which we encounter a depicted unity of fig-
ures and actions, objects and feelings, which Fried describes, as a matter of
course, as the unity of a “world” (AT 61). That which we see when we view
an artwork in Diderot’s sense is a “world”; in other words, the figures we
observe move in a world that is constituted by their actions—the world of
the artwork or “the world of the painting” as Fried calls it in multiple places
in his book (AT 61, 64, 65, 68, 107, 150). As we will see in what follows,
much depends upon this fundamental determination of an aesthetic object
as something whose unity constitutes a world that has been made to be
beheld. It is this determination that Fried unquestioningly assumes, without
recognizing that it is precisely this determination of the kind of unity that
Diderot and Aesthetic Subjectivity 217
characterizes an aesthetic object—the unity of a world—which grounds the
aesthetic imperative formulated by Diderot.
The central question to which Diderot seeks an answer is this: how is it
possible that works, either of art or of nature, are able to depict a unity of
things, figures, and events that, qua unity, has the character of a world? The
idea of “world” at work here is that of a totality which contains a principle
of unity and meaningfulness which leaves nothing outside. The aesthetic
imperative that Diderot outlines is meant to articulate the logical precondi-
tion that must be fulfilled for a work, whether of nature or of art, to be able
to represent a world rather than simply this or that object within a world.
If this is right, then it means that we should see the meaning of the abun-
dant depictions of absorbed figures in the art of the mid-eighteenth century
revealed to us by Fried not so much as the realization of an aesthetic ideal
of spectator negation, but as self-representations of the spectator himself. It
is for this reason, I believe, that Diderot explicitly equates the absorption of
the young lover with his own absorption while he writes. The depiction of
the lover immersed in her infatuation does not just realize an aesthetic ideal,
namely one that negates the spectator, but moreover reflects the mental state
of the spectator that constitutes, entirely independent from this depiction
and this theme, the logical precondition of a work that claims to represent
a world.
The thought that artworks are made to be beheld, and the consequences
that arise for art as a result—for example, that they depict a dramatic
unity—are to be understood essentially from the point of view of art’s claim
to represent a world. Fried, too, admits that the interest exhibited in the
idea of unity by Diderot and his contemporaries is not to be understood, as
has commonly been the case, as the unfounded and unquestioned point of
departure for Diderot’s theory of art. Instead, it is the result of an idea which
is more fundamental than the sense of unity that informs a dramatic unity.
Fried writes: “The preoccupation with unity is itself to be seen in terms of
the accomplishment of an ontologically prior relationship, at once literal
and fictive, between painting and beholder” (AT 76).
In contrast to Fried, however, I believe that the basic idea that grounds
the demand for dramatic unity is not to be understood as a response to the
question of how art has to be in order to realize itself as that which is to be
beheld. Rather, it responds to the question of how a work that strives to rep-
resent a world is possible. The idea that this requires a specific relationship
between work and spectator and the idea of dramatic unity which Diderot
has in mind when he subjects art to the laws of unity are to be under-
stood as implications of what it means and how it is possible to bring forth
works that depict the unity that constitutes the unity of a world. The clas-
sic demands for the unity of space, time, and action are not to be grasped,
therefore, as fundamental in themselves, but as derived from this latter idea
of unity and comprehensible solely in relation to it.
218 Andrea Kern
It is not the case that Diderot begins, therefore, with the definition of a
work, whether of art or of nature, and then demands that it be organized
according to the particular rules of unification that negate the spectator as
spectator in order to pass as successful. The question for which Diderot
seeks an answer is more fundamental. The question is not what constitutes
a successful work. Rather, the question is how is a work in the sense of
a depiction of a world possible at all? Fried’s interpretation of Diderot’s
aesthetic theory supposes it to be the articulation a normative ideal of art,
i.e., an articulation of what makes a work of art into a good one. Diderot’s
conception of aesthetics, however, results instead from a more fundamental
question. It springs from a question regarding the conditions of possibility
of a particular kind of art, an art that claims to represent a world. It is the
possibility of speaking of what Fried multiple times, as a matter of course,
calls “the world of painting” that Diderot seeks to understand. Diderot is
concerned with what we might call a transcendental question, as opposed to
a merely normative question.
Read in this way, the theory of the so-called fourth wall between work
and spectator does not only serve to describe what constitutes a successful
work of art. More than that, it articulates the logical precondition for art-
works in general whose ambition it is to represent a world. For the logical
precondition that must be fulfilled in order to depict something like a world
is that what is represented must constitute a unity in the following sense:
it forms a unity for which there is no outside. For a work of art or nature
to depict a world in the sense that is relevant here, no exterior can exist for
that which it depicts. The idea of a world that is relevant here is the idea of a
totality that has no exterior, no outside. Thus, a world in this sense can only
become the content of a representation when what is represented is depicted
such that it negates the idea of an “outside” of the representation. When
Diderot writes, in the form of a demand, “[t]he canvas encloses the entire
space and there is no one beyond it,” he articulates precisely this thought.
The work of art can first become a work of art that depicts a world for the
spectator when nothing external to the canvas exists, and when the canvas
has become the entirety of space perceived to exist. That which the absorbed
spectator beholds, according to Diderot, is a totality which has no outside.
That distinguishes the kind of unity that constitutes a world from the kind
of unity, for example, of a room, beside which another room could exist, or
a house, next to which one could find a garden or the like. The idea of the
world that is relevant here is the idea of a whole that makes no demands as
to particular contents, but which is characterized by the precept of a par-
ticular form: it is a unity with respect to which the idea that something could
exist that is not itself part of this unity is logically foreclosed. How is the
depiction of this sort of unity possible? What does the idea of such a unity
demand in the way of modes of representation?
When Diderot characterizes the particular type of contemplative con-
sciousness that artworks are bound to call forth as a form of absorption, he
Diderot and Aesthetic Subjectivity 219
does so because, as I wish to lay out in what follows, this form of absorption
constitutes the logical precondition that enables artworks to be representa-
tions of a world. The artwork depends on a contemplating consciousness
that does not think of that of which it is conscious as an element within a
world, next to many other things in that world, but as something that is like
a world instead. When absorbed in Diderot’s sense, one beholds the depic-
tion of a world which it would be impossible to behold in the absence of
such absorption. If one takes absorption to be the logical precondition of
art understood in this way, then it follows that this must be an absorption
in which the spectator can have no conscious sense of himself as spectator
outside of the beheld world. For otherwise, that which he beholds would
necessarily not be a world. Neither can the spectator retain a conscious
sense of himself as a part of the same spatio-temporal world of action to
which the object of her contemplation belongs. For then she would be able
to behold something inside this world—that very world which contains,
among other things, the subject of spectatorship as one of its elements—but
she would not behold a world itself. Therefore, what is indicated must be a
form of absorption in which the spectator forgets her own status and iden-
tity as subject. She must forget her identity as a subject in space and time
who is able to desire and think, to do or refrain from doing one thing or
another, and who finds herself in any particular relation to the other objects
that surround her. Only such a “subject” can behold a world. A subject who
beholds a world can only behold a world when that subject does not appear:
neither in the world he beholds nor outside of it.
4
Let us turn once again, against the backdrop of these considerations, to that
idea of painting which Fried calls the pastoral conception. Fried argues,
rightly, that this conception of painting is not so much opposed to the so-
called dramatic conception as it represents another mode of the same. Recall
how Diderot describes the state of “enchantment” into which he tumbles
while contemplating the landscape painting by Vernet, in which he imagines
a stroll through its depicted scenes. Diderot describes himself as standing
there “motionless,” gradually losing control over his body: “my arms fell to
my sides, and my mouth stood agape.” In other words, he describes himself
as a subject robbed of the ability to approach the things he sees. He is pre-
vented from engaging with them, desiring something of them, or interacting
with them in any way. Instead, in his enchantment he transcends this sort
of consciousness. He is no longer an intentional subject. Furthermore, the
scene he observes is characterized as “isolated”; Diderot remarks on “the soli-
tude of the place.” Thus the place he perceives is not surrounded by others;
it is not one from which one could step into others or into which one could
enter from them. There is no way from somewhere else into this place, nor
is there a path that extends from this place into any other, because there is
220 Andrea Kern
no further space outside the depicted one. Moreover, “its profound silence
suspended time, and [time] no longer existed”; that is, the spectator does
not perceive what he observes as an occurrence in time, for which a before
and an after can exist, or one that has a beginning and an end. Just as little
does he understand his own actions as something that unfolds in time. There
is no time in which events occur, nor a time in which their contemplation
takes place. There is no temporal spectatorship which, like the event itself,
can begin and end. That which the spectator contemplates has neither a
beginning in time nor an end. Just as little does his contemplation have a
beginning or an end. Time is suspended; it “no longer” exists.
After dwelling in detail upon his sensations, his involuntary, visceral
motions of participation and sympathy up to and including the tears shed
in the midst of his reverie, Diderot ends his description of the sixth scene
through which he ostensibly passes in his contemplation of Vernet’s paint-
ings with the following words:
Diderot makes it plain here that it is the suspension of time, and not a par-
ticular length of time, that the work of art should achieve. For that reason,
the so-called pastoral conception of painting is not simply about suspend-
ing the spectator’s consciousness of himself as spectator in order to enable
himself to be involved in the representation. If we consider the descriptions
more closely, we see that Diderot does not aim to depict himself as someone
who is part of the representation or who is engaged in the depicted scene,
as Fried assumes. Rather, the descriptions that flesh out the pastoral concep-
tion attempt to characterize the spectator as someone who, while he ini-
tially steps into the depicted landscape, does not do so to participate in the
depicted events, or even to be in their presence, but simply to find his way
to them. His aim is not to be present at the depicted event, but to be absent
in a state of absorption. In none of the descriptions is the spectator depicted
as someone who belongs to the pictorial scene. All descriptions result in
the same injunction, an invitation to sit down, relax, and stop speaking, to
cease to exist in any way for the figures which might interrupt or impinge
upon their world. What is interesting in his remarks on Loutherbourg is
that Diderot sees the ideal spectator as occupying the same position as the
dog in the painting. The spectator wishes to be like this painted dog, “dili-
gent companion of his master’s life and faithful keeper of his flock.” Why
like a dog? Loyal and untiring, entirely dependent upon the master in the
painting, given over to the painting entirely, the dog lacks an independent
understanding, an independent will, and all consciousness of itself. With the
dog as image of the ideal spectator, Diderot reflects once more on the fact
Diderot and Aesthetic Subjectivity 221
that the painting demands a spectator or mode of spectatorship which is
logically impossible for the spectator to achieve.
The same condition is reflected in the change of place Diderot mentions in
his contemplation of the painting by Jean-Baptiste Le Prince quoted previ-
ously. At first, he props himself against the tree that stands between the old
man and his daughter. As soon as the youth finishes his playing, however,
he changes his position and takes his place across from the youth. In my
opinion, this is not to be understood as Diderot’s suggestion that he himself
takes part in these events by moving within the dramatic scene and traveling
from one figure to another in order to make contact with them. Rather, he
wants to clarify the process required to make oneself disappear for the work
of art. As the youth ends his recital, Diderot changes places. The spectator
wishes to be present to the action, but in such a way that it is not affected
by his presence, so he waits until the youth has ended his playing to shift
his position. It is only then that he moves to the spot from which he can
contemplate the youth most fully. It is not the fact that the spectator moves
about in the painting that Diderot wishes to highlight, but rather that he
first makes a move at the moment when it has the least chance of affecting
the depiction. It is only then that he places himself in the optimal position
for spectating. The optimal position vis-à-vis a work of art is the position
in which the spectator not only does not appear as spectator in front of the
painting but, more than that, is effaced as subject in space and time entirely.
In contrast to Fried, I would thus like to suggest that the pastoral concep-
tion of painting is not to be understood as merely an alternative strategy
to the dramatic conception, which is interested in achieving the same aim.
This aim, to repeat, would be to bring forth a spectator who does not take
himself to be a spectator confronted with a strange or alienating object, but
who, in participating in the drama of the painting, immerses himself in its
events and is engulfed by them. In contrast to the dramatic conception, the
pastoral conception of painting describes a processual rather than a static
transposition of the logical precondition to which artworks that claim to
depict a world are subject. In the pastoral conception of art, Diderot figures
the entry into a state of aesthetic spectatorship as a process, a process of the
gradual disappearance of the spectator as subject.
The absorption constitutive of the aesthetic spectator and the depiction
of a world that is the aim of the work of art are described here as two sides
of a single process whose completion the work of art and the spectator must
perform together. This task is characterized by two mutually supplementary
and simultaneously opposed movements, whose common telos is the grad-
ual disappearance of the spectator as a self-conscious, intentional subject.
In a first motion, the spectator must enter into the artwork, for only in this
way is he able to fulfill the logical precondition which makes the work of art
into a depiction of a world. The spectator can only succeed in entering into
the work of art, however, if it accommodates him. It must overcome the dis-
tance between it and the spectator. According to Diderot, it must therefore
222 Andrea Kern
address itself to his soul; it must move him. In addition, the spectator may
not enter into the work of art in order to be present in it as a subject who
is part of the action. He must remain a spectator no one notices. Only then
can the work of art serve as a depiction of a world that has been created in
order to be beheld by him. To achieve this first movement, then, a second
motion is required. The spectator, who, in an initial step, enters the world of
the artwork, must “sit himself down,” remaining quiet and still. The specta-
tor must enter into the work of art, that is, but not in a way such that he
then appears within it. Instead, he must remain unobserved. The spectator
must forget himself as a subject who is part of any sort of world in which
he might appear as subject. Only in this way can the spectator behold the
depiction of a world. This second movement, like the first, is only achieved
in cooperation with the work of art. The work of art must ignore him so
that he can ignore himself in it.
Each movement—that of the spectator and that of the work of art—
completes the other. Both are necessary in order for the work of art to achieve
its telos, to become the depiction of a world that is created in order to be
beheld. Or, to formulate the same idea from the point of view of the specta-
tor, both are necessary to bring forth a spectator who beholds the depiction
of a world. The first movement causes the spectator in front of the painting
to disappear by drawing him into the world of the work of art, which is nec-
essary for it to become the depiction of something that has no outside, i.e.,
a world. The second movement causes the spectator within the painting to
disappear, which is necessary in order to ensure that the spectator is not part
of the world that constitutes the work of art, but instead that it, for him, is
the depiction of a world, i.e., something that is created in order to be beheld
by him. Only when the second movement is complete does the first arrive
at its goal. Thus, the two movements complement and complete each other.
At the same time they strive in different directions. While the first move-
ment draws the spectator into the painting and includes him within it by
addressing him as a sensing, thinking, and acting subject, the second move-
ment excludes him by negating him as this sort of subject. According to the
second, he is supposed to sit down, turn to stone, and remain motionless.
The movements strive in different directions because they describe two anti-
thetical ways in which spectator and work of art are related to one another.
By describing the fulfillment of the logical precondition of art processu-
ally rather than statically, the pastoral conception of painting brings two
aspects of aesthetic subjectivity into view. First, it shows that the being and
nature of a work of art are not simply given to the spectator to uncover, but
represent a task referred to a spectator, who assigns it to himself in order to
fulfill it. Second, however, it makes apparent that the task that a work of art
as such represents is one that it is impossible for any spectator to fulfill. The
two movements upon which the work of art depends according to Diderot’s
analysis previously discussed—the step into the work of art and the move-
ment back out of it—stand in a relation to one another that is paradoxical
Diderot and Aesthetic Subjectivity 223
in itself. That is, they stand in a relationship to one another that makes it
impossible that the logical precondition of the artwork—causing the specta-
tor to disappear—can be fulfilled.
The reason for this is not that these two movements address the subject
in different ways, once as a subject whose soul is to be affected and once
as a subject that is to be negated, but rather that the process of constituting
a work of art, which Diderot attempts to describe with the fiction of his
promenade through the landscapes of paintings, does not consist in two
movements that stand in temporal sequence with one another. It is not that
we are first welcomed into the work of art and then, in a second step, forget
ourselves completely. It is not that we are first within the world of the work
of art and then, when we have that behind us, forget ourselves so completely
that we no longer realize what we are doing. Rather, the two movements,
which we distinguished from one another analytically earlier, mutually con-
dition one another. For this reason, it is entirely correct for the dramatic
conception of painting to foreground an idea of absorption in which the two
movements are not distinguished from one another. For it is this absorption
which, according to the pastoral conception of painting, too, is to be found
at the beginning as well as the end of the aesthetic process. What the pastoral
conception, in contrast to the dramatic, helpfully reveals is that this immer-
sion into aesthetic contemplation, the being of an aesthetic subject which is
no longer recognizable as a subject, is no simple state that the work of art
can call forth immediately by way of a pre-determined strategy. Instead,
absorption represents a task that is only realizable through a process of two
movements, each of which serves as the precondition of the other.
The pastoral conception makes clear that the effacement of subjectivity
in which aesthetic subjectivity consists depends upon a movement of the
affected soul into the work. The work of art can only have the sense of
representing a world for me when I attend to the work of art in such a way
that it touches my soul. A step into the world of the work of art is what is
required for the work of art to represent a world for the spectator. Without
this step, the spectator would only be aware of the material entities that
make up the work of art, but not a world. The disappearance or dissolu-
tion of the spectator in front of the painting must take place in the form of
his being touched or moved by the world of the painting and thereby being
immersed into the painting.
But how can I be absorbed into the painting? How can I cry over it? Only
a subject that has already forgotten himself in a certain sense can enter into
the painting and cry over what he sees. He must forget what he is currently
engaged in, namely, in beholding a work of art. The participatory entry into
the work, the state of being moved, and the fact that I am touched and cry,
depend on a form of absorption which itself is only made possible by way
of this absorption or entry into the work. In other words, the process that
Diderot describes in his pastoral conception of painting is not a process in
which two complementary steps unfold, one after the other, but a process
224 Andrea Kern
of two movements which presuppose each other. My disappearance in front
of the work of art, i.e., the movement of absorption into the work of art,
my participation and my tears, is only possible when I forget myself as an
intentional subject that is engaged in various activities and sensations within
a world that contains the work of art I behold as one of its elements. If I am
to immerse myself into the world of the work of art, then the work of art
cannot be one of the elements that make up my world. The work of art
can only achieve this, however, if I forget myself as a subject that beholds
a work of art. I must therefore already have disappeared from my position
in front of the work of art in order to be absorbed into the work of art. Put
differently, my very ability to disappear from my position in front of the
painting depends upon the fulfillment of precisely that condition which is
first achieved by way of this disappearance. The absorption of the spectator
which Diderot attempts to delineate in his aesthetic theory as the logical
precondition of art thus emerges twice: once as the condition of the process
of contemplation of a work of art and again as the result of precisely this
process.
To become an aesthetic subject, as Diderot conceives of it, is the condi-
tion and result of a movement whose reality is not to be grasped logically.
The kind of subjectivity that an artwork requires is one that one can only,
as it were, experience. The conceit of becoming the dog in the painting, the
“diligent companion of his master’s life and faithful keeper of his flock,”
is—one is tempted to say—the expression, at once ironic and desperate, of
the necessary failure to live up to the challenge with which art confronts
us.10 It is a challenge, yet not a challenge for oneself, because the one who
can experience art cannot be oneself.
Translation from German by Leigh Ann Smith-Gary
Notes
1 Denis Diderot, “Pensées détachées sur l’art et la peinture,” in Oeuvres esthé-
tiques, ed. P. Vernière (Paris: Classiques Carnier, 1994), 792.
2 Denis Diderot, “Aus den Briefen der Jahre 1765–1767,” in Ästhetische Schriften
1 (Berlin: Europäische Verlagsanstalt, 1984), 244 (translation from German here
as elsewhere by L. A. Smith-Gary).
3 Denis Diderot, “Von der dramatischen Dichtkunst,” in Ästhetische Schriften 1
(Berlin: Europäische Verlagsanstalt, 1984), 284.
4 Denis Diderot, “Aus dem Salon von 1767,” in Ästhetische Schriften 2 (Berlin:
Europäische Verlagsanstalt, 1984), 72.
5 Diderot, “Aus dem Salon von 1767,” 74.
6 Diderot, “Aus dem Salon von 1767,” 80.
7 Diderot, “Aus dem Salon von 1767,” 80.
8 The conventional reading of Diderot’s fiction understands the promenade
through the paintings as an exclusively rhetorical strategy with which Diderot
attempts to capture his reader’s attention. Otherwise, a description of these
paintings, due to their rather mundane content, might be suspected of boring the
reader.
9 Diderot, “Aus dem Salon von 1767,” 102.
Diderot and Aesthetic Subjectivity 225
10 This is a revised version of a paper that has been published in German as “Die
Welt der Kunst. Diderots Konzeption ästhetischer Selbstvergessenheit,” in Tran-
szendentalphilosophie. Möglichkeiten und Grenzen, ed. R. Langthaler and M.
Hofer (Hrsg.). Wiener Jahrbuch für Philosophie, Band XLIV, 2012. I am grate-
ful for helpful comments on this paper by James Conant, Irad Kimhi, Christoph
Menke, Robert B. Pippin, and David E. Wellbery.
14 The Promise of the Present
Michael Fried’s Poetry Now
Jennifer Ashton
1. Previous Art
In 1962 Ian Hamilton, along with Michael Fried, John Fuller, Francis
Hope, Martin Dodsworth, Colin Falck, and Gabriel Pearson, founded The
Review, where nearly three dozen of Fried’s early poems would appear over
the eleven-year run of the journal.1 Included in a group of seven poems by
Fried in the 1966 issue is a very short lyric whose title—“David Smith (d.
May 23, 1965)”—names the well-known sculptor and refers to his death
the preceding year:
I want to start with this poem because it dates to the moment when
Fried’s landmark Artforum essay, “Art and Objecthood” (1967), was being
conceived, and because, as we’ll see, it engages a set of problems that stem
precisely from the distinction between art and objecthood theorized in that
essay. That is, because the nature that figures so prominently in the poem
also falls, in Fried’s larger philosophical framework, squarely on the side of
objecthood, this poem—like many of Fried’s poems—enacts a separation of
art from both nature and objecthood, and it does so along the axis of what
it means for something to be, or in some sense not to be, “made.” Indeed, as
we’ll see, what it means in “David Smith” for a work of art to be “made” is
for it not only to declare its separation from both nature and objecthood but
to establish its autonomy in relation to the reader or the beholder. “David
Smith” in this sense will be about the kind of madeness that’s required for
a work of art.
But “David Smith” is written when—and “Art and Objecthood” is writ-
ten because—that idea of what a work of art is (let’s call that idea, as Fried
does, “modernism”) is already being consigned to the past. “In previous
Promise of Present: Fried’s Poetry Now 227
art,” declared the minimalist sculptor Robert Morris (and by “previous art”
he meant, above all, modernism: sculpture like David Smith’s and poems
like Michael Fried’s), “what is to be had from the work is located strictly
within it” (quoted AO 153). In the new art—what Fried called “literal-
ism”—what mattered was all the things that had been excluded: nature,
objecthood, the beholder. And it’s a matter of pretty uncontroversial fact
that for the rest of the twentieth century, some version of what Fried called
literalism (call it what everyone else eventually did: “postmodernism”) did
indeed consign the idea of modernist autonomy to the past.
In the twenty-first century, however, it’s becoming increasingly clear that
some version of the commitment to autonomy has survived or reinvented
itself. This is visible, as Fried suggests in his 2008 Why Photography Mat-
ters as Art as Never Before, in the mediums of both photography and video,
but it’s also visible, as the 38-year-old MacArthur winning poet and novelist
Ben Lerner suggests, in poetry. Lerner, in fact, takes up the question of the
work of art in explicitly Friedian terms, and it’s noteworthy that his most
recent collection is a collaboration with the German photographer Thomas
Demand, about whom Fried has written at length, both in Why Photogra-
phy Matters and in 2014’s Another Light: Jacques-Louis David to Thomas
Demand. Furthermore, Fried has himself continued to write poetry, and his
most recent collection (also produced in collaboration with a photographer
about whom he has written, the American James Welling) takes up, as I will
show, the modernist problematic adumbrated in the work of the 60s. But
modernism meant one thing before postmodernism; it cannot and does not
mean the same thing after it. In the first half of this essay, then, I’ll show
how “David Smith” understands making the work of art in the twentieth
century; in the second half, I’ll show how Fried and Lerner (and in some
ways Welling and Demand) understand that ambition now, which is to say,
what it means for poetry “to matter as art.”
To say that “David Smith” is “about” Smith (or about Smith’s death)
might immediately seem off the mark in that the poem proper makes no
explicit reference to either. Nevertheless, the natural imagery introduced in
the first line, “the granite hill inside the hill of pine,” is readily identifiable
with the wooded, hilly area of upstate New York, where pine and granite
abound, and where Smith spent three decades living and making his art.
There’s also a connection to Smith’s death in that it is the area where he
was killed when his truck overturned, colliding, one could say, with “the
granite hill inside the hill of pine.” The three middle lines of the poem,
which appear between quotation marks and take up most of the poem’s
very short space—“Listen. Do you want to know why I like nature—/The
mountains and the trees and all that?/Because they’re already made. I don’t
have to make them”—are also obviously not about the artist in that they
read as speech that issues instead from the eponymous subject of the poem.
Thus the quoted lines, unlike the nature to which they refer, also read as
in some sense “made” by Smith, even as those words, operating between
228 Jennifer Ashton
quotation marks as they do, themselves carry the force of being, like nature,
“already made” (a graduate student in a seminar where I taught the poem
suggested the quotation functions as a kind of “readymade”).3 And by the
same token, the quoted words are rendered distinct from the actual works
the artist made in that the latter are precisely not “already made” (or he
wouldn’t “have to make them”). In short, if the poem is about something,
it seems to be less about Smith or his art specifically than about the differ-
ence in general between nature, which Smith identifies as “already made,”
and art, which is not (readymades notwithstanding). And here we can’t help
but notice that the poem raises a further question: in what sense is nature
“already made”? Hills and trees already exist, to be sure, but they haven’t
come into their existence the way that art does, or even, for that matter, in
the way that a literalist object or a Duchampian readymade does. But if we
think yet further about what it means to align the idea of nature with the
“already made” (and Smith’s words themselves, by putting quotation marks
around them), the readymade and the literalist object begin to look like they
have a lot more in common with nature than with art.
Teasing out the poem’s staging of the opposition between nature and art
also leads us to see how Fried enables the one (art) to subsume and trans-
form the other (nature, but also the quotation from Smith), to produce a
sense of the poem as a whole that is entirely different in kind from the
nature and the “already made” words it contains. We can see this instanti-
ated in the treatment of the natural phenomenon in the poem’s last line,
“The rose light branching in the thunder orchard,” which takes the meta-
phor for the appearance of lightning across the sky (“branching”) during
a thunderstorm and condenses it with the word for a cultivated grove of
trees (“orchard”), to produce what appears to be a purely poetic phenom-
enon. The formal rows, moreover, that we would associate with any literal
orchard (not to mention the rows that the lines of the poem form on the
page) are here conveyed homophonically in the “rose” color of the light-
ning, whose “branching” form alludes also to the trees we associate with
orchards. “Thunder orchard” in turn suggests that “orchard” is a figurative
form thunder takes or else that there is a figurative kind of orchard in which
thunder might be said to grow.
On the one hand, then, the orchard planted at the end of the poem is
entirely of the poet’s making and thus, importantly, not “already made” by
nature or by Smith. On the other hand, based on photographs and reported
accounts of Smith’s estate at Bolton Landing (where Fried happened to have
visited with his wife, Ruth Leys, within a few years before Smith’s death),
one can easily read the last line as an attempt to depict the artworks Smith
did make, in that the clusters of sculptures that famously stood on the
grounds of his estate were, as Smith’s daughter described them, “planted” in
orchard-like “rows”: “On the right was the north, or upper, field where, in
the last years of his life, Smith planted dense rows of sculpture . . . Arrayed
against the mound on the hill, finished pieces might ‘cure,’ as he called it,
Promise of Present: Fried’s Poetry Now 229
over the winter into the desired state of rust.”4 If we consider the environ-
mental moisture that would cause such rust (also an effect of rain-producing
thunderstorms), it’s possible to cast the final line of the poem in a different
light, as it were. For “The rose light branching in the thunder orchard”
describes the natural visual effect of light reflecting from Smith’s rust-cured
artworks as it reinscribes that effect within a figurative logic that only the
poem can render.
The poem thus reimagines the world that is external to it (the one that
includes granite inside hills of pine, orchard rows, branching lightning, but
also Smith’s own art and words) as constituents of an imaginative and linguis-
tic order that is completely internal to the poem, hence the closing conceit as
an effort to condense the visual appearance of Smith’s “made” works (light
reflecting on rusted metal surfaces) with features of the “already made” nat-
ural environment (trees and thunderstorms) in which Smith placed them.5
But far from collapsing the distinction between art and nature, the made
and the already made, the poem’s enclosure of both within itself enacts
instead an absolute separation between what is internal to the poem (what
the poet intends to put there) and what is external to it (physical causes and
effects). We can see how the poem formally achieves this separation if we
consider more carefully its first and last lines—not only their difference from
the three lines between them (minimally, the difference between quotation
and not-quotation), but also their likeness to each other (the adjective-plus-
noun phrases—“granite hill” and “rose light”—that begin each line, fol-
lowed in each case by a similarly parallel prepositional phrase). From this
vantage, the words we understand as Smith’s appear to inhabit a kind of
double frame: an inner frame formed by the quotation marks and an outer
one formed by the structurally parallel lines that bookend the poem, so that
Smith’s words are enclosed within the frame of the poet’s.
This assertion of a frame by formal means in “David Smith” carries a
special force in the context of the poem’s proximity to the composition of
“Art and Objecthood.” That is, the modernism Fried champions in art-
ists like Smith and Anthony Caro is defined by its commitment to exactly
the kind of separation between world and work that is achieved formally
in “David Smith”—and for which the frame serves as a key index—while
the opposite effect, unframeability, is aligned explicitly with the literalist
art that Fried criticizes. This opposition is the whole point of the famous
anecdote about Tony Smith, where the minimalist sculptor describes driving
down the as-yet-unfinished New Jersey Turnpike and declares there is “no
way you can frame it, you just have to experience it” (quoted AO 158)—a
remark that doesn’t so much represent literalism’s desire to repudiate the
frame as such as to point to the general conditions under which any work
could be made to express a complete continuity with, or indivisibility from,
the experience of the viewer. Indeed, the most provocative claim of “Art and
Objecthood”—that literalism is fundamentally “antithetical to art”—hangs
on a claim about the role that internal order plays in the artwork’s relation
230 Jennifer Ashton
to everything else that surrounds it: “Whereas in previous art ‘what is to be
had from the work is located strictly within [it],’ the experience of literalist
art is of an object in a situation—one that, virtually by definition, includes
the beholder” (AO 153). That characterization of “previous art” comes, as
we already noted, from the minimalist sculptor Robert Morris, but the con-
ditions under which “previous art” fails for Morris are what Fried, writing
at the moment of minimalism’s attempt to destroy those conditions, enlists
as the basis on which the modernism he defends succeeds as art.
“[W]hat is crucial” in the modernism of artists like (David) Smith and
Caro, according to Fried, is the “mutual inflection of one element by
another,” such that “[t]he individual elements bestow significance on one
another precisely by virtue of their juxtaposition: it is in this sense, a sense
inextricably involved with the concept of meaning, that everything in Caro’s
art that is worth looking at is in its syntax” (AO 161–2). If “meaning” is
another way of referring to “what is to be had from the work,” we can eas-
ily see the force of the analogy with “syntax.” For modernism, the internal
order of the work that syntax represents is the form by which that meaning
is expressed, and it operates independently of any given beholder’s experi-
ence of the work. Under the minimalist dispensation, by contrast, the very
concept of a syntax becomes incoherent, for there is nothing to distinguish
any part of the work as a part; nothing belongs to the work any more (or
any less) than it belongs to the entire situation in which the beholder experi-
ences it. A simple way to put this is to say that for modernism, the form of
the work is dispositive with respect to “what is to be had from it,” which
cannot be said of the literalist work, where “what is to be had from it” is
located in its continuity with the beholder’s experience and situation and
therefore in nothing that could count as “strictly within” or for that matter
strictly outside the work. Or we can turn this around to say that in order
for “what is to be had from the work” to be “located strictly within it” the
work must be separate from the world and from the beholder (hence one of
several ways in which modernism is also identified with aesthetic autonomy,
and more specifically autonomy from the beholder). For Fried, the aesthetic
power of Caro’s sculptures comes from their insistence on that separation:
“[They] inhabit another world from the literal, contingent one in which we
live, a world which so to speak everywhere parallels our own but whose
apartness is perceived as all the more exhilarating on that account” (ACTS
205; see also IMAC 32).
Caro’s table sculptures are particularly successful in achieving that sepa-
ration, and they do so precisely by acknowledging “syntactically,” as Fried
puts it, “the conventional conditions of their inescapable ‘framedness’ ” even
in the (also conventional) absence of a frame: “[T]he tabletop needed to be
incorporated into the sculpture, not literally, although eventually Caro did
that too, but syntactically, on the plane of ‘form’: only then would a simple
phenomenological truth, that objects of a certain size tend to be found on
tables, be invested with sculptural significance. And that was accomplished,
Promise of Present: Fried’s Poetry Now 231
at a stroke, by going below the plane of the tabletop” (IMAC 32–3). In
other words, through the “syntax” that juxtaposes the elements within the
sculpture with one another, but also with what lies without (the tabletop),
Caro is able to conscript the “literal, contingent” elements of the world that
includes the beholder and, rather than render them continuous with one
another, reinscribe them within the work’s own formal vocabulary. Thus
the extension of the work below the surface on which it rests registers the
difference between the literal surface—again, a purely contingent element
in the situation of the artwork—and the necessary surfaceness, or some-
thing like the “made-for-a-surface-ness” that is expressed within and by
the form of the work itself. The effect is analogous to that of a frame (what
Fried means by the “framedness” of Caro’s sculptures) in that both serve to
announce the categorical separation between the world that exists “on the
plane of ‘form’ ”—of which the artwork itself is the expression—and the
literal world of objects and the subjects who experience them.
As Fried himself suggests, a further effect of this separation between “the
plane of ‘form’ ” and what we might call “the plane of objecthood” is a
form of autonomy—the autonomy of the aesthetic work from the world of
objects:
Note, by the way, what this account [of] Caro’s table sculptures implies
about the issue of esthetic autonomy. It is sometimes assumed that
because in “Art and Objecthood” I criticized Minimalism’s foreground-
ing of what might be called situationality or exhibitionality, I believed
and perhaps still believe that modernist works of art exist or aspire to
exist in a void. But I didn’t and I don’t.
(IMAC 32)
Here the first thing we encounter in the poem is an open quotation mark,
which we are now well positioned to see as another version of the formal
frame we find in “David Smith.” Along with the closed quotation mark
placed at the very end of the poem, however, here it serves to contain the
entire poem within that frame. But while that gesture of confining the
whole poem within the frame of quotation also marks a separation between
what is interior to the whole and what is exterior to it, the separation itself
is effected, paradoxically, by attributing the entire utterance to a part, a
“right foreleg,” that has been detached from the whole to which it properly
belongs: “my wolf’s body.” Another way to put this is to say that integrity
of one whole, the formal body of the text, is predicated on the violation of
another whole, a purely corporeal one.7
“Inside the Trap” is thus another example of a particularly dense engage-
ment with the question of what counts—or counted for Fried circa 1965—
as “located strictly within” the work (to recall Morris’s remarks about
“previous art”). And if we continue to peer “Inside the Trap,” we can now
make out a set of very familiar gestures signaling the aesthetic commitments
we have already seen borne out in a poem like “David Smith” and in the
modernist painting and sculpture that Fried famously defends in “Art and
Objecthood.” For “Inside the Trap” repeats in inverted form the same kind
of gesture Fried observes in Caro’s table sculptures, which involves taking
something from the contingent situation outside the work—for Caro, the
tabletop—and reinscribing it as a formal feature of the elements within the
work. Which is to say that we begin with the severed foreleg inside (not
outside) the trap, and the whole to which it belongs roaming outside (not
inside) the trap. But by the time we get to the “long jaws” holding the oth-
erwise unviolated whole of another body, that of the “warm hare” at the
end of the poem, it’s unclear whether “my long jaws” are literally those of
the disfigured wolf or metaphorically those of the trap. The jaws are an
internal mechanism—a crucial part of both the wolf’s body and the body
234 Jennifer Ashton
of the mechanical trap. But they are also part of the poetic utterance itself
as a whole, insofar as it exists, contained between quotation marks, inside
“Inside the Trap.” At the same time, that uttered whole is “Inside the Trap,”
in that it is numerically identical to the entity that bears that name.
In Blossom, not just this poem but all of the poems in the book oper-
ate analogously to the accompanying images by Demand in that it’s as if
(and the hypothetical formulation is effectively required by the work) the
reader is asked to imagine the virtual existence of both an unimaginable
total image of the fabricated cherry tree and an unimaginable total poem
(Blossom), to which any given actual poem or image, and even the book
itself as a whole, can only serve as an index or reference. Thus the “the invis-
ible hand/The phantom limb” that is introduced in the passage here refers
less to the violent cause of the hand’s invisibility (amputation, say) than to
its invisibility as such. What makes the hand a “phantom limb” here is its
lack of presence, whether as reality or as representation. And it’s by virtue
of its virtuality that the hand/limb refuses both frame and form.
Lerner makes prodigious use of the virgule (which, it’s worth pointing out,
is also the symbol of a kind of textual amputation) in his fiction as well as his
poetry, but its utility in the service of the virtual emerges all the more sharply
in a remark by the protagonist and narrator of Lerner’s first novel, a poet
who lives a life that closely parallels Lerner’s own. The passage that follows
comes directly on the heels of the opening episode of Leaving the Atocha
Station, in which the narrator, on a writing fellowship in Madrid, wonders
at the spectacle of a museum-goer at the Prado who begins to weep hysteri-
cally as he stands before Rogier Van der Weyden’s Descent from the Cross:
Lerner suggests that passages from poems quoted in this way function
like the phantom limb in Blossom, in that they remain invisible in their
entirety, even as their visible remains constitute, quite literally, a violation
of the intended form of the whole (a slash appears, like a scar, in the place
of the line break that was originally there). Unattributed quotation is also
prevalent throughout Blossom, allowing a host of absent texts to hover in
its ether. Self-quotation is prevalent throughout Lerner’s work in general,
too, redoubling the commitment to virtuality by rendering his own texts as
ghostly absences. Indeed the last sentence of this particular passage reap-
pears, this time as an unattributed quotation, in Lerner’s 2016 book-length
essay, The Hatred of Poetry, which makes the argument that poems them-
selves are “the fatal problem with poetry.” If Blossom is any indication of
how Lerner envisions a poetic address to that “fatal problem,” it suggests
that even the salient features of form within the work (the regular order and
length of the poems, the ostentatious repetition of devices like the slash and
the inclusion of quotation) are not so much formal presences as indices of
absent formal possibilities.
The virgule in Blossom, for example, mainly follows a pattern where it
occurs before a phrase beginning with a capitalized word, like the words
that begin all of the lines of each poem in the book (as in “The phantom
limb/A bomb or blazon” in the poem I quoted from earlier). The virgule in
these instances suggests, if we follow the reasoning of Lerner’s own remarks,
that there’s some alternate absent poem containing a line that, following the
line break signaled by the virgule, begins with “A bomb or blazon.” But
there are also a much smaller number of instances, like the one that starts
that same poem—“The leaves move/are moved in small”—where what fol-
lows begins with an uncapitalized word, or where the slash separates words
or phrases that are clearly intended to represent alternatives to one another:
The upshot of these effects is likewise to suggest both that whatever poem
one is actually reading is not the actual poem and that whatever the actual
poem might be it could never actually be read.11
Promise of Present: Fried’s Poetry Now 237
If we turn now to Fried’s Promesse du Bonheur, we find that it offers
its own variations on the trope of the “phantom limb” (a recurring theme
throughout Fried’s work, as I have already suggested). The most sharply
illustrative of these, a poem called “September Sky,” culminates around a
literal—indeed, historical—severed limb (a “missing hand”) and the phan-
tom pain its loss causes:
The form gestured toward at the end of “September Sky” is both the
form of the literal missing hand of the poet Cendrars (who lost his right
arm fighting in World War I) and the refiguring of that hand as the constel-
lation of Orion, whose form the “missing hand” is said to take. The hand
also assumes that form in and as a poem called “Orion” by Cendrars. In
all three respects form is rendered anything but virtual. Moreover, Fried’s
own poem insists on performing (as it were) the very act of giving form by
poetic means. Form issues literally from Cendrars’s “Orion” in the penul-
timate line on the page, and what issues from that form—the form of the
constellation Orion—is “his missing hand” (the severed hand belonging to
Cendrars). That missing hand is now no longer missing—it is no phantom
limb but is reinscribed, both in its severed state—cut off both by the line
break that precedes it and by the parenthetical sequence of lines that con-
tains it—and in the poetic form Cendrars gave to it (the poem “Orion”),
such that the hand and the poem alike are subsumed within the frame of
Fried’s “September Sky.”
The reincorporation of Cendrars’s corporeal “missing hand” into the for-
mal body of “September Sky” is all the more impressive when we consider
Cendrars’s poem “Orion” in its entirety:
It is my star [constellation]
It has the form of a hand
It is my hand risen to [mounted in] the sky
238 Jennifer Ashton
During the entire war I saw Orion through a loophole
When the Zeppelins came to bomb Paris they always came via Orion
Today I have it overhead
The main mast pierces the palm of that hand which must suffer
As my cut-off hand makes me suffer pierced as it is by a continual sting13
The loss of limb that makes the poet suffer has been metaphorically
removed, “mounted to the sky,” and reconstituted as the constellation
Orion, which in turn is endowed with a hand-like form (“it has the form
of my hand”), which then is reimagined as the literal hand itself (“it is my
hand”). The hand, by means of this figurative exchange, has taken the place
of the constellation Orion, so that now this displaced, figurative hand can be
pierced in the same way as the poet feels in the absence of his severed hand.
It has been reincorporated, in effect, within a new and perfectly complete
body, that of the poem itself.
As I have already suggested, both Promesse and Blossom involve the
renewal, post-postmodernism, of a modernist commitment to the whole.
And as we’ve seen, that commitment also involves an element that doesn’t
fully comport with modernism’s modus operandi, namely that for both
Fried and Lerner, the whole importantly emerges by passing through a dra-
matization of its violation. Another way to put this would be to say that
what’s consistent across Fried’s career, and what makes the modernism of
his poetry different from the modernism he defends in “Art and Object-
hood,” is that what we see in the modernist art itself at that time is simply
the effort to assert the whole, and not yet the effort to defend the whole;
whereas Fried, writing from the vantage of someone actively diagnosing the
opposition that was only just coming into view, was in the position to see
modernism under a specific attack. In the years that followed, of course, the
modernism versus literalism battle was largely won, and not by modernism
but by what came to be known as postmodernism.
The difference it makes to be committed to the whole on this side of
postmodernism is what we find in Lerner and his generation, for whom
postmodernism is not an upstart threat (as it was for Fried), but their donné.
In the wake of postmodernism, the whole is no longer an object of attack
because it appears always already unavailable, and according to precisely
the logic that enabled the postmodern attack in the first place.14 That is, the
very indeterminacy entailed by the continuity of the beholder’s experience
with the work of art—the indeterminacy that so many varieties of post-
modernism, from literalism to language poetry, are inclined to celebrate—is
also what makes it look as if any work available to experience is unable to
cohere as a whole. The lesson Lerner takes from this state of affairs involves
protecting the idea of the whole by refusing to locate it with any actual
expression in form. And within this gesture, what is to be had from the
work is no longer to be found within it, but is removed instead from the
plane of form (the actual work) to the plane of the concept (the virtual
Promise of Present: Fried’s Poetry Now 239
work). Blossom thus insists on both the poem and the photograph as unre-
alized and unrealizable in any actual expression through form; “what is to
be had” from the work, so to speak, is conceivable only as the horizon or
prospect of form.
Obviously the title of Promesse du Bonheur is highly suggestive in this
regard, if only because all promises are in some sense directed toward the
future. But as two key photographs in the volume help us to see, the prom-
ise of Promesse is importantly retrospective as well as prospective. The two
pictures in question are both of Fried’s wife Ruth Leys (to whom Promesse
is dedicated), taken, as Fried notes in the Acknowledgements, “by me in
the Alhambra the summer of 1967,” shortly after the publication of “Art
and Objecthood” (Promesse 149). Part of the book’s point then has to be—
insofar as the stunning young woman in the photographs represents the
titular promise of happiness, and Promesse as a whole regards her from the
standpoint of looking back—that the promise has been kept. And it’s in this
respect that we can fully register the force of the gesture we’ve seen enacted
so vividly in the early poem “Inside the Trap,” but also why that same
gesture, as we’ve seen in “September Sky,” lies at the heart of Promesse du
Bonheur. These poems establish their form precisely by registering the pos-
sibility of—indeed, by violently enacting—a version of its loss. The kind of
loss—the damage to form—that Fried registers is something that also regis-
ters in Lerner. But while for Fried that loss is the gateway to a categorically
different whole that is the poem itself, for Lerner all actual poems remain in
a damaged state, and it’s only the virtual poem whose form counts as whole.
We can link Fried’s and Lerner’s shared interest in the potential failure
of form with another shared interest in one of the great but still underap-
preciated poets and theorists of the late twentieth century, Allen Grossman.
Grossman is a figure of tremendous importance in Fried’s last two volumes
of poetry, where a number of poems are either about Grossman or dedicated
to him. He is also central to Lerner’s Hatred of Poetry, whose claim that
actual poems not only risk failure but inevitably fail is attributed directly
to Grossman. More precisely, Lerner associates the claim with the legend-
ary seventh-century Anglo-Saxon poet Caedmon, and the account given
of Caedmon is based on an essay by Grossman titled “My Caedmon.”15
Caedmon, according to Grossman, learns to sing by divine instruction in a
dream, but his waking song remains a forever inadequate translation of the
dream. For Lerner, the point of the Caedmon story is that the true poem will
always be the one that remains in the dream, in a form conceivable only in
terms of possibility. Actual poems, therefore, invite our hatred because the
forms they take will never be adequate to their original conception. While
the precise relationship between Grossman’s work and Fried’s (beyond the
fact of Fried’s admiration) remains an open and important question for
further study, what matters for our purposes is that for Fried one kind of
failure of the whole—a failure that occurs, as it does in the Caedmon story,
in some sense on the plane of the literal—becomes the basis for the success
240 Jennifer Ashton
of another kind of whole that occurs precisely on the plane of form. And
the point of running the promise in both directions (prospectively and ret-
rospectively) in Promesse is to dramatize how the integrity of the whole is
established in Fried’s poems, in effect, by reestablishing it in the form of the
poem. The fulfillment of the promise of form in Promesse, far from being
deferred, and far from being relegated to the plane of the virtual (or to exis-
tence in a void), turns out to be identical to its realization; it is a promise
kept by and within the work itself.
Notes
1 These poems would eventually be collected with a handful of others in Powers
(London: The Review, 1973), the first of Michael Fried’s four books of poetry.
The founding committee for the review, along with the journal’s individual
issue contents, are listed on the Ian Hamilton Website at www.ianhamilton.org/
review/.
2 Michael Fried, “David Smith (d. May 23, 1965),” The Review (16, 1966), 26.
The poem’s title was changed slightly for its subsequent publication in Powers
to “David Smith (1906–1965)” (Powers 29), indicating more explicitly Smith’s
early death. Two decades later, it was included in To the Center of the Earth as
“A Visit to David Smith,” with a small change replacing “trees” with “birds”
(New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1994), 13.
3 Nick Van Zanten, a UIC studio arts student.
4 Candida N. Smith, “The Fields of David Smith,” in The Fields of David Smith,
ed. Smith, Irving Sandler, and Jerry L. Thompson (New York: Thames & Hud-
son, 1999), 24. I came to know of Fried’s visit from his response to an inquiry
about the origin of the quotation (email message to author, April 19, 2017).
5 Fried himself acknowledges the line as an allusion not only to the appearance of
Smith’s sculptures, but also to their making: “I always thought of it too in terms
of the sky, massive clouds, maybe toward dusk, irradiated with rose light, that
sort of thing; & the thunder as somehow connoting the making of sculpture, the
sound steel would make if you worked it on a forge, like Vulcan & his helpers—
something like that” (email message to the author, August 2, 2017).
6 Although scholarly engagements with Fried’s poems remain scarce, I’m not the
first literary critic to notice the parallels between Fried’s poems and his writing
on art. In a 2000 essay, “Poetry and Art Theory in Michael Fried,” Hans-Jost
Frey discovers in another early poem, “Wartime,” effects very similar to what we
have already observed in “David Smith.” The poem consists of only two lines,
which, like the last line of “David Smith,” construct a dense image in deceptively
simple terms:
Shadows of leaves on a cement wall
Tremble in the shadow of a breeze.
We can see at first glance how the very structure of the poem, turning as it
does upon the erection of the “cement wall” at the line break, is built on a firm
divide. In this case it is the “wall” itself that marks the separation between the
familiar world of the reader’s experience, on the one hand—the world where a
breeze will cause leaves to tremble and light will cast shadows on walls—and a
world of poetic construction, on the other. For it is only in the latter world that
a cement wall, for which movement of any kind would require a force a great
deal stronger than a mere breeze (artillery, say), can be linked logically with the
kind of “trembling” a breeze might cause in a leaf. The connection in the poem
occurs by means of the parallel sounds of the off-rhyme between “cement wall”
Promise of Present: Fried’s Poetry Now 241
and “tremble” (“cem-” and “trem-”; “wall” and “-ble”). The logic of cause-and-
effect that orders the natural world outside the poem (and to which the poem’s
imagery refers) is thus displaced by a connection that is internal to the poem and
purely formal. While Frey does not address these sonic effects, he arrives at a
similar conclusion based on the (syntactically generated) transfer of the shadow
in the poem’s imagery from the “shadows of the leaves” to the “shadow of a
breeze”: “What the poem does is to turn the relation between the leaves and
the breeze, which in the experience of the image that constitutes the basis of the
poem leads out of the image, into a relation that takes place inside the image”
(in Refracting Vision: Essays on the Writings of Michael Fried, ed. Jill Beaulieu,
Mary Roberts, and Toni Ross (Sydney: Power Publications, 2012 (first published
in 2000)), 363). “Wartime” appears in Fried’s second collection, To the Center
of the Earth (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1994), 34. In Fried’s much
earlier first volume, Powers, an otherwise identical version of the poem car-
ries the title “War” (45). I’m aware of only two other essays on Fried’s poetry,
Steven Levine’s “Mutual Facing: A Memoir of Friedom” (in Refracting Vision,
289–323) and my own “Poetry of the Twenty-First Century: The First Decade,”
The Cambridge Companion to American Poetry since 1945, ed. Ashton (Cam-
bridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 216–30. It’s worthwhile noting
here that Fried’s early editorial collaborator, Ian Hamilton, in a jacket blurb for
Powers, makes this general observation about Fried’s poems: “They are to be
seen and heard. And their brevity, their present-tense insistence on the totality
of the poem (by which I mean that the whole poem can, like a painting, or a
gesture, or a vision be experienced at once. . .)”
7 I would point readers interested in exploring the poem further to Frey’s superb
reading of it and particularly to the connections he draws between the wolf’s
“right foreleg” and various figures for the painting and writing hand that Fried
analyzes in Courbet’s Realism and in Realism, Writing, Disfiguration (see in
particular Frey, 367–74).
8 Ben Lerner and Thomas Demand, Blossom (London: MACK, 2015). Images
showing the uncut pages in action can be viewed at https://collectordaily.com/
thomas-demand-blossom/.
9 I’m opting for the plural “poems” in my reading, but the uniform segments that
make up the text of Blossom can also plausibly be viewed as a single poem (as
some responses to the book have done). Blossom itself does not help to settle the
question, but a selection by Lerner and Demand published prior to the book’s
release refers to the text as “poems” and describes them as “part of a larger
cycle.” See “Sample Trees,” Paris Review (212, 2015) (www.theparisreview.org/
art-photography/6364/sample-trees-thomas-demand-ben-lerner).
10 Ben Lerner, Leaving the Atocha Station (Minneapolis: Coffee House Press,
2011), 8–9.
11 If we recall Fried’s remark about the implications for autonomy in Caro, Lerner’s
would appear to be a form of autonomy that actually does require the work
to exist in a void. I don’t have room to explore this here, but my intuition is
that one of the entailments of the insistence on the virtual—on removing, so to
speak, “what is to be had from the work” to the “echo of possibility”—is that
the autonomy sought after actually collapses into a form of heteronomy and
indeterminacy, in other words, into a state of affairs literalism actually shares:
I remember speaking a word whose meaning I didn’t know but about which
I had some inkling, some intuition, then inserting that word into a sentence,
testing how it seemed to fit or chafe against the context and the syntax, roll-
ing the word around, as it were, on my tongue. I remember my feeling that
I possessed only part of the meaning of the word, like one of those frag-
mented friendship necklaces, and I had to find the other half in the social
242 Jennifer Ashton
world of speech . . . To derive your sense of a word by watching others adjust
to it: Do you remember the feeling that sense was provisional and that two
people could build around an utterance a world in which any usage signi-
fied? I think that’s poetry. And when I felt I had finally mastered a word,
when I could slide it into a sentence with a satisfying click, that wasn’t poetry
anymore—that was something else, something functional within a world, not
the liquefaction of its limits.
(Hatred of Poetry, 78–9)
To understand poetry as a liquefaction of the limits of the world—whether it’s
the world that exists on the plane of objects or a world that exists on “the plane
of ‘form’ ”—is a version of unframeability, and in that respect compatible with
Tony Smith’s New Jersey Turnpike fantasy, both of which would entail the liq-
uefaction of syntax, parts, wholes, and for that matter anything that could be
identified with or as form.
12 Michael Fried and James Welling, Promesse du Bonheur (New York: David
Zwirner Books and nonsite.org, 2016), 139.
13 The translation is Fried’s and appears in a tour-de-force essay-length analysis of
“September Sky” by Fried himself: “Encountering ‘September Sky,’ ” nonsite,
January 8, 2017 (http://nonsite.org/feature/encountering-september-sky). The
sense of the original poem by Cendrars is understandably difficult to capture in
translation:
C’est mon étoile
Elle a la forme d’une main
C’est ma main montée au ciel
Durant toute la guerre je voyais Orion par un crénau
Quand les Zeppelins venaient bombarder
Paris ils venaient toujours d’Orion
Aujourd’hui je l’ai au-dessus de ma tête
Le grand mât perce la paume de cette main qui doit souffrir
Comme ma main coupée me fait souffrir percée qu’elle est par un dard continuel
(Paris: Au Sans Pareil, 1924), 41
The poem originally appears in Feuilles de Route
14 None of this is meant to suggest that early twentieth-century modernism is some-
how born out of nothing, and that postmodernism is just the response to it that
emerged at mid-century, followed in turn by a late twentieth- and early twenty-
first-century response to postmodernism that in many ways resembles forms
of modernism. The questions raised by these movements during this extended
period, and the lines of attack and defense that were their answers to those ques-
tions, matter, to be sure, for the history of art and for purposes of periodization,
but these opposing positions are also logical entailments of the very question of
the ontology of the work of art. That point is borne out, for example, in Todd
Cronan’s superb analysis of early twentieth-century French literature, philoso-
phy, and painting—particularly in the work of Henri Matisse and Paul Valéry
(who respond directly to the pressures of indeterminacy arising from the work
of art’s uncontrollable effects), and the degree to which they anticipate the
problem-set that underpins the so-called “turn to affect” in late postmodern
theory. See Against Affective Formalism: Matisse, Bergson, Modernism (Min-
neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013).
15 Allen Grossman, “My Caedmon: Thinking About Poetic Vocation,” in The Long
Schoolroom: Lessons in the Bitter Logic of the Poetic Principle (Ann Arbor, MI:
University of Michigan Press, 1997), 1–17.
15 Constantin Constantius
Goes to the Theater
Michael Fried
A basic assumption behind the remarks that follow is that Søren Kierkeg-
aard’s writings, especially Either/Or (1842) and Repetition (1843), contain
long stretches that deserve to be recognized as among the most luminous
and far-reaching adventures in aesthetic thinking, reflection on the arts, in
the entire nineteenth century. This is true, or so I contend, despite the fact
that the aesthetic as such is for Kierkegaard the least or lowest of what in
Stages on Life’s Way (1845)—a sequel to Either/Or—he calls three “exis-
tence spheres.”1 The aesthetic, he writes, is the sphere of immediacy, the
ethical that of requirement, and the highest, the religious, the sphere of ful-
fillment, though of course the actual relationships among these, especially
between the first two and the third, is anything but incremental (the crucial
notion, of course, is that of a “leap of faith”). And in fact Kierkegaard’s
most original aesthetic thinking, in the ordinary, not Kierkegaardian sense
of the term, sometimes lies elsewhere than in the aesthetic existence sphere,
where one might expect to find it. Thus in my book on Kierkegaard’s con-
temporary, the German painter and draftsman Adolf Menzel (1815–1905),
I try to show that Judge William’s ethical reflections on marriage in part II
of Either/Or, specifically his claim to the effect that the everydayness of a
successful marriage—the absence in the latter of events that are essentially
momentary (the absence of intensiveness is how he also puts it)—defeats
what he calls aesthetic representation, amount to a marvelously original
contribution to aesthetic thinking in the ordinary sense of the term (see
MR 141).2 Indeed I go on to relate those reflections to Menzel’s thema-
tization in numerous paintings and drawings of the subject of brickwork
(another version of the everyday, one more or less identical item laid along-
side another, in principle endlessly), which is to say that I suggest that Men-
zel in effect finds a way around Judge William’s strictures (as regards the
representation not of marriage but of the everyday). And I associate those
strictures more directly with Theodor Fontane’s novel Effi Briest (1896),
which I understand as engaging with Kierkegaard’s thought in the narra-
tive’s almost complete elision of more than six years of Instetten’s marriage
with Effi following their move from Kessin to Berlin, a transition that put an
end to her affair with the practiced seducer Crampas, about which Instetten
244 Michael Fried
knew nothing. When by chance he learns of the affair he kills Crampas in
a duel and breaks off relations with Effi, despite recognizing—it is hard to
know how to put this—that the six-plus years of Judge William-style mar-
riage that he and Effi have just experienced render his actions absurd, or at
the very least mindlessly conventional and destructive. (I shall bring back
Menzel briefly at the end of this paper.)
Constantin Constantius’s “report” in the first half of Repetition, how-
ever, takes place entirely in the existence sphere of the aesthetic, so that it
is without the inbuilt ethical “seriousness” of Judge William’s reflections.3
(The second, shorter half mostly comprises letters from a young man to
Constantius, who has been making a study of him; the subtitle of the book
as a whole is “A Venture in Experimenting Psychology.”) The pages I have
in mind, fifteen or so in the Hongs’ translation, begin with Constantius’s
ruminations about the naturalness of an as yet unformed young man’s (any
young man’s) interest in the theater, which allows such a person—quite
properly, it is implied—to imagine multiple existences. In Constantius’s
words, “the individual’s possibility wanders about in its own possibility,
discovering now one possibility, now another. But the individual’s possibil-
ity does not want only to be heard . . . it wants to be visible at the same
time.” And beyond that, “in order not to gain an impression of his actual
self,” the hidden individual (the as yet unformed young man) needs a spe-
cial sort of environment, full of shadowy shapes and unresonant words—in
short, the stage.4 (Let me note in passing the importance right from the start
of the concept of “the individual”—more about this shortly.) Constantius
further remarks that although such a penchant for the theater is a mark of
immaturity, it comes back at a later stage,
when the soul has integrated itself in earnest. Yes, although the art may
not then be sufficiently earnest for the individual, he may at times be
disposed to return to that first stage and resume it in a mood. He desires
the comic effect and wants a relation to the theatrical performance that
generates the comic. Since tragedy, comedy, and light comedy fail to
please him precisely because of their perfection, he turns to farce.5
Then this, spelling out the stakes, or part of the stakes, of the previous
observations:
Every general aesthetic category runs aground on farce; nor does farce
succeed in producing a uniformity of mood in the more cultured audi-
ence. Because its impact depends largely on self-activity and the viewer’s
improvisation [i.e., on a wholly personal response to what is taking
place on stage], the particular individuality comes to assert himself in
a very individual way and in his enjoyment is emancipated from all
aesthetic obligations to admire, to laugh, to be moved etc., in the tra-
ditional way.7
The result goes entirely counter to the norms of other genres of theater,
all of which, to a greater or lesser extent, are predictable and all of which
presume a relative uniformity of taste and indeed of appropriate response
on the part of their audiences:
It is tempting to unpack these pages at length but I will settle for a few
basic points. First, I’ve already suggested that at times it is far from easy
to discriminate stylistically or argumentatively between the limited pseud-
onym Constantin Constantius and the rising world-historical genius Søren
Kierkegaard. This has to do with the almost unassayable intelligence of
the writing, of course, but also with the fact (as it seems to me) that the
tone of the passages just cited carries no suggestion of a limited point of
view. My thought, by no means an original one, is that this poses a con-
tinual, sometimes an insuperable, problem for readers of the pseudony-
mous works.
Second, the farce is described in these passages as a kind of technology for
producing or, at the very least, stimulating and sustaining a heightened mode
of individuality—a more “playful” one in a Schillerian sense?—a “very indi-
vidual” one, in any case—specifically as regards a certain sort of “cultured
person.” (I take Constantius to be distinguishing rather sharply on social or
say class grounds between the bulk of the audience, or at least the “gallery
and second balcony” portion of it, whose response to the doings on stage is
unrestrained laughter based on spontaneous identification, and those in the
“orchestra and first balcony,” for whom identification is out of the ques-
tion and whose laughter is of a different, subtler nature. Constantius also
says that without the first audience’s response the farce “simply could not
be performed,” and although he doesn’t state in so many words that the
presence of the first audience is crucial to the response of the second, that
is plainly the implication of his remarks.) Now, no one at all familiar with
Kierkegaard’s intellectual trajectory needs to be told that the category of
Constantin Constantius Goes to Theater 247
“the single individual” emerges within a few years virtually as the key to
his religious thought: the task of the church, in his view, is simply to enable
the single individual to make a leap of faith and achieve a personal rela-
tionship to God; as he puts it in Concluding Unscientific Postscript (1846),
let the religious speaker in church contribute how he may to elucidating
the task at hand, “the main point still is that the single individual will go
home from church willing wholeheartedly and eagerly to battle in the living
room.”9 And in A Literary Review (1846), “salvation comes only through
the essentiality of the religious in the single individual.”10 (Also: “Reflec-
tion [i.e., taking thought about the possibilities of one’s existence short of
the religious, a project or activity that is in principle infinite, full of endless
twists and reversals] is a sling one is strapped into, but through the inspired
leap of religiousness things change, and it becomes a sling that throws one
into the embrace of the eternal.”11) And this raises the intriguing question
of the relation of farce’s producing or stimulating the heightened mode of
individuality in the sphere of the (Kierkegaardian) aesthetic that Constan-
tius describes to “the single individual” as a religious category. Was some
such relation at work even at this early date?—more precisely, did an intu-
ition of a possible religious dimension to the concept of individuality incline
Kierkegaard to recognize in the dynamics of the farce and the responses it
elicited a phenomenon worth analyzing in depth? If so, nothing whatever
is said by Constantius to indicate as much, which is hardly surprising given
the latter’s restriction to the aesthetic existence sphere. And in any case there
would not be the remotest possibility of getting directly from one mode of
individuality to the other, from farce to God. But it is hard to shake off the
thought that something exceeding Constantius’s understanding of the issue
may be at work in these pages. (In a sense, this undercuts the first of my
basic points, at least to some extent.)12
And third, there is the importance of the notion of mood in Constan-
tius’s account of the cultivated viewer’s response to farce, culminating in
the statement that such a viewer “will have achieved perfection in mood
and will maintain himself in the state in which not a single mood is present
but a possibility of all.” I don’t know what quite to make of this but the
interest of it seems clear, even without going on to consider the larger ques-
tion of the role of mood in Kierkegaard’s reflections on religion; my sugges-
tion would be that before summoning Martin Heidegger to our assistance
a more immediately relevant comparison might be with Kierkegaard’s older
contemporary Ralph Waldo Emerson, as read by our contemporary Stan-
ley Cavell. (Cavell’s early essay on Emerson, “An Emerson Mood,” would
be a place to start.13 For both Emerson and Kierkegaard, the concept of
mood concerns the subject’s fundamental relation to the world. The great
difference between them, of course, is that for Emerson—I follow Cavell in
this—the importance of mood is to be understood philosophically whereas
for Kierkegaard the existence sphere of the religious is where ultimate mean-
ings reside.)
248 Michael Fried
There follow a stunning few pages on the actual performance of farce at
the Königstädter Theater, which by way of showering praise on the comic
actors Beckmann and Grobecker further specify that farce
In short they are the Marx Brothers; I mean this seriously in that I take
these pages—which I have excerpted brutally—to provide the best account
I know of the particular power of those Jewish-American geniuses’ improvi-
sations in their most inspired films (remember, too, that the Marx Brothers
began in vaudeville and also took part in stage productions like the original
anarchic Animal Crackers of 1928). (Constantius even says of Beckmann,
his favorite, that he “comes walking”15—a formulation that for an Ameri-
can reader of my generation inevitably recalls Groucho’s restless comic
prowl, though doubtless Constantius had something else in mind.)
And then a simple narrative begins: “One enters the Königstädter Theater
and gets a place in the first balcony, for relatively few sit there, and in see-
ing a farce one must sit comfortably and in no way feel hampered by the
exaltation of art that makes people jam a theater to see a play as if it were
a matter of salvation.”16 In fact he goes on to recommend boxes five and
six on the left, adding that “in a corner in the back there is a single seat
where one has an unsurpassed position. So you are sitting alone in your
box, and the theater is empty”—which evidently means that most of the
audience is somehow out of sight, though of course waves of laughter fill the
hall. There follows a short “poetic” passage addressed to his “unforgettable
nursemaid” who lived in the brook that ran past his father’s farm when he
was a child and recalling lying by her side and losing himself “in the immen-
sity of sky above”—leading quickly to: “Thus did I lie in my theater box,
discarded like a swimmer’s clothing, stretched out by the stream of laughter
and unrestraint and applause that ceaselessly foamed by me. I could see
nothing but the expanse of theater, hear nothing but the noise in which
I resided”—and so on.
At which point an unexpected transition occurs. “By itself this was bliss-
ful,” he writes,
She did not suspect that she was being observed and even less that my
eyes were upon her; it would have been a sin against her and, worst of
all, for myself, for there is an innocence, an unawareness that even the
purest thought can disturb. A person does not find this out by himself,
but if his good guardian spirit confides to him where such primitive
privacy hides, then he does not intrude upon it and does not grieve
his guardian spirit. If she had even suspected my mute, half-infatuated
delight, everything would have been spoiled beyond repair, even with
all her love.17 [With all her love? A strange thought; we’ll return to it.]
In other words, after giving a quite detailed and by any standard intel-
lectually compelling account of the operations of farce, the gist of which
would seem to be that by its very nature, which is to say by virtue of the
sheer individual-by-individual unpredictability of its effects, farce defeats
all previous attempts to formulate an aesthetics for the theater, Constan-
tius attends a performance that has everything to commend it—and finds
something lacking. And goes on to supply that lack by fastening his atten-
tion upon a young woman sitting across from him in the audience who is
unaware of being beheld by him—put slightly differently, who is so caught
up, so absorbed in the performance (in her own way: it seems to provoke in
her a kind of thoughtful wonderment) that she has no awareness of anything
else. Anyone acquainted with my work on Denis Diderot and the anti-the-
atrical tradition in French painting and art criticism and indeed modern art
generally (and theory of the stage, though I don’t pursue the topic) from the
middle of the eighteenth century down to the present will grasp at once why
I find this twist of events so particularly striking.18 For what Constantius’s
narrative comes to is that the experiencing of a best case of farce turns out to
be somehow wanting—it leaves him, personally, unsatisfied—and that what
turns out to satisfy that want is an almost parodic version of the Diderotian
dispositif: in this case not the performance of a team of actors who manage
250 Michael Fried
to convey the impression of being wholly caught up in the fictive action of
the play and therefore oblivious to the presence before them of an audience,
but the simple existence of a young woman who really is unaware of being
observed by Constantius. As if (1) even in what I am tempted to call the
representation-sphere of farce the Diderotian project could not simply be
discarded; and (2) by the early 1840s in Copenhagen and Berlin, if not else-
where, that project could no longer meaningfully be pursued on the stage
or say within the conventions of traditional stage drama (in Kierkegaard’s
view, at any rate; or should we say in Constantius’s?) but could only be
imagined actualized as if by chance in the space of the audience—a space
structured, it would seem crucially, by the performance of a farce.
It remains an open question to what extent if at all Kierkegaard was
familiar with Diderot’s anti-theatrical doctrine either in the original or in
a derivative form. Certainly no evidence exists that suggests that he was.
But by the 1840s, not only in Paris, versions of the great philosophe’s ideas
about the stage and painting were in broad circulation, and in any case what
is of interest is less the conjunction of Kierkegaard and Diderot than the fact
that at this particular juncture in Repetition Constantius supplements the
farce in the way he describes.19 And he is not quite done. The text continues
without a break:
I know a place a few miles from Copenhagen where a young girl lives;
I know the big shaded garden with its many trees and bushes. I know a
bushy slope a short distance away, from which, concealed by the brush,
one can look down into the garden. I have not divulged this to anyone;
not even my coachman knows it, for I deceive him by getting out some
distance away and walking to the right instead of the left. When my
mind is sleepless and the sight of my bed makes me more apprehensive
than a torture machine does, even more than the operating table strikes
fear in the sick person, then I drive all night long. Early in the morning,
I lie in hiding in the shelter of the brush. When life begins to stir, when
the sun opens its eye, when the bird shakes its wings, when the fox
steals out of its cave, when the farmer stands in his doorway and gazes
out over the fields, when the milkmaid walks with her pail down to the
meadow, when the reaper makes his scythe ring and entertains himself
with this prelude, which becomes the day’s and the task’s refrain—then
the young girl also appears. Fortunate the one who can sleep! Fortu-
nate the one who can sleep so lightly that sleep itself does not become
a burden heavier than that of the day! Fortunate the one who can rise
from his bed as if no one had rested there, so that the bed itself is cool
and delicious and refreshing to look at, as if the sleeper had not rested
upon it but only bent over it to straighten it out! Fortunate the one who
can die in such a way that even one’s deathbed, the instant one’s body
is removed, looks more inviting than if a solicitous mother had shaken
and aired the covers so that the child might sleep more peacefully! Then
the young girl appears and walks around in wonderment (who wonders
Constantin Constantius Goes to Theater 251
most, the girl or the trees!), then she crouches and picks from the bushes,
then skips lightly about, then stands still, lost in thought. What wonder-
ful persuasion in all this! Then at last my mind finds repose. Happy girl!
If a man ever wins your love, would that you might make him as happy
by being everything to him as you make me by doing nothing for me.20
This very nearly covers the ground that interests me. In the next para-
graphs Constantius returns to the Königstädter Theater but has to sit else-
where than in his preferred place; his immediate neighbors are unsure of
their response to the performance, which Constantius finds boring; the
young girl is nowhere to be seen; and even Beckmann fails to make him
laugh. He then goes back to his apartment but finds that it has become
dismal to him because it is a repetition of the wrong kind (he had returned
to Berlin to try to capture the excitement of a previous visit); he visits a
familiar café and a restaurant, but their sameness is depressing; and when
the next evening he goes to the Königstädter Theater once more the moral
becomes clear—“the only repetition was the impossibility of a repetition.”21
(Again the young girl is absent; at any rate I take that to be the meaning
of the intriguing statement, “The little dancer who last time had enchanted
me with her gracefulness, who, so to speak, was on the verge of a leap,
had already made the leap.” (By “last time” I take him to mean “on earlier
visits.”) As already mentioned, the concept of a leap—of faith—will soon
become central to Kierkegaard’s religious thought. The little dancer’s leap
went where, though—into womanhood? Earlier Constantius had referred to
“all her love”—not for him, of course. Are we to imagine her now engaged
or married?)
One way all this plays out in the secondary literature is in the generaliza-
tion that Constantius discovers to his chagrin that returning to Berlin was
the wrong kind of repetition (a view seemingly endorsed by Kierkegaard
himself22), by which I mean that, to the best of my knowledge, commenta-
tors on this extraordinarily challenging text haven’t considered it reward-
ing to pay close attention to the pages we have just skimmingly considered
for the simple reason that it is hard to see exactly how they bear on the
larger question of the meaning of Kierkegaardian repetition (the right kind
of repetition, so to speak)—but is that sufficient justification for giving them
short shrift? Not to my mind, both because of the extreme brilliance of the
reflections on farce but also because it seems likely that we are meant to
understand Constantius’s dealings with the two young girls—the first in the
Königstädter Theater and, especially, the second in the “big shaded garden”
a few miles outside Copenhagen (itself a repetition; but of what sort?)—in
a critical light. Simply put, his relation to both can be termed voyeuristic,
which is not at all true of the Diderotian project as such. Indeed the whole
point of the account of spying on the girl in the garden, for that is what
Constantius’s actions amount to, is—as I read it—to underscore the base-
ness of his motivation, not that it is easy to state in so many words exactly
what his motivation is. That is, his noticing and becoming fascinated by the
252 Michael Fried
young girl in the theater apparently happened by chance. But nothing could
be more deliberate, not to say compulsive, than his repeated drives into the
countryside outside Copenhagen (deceiving his coachman in the process)
to feast his eyes in privacy on the second of his young objects of displaced
or indeed unacknowledged desire. In fact the habit of those drives precedes
the discovery of the girl in the theater. Here it is surely relevant that what
I earlier called the tone of the writing shifts palpably when it moves from
Constantius’s panegyric on the two geniuses Beckmann and Grobecker to
the narrative of his adventures that begins, “One enters the Königstädter
Theater and gets a place in the first balcony, for relatively few sit there,”
etc.—the reader being invited to perceive a difference (may we say: an “ethi-
cal” difference, despite the fact that the entire first half of the book is in an
aesthetic register?) between the reflections on farce, which I have suggested
are only nominally in the voice and persona of the pseudonymous Constan-
tius as distinct from those of his ventriloquizer Søren Kierkegaard, and the
narrative that follows, which turns on the felt inadequacy of the farce to
satisfy Constantius and crucially involves spying on the two girls. (Why the
sense of inadequacy, though? Because mere individuality even of the height-
ened variety made possible by farce was not enough for him? Of course,
such individuality does in fact fall far short of individuality in the religious
sense of the term, so perhaps Constantius is right to feel as he does, if not in
his response to those feelings. A conundrum.)
There is, of course, a further point that bears on the topic: the mention
of young girls inevitably recalls the fact that in 1841 Kierkegaard had bro-
ken off his engagement with Regine Olsen, without question the decisive
event in his affective life.23 Indeed the basic fiction of Repetition is that Con-
stantius, an older man, contracts a friendship with an extremely promising
young man who has engaged himself to a young girl but now has doubts
about whether he should marry her, doubts which to say the least Con-
stantius encourages. Furthermore, in part II of Repetition we learn from a
series of letters from the young man to Constantius that the young woman,
soon after being in effect abandoned by the young man, married someone
else, leaving the young man elated for reasons that need not concern us
here (basically he feels absolved from guilt)—a denouement reflecting the
announcement of Regine’s engagement to Johan Frederik Schlegel, who had
been her teacher before she met Kierkegaard.24 Clearly, Kierkegaard in 1843
was haunted by the figure of the innocent yet also somehow threatening
young girl, who without ever saying a word reigns over the text.
To return briefly to Constantius’s account of his early morning visits to
young girl number two’s garden, there are two moments that still require to
be looked at more closely. The first is when he writes:
Fortunate the one who can sleep! Fortunate the one who can sleep so
lightly that sleep itself does not become a burden heavier than that of
the day! Fortunate the one who can rise from his bed as if no one had
Constantin Constantius Goes to Theater 253
rested there, so that the bed itself is cool and delicious and refreshing to
look at, as if the sleeper had not rested upon it but only bent over it to
straighten it out! Fortunate the one who can die in such a way that even
one’s deathbed, the instant one’s body is removed, looks more inviting
than if a solicitous mother had shaken and aired the covers so that the
child might sleep more peacefully! Then the young girl appears.25
Why has no one returned from the dead? Because life does not know
how to captivate as death does, because life does not have the persua-
siveness that death has. Yes, death is very persuasive if only one does
not contradict it but lets it do the talking; then it is instantly convincing,
so that no one has ever had an objection to make or has longed for the
eloquence of life. O death! Great is your persuasiveness, and there is no
Constantin Constantius Goes to Theater 255
one who can speak as beautifully as the man whose eloquence gave him
the name [persuader to death], because with his power of persuasion
he talked about you!31 [The reference is to the Cyrenaic philosopher
Hegesias, who the Hongs tell us “spoke so attractively about death that
some of his followers committed suicide.”32]
What are we entitled to conclude from these passages? In the first place,
that Constantius himself seems to recognize that the fantasy of weightless-
ness, transparency, and disembodiment (and beyond that, of the perfectly
innocent and forever sequestered young girl?) is exactly that—in Cavellian/
Wittgensteinian terms, a fantasy of escaping human finitude, which from a
Kierkegaardian perspective, not available to Constantius, cannot be escaped
but only overcome in the leap of faith to the religious. As for the (to my
mind, wholly unexpected) return of the concept of “persuasion,” this time
in connection with eloquence rather than art, it shows in the first place how
closely Kierkegaard in the process of composition rereads his own w riting—
as if having written earlier of the second young girl “What wonderful per-
suasion doesn’t lie in all this!” he goes on (having evoked bodilessness again
several pages after that) to have Constantius associate persuasion with
death, which of course would be one way of characterizing the leap in ques-
tion (out of this life, into eternal life; out of the aesthetic, into the religious),
again beyond Constantius’s scope, so to speak. Here I reach the limits of my
own analysis of this prodigious text.33
Let me close with a drawing by the artist I mentioned earlier, the great
German painter and draftsman Adolf Menzel, whom Kierkegaard might
well have passed in the street during one of his several visits to Berlin (I pic-
ture this happening on Unter den Linden, not far from Gendarmenmarkt,
where Constantius’s rooms were located). The drawing I have in mind is
Menzel’s superb Unmade Bed from 1845 (Figure 15.1), a work I discuss
in Menzel’s Realism (41–2). As my title suggests, I see Menzel’s oeuvre as
consistently foregrounding a thematics as well as a stylistics of embodi-
ment: so, for example, in Unmade Bed Menzel has depicted a bed with
its bedsheets, pillows, duvet, and countless creases and folds in a manner
that empathically evokes—more persuasively than one would have thought
possible—the experience of lying on those sheets, resting one’s head on
those pillows, covering one’s body with that duvet. Simply put, nothing
could be further from the imaginative content of Menzel’s graphic tour
de force than Constantius’s apostrophe to lightness verging on disembodi-
ment in his remarkable sentences in the young girl’s garden (“Who is it that
would be able to sleep!” and so on). And yet the very antithesis between
the two relates them to one another dialectically, to use another of Kierkeg-
aard’s favorite terms—that is, the fantasy of leaving no mark or impress
in a bed (after sleep, even after death), as well as the restatement and then
somewhat overwrought revoking of a version of that fantasy in the pages
that follow, reveal their sheer oddness most fully when juxtaposed with
256 Michael Fried
Notes
1 Søren Kierkegaard, Stages on Life’s Way, trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H.
Hong (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 476. See also 440–3 and pas-
sim. There is, of course, a large secondary literature on these issues, which I won’t
pretend to have mastered. See, however, George Pattison, Kierkegaard: The Aes-
thetic and the Religious (Basingstoke and London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1982).
2 See also Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or, ed. and trans. Howard V. Hong and
Edna H. Hong, 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 2: 87–184.
3 Søren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling / Repetition, ed. and trans. Howard
V. Hong and Edna H. Hong (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983),
125–231.
4 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 155–6.
5 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 158.
6 This is not the place for a discussion of farce as a genre but it should at least
be noted that it was pioneered in France in the early nineteenth century (the
master of the genre being Eugène Scribe) and was introduced into Copenhagen
Constantin Constantius Goes to Theater 257
(under the designation “vaudevilles”) in 1825 by the highly influential writer
and philosopher John Ludvig Heiberg, a figure who plays a major role in
Kierkegaard’s intellectual life, especially during the 1840s. See in this connec-
tion Tonny Aagaard Olesen, “The Prelude to Heiberg’s Critical Breakthrough”;
András Nagy, “Johan Ludvig Heiberg, “Homme de théâtre”; Kirsten Wechsel,
“Questions of Value in Heiberg’s Vaudevilles”; and Leonardo Lisi, “Heiberg
and the Drama of Modernity,” in Johan Ludvig Heiberg: Philosopher, Littéra-
teur, Dramaturge, and Political Thinker, ed. Jon Stewart (Copenhagen: Museum
Tusculanum Press, 2008), 211–45, 357–94, 395–417, and 421–48 respectively.
Eventually I shall want to write something about Kierkegaard’s extended analy-
sis of Scribe’s comedy Le Premier Amour (actually Les Premiers Amours) in part
one of Either/Or, 231–79.
7 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 158–9.
8 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 160–1.
9 Søren Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Frag-
ments, 2 vols., ed. and trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1992), 1: 465.
10 Søren Kierkegaard, A Literary Review, trans. Alastair Hannay (London: Pen-
guin Books, 2001), 78.
11 Kierkegaard, A Literary Review, 80.
12 Note, however, that the theme of the individual recurs in the fifth of the young
man’s letters to Constantius (dated December 14), in which the former writes:
How, then, is Job’s position to be explained? The explanation is this: the
whole thing is an ordeal [Prøvelse]. But this explanation leaves a new dif-
ficulty, which I have tried to clarify for myself in the following manner. It is
true that science and scholarship consider and interpret life and man’s rela-
tionship to God in this life. But what science is of such a nature that it has
room for a relationship that is defined as an ideal, which viewed infinitely
does not exist at all but exists only for the individual?
(Repetition, 209)
And on the next page:
This category, ordeal, is not aesthetic, ethical, or dogmatic—it is altogether
transcendent. Only as knowledge about an ordeal, that it is an ordeal, would
it be included in a dogmatics. But as soon as the knowledge enters, the resil-
ience of the ordeal is impaired, and the category is actually another category.
This category is absolutely transcendent and places a person in a purely per-
sonal relationship of opposition to God, a relationship such that he cannot
allow himself to be satisfied with any such explanation at second hand.
(Repetition, 210)
Consider also the excerpts from Kierkegaard’s unpublished open letter to Johan
Ludvig Heiberg, especially the paragraph beginning, “But as soon as one consid-
ers individuals in their freedom . . .” (in Repetition, 288).
13 Stanley Cavell, “An Emerson Mood,” in Emerson’s Transcendental Etudes, ed.
David Justin Hodge (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), 20–32. See also
in the same volume “Finding as Founding,” where Cavell characterizes Emerso-
nian moods as categories “in which not the objects of a world but the world as
a whole is, as it were, experienced” (124).
14 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 161.
15 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 163.
16 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 165.
17 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 167.
18 See, for example, Absorption and Theatricality and Why Photography Matters
as Art as Never Before.
258 Michael Fried
19 According to Alastair Hannay, Kierkegaard owned Gotthold Ephraim Lessing’s
collected works and so would have been familiar with the latter’s Hamburgische
Dramaturgie (1767–68), a gathering of 106 articles written by Lessing while
employed as a critic by the National Theater in Hamburg; Hannay’s point is that
Kierkegaard would therefore have been familiar with Lessing’s frequent refer-
ences in that text to Aristotle’s discussion of the relation of poetry to history. But
it would equally be true that he might well have been directed to read Diderot
on the theater, the French philosophe being the focus of no less than six of the
articles (the first of which opens with a reference to Diderot’s “Conversations on
The Natural Son,” a key anti-theatrical text). See Hannay, Kierkegaard: A Biog-
raphy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 276.
20 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 167–8.
21 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 170.
22 From the unpublished open letter to Heiberg:
The young man’s problem is whether repetition is possible. Meanwhile I par-
odied this for him in advance by undertaking a journey to Berlin to see if
repetition is possible. The confusion consists in this: the most interior prob-
lem of the possibility of repetition is expressed externally, as if repetition, if
it were possible, were to be found outside the individual when in fact it must
be found within the individual.
(Repetition, 304)
23 See Hannay, Kierkegaard, chap. 7, “The Breach and Berlin: Either/Or,” and
chap. 8, “Faith and Tragic Heroism [on Fear and Trembling and Repetition],”
154–206. See also the Hongs, “Historical Introduction, Fear and Trembling /
Repetition,” xii–xx; and Joakim Garff, Søren Kierkegaard: A Biography, trans.
Bruce H. Kirmmse (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2005),
173–251.
24 According to the Hongs, a new ending to Repetition, which was to have con-
cluded with the suicide of the young man, had to be written to replace the origi-
nal pages. They state: “Now Constantius and the young man become parodies
of each other: Constantius despairs of aesthetic repetition because of the contin-
gency of life, and the young man, despairing of personal repetition in relation to
the ethical, obtains aesthetic repetition by accident” (see “Repetition, xx).
25 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 168.
26 Søren Kierkegaard, Repetition: An Essay in Experimental Psychology, trans.
Walter Lowrie (New York, Evanston, and London: Harper and Row, 1941), 73.
27 My thanks to Leonardo Lisi for this information. Let me take this opportunity to
thank Professor Lisi for his aid and encouragement throughout my engagement
with Repetition.
28 Another point I owe to Leonardo Lisi.
29 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 173.
30 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 174.
31 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 176.
32 Kierkegaard, Repetition, 369.
33 For characteristically stunning remarks about “persuasion” see Kierkegaard, A
Literary Review, 16–17. By what means does “persuasion” take place, Kierkeg-
aard asks, apropos of a novel he admires, A Story of Everyday Life (by Heiberg’s
mother, Thomasine Gyllembourg, though Kierkegaard leaves that unsaid). His
answer:
By the use of common sense, so as to gain for suffering a more merciful
aspect, by having patience, a patience that expects good fortune to smile
again; by the friendly sympathy of loving people; and by the resignation that
Constantin Constantius Goes to Theater 259
renounces its claim not to everything, but to the highest, and through con-
tentment transforms the next-best into something almost as good. And none
of this is put across—it just happens—and it is for this very reason that, if one
gives oneself up to it, the persuasion is so powerful. No orator can persuade
like this, simply because he has a motive, and contemplation always gives
birth to doubt. Here, however, persuasion is not a matter between two per-
sons but the pathway in the life-view, and the novel leads one into the world
that that view creatively sustains. But, then again, this world is precisely the
actual one; so you have not been deceived by the view; it has simply per-
suaded you to stay where you are.
He goes on to write:
Persuasion is a movement on the spot but one that changes the spot. Aestheti-
cally, the individual is led away from the actual world and translated into the
medium of the imagination; religiously, the individual is led away and trans-
lated into the eternity of the religious. In each case the individual becomes
alien to the actual world. Aesthetically, the individual becomes alien to the
actual world by being absent from it; religiously, the individual becomes an
alien and a foreigner in the actual world.
(A Literary Review, 17)
There follows more of interest on the topic (Kierkegaard can’t help himself),
but I want to point out, first, the anti-theatrical implications of Kierkegaard’s
remarks about the motivatedness of the orator and more broadly of his claim
that the persuasiveness of the novel is a function of its not seeming to have
designs on the reader, which is what it means to say of its world-view that it “is
not put across—it just happens.” And second, that the notion of being made
“absent from” the actual world also has an anti-theatrical edge—we might think
of it as the very opposite of Constantius’s all too “present” voyeuristic relation
to the two young girls, especially the second. Put slightly differently, Diderot
calls for a beholder of a painting or a member of an audience in a theater to be
rendered aesthetically “absent from” the representations in question. In general,
there is reason to think of Kierkegaard as an anti-theatrical thinker, and not just
in the realm of art.
34 This essay first appeared in MLN (128: 5, 2013), 1019–37, as part of the pro-
ceedings of a symposium on Kierkegaard organized for the Humanities Center,
Johns Hopkins University, by Leonardo Lisi.
Contributors
absorption 4 – 9, 15, 16, 50, 51, 53, 53, 55, 58 – 9, 61n10, 62n13, 66, 68,
80 – 2, 87, 94, 99 – 102, 104, 110, 71, 73 – 4, 80 – 1, 87, 94, 99, 100 – 1,
118 – 19, 122, 144, 145 – 7, 149 – 50, 113, 118 – 19, 123, 125 – 7, 155,
155, 171 – 9, 185 – 7, 187 – 8n1, 158, 161, 168n18, 171 – 81, 185 – 6,
188n7, 191, 192, 193, 198, 202 – 3, 187, 187n1, 202, 205n31, 206 – 24,
206 – 24, 248 – 53, 259n33 226 – 7, 229 – 31, 238, 253, 259n33;
acknowledgment 7, 28 – 9, 51, 60, criticism of 1, 2 – 4, 8 – 11, 12, 13, 14,
61n10, 71, 87 – 8, 92 – 4, 99, 101, 17n8, 20, 23 – 6, 28 – 9, 31n14, 48 – 9,
113, 134 – 5, 136, 141, 144, 176, 64 – 6, 71 – 3, 82 – 5, 91, 93 – 5, 97,
206, 210, 230, 252 104 – 6, 108, 109 – 10, 113, 114n4,
action 12, 14, 15, 33 – 45, 45n2, 50, 115n28, 117 – 19, 121 – 2, 124 – 7,
53, 59 – 60, 66, 68, 69, 71, 72, 76, 127, 129, 131, 135 – 6, 138 – 9, 140,
79, 80, 93, 96, 106, 115n21, 120 – 2, 140 – 1, 143 – 5, 145, 146, 149, 150,
124, 126 – 7, 128n23, 131 – 6, 149, 152, 153, 161, 165, 171, 172, 181,
151, 153, 161, 162, 165 – 7, 175, 188n5, 206 – 7, 208, 209, 209 – 11,
177, 181 – 2, 190, 191, 192, 194 – 7, 212 – 17, 219 – 21, 223 – 4, 226, 227,
201 – 3, 206, 208 – 9, 210, 215 – 17, 229 – 33, 238, 249, 254; duration and
219 – 24, 237, 244, 245 – 6, 253 52, 62n21, 76, 78, 81, 84, 139, 147,
Agee, James 198 – 201 191 – 2, 196, 198, 213, 217, 219 – 21;
agency see action essence and 2, 10, 12, 18 – 30, 30n2,
Althusser, Louis 189, 190, 191, 203, 31n14, 31 – 2n23, 35 – 6, 53, 65,
204n15 87 – 8, 91 – 4, 99, 105, 114n3, 166,
Andre, Carl 2, 161 178; historical context of 1, 3, 4, 5,
Anscombe, Elizabeth 1, 12, 42, 43, 6 – 7, 9 – 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17n5, 21,
45n2, 169n30 23, 25 – 7, 29, 30, 36 – 7, 48 – 52, 55,
anti-theatricality 2, 3, 4, 7 – 10, 12 – 13, 57, 58, 59 – 60, 61n8, 64 – 7, 71 – 5,
14, 16, 48 – 9, 50 – 2, 55, 58 – 9, 79 – 83, 85, 87, 91, 92 – 6, 98 – 102,
60 – 1n4, 62n15, 66, 73, 80, 83 – 5, 104 – 13, 114n4, 115n28, 116n29,
94, 98 – 9, 100 – 1, 117 – 27, 144 – 6, 145 – 6, 148, 149 – 50, 155, 159 – 60,
149, 152, 155 – 6, 158, 163 – 5, 164, 171 – 2, 175, 187 – 8n1, 190 – 4,
172 – 6, 178 – 9, 192, 205n31, 196, 198, 202 – 3, 204n9, 212, 227,
249 – 50, 253, 258n19, 258 – 9n33; 238 – 40, 242n14, 249 – 50, 253 – 4,
see also theatricality 256; history of 1, 2, 3, 4 – 11, 13,
architecture 64, 72, 76 – 7, 105, 106, 14, 15, 17n5, 36, 48, 49, 51, 61n8,
110, 112, 113, 115n27 64 – 6, 71 – 2, 94 – 5, 97, 100, 102,
Art: beholding of 1, 2 – 3, 4, 7 – 10, 14, 104 – 5, 110 – 12, 114n20, 115n28,
15, 21, 28, 29, 37 – 40, 49, 50, 51 – 2, 140 – 2, 145 – 6, 155, 167, 171 – 6,
264 Index
178 – 9, 187n1, 190, 192, 194, cinema 17n7, 52, 61n5, 87, 92 – 3,
202 – 3, 212, 242n14; objecthood 99, 135
and 2 – 3, 8, 14, 15, 16, 24 – 7, 36, 38, Clark, T. J. 17n5, 192
40, 41 – 5, 46n13, 50, 84, 87, 89 – 91, convention 7, 11, 12, 17n8, 24 – 7,
95, 99, 129 – 31, 133 – 6, 136n3, 139, 29 – 30, 49 – 50, 57, 64 – 5, 82 – 3,
143 – 5, 166, 180, 187, 193, 212, 92 – 3, 106 – 7, 118, 130, 133 – 5, 155,
221, 226 – 32, 242n11; presentness 172, 177, 192, 195, 196, 198, 230,
and 50, 62n13, 62n21, 98, 99, 244, 250
102, 139, 191 – 2; time and see art, conviction 1, 4, 5, 6, 10, 12, 18 – 19,
duration and; worldhood and 8, 15, 24 – 6, 28 – 9, 43, 65, 71, 73, 74, 82,
49, 50, 55, 61n6, 63n23, 75 – 6, 78, 84, 87, 93, 97, 98, 114n3, 118, 139,
87, 89 – 90, 94, 118 – 19, 130, 134 – 5, 173, 175, 178 – 9, 181, 187, 188n5,
137n7, 146, 150, 155, 173 – 87, 253 – 5, 258 – 9n33
207, 215 – 24, 229 – 32, 240 – 1n6, Courbet, Gustave 13, 51, 79 – 82,
241 – 2n11, 247, 254, 257n13, 258 – 9 86n33, 99 – 102, 104, 146, 171, 176
artifactuality and 21, 22 – 3, 27 – 8, Cronan, Todd 62n14, 139, 242n14
31n23, 57, 73, 74, 77, 123, 125,
130 – 1, 166, 213, 226, 227 – 9, 232 Danto, Arthur 1, 20, 22 – 3, 26, 32n25,
autonomy of 8, 13, 58, 72, 100, 102, 43, 45n2, 47n25, 56 – 7, 111
109 – 10, 113, 118, 119, 123 – 4, David, Jacques-Louis 5, 7, 17n4, 66,
127, 144, 198, 226 – 7, 230, 231, 101, 171
241 – 2n11 Davidson, Donald 190, 191, 195, 203
Aristotle 51 – 2, 70, 72, 258n19 decapitation see severing
Demand, Thomas 9, 12 – 13, 14, 15,
Barthes, Roland 1, 11, 14 – 15, 60n3, 50, 53 – 60, 54, 61n7, 61 – 2n12,
145 – 6, 151 – 61, 163 – 6, 168n11 – 20, 62n21, 90, 138 – 9, 143 – 7, 149, 155,
169n21 – 3, 201 – 2 159 – 66, 169n24, 170n35, 195 – 8,
Beardsley, Monroe 39 – 41, 43 – 4, 46n21 201, 227, 231 – 2, 234 – 5, 241n8 – 9
beauty 67 – 75, 78, 85n11, 112, 122, dialectics 1, 5 – 6, 10 – 11, 15, 26, 49, 52,
124 – 7, 129, 172 – 3, 180, 197 – 201, 55, 62n13, 65 – 6, 96, 104, 115n24,
209 – 10, 212 – 15, 235, 236, 254 – 5 123, 145 – 6, 160 – 1, 166, 191 – 4,
Becher, Berndt and Hilla 9, 50, 89 – 91, 196, 202 – 3, 205n31, 255 – 6
93, 94 Dickie, George 1, 20, 22 – 3, 26, 28,
Bois, Yve-Alain 140 – 1 32n24 – 9, 129
Diderot, Denis 1, 4 – 6, 8 – 9, 13, 14, 15,
Cage, John 46n15, 202 48, 50, 61n10, 66, 68 – 70, 71 – 5, 81,
capitalism 6, 11, 197 – 8, 200 – 1 94, 100 – 2, 104, 117 – 19, 122, 152,
Caravaggio 1, 13, 53, 97, 99 – 102, 155, 171, 175 – 6, 181, 202, 205n31,
105, 109 – 11, 113, 114n3, 115n23, 206 – 24, 224n3 – 9, 249 – 51, 254,
116n31, 149, 171, 179 258n19, 259n33
Caro, Anthony 1, 3, 4, 24, 28 – 9, 45, drama 51, 65 – 6, 69, 71 – 2, 77, 100 – 1,
64 – 5, 108, 115n28, 161, 229 – 33, 117 – 19, 124, 155, 175, 179,
241 – 2n11 206 – 12, 214 – 19, 221 – 3, 232, 234,
Carrier, David 129, 131 238, 240, 250, 253
Cavell, Stanley 1, 2, 11, 12, 13, 14, drawing 1, 33 – 4, 37, 40 – 4, 174, 243,
17n8, 18, 23 – 4, 28 – 30, 30n9, 255 – 6
32n29, 39 – 40, 41 – 3, 45n2, 83, Duchamp, Marcel 108, 129, 138 – 9,
85n1, 93 – 4, 95 – 6, 105 – 8, 110, 228
114n5 – 14, 115n23, 129, 131 – 3,
135 – 6, 137n8 – 14, 139, 147 – 50, embodiment 12, 16, 33, 39, 41 – 4,
169n27, 192, 247, 255, 257n13 45n2, 59, 63n23, 77 – 8, 79 – 81,
Chardin, Jean-Baptiste-Siméon 4 – 5, 5, 82, 94, 143, 165, 173 – 4, 179, 183,
16n3, 53, 94, 101, 164, 171, 173 – 6, 187 – 8n1, 194 – 5, 197, 209, 219,
174, 193, 207 – 8 232 – 5, 237 – 8, 241n6, 250, 253 – 6
Index 265
Emerson, Ralph Waldo 247, 254, 179; “Morris Louis” 33 – 45, 45n1;
257n13 Powers 1, 232 – 4, 239, 240n1,
Evans, Walker 198 – 200, 205n22 241n6; Promesse du Bonheur 1,
16, 237 – 40, 242n12; “Roger Fry’s
film see cinema Formalism” 117, 119 – 27; “Shape as
finitude 12, 22, 29 – 30, 31n21, 32n41, Form” 26, 65, 115n21, 144; “Three
89, 113, 135, 148, 203, 204n15, 255 American Painters” 105, 136n3;
Flaubert, Gustave 1, 86n33 “Two Sculptures by Anthony Caro”
form 16, 51 – 3, 55 – 6, 57, 62n16, 64 – 5; Why Photography Matters as
70 – 2, 74 – 6, 85, 85n15, 111, 113, Art as Never Before 1, 2, 9 – 11, 13,
114n3, 117 – 18, 123, 129, 131, 134, 14 – 15, 48 – 50, 52 – 3, 54 – 5, 61n5,
171 – 2, 173, 175 – 6, 180 – 1, 183, 62n21, 87 – 100, 102n2, 145 – 6,
186, 187n1, 194, 196 – 200, 202, 151 – 67, 168n18, 169n23, 173,
203, 204n15, 218, 228 – 40, 241n11, 176 – 8, 196, 227, 257n18
242n14 Friedlander, Lee 152 – 4
formalism 2, 8, 14, 20, 61n6, 70, 104, Friedrich, Caspar David 11, 15, 181 – 6,
117 – 18, 121, 123 – 7 182, 204n8
Foster, Hal 3 – 4, 32n39, 204n6 Fry, Roger 14, 20, 117, 119 – 27
Foucault, Michel 189 – 90 Fuller, Loïe 190, 197 – 9
Fried, Michael (works by): Absorption
and Theatricality 1, 4 – 7, 9, 17n8, Gadamer, Hans-Georg 108 – 9
32n41, 48 – 9, 67 – 9, 71 – 5, 100, 104, grace 15, 102, 109, 113, 191 – 3, 198,
117 – 18, 122, 146, 147, 149 – 50, 203, 251; see also art, presentness and
155, 171 – 7, 179 – 81, 187 – 8n1, Géricault, Theodore 7, 65 – 6
188n7, 193, 206 – 24, 257n18; After Gordon, Douglas 97, 98 – 9
Caravaggio 1, 97, 100; Another Greenberg, Clement 2, 12, 24 – 6,
Light 1, 11, 17n5, 61n7, 61 – 2n12, 32n29, 33 – 8, 43 – 5, 46n10, 104 – 5,
62n21, 65 – 6, 127n2, 138 – 9, 147, 114n3, 115n28, 129, 140 – 1, 193
182 – 3, 185, 191 – 2, 194, 195 – 6, Greuze, Jean-Baptiste 4 – 6, 6, 9, 101 – 2,
202, 204n7, 227; “Anthony Caro’s 171, 175 – 6, 193, 200, 208 – 9,
Table Sculptures” 230 – 1; “Art and 215 – 16
Objecthood” 1, 2 – 4, 9, 12, 13, Gursky, Andreas 9, 50, 61n5, 89, 100
20, 24 – 30, 32n39, 45, 51, 61n11,
82 – 5, 95, 98, 102, 105, 109, Heidegger, Martin 11, 55, 59, 77, 178,
114n6, 117, 129 – 31, 134, 136n3, 247
137n21, 139, 144, 147, 149, 161, Hegel, G. W. F. 1, 11, 12, 14, 15,
179, 180, 191 – 2, 205n31, 226 – 7, 17n5, 26, 60, 61n6, 62n13, 64, 67,
229 – 30, 231, 232, 233, 238, 239; 84, 89 – 90, 105, 111 – 13, 115n24,
To the Center of the Earth 1, 240n2; 116n29, 191, 192, 193, 195, 202 – 3,
Courbet’s Realism 1, 32, 86n31, 205n33, 256
99 – 100, 146, 241n7; Flaubert’s
“Gueuloir” 1, 86n33; Four Honest intention 1, 2, 4, 11, 12, 12 – 13, 14,
Outlaws 1, 9 – 10, 11, 61n7, 97 – 9, 14 – 15, 15, 29, 39 – 45, 46n21, 50,
138 – 9, 140, 143 – 5, 147; “An 52 – 60, 61n5, 61 – 2n12, 62n14,
Introduction to My Art Criticism” 66, 70, 73 – 4, 76, 84, 90, 94, 120,
3 – 4, 8 – 9, 17n8, 32n32, 35, 43, 124 – 5, 138 – 9, 141 – 50, 151 – 67,
104, 106, 114n4, 127n1, 145, 169n30, 175, 185, 190 – 8, 201 – 3,
155, 168n18, 193, 230 – 1; “Joseph 205n31, 219, 221, 224, 229,
Marioni” 140, 143, 147; Manet’s 234, 236
Modernism 1, 7 – 8, 32n41, 90, 100,
101, 178; Menzel’s Realism 1, 11, Judd, Donald 2, 24 – 7, 30, 38, 82, 84
61n4, 63n23, 79, 243 – 4, 255; The
Moment of Caravaggio 1, 13, 97, Kant, Immanuel 1, 11, 14, 15, 31n21,
100, 109, 114n3, 114 – 15n21, 176, 56, 58, 63n22, 67 – 71, 74, 75, 104,
266 Index
112, 113n1, 115n28, 118, 123 – 7, 189 – 90, 192, 193, 196, 198, 226 – 7,
128n19, 129, 172 – 3, 180 – 4, 186 – 7, 229 – 31, 233, 234, 238, 242n14,
188n7, 189, 191 – 2, 193, 202 – 3, 253 – 4
204n8, 205n31 Morris, Robert 2, 161, 226 – 7, 230,
Keats, John 14, 121 – 2 233 – 4
Kierkegaard, Søren 1, 11, 16, 243 – 56, music 26, 30, 40, 57, 61n10, 65, 82,
256 – 7n6, 257n12, 258n19, 92, 106 – 7, 197, 198
258 – 9n33
nature 15, 16, 33, 43, 38 – 41, 45,
Lerner, Ben 16, 227, 232, 234 – 40, 69 – 70, 72 – 4, 76, 77, 78, 85n11,
241n8 – 10, 241 – 2n11 86n33, 120 – 1, 124 – 5, 149 – 50, 153,
literalism 2 – 4, 8, 9 – 10, 12, 13, 14, 173, 181, 183 – 4, 186, 190 – 9, 203,
16n1, 24 – 30, 32n32, 35 – 8, 40 – 1, 212 – 14, 216 – 18, 226 – 9, 232 – 3,
43, 46n10, 48, 61n11, 65, 74, 82 – 5, 240 – 1n6
94 – 5, 97, 98, 129 – 31, 133 – 6, Neoliberalism 11, 190, 202
139 – 40, 143 – 7, 149, 158 – 9, 161 – 3, Nietzsche, Friedrich 1, 13, 20, 31n13,
180, 191, 194 – 5, 200, 203, 226 – 32, 75, 83 – 5
234, 238, 241 – 2n11
Louis, Morris 1, 12, 33 – 45, 45n1, painting 1, 2 – 11, 12, 13, 13 – 14, 14,
61n10, 109 – 10, 113 15, 16n3, 17n4, 24 – 30, 33 – 45,
Loutherbourg, Philippe-Jacques 46n10, 48, 49 – 50, 51 – 3, 57, 59,
213 – 14, 220 – 1, 224 61n10, 62n13, 64, 65 – 6, 69, 71 – 5,
79 – 80, 81, 82, 86n33, 87 – 8,
Manet, Édouard 4, 7 – 8, 8, 24, 32n41, 94 – 102, 102n2, 104 – 13, 114n19,
35, 50 – 3, 57, 74, 94, 99, 100 – 2, 114 – 15n21, 115n23, 116n30,
104, 110, 155, 164 – 5, 171, 176, 178 117 – 19, 123, 125 – 6, 127n1, 129,
Marioni, Joseph 14, 97, 98, 140, 130 – 1, 135, 136n3, 140 – 7, 149,
142 – 7, 149 155, 160, 164, 171 – 6, 178 – 9,
Marx, Karl 12, 17n5, 189 181 – 7, 187 – 8n1, 188n5, 192,
McDowell, John 22, 30, 192 193 – 4, 200, 206 – 24, 224n8, 233,
Menzel, Adolph 1, 11, 16, 63n23, 79, 241n7, 242n14, 243, 249 – 50, 255,
243 – 4, 255 – 6, 256 259n33
medium 1, 2, 4, 10 – 11, 12, 13, 13 – 14, persuasion see conviction
14, 14 – 15, 24 – 6, 29, 52, 56 – 8, 74, photography 1, 2, 9 – 11, 12 – 13, 13,
87 – 8, 91 – 4, 97 – 9, 102n2, 104 – 13, 14 – 15, 48 – 50, 52, 53, 53 – 8, 60,
114n19, 114 – 15n21, 118, 140, 60 – 1n4, 61n5, 61 – 2n12, 62n15, 64,
142, 151 – 5, 160, 165 – 7, 171, 178, 87 – 102, 102n2, 104, 138 – 9, 143 – 7,
187 – 8n1, 227 149, 151 – 67, 168n2, 169n23,
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 1, 15, 59, 170n34, 173, 176 – 9, 181, 183,
193 – 7, 201, 204n10 – 15 185 – 7, 195 – 201, 205n22, 227, 234,
Michaels, Walter Benn 11, 12, 28, 235, 239, 241n9
56 – 7, 62n16, 139, 145 – 6, 158 – 9, poetry 1, 9, 16, 26, 30, 44, 62n16, 65,
160, 163, 166, 168n20, 169n33, 82, 107, 119 – 20, 121 – 2, 197, 198,
180, 188n5, 190, 193, 198 – 203, 210 – 11, 226 – 40, 240n1, 240 – 1n6,
205n31 241 – 2n11, 242n15, 248, 254,
minimalism see literalism 258n19
Mill, John Stewart 14, 119 – 20, politics 6, 11, 15, 49, 61n6, 77,
122, 125 121, 141, 159, 189 – 91, 193,
modernism 1 – 4, 7 – 11, 12, 13, 14, 20, 199 – 201, 203
23 – 30, 32n41, 33 – 45, 45n2, 46n2, Pippin, Robert 3, 6, 12, 16n1, 17n5,
50, 51, 55 – 6, 61n6, 65, 83 – 5, 87 – 8, 26, 90, 174, 179, 192, 202, 204n9
94 – 102, 104 – 5, 123 – 4, 129, 135 – 6, Plato 25 – 6, 54, 75, 76 – 7, 109
136n3, 139, 149, 164, 166, 176, Pollock, Jackson 34, 40 – 1, 117
Index 267
postmodernism 3 – 4, 11, 16, 29, 48 – 9, Struth, Thomas 9, 15, 50, 55 – 6, 56,
139, 145, 227, 232, 234, 238 – 9, 61n6, 89, 90, 181, 183, 185 – 7
242n14 sublime, the 14, 63n22, 129, 131,
Proust, Marcel 75, 165, 195 172 – 3, 184, 196
Rancière, Jacques 1, 15, 189 – 91, 193, theater 16, 83 – 5, 119, 125, 130,
194, 195, 196 – 203, 204n15, 205n33 197 – 8, 210 – 11, 244 – 55, 258n19;
Ray, Charles 14, 61n7, 62n17, 97, 98, see also drama
138 – 9, 143 – 7, 149 theatricality 2 – 8, 10, 11, 12 – 13, 14,
reductionism see art, essence and 15, 16n1, 17n4, 26, 28, 48 – 9,
religion 21, 48, 49, 51, 78, 84, 102, 51 – 2, 58 – 9, 60 – 1n4, 61n9 – 10,
123, 143, 147, 150, 243, 246 – 7, 62n13, 73 – 4, 80, 83 – 5, 87, 94,
251 – 2, 255 – 6, 256n1, 258 – 9n33 98 – 9, 100 – 2, 104, 117 – 19, 121 – 4,
Ruff, Thomas 9, 49 – 50, 89 129 – 30, 133 – 6, 144 – 7, 149, 155,
Ryman, Robert 140 – 2, 144 161 – 5, 169n23, 171 – 2, 178 – 9,
191 – 3, 197 – 8, 199, 202, 249 – 50;
Sala, Anri 97, 98 see also anti-theatricality
Schiller, Friedrich 1, 13, 67 – 75, 81, Titian 51, 110
85n2, 86n22, 246 Tolstoy, Leo 20, 21 – 2, 27,
Schopenhauer, Arthur 1, 13, 67, 75 – 82, 31n16, 75
86n23 tradition 1, 8 – 9, 12, 14, 16, 24 – 5,
Scruton, Roger 14 – 15, 151 – 4, 160, 33 – 4, 40, 59 – 60, 64 – 5, 87, 101 – 2,
162, 166, 168n5, 169n33, 170n34 107 – 9, 115n23, 117 – 22, 130 – 1,
sculpture 1, 3, 4, 9 – 10, 24 – 6, 28 – 9, 137n12, 138, 140, 151, 155, 165,
30, 33 – 5, 37, 40, 44 – 5, 53, 61n7, 172 – 3, 175, 178, 187, 191, 194,
62n17, 64 – 5, 82, 83, 89, 97 – 8, 195, 196, 202, 249, 250
105, 107 – 8, 110, 112 – 13, 114n19,
115n24, 116n30, 138 – 40, 143 – 7, Vernet, Claude-Joseph 4, 206, 212,
149, 161, 164, 195 – 6, 198, 226 – 34, 219 – 20
240n5, 241 – 2n6
severing 50, 53, 100 – 2, 110, 111, 113, Wagner, Richard 13, 75, 83 – 5
149, 232 – 4, 237 – 8 Wall, Jeff 9, 15, 49 – 50, 88, 90, 151,
skepticism 11, 12, 14, 19, 25, 29, 30, 167, 170n35, 171, 177 – 8, 177
102, 131 – 6, 137n21, 148, 149 – 50, Warhol, Andy 23, 43
189 Weitz, Morris 1, 12, 19 – 23, 25 – 30,
Smith, David 16, 226 – 30, 232 – 3, 31n12, 31 – 2n23
240n5, 240 – 1n6 Welling, James 50, 94 – 5, 227
Smith, Tony 2, 27 – 8, 130 – 1, 137n17, Wimsatt, William 39 – 40, 44, 46n21
139, 149, 229, 241 – 2n6 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 1, 2, 10 – 11,
spectatorship see art, beholding of 11, 12, 13, 17n8, 18 – 20, 26, 30n2,
Stella, Frank 1, 24 – 5, 26, 28, 30, 65, 31n10, 32n29, 33, 42, 45n2, 50, 59,
102, 114 – 15n21, 144 76, 78, 81, 88, 95 – 6, 133 – 4, 135 – 6,
Stoichita, Victor 110 – 11, 114n20 148 – 9, 192, 255