THEORIES OF ART- RONALD W. HEPBURN
from A Companion to Aesthetics
David S. Cooper, Ed.
Oxford, Blackwell Press, 1999
theories of art Attempts to understand the "essence" of art in terms of a single key concept, such as "expression" or "representation".
By "the representational theory" is meant here a historically persistent complex of views which see the chief, or essential, role of the arts as imitating, or displaying or setting forth aspects of reality in the widest sense.
A typical representational account sees art as portraying the visible forms of nature, from a schematic cave drawing of an animal to the evocation of an entire landscape in sun or storm. The particularity of individual objects, scenes or persons may be emphasized, or the generic, the common, the essential. The scope of representation can involve perspectives, slants on the world, ways of seeing the world--perhaps as created and sustained by an all-good, fecund deity, or as grimly devoid of any divine presence or glory.
A representational artist may seek faithfulness to how things are. He or she may dwell selectively on the ugly and defective, the unfulfilled; or on the ideal, the fully realized potential. The artist may see the ideal as reached by extrapolating from the empirical, "correcting’ its deficiencies; or by contemplating the alleged idea or form to which empirical objects approximate and aspire. As this suggests, a representational theory may derive its account and evaluation of the arts from a metaphysic. Representational theories thus give the arts a distinctive cognitive role. The artist opens our eyes to the world’s perceptual qualities and configurations, to its beauties, uglinesses and horrors.
At the level of detailed philosophical analysis, what exactly it is to represent, although it may have seemed to us an intuitively straightforward notion, is a problem of some complexity (see Wollheim, 1987, pp. 76ff.)
However we analyze it, it is very doubtful that representation possesses the explanatory power it would need in order to yield a one-concept theory of art. Clearly, there is art that is not at all representational: music is seldom and very inessentially representational; painting and sculpture can be abstract as well as figurative. Although in prose a subject may often be important, in poetry its importance can be much reduced and the poem be appreciated as an artifact in its own right rather than as a window on the non-art world. The work of representing may seem insufficiently ambitious. As the re-presenting or imitating of what nature or God has already created, it can at its best be technically notable, but must always be derivative and repetitious. The beauties of art are very seldom transcriptions, into a medium, of preexisting natural beauties.
The representational theory, say its critics, must deflect attention from the work of art and its distinctive values, to what is always other than itself. Artworks, however, call attention upon their own unique forms, lines, colors, images, meanings, patterns of sound. What we encounter in them we have not encountered and cannot encounter elsewhere in the world. Revelatory or not, an artwork does not become 'disposable' once we have extracted from it a message, a way of looking, a perspective.
On the other hand, however, why may we not understand music as representing the life of feeling, the flowings and checkings of vitality? Even abstract artists have often seen their work in revelatory terms, displaying hidden laws of nature, or metaphysical ideas. Could we not claim that art is always a mimesis (a copying) of nature: if not of nature's visible appearances, then of its fundamental energies and their endless transformations?
We could: but at a price. The concept of representation may be over-extended in a way that unhelpfully conceals what would be better seen as distinct and different (even at times conflicting) aims of art. Even with a clearly representational painting we may say. "The objects are represented in such a way as heightens their crucial expressive qualities." Or again, we may say. "The forms of nature have no more than stimulated the artist to create a new world." Often, too, we shall say, "The formal ordering of the artwork does not reproduce nature's order; it has its own distinctive order--invented, not discovered."
ART AS EXPRESSION
Supposing we were to start again, this time putting expression at the center, some of our problems would certainly be alleviated. Music expresses feelings, emotions, moods, their conflicts, triumphs, defeats, A painted landscape may engage us as expressive of peace, melancholy or menace; so too a lyrical poem, a semi-abstract sculpture, a scene or situation in drama. What is more, they may express highly particularized modes of feeling, even new emotions. Romantic theorists and others down to our own day have indeed argued for expression theories of art. In R.G, Collingwood's account, the artist struggles to clarify and articulate his initially unfocused feeling. Coming to grasp it and to express it by way of the fashioning of an artwork constitutes a single task.
It is not only sensations, feelings, moods and emotions that may be expressed, but also attitudes, evaluations, atmospheric qualities, expectation, disappointment, frustration, relief. tensings and relaxings ... : not only brief bursts of lyrical feeling evoked by specific, intensely felt events, but also the inner quality of a whole life-world, Even when art argues a case, its real interest is always to express the felt experience of arguing: and when it depicts or describes, its concern is with the human affective analogues of the objects and events of the outside world that make up its ostensible subject-matter. Its real subject is always the human subject.
But what exactly am I reporting when I say, "I find this phrase for clarinet poignantly expressive" or, "The harmonic twist in the final cadence expresses foreboding"? Not necessarily that I am emotionally excited --I do not need to be, in order to "read" the emotional quality — nor that I am necessarily directly sharing the artist's emotions. I may certainly have reason to hope that my experience will be related to the artist's intentions, if these are well realized in his work. It is the work of art itself that is the primary locus of relevant emotional qualities, their development and transformations. The music is tender; the painting is tranquil. We seem driven to say that, although, as works of art are not themselves sentient, we are well aware that there must be metaphor in the claim.
A critic of the expression theory, however, will argue that, important though expression may be, there are other factors no less essential to the creating and appreciating of art. Clive Bell, for instance (1914. p. 132), wrote, "If art expresses anything, it expresses an emotion felt for pure form": and form must be our primary concern. Or one may argue that the expressive qualities we value are those which steer clear of clichéd, stereotyped or trite forms of feeling: innovative qualities, perhaps exclusive to a single work of art. But if we say that, we are showing our allegiance to a criterion of creativity or originality, and not to expression alone.
FORMALIST THEORIES: "ORGANIC UNITY"
Art, it can be argued, is not a window upon the world: it is on the artwork itself that appreciative attention must primarily be focused, particularly on its distinctive structure, its design, unity, form. Discrete episodes of expressive intensity are not enough: "Does the work hang together?" is always a relevant and surely a vital question, a question that shows the primacy of formal unity. Concepts of form and of unity applicable to works of art have been developed over the centuries from suggestions first made by Plato and Aristotle.
We distinguish different kinds of wholes: some, like a pile of stones, are no more than loose aggregates; others, like a plant or animal, are tightly integrated ("organic") complexes, where each part exists only to serve the whole. A work of art is, characteristically, a complex (of notes, instrument timbres, brush-strokes, color patches, words, images, speech rhythms, and so on) whose elements do not impinge on us as isolated units, but are determined in their perceived qualities by the context of all the other elements and their relationships. The character of the whole, as a function of the individual components and their interrelationships, in turn modifies, controls these components as we perceive them. The spectator’s "synoptic"grasp of the unity will be quite vital: the parts are not perceived as vignettes, cameos, musical miniatures (see Osborne, 1955; 1968).
In the unities that, on this theory, the arts seek to provide, our efforts towards synoptic perceptual grasp are neither defeated nor gratified on the instant. The very intricacy of an artwork’s structure can challenge and stimulate our perceptive powers, making its appreciation both a strenuous and a rewarding activity. Not only do works of art achieve formal unity in individually different ways within a single type of art form (such as sonata form); but these generic forms themselves are constantly open to creative revision. It is not enough (nor indeed necessary) that the unifying principles be rationally intelligible: but they must be perceivable in the work — audible, visible, or, in literature, discernible in the meaning and sustainable interpretations of the actual text.
Why should we attach high value to formal unities of this kind? Basically, because of the quality of consciousness they make possible. Where the items of a complex lend themselves to perception because of their thematic interconnections, as do those of a successful work of art, we are enabled to synthesize a far greater totality than in any other context. Whereas consciousness can often be attenuated, meager, sluggish, here it is at its most active and zestful. Again, as finite beings, we are necessarily always vulnerable to the threat of diminished personal integration, of being fragmented--as we are, finally and literally, in death. We are seldom further from that state of lost personal unity than when we are rapt in enjoyment of a well-integrated work of fine art. Elements of experience normally disparate and distanced are brought into a vivid relation, and our experience is given new unity.
The temporal arts, although presenting motifs, brief melodies, rhythms, phrases of poetry which constantly pass into silence, effect a partial transcendence of that evanescence in time, precisely on account of their formal structuring whereby early notes (or images) are retained, remain active, ingredient in the total experience, recalled even as a movement (or poem) comes to its close. Something parallel happens in spatial art also, where the mutual connectedness and formal contribution of every represented object overcome the normal mutual "indifference" of objects in space.
Can formalism, then, constitute a single all-sufficient theory of art? Defenders have not wanted to deny that art can perform additional functions --to instruct, represent, express: but none of these is the essence of art. Even so, there are many cases where one may justifiably question whether a work’s formal structure is so decisively the essential thing that its other features must be given subordinate place. The formal structure of a work of art may be valued for its controlling, its focusing, of the work's unique expressive qualities--for which we ultimately treasure it. In other cases we may say that the expressive and the formal properties are co-equally important. There are putative works of art --including, notably, some later twentieth-century art--whose structure is so remote from traditional instances of "configurational unity", that the claim that their form is their essential feature, qua artwork, becomes drastically attenuated. Other critics have argued that the theory has most plausibility with regard to complex works of art, but has little power to illuminate in the case of simple ones, where the concepts of synthesizing, interconnecting, mutual modifying gain no hold. Or is simplicity always deceptive, illusory, in significant works of art?
Even more elusive is precision in defining the "formal unity" that is thought proper to works of art and to them only. Too loose definitions may extend to the unity of a living organism, the features of a face or a mathematical formal system; too narrow definitions will demand that in a fine work of art, nothing could be altered but for the worse (Alberti, 1988 [1486]), or that to damage any part is to destroy the character of the whole. In fact, some incomplete or fragmentary works testify, rather, to the resilience of their overall character.
Notoriously, there can be no once-and-for-all pinning down of necessary and sufficient conditions for the formally satisfying or the aesthetically "right". Often, like Wittgenstein on designing a door, we can do no more than say, "Higher, higher. . . there, thank God!" (Wittgenstein, 1966, p. 13, variant n. 3).
ART AS CREATION
Representation theorists and expression theorists do, of course, allow that art can be innovative--reworking nature's materials in a "new" nature, or drastically modifying life experiences in the fashioning of expressive art. The formalist or organic unity theory makes the artist’s innovative role more central: the unities of art are nowhere paralleled in nature. But why not, then, make quite explicit the work of the artist as the creation of the new? Creation is surely well suited to be the leading concept in a theory of art. And it has indeed been made central by a variety of theorists and artists. To some, "Creative imagination" is that power by which, in a display of freedom that echoes the divine prerogative of Creation ex nihilo, we summon up to actuality possible worlds--worlds that God has not created but has, as it were, left for us to create.
Obvious implications follow for artistic practice and for criticism. Art should be freed from dependence on appearances. The development towards abstraction in the visual arts can be proclaimed as a "purifying away" of objective reference. Originality and individuality become criteria of high merit. We may particularly value indications of the creative process within an artwork itself: the growth of a musical subject from fragments in the earliest moments of a piece, the progressive incorporation of material that at first seems alien.
So: does "creation" yield a complete theory of art? When I try to develop such a one-concept theory, I find that my concept of creation has to undergo progressive enrichment, if I am to accommodate within it the full freight of meaning and criteria of value it would require for this role: it must mean new and aesthetically valuable, rewarding. Even for the God of Genesis, after the work of creation (in the narrower sense of making, calling into being) there remained a question of evaluating what had been done: a question favorably answered, "Behold, it was very good. For the human artist, the possibility surely exists that he make something from (nearly) nothing, but . . . behold, it is very bad--unless we pack into the concept, from the start, that an artifact counts as a creation only if it has artistic merit. Novelty is not enough: an object can be original, in the sense of a perceptually distinct, unique addition to the beings already in the world, and yet be unrewarding to contemplate, fail to sustain attention.
Among products of high creativity we must include some scientific theories, mathematical calculi and theorems, philosophical systems. But they are not art. However creative my daydreams, they are not art, either: they are not worked in a medium, intersubjective, shared. Conversely, not every movement, style or period in art sets a high evaluation on the particularized and original. We should also be cautious in accepting that ideal of "purifying" art from all dependence on natural appearances. To purify can be to attenuate, if it means to cut oneself off from any allusion to the world beyond the canvas. Such allusion can add immensely to the wealth of meanings in a work of art.
Even if we reject a theology of man as co-creator with God--perhaps particularly if we reject it--the creation theme rightly spotlights the artist's distinctive dignity. Artistic imagination continues, intensifies, perfects and on occasion transfigures nature's own doings. It is not merely a fanciful metaphor to speak of the artist as bringing into being "what nature has not created, and awaits creation".
Emphasizing
the freestanding character of works of art as created objects encourages us
to see them as autonomous, independent and self-explanatory. For countless individual
works of art, that statement needs correction, however. We shall not understand
or appreciate them without at least an outline knowledge of the tradition in
which they stand, the genre to which they belong--and thus some understanding
of whether they simply continue or modify or rebel against tradition and genre
as so far developed. Indeed, it is tempting for an aesthetician, who despairs
of any
of the unified theories of art to fulfill their promise, to abandon all such
theorizing and urge instead that we take those ongoing developing traditions,
genres and media (and the complex actual vocabulary or criticism) as the basic
data for reflection on the arts in all their diversity. Further,
we have only to consider some twentieth-century movements in art (Dada, conceptual
art, ready-mades. for instance) to realize that none of the favored unifying
categories or key concepts is in the least likely to illuminate their nature
and role.
THE INSTITUTIONAL THEORY
One strategy for coping with these last-mentioned issues (and with other problems too) is that of the "institutional theory of art". In a strong form it takes the unifying factor to be not the possession of common perceptual ("manifest") features by artworks, but the conferral on certain objects, by representatives of the "artworld", of the status of "candidate for appreciation"as works of art (Dickie, 1985, p. 34). The artworld is thought of, roughly, as the set of art critics, organizers of exhibitions, owners of galleries and others with relevant experience and authority. It may, however, provide me with little illumination, when bewildered before an object like Duchamp's Fountain (a ready-made urinal) or Carl Andre's Equivalent VIII (a rectangle of bricks), to be told that the artworld representatives have indeed conferred art status upon it. I cannot prevent myself asking by what criteria, on account of what features (manifest, once more), has this status been conferred? Either we must look for an answer that will render needless the artworld's conferral--that is, by appeal to reasons or to criteria for their decisions, reasons which may be made open and public and applied by all. Or, if no disclosable reasons are relevant, the artworld's decisions, in being detached from any of the characteristics which we may look for or become aware of in contemplating a putative work of art, cannot be defended from arbitrariness or waywardness (see Wollheim, 1987, ch. 1).
Being deemed a work of art, given space in a gallery, publication by a reputable publisher, performance by a respected orchestra, imply judgments that the work will reward the attention solicited for it. But, again, we have a legitimate interest in knowing the features of the work that have led to its selection and promotion.
A later version of the institutional theory drops the notion of conferral, and claims that a work of art is to be understood as an artifact made for presentation to an "artworld public" (Dickie, 1989). The artworld becomes the totality of "frameworks for the presentation of a work of art by an artist to an art-world public", a public prepared to understand such objects. But what this leaves altogether unclarified is the point and value of these activities.
It may be said that we need a theory that can be of help with those recent putative art objects that have not been held to have any aesthetic qualities. But objects that fail to meet any criteria for aesthetic interest or excellence are no less a problem to an institutional theory if it accepts the challenge of explaining why the artworld’s representatives confer art status on them, or of explaining the point of presenting these works to an "understanding" public.
Various other concepts have been proposed as bases on which to construct theories of art. The concept of play is one such. That aesthetic activity is a kind of play was a seminal claim of Kant. The concept appears in several contexts in his aesthetic writing. A judgment of taste arises in a "free play" of imagination and understanding, where a perceptual complex is grasped and synthesized, and we are aware of order and purposiveness, but without the application of classificatory concepts. To Kant, art can be described as play, "i.e. an occupation. . . agreeable on its own account" (Kant, 1961 [1790], §§9, 43). Gratuitousness, spontaneity and freedom are emphasized; the aesthetic objects are a delight to explore and rewarding to contemplate. In Friedrich Schiller's writing on aesthetic education, a concept of play is central and highly elaborated. In rough outline: we can locate a zone between, on the one hand, feeling and desire in their immediacy, and, on the other, the domain of abstract, impersonal, formal reason. In that (aesthetic) zone, the "play impulse" and its products draw upon both the sensuous and the rational, and intimately connect or fuse them. In this way, the otherwise conflictful elements of human nature are brought into unity.
INEXHAUSTIBILITY AND DENSITY OF MEANING
"The heresy of paraphrase" is a familiar phrase expressing the fact that a significant work of literary art cannot be reduced to a summary of its plot or "message". No more can a painting be reduced to an inventory of the objects it represents. From a single metaphor up to a complex art work, inexhaustibility of interpretation is a mark of authentic art. The coexistence of multiple levels or layers of meaning gives a sense of richness and "depth". There is also a kind of aesthetic transcendence, where the expressive quality, say, of a passage of music, far surpasses in gravity or poignancy the unconvincing human situation (say, an operatic plot) to which it ostensibly refers, or where a deceptively commonplace still-life has a resonance beyond the reach of analysis.
In
each of the arts there occurs the fullest possible assimilation of its symbolic
materials and other constituents. In poetry the sound and the rhythm matter
as well as the sense; in a painting the picture plane and the traces of brush-strokes,
as well as the represented depth. The notes of a chord are heard each as continuing
a "horizontal" line of music, as well as "vertically" as
constituting a chord, with its distinctive harmonic quality, and as moving towards
or away from some moment of tension; and, again, as a composite of the timbres
of the individual instruments that are playing it. Together, such features furnish
the basic materials for yet another--and a promising--communicational theory
of art.
KEY CONCEPTS AND THEIR INTERRELATIONS
Supposing that none of the germinal concepts of the theories considered above can function by itself as sole key concept generating a complete unitary theory of art, we should not be left with an unrelated plurality of notions. Some of the most interesting work in aesthetics lies in exploring the interconnections among these concepts. Resisting the temptation to extend some preferred concept so as to cover the whole field, we can remain sensitive to aesthetically important creative and appreciative tensions between them. Representational artworks are sometimes judged to fall below, or to rise to, expressiveness: my appreciation of sculpture may develop from the easier beauties of representation to those of three-dimensional formal structures.
A theory must do justice to the fact that certain media and materials lend themselves to our doing several significantly different things simultaneously in and through them. It is a happy contingency that we can at once represent and express and construct new configurational unities in and through the skilled handling of paints, inks or crayons, carved wood or chiseled stone. Some of our appraisals of artworks draw explicitly on these multiple possibilities, challenges and tensions. For instance, we marvel at a composer’s success in managing a demanding and potentially cramping form, while yet attaining a high degree of expressiveness and inventiveness within it; or at a novelist who represents a wide range of human activity and experience, and whose work thoroughly assimilates it, with unimpaired unity.
Some writers have seen the history of theorizing about the arts as a gradual realization that works of art are to be properly appreciated as "objects in their own right". Other concerns--with truth to human nature and experience outside art, with moral or political or religious impact--are to be relegated to the inessential. If, however, representational art fashions an image of human life, it cannot be of indifference whether in particular cases it is an adequate, defensible image or a grotesquely reduced parody. This question can obviously be raised only where a work, or an oeuvre, does set out to characterize human experience as such, the human life-world rather than a selected fragment. Major works of art do typically attempt something close to this. Art can be one main source of a culture’s view of itself, its members and their world. We cannot properly rule out a moral scrutiny and appraisal as irrelevant to such works, even though we should be equally misguided to judge any works of art solely by their moral quality.
Furthermore, in its exploration of the widest range of human experience, art cannot fail to be particularly concerned with the boundaries and limits of experience, where the expressible begins to yield to the inexpressible. To attach high importance to these is not to demand of art that it labor in defense of particular religions or particular beliefs, but only that, where some approach to a comprehensive image of the life-world is attempted, neither the seeming bounds of that world, nor the peculiar ability of the arts to bring them to vivid awareness in a transcending movement of the mind, be ignored.
Philosophy tries to be as self-conscious as possible about its own practice and aims: it is bound to raise the question of the status of what we have been calling theories of the arts. Are these, in fact, definitions of "art"? Or are they better seen as philosophical analyses of concepts used in discourse about art? Or are they theories proper--systematic, explanatory accounts? Is their function descriptive, or prescriptive as well?
The multifariousness of the arts, their traditions, developing genres, idioms and media, their self-transcending nisus, make definition an unrealistic, perhaps even undesirable, goal. To seek it obstinately results in oversimplication and distortion. But it is equally important for the writer on aesthetics not to lurch too far in the opposite direction, stressing complexity and difference, and prematurely to give up any attempt to see an intelligible structure of relationships among the phenomena of the arts.
A substantial amount of theorizing about the arts involves conceptual and linguistic analysis. The analyses of the concepts of representation, expression and form are all crucial and all contested. Aesthetics involves analyses also of the role of the artist’s intention and imagination, of the nature of metaphor, symbolism, beauty, sublimity, and the whole range of critical discourse. Nevertheless, the philosophical study of art is analysis not only of discourse, but (no less legitimately) of description, of phenomenology, of the appreciative experiences which largely prompt the discourse. Although the philosopher must be respectful of the art critic’s expertise, that does not mean that he or she must be altogether dependent on the critic to speak or write before the philosopher may break his silence. Philosophers of art must reserve the right to find a body of criticism, or a critical theory, incomplete or even confused. They must themselves function as critics--for instance, in their choices of what they see as revealing examples or counter-examples from the arts by which to examine and test critical theories. And when an avant-garde innovator proposes some objects as artworks--objects which, if admitted to the category, would overturn an otherwise very broadly based theoretical understanding of the arts --it should not be taken for granted that theory should immediately and necessarily capitulate.
The aspiration to produce a unitary theory, even if it fails to result in one, remains legitimate and often fruitful. We may enhance our understanding of art by seeing how much work a given key concept can do for us, and finding where it ceases to be as illuminating as some alternative concept. If we are forced towards a theory with several fundamental concepts rather than one, the phenomena in their complexity may well be better understood, and the interrelations and tensions within and among the key concepts may illuminate the inner dynamics of creation.
If, in my theorizing, I am one-sidedly neglectful of some major function or feature of art, I am very unlikely to do appreciative justice to manifestations of it in individual works of art. I may need a theoretical reminder, even if it in turn exaggerates, that there is more to the arts than I have been allowing. A normative role certainly cannot be denied to aesthetic theory. For example: although we are most unlikely to find a complete and adequate theory in Clive Bell’s account of "significant form", that account helped to make possible the shift in sensibility needed for acceptance of post-impressionist painting--a shift from excessive concern with certain sorts of represented subject to much greater concern with plastic and painterly values and with formal relationships in general.
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