Robert Kudielka

Platonic Dilettantism

Some points cannot be made, it is simply a matter of sheer good luck to find them. On the 4th of September 2000, the Evening Standard, a London newspaper, reported the opening of a congress called World Headache 2000 at which a Doctor Ferrari from the Leiden University Medical Centre in the Netherlands was going to present a new thesis on Picasso. "His depictions of distorted faces are the works of a migraine sufferer", the Dutch doctor had discovered, "even though he did not know it." Well, one is tempted to think, just another one of those mad scientific diagnoses like El Greco's cataract or the lilac disease of the Impressionists. But there was a surprising twist to the argument. According to the newspaper the scientist claimed "that this type of migraine is often painless which is why there is no evidence to support his theory".

The conclusion strikes an uncomfortable echo outside the wards and laboratories of medical investigation. Do we not occasionally argue, as critics, art historians, or aestheticians, in a similarly cavalier manner? Where is the evidence to prove the familiar claim that the Spirit of the Times, without having introduced itself to the artist, is represented by a particular work of art? Take, for instance, the connection Adorno draws between Cubism and the first aerial photographs of bombed cities taken during the Second World War: "Historically Cubism anticipated a reality", he states. What is the basis of such an association? Or to pick a more recent example, the MOMA show "Seeing Double", which Peter Galassi, the museum's Chief Curator of Photography, selected to demonstrate that "transparency" was a "defining motif of Modernism". Starting with Picasso's Ma Jolie (1911-12) it suggested a link between the early x-ray photographs and Cubism. Are we to think that the artist - unknowing, painlessly so to speak - suffered from a double-take of déjà-vu?

When one begins to relate images according to resemblance, an alarmingly arbitrary field of correspondences opens up. There are two conditions, it seems, upon which this activity thrives. First of all it is essential that any recognition of the different nature of the images - whether they are intellectual, mechanical or pictorial - has to be suspended or blurred in order to make them compatible. And it must be admitted that the German language unfortunately lends itself most easily to this sort of smoke-screening because it covers the whole range - intellectual, mechanical and pictorial - in one single word: Bild is Bild. The second condition is more subtle but no less devious. It concerns the way in which images are connected to make sense: one image represents another. A mental image may stand in for a perceived one and both, together or separately, may be represented by a fabricated one; painted images are generally treated as more imaginative representations than mechanical ones, though possibly inferior to the imagination itself; and technically generated images may be regarded as more objective and reliable than paintings, or, by the same token, even less so, as being even more prone to manipulation. Upon these premises a loquacious discourse can be raised which equally attributes and denies significance. As an image representing another image the banal suddenly seems meaningful, the simple and straightforward appears infamously twisted, and the innocent is shown as profoundly corrupt. Nevertheless this uninhibited production of significance most of the times remains inconsequential because there is, to quote Dr Ferrari, no evidence to support it.

But where there's smoke, there is usually fire. At the root of the modern intellectual obsession with imagery there are still, dimmed by history, the embers of Plato's philosophy and its particular relationship to picture making. This does not mean that the confusion is Plato's responsibility, it is rather more our own naïveté and lack of circumspection that leads us into the trap which he has so ingeniously laid: firstly by turning painting into the prototype of art in general; secondly by discriminating against picture-making as the lowest level of reality; and thirdly by conceiving the superior task of the philosopher as analogous to that of the painter.

The power of the decree to view painting as the model of the philosophical reflection on art is still not sufficiently recognised; and it seems even more extraordinary that it was a Greek philosopher who inaugurated this prejudice of the Western tradition. Even in the early 4th century BC, at the end of the classical period, painting did not command the same respect as sculpture, and the importance of both these forms of visual art was superseded in Greek society by poetry and by drama which incorporated the specific cultural blend of music and language called mousikh. It is tempting to speculate on what might have happened if an art based upon language had become the prototype of aesthetics; or what type of painting might have emerged if music had set the terms, as for instance was the case with Indian Mogul painting. Certainly modern musicologists would not have encountered the difficulties they have had to face in adapting an essentially picture-orientated aesthetic to their subject matter, and on the same account we might have been spared some of the confusion which arose when a non-representational art emerged at the beginning of the 20th century.

Plato of course was well aware of the peculiar twist in his argument when he chose painting as his model. The relevant passages in the 10th book of the Republic clearly show that in addressing art he had Homer, as the prime mover of Greek education, and the tragic poets in mind - and not that minor craft called zwgrafia, "life drawing". However, to philosophically prove the fundamental insufficiency of art in general, as a mere shadow image of reality, Plato chose the seemingly more obvious and simpler example of picture-making. For him the painter represents an appearance which by itself is not yet the full reality but, in turn, the representation of a higher reality which he called eidoV or idea. By merely imitating this representation painting is "at the third remove from truth" (triton apo thV alhqeiaV), that is to say hopelessly removed from the real concerns of humanity. Even worse, in looking at paintings we are looking in the wrong direction, instead of up towards the realm of "ideas" we gaze downwards into the abyss of fantasmata.

Once this ontological degradation has been established the dialogue moves swiftly back to its real focus, Homer and the tragicians, only to assert that their works are imitations in the same way and, as such, mislead people:

"So representative art is an inferior child born of inferior parents."

"I suppose so."

"And does this apply to the visual arts only, or also to the art which appeals to the ear which we call poetry?"

"I should think it probably applies to poetry too." (Rep., 603 b4-8).

Considering that it became the basis of Western aesthetics, this is a fairly rough and ill-fitting construction. But it would not be right to assume that in his desire to overthrow the authority of art in Greek culture and replace it with philosophy Plato became insensitive to the arts and to appearance in general. On the contrary, it has often been observed that his speculative language is packed with words that evoke a heightened visual awareness. His very terms for that absolute, full and perfect presence which eludes perception, eidoV and idea, barely mask their origin as words normally used for "that which is seen", "form" and "figure". In going beyond the limits of the visible the philosophical speculation, far from discarding the powers of sight, seems to be driven by an emphatic visuality. So it should not come as a surprise that at the end of the 6th book of the Republic Plato compares the philosopher who designs an ideal state with the painter. Unlike the common politician the philosopher starts "with a clean plate"; his first step being "to sketch in the outline of the social system"; and his main task is seen as finding the right colours by looking "in both directions", that is to say, at both people as they should be and as they are (Rep., 501 a1-b5). In fact, when Plato invokes that "old quarrel between philosophy and poetry" (Rep., 607 b5-6) he is really referring to a contest between the new philosophical art of picturing and the earlier arts speaking through words, sounds and rhythms.

The tangle is obvious. But if one wants to unravel it, there is no point in feeling either apologetic for the arts or defensive about the rigour of philosophy. The root of the confusion lies in Plato's interpretation of that activity which is "at the second remove from truth": the work of the craftsman who, like the painter, makes something physical, and who corresponds to the philosopher in his orientation upwards to an "idea". In fact the concept of craft (tecnh) is the mute essential of Plato's reasoning, the link which serves to explain and exemplify the relationship between experience and transcendental reality. The Socrates of the Apology is impressed by the knowledge of the craftsmen who really know what they are doing, as opposed to the woolly enthusiasm of the poets; and he places this expertise higher than the general outlook of the politicians because it is at least competent in its special field, however limited and narrow the scope may be (Ap., 21 c3-22 e4). In the dialogue Timaios Plato even introduces the image of a god-like manufacturer who has put the "ideas" into the physical form in which we see them. However, it is the paradox of the prime position which craftsmanship holds for Plato that, by endowing it with such an exemplary function, he cuts short and simplifies its practical nature.

The famous representative of the crafts in the Republic is the carpenter who makes that type of reclining bed which the Greeks called a klinh. As opposed to the painter who depicts this object or who, like Poussin, has to rely upon a description of it, the carpenter, Plato claims, is "looking away towards the idea" (apoblepwn pros thn idean) when he manufactures his klinh. And this, repeated over and over again becomes the essential characteristic of craftsmanship as partaking in the realm of "ideas". The whole procedure of realising is regarded as merely mechanical. This stupendous disregard for "know-how" may be possibly attributed to the low prestige of the crafts in Greek culture. As gifts of Athena and Hephaistos to the mortals, their practice was not considered to be of human merit. Nevertheless, to continue this belief in philosophy is surely an amazing oversight, as Aristotle in his definition of technique makes clear: "Our deliberation does not circle around the goals themselves, but is concerned with how to reach them" (EN, 1112 b11-12).

Interestingly Plato's omission has found secondary evidence in modern technology. Once it has become possible to reproduce prototypes mechanically we are all inclined to go along with Plato and regard realisation as a mere technical problem. But this technological travesty of metaphysics should not blind us to the fact that for the longest period in history the crafts contained a body of very particular knowledge, a practical prescience which was not determined simply by "looking up at the idea". Apart from an intimate familiarity with materials and tools the art of the craftsman rested upon an understanding of method, as Aristotle saw, a knowledge of how to proceed and when to do what. One only has to move on from the simple instance of the carpenter's klinh and take Plato's second example, the shoe-maker, to realise that focusing on the "idea" of shoe - on its uniform, timeless identity - could only be the hopeless endeavour of an amateur. In order to produce such a complex functional thing the maker not only has to follow a certain order of procedures but has also to shift the focus of his activity several times en route. The shoe must support the body in standing comfortably and at the same time to facilitate walking, it must also protect the foot - without impeding movement. "We don't just put you into shoes", I read recently in a New York shop window, "we put you on your feet."

Superficially this could seem a somewhat old-fashioned concern, but to realise the primacy of method in making is crucial to any understanding of the role of craft in the art of painting. Plato's view of the painter as the mere imitator of appearance must certainly have been prompted by the naturalistic tendency in the art of his time; but the later Neo-Platonic contention that the artist transcends appearance by equating his work with a spiritual reality is every bit as profound a misconception. The whole philosophical concept of imitation suffers from being confounded with the traditional theory of truth, as an equation of the intellect and its subject. In the great cave paintings of Lascaux it is already abundantly clear that picture-making does not rely upon imitation, and the later Greek legend of the artist who drew the shadow of a figure on the wall is at best a tale that satisfies our childish longing for rational explanation. There is no direct connection between the picture plane and what we see or imaginatively conceive. The only thing that painting has traditionally imitated are the means, methods and examples of representation. Far from being merely technical these are the genuine inventions of the painter's art. Whether they are drawn from methods of writing, as in the Far East, or developed according to a tectonic logic, as in the Western Renaissance tradition, these decisively inform what we see. Monocular perspective created an imagery profoundly different from that based on a flat ornamental organisation. The emphasis on colour changed the constructive concept of the Renaissance drastically, and with prolonged controversial consequences. Even such an apparently simple thing as building up a painting from either a light or a dark ground leads us into extraordinarily different pictorial worlds.

The extent to which images are determined by the way in which they are generated is undoubtedly a recent realisation. An important part in this has been played by the opening of the Western horizon to other pictorial traditions; and the development of new technologies of picture-making has heightened our awareness of the crucial role of "technique". But it was Modern painting which was unintentionally and, indeed, most reluctantly forced to expose the fundamental facts of a carefully preserved age-old practice. With the fading away of the last traces of a common iconography the shield that had protected painting from direct self-recognition disappeared and the issue of subject matter became critical. Simultaneously the final collapse of the practical tradition in the 19th century irrevocably undercut any unselfconscious attitude to craft. The art of making was rawly and blatantly laid bare. It could be claimed that painting sur le motif effectively refuted the theory of imitation. Nature perceived turned out to be not so much an image to which one could equate but rather an array of sensations to be articulated.

This was a seminal discovery. But any truth that is not beyond experience is hard to bear. Being liberated from all pre-ordained imagery and from the traditional conventions of metier modern painters have to come to terms with the paradoxical task of working with a certain objective or image in view, while at the same time having to re-invent and discover their methods of articulation. That is to say, in order to be painters they have to reconstitute a craft, and furthermore, each of them has to do so individually.This comes close to turning the invention of a working technique into the subject of painting itself, as Matisse recognised with some apprehension. In 1909 when visiting an exhibition of Picasso he is supposed to have said after a long and silent contemplation: "That - that's Cubism ... I mean by that an immense step towards pure technique." And then he added: "We'll all come to it."

From a Platonic point of view this could seem as though painting were somehow bereft of its goal. On the other hand the experience of Modern painting offers a unique chance to revise certain attitudes to looking. The increased awareness of the process of articulation may help to dispel a powerful preconception that has distorted our view of art history. In turning to such painters as Veronese or Rubens, Poussin or Vermeer, we can now realise how inadequate it is to simply identify the images and symbols used by these artists as though their paintings were static assemblages of meaning. The powerful persuasion of their work lies in the various ways in which they organise our way of looking and reading the signs employed. That is to say, each in their different way conducts the innate movement of our sight by leading, agitating or arresting, driving or stabilising it. There is only one thing they never do: they never attempt to fix it. It is sufficient for us to adopt an immobile, intent stare to realise that such a willful approach runs counter to the natural agility of perception: the eyes glaze and the mind goes blank.

The most stultifying effect that the Platonic interpretation of "looking" - down upon the fantasmata of appearance as well as up towards the determining "ideas" - has had on the understanding of painting is the conception of the static nature of images. It wiped out almost completely the inadvertent mobility of sight which can only partly be controlled by will. This does not mean that the attitude of "looking away towards the idea" is wrong in general use and application. In our practical everyday pursuits we are all Platonists, assuming an identity and stability of things around us which, if left to our eyes alone, would certainly not be true. In our experience it is only anyway relatively reliable and in terms of knowledge perhaps never fully justifiable. This genuinely metaphysical assumption also sets us free to open our eyes from time to time to the wealth of perception, and even to its disturbance. But it seems tardy to turn this privilege into a licence to neglect the experience to which painting holds the key. No matter how much picture-making traditionally served social symbolism and iconography, its success always depended on the establishment of a way of looking and reading that made these representations visually plausible and recognisable, that is to say "real". The "old quarrel" between philosophy and art to which Plato refers is the rivalry between two irreconcileable but complementary approaches to the world.

This may be why there is an equally old barrier of communication which seems to set painters apart from their well-wishers, cognizanti and patrons alike. According to the antique tradition the painter Zeuxis, a contemporary of Plato's, perplexed the citizens of Kroton by asking for no less than five of the most beautiful girls of the city as models for his painting of Helena, instead of merely one. This is usually taken as proof that a painter, far from working after a model, chooses the most suitable aspects of nature to put together his image of beauty. But Raphael probably came closer to the truth of the matter when he explained to Baldessare Castiglione how experience and ideal are related in the work of a painter:

"In order to paint one beautiful woman I would have to look at more beautiful women and on condition that you would help me with the selection; but because there are so few beautiful women and competent judges I use a certain idea which comes into my mind. Whether this is of artistic value or not, I cannot say; but I make an effort to have it."

Thus all three clichés - simple imitation, compilation and the Neo-Platonic concept of the "idea" - are gracefully refuted in favour of a "certain idea" which enters and begins to occupy the artist's mind while he is building a pictorial configuration that, at best, extends the notion of beauty. In Raphael's portrait of Castiglione he surprises us with that exciting moment when we realise that within a predominantly grey, brown, black and ochre painting a pair of clear light blue eyes look out at us - blue eyes, which, due to a minute, carefully calculated disruption of the colour balance of the painting, elude any mechanical reproduction.

Such delightful surprises and recognitions may no longer be available after traditional representation came to an end. But with no universal imagery at its disposition Modern painting has taken advantage of a new immediacy in picture-making. Instead of rendering visible images of common understanding it can make us look with an unprecedented directness and urgency. It is no use adopting a one-eyed, cyclopic view and place aerial war photographs, x-ray films and the like alongside Cubist painting, when our perception, that perspicacious and subversive action of our sense of sight, belies such comparison. The disembodied structure of minutely shifting and inflected planes in a Cubist painting establishes a self-generating visual movement in which perception and memory collaborate without ever converging in a definitive image.

Picasso's later portraits only exaggerate this perceptual dynamism in an expressive manner. It shows a sadly warped view of humanity to regard his double-sided heads of men and women as clinically distorted. Far from being symptoms of an illness in need of treatment, they are icons of a life-enhancing shock therapy. Dislocating the gaze, they accomodate that startling, unpredictable vivacity of the human glance which deflects, for one exhilarating moment, even the most stubborn and recalcitrant mind from "looking up towards the idea".