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The Rider

This is so different from The Vanishing! Well, I’ve not read the novel, but I mean the film version…

It’s also unlike any book about sports that I’ve every read, certainly not what one expects from the description of a single bicycle race.

None of which is to say that I didn’t enjoy it. But how to describe? As usual, others have done it quite well already: “Krabbés half-day race…shows the sport for what it is: painful, exhilarating, tactical, relational, fast, slow, dangerous, consuming, prone to mechanical failure, heroic, futile. But to say that the race is a metaphor for life is to miss the point. The race obliterates whatever isn’t racing. Life is the metaphor for the race.” (review in Economist)

Category: biography, sports


There is a certain flavor that nearly all science fiction seems to contain. It’s not just the “future” aspect of the situations. It’s not only the “stuff” that appears, things that we maybe only vaguely imagined might come to be – that is all to be expected. Otherwise, how do we know we are in the future? No, it’s something about the tenor of the dialogue, or the particular way the scenes are depicted, that says, “yes, there’s just a little bit of affectation here that exists because I want to tell you something really cool that’s coming, but without sounding like it’s any big deal.”

That doesn’t describe with sufficient clarity what I want to say, but it does certainly apply to the present novel. I have no problem with it, per se, except that it does tend to detract from what would otherwise be a deeper engagement in the novel. I didn’t get lost in the narrative, because I was always listening to the author’s voice.

On second thought, maybe that’s not a flaw that is particular to science fiction. Maybe science fiction just shows it up more, because we are being asked in the first place to accept situations that seem, almost by definition, to be fantastical.

And yet, that’s the thing that makes a book such as Neuromancer so wonderful – the fact that everything seems so just out of the reach of the present day that I can accept it all, hook, line, and sinker. And yet Autonomous, although it is compared to Neuromancer in the liner notes, just doesn’t seem to have the same “of course” feeling.

And that is coming from one who has no problem at all accepting that humans and machines are going to merge, both physically and mentally. Yes, let’s take the best of both realms and see if we can’t make something better. Both heart and mind. It’s just a matter of evolution.

The Evolution of Everything

Ridley has beat me to the punch. Not that my book would take this form. But his message is the same one that I’ve been shouting from the rooftops for the past, what, 20 years?

If you want to understand not only the past, not just the present, but also the future, you must understand evolution and its ability to explain everything. Everything.

This, from the epilogue, makes any summation on my part superfluous:

“To put my explanation in its boldest and most surprising form: bad news is man-made, top-down, purposed stuff, imposed on history. God news is accidental, unplanned, emergent stuff that gradually evolves. The things that go well are largely unintended; the things that go badly are largely intended. Let me give you two lists. First: the First World War, the Russian Revolution, the Versailles Treaty, the Great Depression, the Nazi regime, the Second World War, the Chinese Revolution, the 2008 financial crisis: every single one was the result of top-down decision-making by relatively small numbers of people trying to implement deliberate plans – politicians, central bankers, revolutionaries and so on. Second: the growth of global income; the disappearance of infectious diseases; the feeding of seven billion; the clean-up of rivers and air; the reforestation of much of the rich world, the internet, the use of mobile-phone credits as banking; the use of genetic fingerprinting to convict criminals and acquit the innocent. Every single one of these was a serendipitous, unexpected phenomenon supplied by millions of people who did not intend to cause these big changes. All the interesting things are incremental, says the psephologist Sir David Butler, and very few of the major changes in the statistics of human living standards of the past fifty years were the result of government action.

[ ]

As I argued in the prologue, the theory of evolution by natural selection as outlined by Charles Darwin in 1859 should really be called the ‘special theory’ of evolution, to distinguish it from the ‘general theory’ of evolution. I owe this notion to Richard Webb, an expert on both evolution and innovation. The point he is making is one that I have tried to develop in this book, namely that the flywheel of history is incremental change through trial and error, with innovation driven by recombination, and that this pertains in far more kinds of things than merely those that have genes. This is also the main way that change comes about in morality, the economy, culture, language, technology, cities, firms, education, history, law, government, religion, money and society. For far too long we have underestimated the power of spontaneous, organic and constructive change driven from below, in our obsession with designing change from above. Embrace the general theory of evolution. Admit that everything evolves.”

The Evolution of Useful Things

by Henry Petroski

What really stands out for me in this book is Petroski’s assertion that form does not follow function. In the author’s words, “Here I have focused not on the physical failings of any single thing but, rather, on the implications of failure–whether physical, functional, cultural, or psychological–for form generally. This extended essay, which may be read as a refutation of the design dictum that ‘form follows function,’ has led to considerations that go beyond things themselves to the roots of the often ineffable creative processes of invention and design.”


“We can find fault with any common object if we look hard enough at it. But that is not Pye’s goal, nor is it this book’s intention. Rather, the objective here is to celebrate the clever and everyday things of an imperfect world as triumphs in the face of design adversity. We will come to understand why we can speak of ‘perfected’ designs in such an environment, and why one thing follows from another through successive changes, all intended to be for the better.”

How to define design? “The distinctly human activities of invention, design, and development are themselves not so distinct as the separate words for them imply, and in their use of failure these endeavors do in fact form a continuum of activity that determines the shapes and forms of every made object.”

An example of something which will not, for the present discussion, qualify as design:

“To design or ‘redesign’ a chess set may involve some minor considerations of weight and balance in the pieces, but more often than not it is taken as a problem in aesthetics. And in the name of aesthetics many a chess set has been made more modern- or abstract-looking, if not merely different-looking, at the expense of chess players’ ability to tell the queen from the king or the knight from the bishop. Such design games are of little concern in this book.”

Fair enough. And he shares with me a love of a beautiful bookshelf:

“The typical book is now ‘perfect-bound,’ which means that its sheets are folded in signatures as before but not sewn. Rather, the signatures are gathered and stacked, and trimmed all around to a boxlike shape. Containing no thread in its folds, the stack of paper does not bulge at the spine, and so does not have to be rounded. Instead, it is ground to a rough finish, the better to receive an adhesive similar to the stuff that holds pads of paper together. This procedure was first used in binding cheap paperbacks and has now been almost universally adapted to even the most expensive hardcovers, to the dismay of many an author, reader and bibliophile. In spite of its name, perfect binding has great failings, not the least of which is that a book so bound is often badly misshapen after a single reading. The modern bookshelf is thus characterized not by a neat ripple of round-ended volumes but by a jagged surface of creased spines. When seen on end, once-read perfect-bound books are sadly skewed reminders of how form follows fortune. Even if this may be to the myopic delight of manufacturers, it can certainly be to the dismay of those who have a sense of form.”

There was some really fascinating discussion of eating utensils, and how we in the west came to eat with a fork and knife… rather than with just a knife and our fingers. But then how many tines are necessary on a fork? And does one eat ice cream with a fork? And what is a fish knife? Why won’t a regular dinner knife do when eating a fish? How much of this is fashion versus truly functional design? Petroski will sort it out for you. But again, one of the points he means to make is that the knife and fork are not the only solution to moving food to our mouths that humans have evolved. In the east, there are chopsticks, a very different solution indeed. Both forms provide the functionality needed for eating.

However, our opinions might diverge when it comes to the intersection of designed objects (technologies) and evolution:

“From a certain point of view, prehistoric life was all well and good enough for prehistoric man and woman. Indeed, the artifacts and technology then in existence played a large part in defining the nature of the era. By definition, prehistoric tools and ways were (perfectly?) adequate for getting along in the prehistoric world. The argument that technological advances were necessary to advance civilization is at best a tautology and at worst akin to the myth that necessity is the mother of invention.”

Really? Where is the horse and where is the cart, here? I can state with a certain degree of assurance that the horse came first. Then some human designer had a bright idea…

Category: design | Tags: , ,

I am a Strange Loop

by Douglas Hofstadter

I hadn’t read any Hofstadter since The Mind’s I. That title may also have been my introduction to Dan Dennett… I’m not sure if I read it or Consciousness Explained first. But anyway, in the ensuing 20 years, I have read nearly all of Dennett’s output, and the present book makes a (not so) strange loop back to Hofstadter. I suppose, based on my knowledge of their work together, that I should not have been surprised to realize at a point somewhere short of halfway through this book that Hofstadter’s theory of mind reminded me of nothing so much as Dennett’s “Multiple Drafts” model.

Hofstadter describes the definition of a self, an “I,” a soul if you must, as the core issue of his book. The reader must bear with him as he takes a few tangents into such things as video feedback, mathematics, self-driving vehicles…

“[My aim here is] to point out how widespread is the tacit assumption that the level of the most primordial physical components of a brain must also be the level at which the brain’s most complex and elusive mental properties reside. Just as many aspects of a mineral (its density, its color, its magnetism or lack thereof, its optical reflectivity, its thermal and electrical conductivity, its elasticity, its heat capacity, how fast sound spreads though it, and on and on) are properties that come from how its billions of atomic constituents interact and form high-level patterns, so mental properties of the brain reside not on the level of a single tiny constituent but on the level of vast abstract patterns involving those constituents.”

A fundamental problem for us, in grasping the I within, is the dichotomy between the macro world we live in and the micro level at which everything is actually operating. So we perceive things at the visual level as “real” while in fact what is real is what physicists would insist upon – the interactions of elementary particles. Those particles make up your brain. Which ultimately makes up your consciousness. Your I. Yourself. But Hofstadter reminds us of the impossible complexity of the world if we do not look at the world at the macroscopic level where our senses reside. We need these larger groupings, else the world becomes a buzzing hive of microscopic particles without boundaries.

Hofstadter also expresses an annoyed dissatisfaction with philosophers of mind such as John Searle, who insist that computers can only simulate “real life” but not exhibit or experience it themselves. Hofstadter believes that “real life” is but another complex system that we will ultimately decipher:

“…today’s technological achievements are bringing us ever closer to understanding what dos on in living systems that survive in complex environments… If an automaton can drive itself a distance of two hundred miles across a tremendously fording desert terrain, how can this feat be called merely a “simulation”? It is certainly as genuine an act of survival in a hostile environment as that of a mosquito flying about a room and avoiding being swatted.”

The reader is presented with many vivid examples of loops, but not all of them are strange. Hofstadter sets the stage with such phenomena as a hall of mirrors, or a video feedback loop, in order to present us with the strange one:

“In any strange loop that gives rise to human selfhood, by contrast, the level-shifting acts of perception, abstraction, and categorization are xxxxxentrap, indispensable elements. It is the upward leap from raw stimuli to symbols that imbues the loop with “strangeness”. The overall gestalt “shape” of one’s self – the “stable whaler”, so to speak, of the strange loop constituting ones’ “I” – is not picked up by a disinterested, neutral camera, but is perceived in a highly subjective manner through the active processes of categorizing, mental replaying, reflecting, comparing, counterfactualizing, and judging.”

Again, it is the place between the micro and the macro, or the place where they intermingle, that we need to keep in mind:

“On the one hand, “I” is an expression denoting a set of very high abstractions: a life story, a set of tastes, a bundle of hopes and fears, some talents and lacunas, a certain degree of wittiness, some other degree of absent-mindedness, and on and on. And yet on the other hand, “I” is an expression denoting a physical object made of trillions of cells, each of which is doing its own thing without the slightest regard for the supposed whole” of which it is but an infinitesimal part. Put another way, “I” refers at one and the same time to a highly tangible and palpable biological substrate and also to a highly intangible and abstract psychological pattern. When you say “I am hungry”, which one of these levels are you referring to? And to which one are you referring when you declare, “I am happy”? And when you confess, “I can’t remember our old phone number”? And when you exult, “I love skiing”? And when you yawn, “I am sleepy”?

And still later:

“…one of the leitmotifs of this book has been that the presence or absence of animacy depends on the level at which one views a structure. Seen at its highest, most collective level, a brain is quintessentially animate and conscious. But as one gradually descends, structure by structure, from cerebrum to cortex to column to cell to cytoplasm to protein to peptide to particle, one loses the sense of animacy more and more until, at the lowest levels, it has surely vanished entirely. In one’s mind, one can move back and forth between the highest and lowest levels, and in this fashion oscillate at will between seeing the brain as animate and as inanimate.

A non dualistic view of the world can thus include animate entities perfectly easily, as long as different  levels of description are recognized as valid. Animate entities are those that, at some level of description,manifest a certain type of loopy pattern, which inevitably starts to take from if a system with the inherent capacity of perceptually filtering the world into discrete categories vigorously expands its repertoire of categories ever more towards the abstract. This pattern reaches full bloom when there comes to be a deeply entrenched self-representation – a story told by the entity to itself – in which the entity’s “I” plays the starring role, as a unitary causal agent driven by a set of desires. More precisely, an entity is animate to the degree that such a loopy “I” pattern comes into existence, since this pattern’s presence is by no means an all-or-nothing affair. Thsu to the extent that there is an “I” pattern in a given substrate, there is animacy, and where there is no such pattern the entity is inanimate.”

Category: mind, philosophy, science | Tags: ,

The Art of Racing in the Rain

by Garth Stein

I found this to be a bit too sentimental and obvious. It’s difficult to criticize such a good-natured story, especially one told by a dog (Enzo), and if it were only a matter of the cliche-filled story of a man (Denny) who is talented and looking for a break, whose wife dies of cancer, whose troubles with difficult in-laws lead him to lose custody of his young daughter, topped by the accusation of child molestation involving his nubile niece… I might leave well enough alone.

But when the author tries to shoehorn little life lessons into the edges of this story by means of car racing parallels, it becomes a bit much:

“He says racing is doing.  It is being a part of a moment and being aware of nothing else but that moment.”

“Ideally, a driver is a master of all that is around him, Denny says. Ideally, a driver controls the car so completely that he corrects a spin before it happens, he anticipates all possibilities. But we  don’t live in an ideal world. In our world, surprises sometimes happen, mistakes happen, incidents with other drivers happen, and a driver must react.”

“Often things happen to race cars in the heat of the race. A square-toothed gear in a transmission may break, suddenly leaving the driver without all of his gears. Or perhaps a clutch fails. Brakes go soft from overheating. Suspensions break. When faced with one of these problems, the poor driver crashes. The average driver gives up. The great drivers drive through the problem. They figure out a way to continue racing.”

“When the pressure is intense and the race is only half completed, a driver who is being chased relentlessly by a competitor realizes that he might be better off pushing from behind than pulling from the front. In that case, the smart move is to yield his lead to the trailing car and let the other driver pass. Relieved of his burden, our driver can tuck in behind and make the new leader drive his mirrors.”

“No race has ever been won in the first corner. But plenty of races have been lost there.”

The primary life lesson that Stein wants to impart to us is the repeated refrain, “The car goes where the eyes go.” In other words, your life can go in a direction that you yourself choose. You have to make conscious choices, and keep your eyes on the prize… While I have no disagreement with this, I found these little set pieces of driving advice to be terribly unsubtle, clunky even. But Stein is relentless in this tactic. And having all of these nuggets of wisdom transmitted by a dog, who cannot drive or even hold a steering wheel (Enzo laments more than once on his lack of opposable thumbs), and who has gleaned all of this by listening to his master speak and watching television, seems to be reaching too far for one book.

Near the end, after his wife has died and the head of Ferrari’s testing program has asked our Denny to test drive Ferraris in Maranello (!!), we have a final analogy. Because of course, life doesn’t travel in a straight line, and there may be obstacles on the course, but the car goes where the eyes go:

“A driver must have faith. In his talent, his judgment, the judgment of those around him, physics. A driver must have faith in his crew, his car, his tires, his brakes, himself.

The apex sets up wrong. He is forced off his usual line. He carries too much speed. His tires have lost grip. The track has gotten greasy. And he suddenly finds himself at the turn exit with no more track and too much speed.

As the gravel trap rushes at him, the driver must make decisions that will impact his race, his future. To tuck in would be devastating: wrenching the front wheels against their nature will only spin the car. To lift is equally bad, taking grip away from the rear of the car. What is to be done?

The driver must accept his fate. He must accept  the fact that mistakes have been made. Misjudgments. Poor decisions. A confluence of circumstance has landed him in this position. A driver must accept it all and be willing to pay the price for it. He must go off-track.

To dump the wheels. Even four. It’s an awful feeling both as a driver and as a competitor. The gravel that kicks up against the undercarriage. The feeling of swimming in muck. While his wheels are off the track, other drivers are passing him. They are taking his spot, continuing at speed. Only he is slowing down.

At this moment, a driver feels a tremendous crisis. He must get back on the gas. He must get back on the track.

Oh, the folly!

Consider the drivers who have been taken out of races by snapping their steering wheels, by overcorrecting to extremes and spinning their cars in front of their competitors. A terrible position to find oneself in –

A winner, a champion, will accept his fate. He will continue with his wheels in the dirt. He will do his best to maintain his line and gradually get himself back on the track when it is safe to do so. Yes, he loses a few places in the race. Yes, he is at a disadvantage. But he is still racing. He is still alive.

The race is long. It is better to drive within oneself and finish the race behind the others than it is to drive too hard and crash.”

All of this might be acceptable in a light-weight, quick read. I’m a dog lover, and like a lot of guys I take pleasure in driving a car. But when on top of everything else Stein layers on a spiritual component:

“I don’t understand why people insist on pitting the concepts of evolution and creation against each other. Why can’t they see that spiritualism and science are one? That bodies evolve and souls evolve and the universe is a fluid place that marries them both in a wonderful package called a human being. What’s wrong with that idea?”

I remove a further star from my review. No further explanation or elaboration is given for this idea that “spiritualism and science are one.” But one of Enzo the dog’s refrains throughout the entire story is that dogs who are ready will return to this world as people in their next lives. Sure enough, when Enzo dies following Denny’s wife’s death, and Denny has moved to Italy with his daughter, and has of course gotten the chance to not only test drive cars for Ferrari, but actually race in their F1 program… to become world champion (!!), in the last scene of the book, Denny’s “greatest fans” come to say hello to him after he’s just won a race, telling him that he is “better, even, than Senna” (!!). An old man and his young grandson. Whose name is… wait for it… Enzo… *sigh*

Category: dog, novel, sports | Tags: ,

Teaching a Stone to Talk

by Annie Dillard

Dillard is an author I’ve been aware of but never before read. This was a fine introduction. She reminds me of a cross between Diane Ackerman and John Berger. Or maybe Jeanette Winterson mixed with John Armstrong. Carefully observed nature and equally carefully chosen words result in little lessons in how a life might be productively led.

“The point of going somewhere like the Napo River in Ecuador is not to see the most spectacular anything. It is simply to see what is there. We are here on the planet only once, and might as well get a feel for the place. We might as well get a feel for the fringes and hollows in which life is lived, for the Amazon basin, which covers half a continent, and for the life that–there, like anywhere else–is always and necessarily lived in detail: on the tributaries, in the riverside villages, sucking this particular white-fleshed guava in this particular pattern of shade.”

Descriptions of the Galapagos Islands lead to musings on the world closer at hand, retaining a whiff of Darwin – or is it Diamond?:

“Geography is life’s limiting factor…The rocks shape life like hands around swelling dough. In Virginia, the salamanders vary from mountain ridge to mountain ridge; so do the fiddle tunes the old men play. All this is because it is hard to move from mountain to mountain. These are not merely anomalous details. This is what life is all about: salamanders, fiddle tunes, you and me and things, the split and burr of it all, the fizz into particulars. No mountains and one salamander, one fiddle tune, would be a lesser world. No continents, no fiddlers. No possum, no sop, no taters. The earth, without form, is void.”

Category: essays | Tags: , , ,

Consider the Lobster

by David Foster Wallace

I’ve been rationing my last DFW, trying to delay the pleasure. Since The Pale King has now been published, I figured I could indulge myself with the Lobster. One or two of these I’d read in whole or in part, including the title essay, in Gourmet magazine. Still, a pleasure to re-read. Another that I’d read at least bits and pieces of previously was “Authority and American Usage.” I’ve had ongoing English-usage battles with several people, the old prescriptivist versus descriptivist fights, and it’s always good to get a ruling from one of my favorite users. Even if it doesn’t necessarily jibe with my own. Even if he disses a little bit on Steven Pinker. Bonus: I get to learn new words, e.g.

“The truth is that most US academic prose  is appalling – pompous, abstruse, claustral, inflated, euphuistic, pleonastic, solecistic, sesquipedalian, Heliogabaline, occluded, obscure, jargon-ridden, empty: resplendently dead.”

And another down-vote for Political Correctness!:

“This reviewer’s own opinion is that prescriptive PCE is not just silly but ideologically confused and harmful to its own cause.

Here is my argument for that opinion. Usage is always political, but it’s complexly political. WIth respect, for instance, to political change, usage conventions can function in two ways: on the one hand they can be a reflection of political change, and on the other they can be an instrument of political change. What’s important is that these two functions are different and have to be kept straight. Confusing them – in particular, mistaking for political efficacy what is really just a language’s political symbolism – enables the bizarre conviction that America ceases to be elitist or unfair simply because Americans stop using certain vocabulary that is historically associated with elitism and unfairness. This is PCE’s core fallacy – that a society’s mode of expression is productive of its attitudes rather than a product of those attitudes – and of course it’s nothing but the obverse of the politically conservative SNOOT’s delusion that social change can be retarded by restricting change in standard usage.” (SNOOT being Wallace’s preferred term for “Grammar Nazis, Usage Nerds, Syntax Snobs, the Grammar Battalion, the Language Police.”)

Another favorite was “Up, Simba,” Wallace’s coverage for Rolling Stone magazine of the 2000 presidential campaign of John McCain. Not only it is hugely entertaining reading, it has some pretty useful little insights into why you might want to be a part of the process:

“Assuming you are demographically a Young Voter, it is again worth a moment of your valuable time to consider the implications of the techs’ last couple points. If you are bored and disgusted by politics and don’t bother to vote, you are in effect voting for the entrenched Establishments of the two major parties, who please rest assured are not dumb, and who are keenly aware that it is in their interests to keep you disgusted and bored and cynical and to give you every possible psychological reason to stay at home doing one-hitters and watching MTV on primary day. By all means stay home if you want, but don’t bullshit yourself that you’re not voting. In reality, there is no such thing as not voting: you either vote by voting, or you vote by staying home and tacitly doubling the value of some Diehard’s vote.”

Or how about Wallace writing on Joseph Frank writing on Dostoevsky:

“…I think that any serious American reader/writer will find himself driven to think hard about what exactly it is that makes many of the novelists of our own place and time look so thematically shallow and lightweight, so morally impoverished, in comparison to Gogol or Dostoevsky (or even to lesser lights like Lermontov and Turgenev). Frank’s bio prompts us to ask ourselves why we seem to require of our art an ironic distance from deep convictions or desert questions, so that contemporary writers have to either make jokes of them or else try to work them in under cover of some formal trick like intertextual quotation or incongruous juxtapostion, sticking the really urgent stuff inside asterisks as part of some multivalent defamiliarization-flourish or some such shit.”

Wide-ranging, fun, brilliantly written in his trademark long, winding, and always structurally sound sentences, this is writing that I will miss not having more of.

Category: essays, philosophy, politics | Tags:

Pure Design

by Mario Garcia

The subtitle of this book is “79 Simple Solutions for Magazines, Books, Newspapers, and Websites.” I haven’t done much designing for print in the past several years, and Garcia doesn’t actually have much to say about website design. He is a print guy through and through, famous for his redesign work with such publications as The Wall Street Journal.

Still, it’s always interesting to read books like this, for the underlying philosophy of the designer, which can’t help but reveal itself. It also serves to reaffirm many design principles which of course overlap across media. Sometimes it’s good to be reminded of the basics. And in the basics is really where Garcia’s “pure design” lies:

“My idea of pure design is inspired by minimalism. And, although this movement found its truest manifestations in sculpture–composed of modular units, aluminum and steel cubes, and so on–one can relate to how artists of this group created, for example, horizontal sculptures made of identical units. The overall impression, however, is what contributed to ‘telling the story.’

Likewise, pure design is a series of repetitions: how story structures are created, how a grid is adhered to, with the same number of columns and equal repetitions of white space, for example, with a typographic cluster that is identical, and, if possible, based on one family of type. All of this is ultimately highlighted by a color palette, again made up of similarly hued colors, and only a few, which are constantly repeated.”

A sampling of chapter sections will give a good indication of Garcia’s 79 solutions: Selecting Type, Ragged right vs. justified, Headlines: bigger is better, Visual parallelism, White space… good stuff.

Category: design, philosophy | Tags:

But Is It Art?

by Cynthia Freeland

Well of course it is. I didn’t need to read this book to know that answer. But of course, I am always interested in hearing about/reading about other people’s opinions on Art, to see if they might knock a hole in my own theories, which have been 30 years or so in the making.

Freeland certainly knows a bit about art, and art history, and presents her case with care and good examples. The book is a brief tour through art history, with a very select group of examples taken from various periods – from the contemporary world of shock art such as Serrano’s Piss Christ or Hirst’s dead animals as well as from the ancient Greek tragedies, Goya’s anti-war paintings, Wagner’s operas… She covers many of the major theories expounded by certain art critics/theorists/philosophers, from Hume and Kant and their views on beauty and taste, art as imitation of nature or human endeavor, a la Plato and his techne, to more recent critics such as Dewey and Danto.

Institutional theory, ritual theory, how about expression theory, as expressed by Tolstoy: “To evoke in oneself a feeling one has once experienced and having evoked it in oneself then by means of movements, lines, colours, sounds, or forms expressed in words, so to transmit this feeling that others experience the same feeling–this is the activity of art…”

Does imitation theory hold up any better:

“Since the late nineteenth century, imitation has seemed less and less to be the goal of many genres of art: impressionism, expressionism, surrealism, abstraction. Nor does the imitation theory leave room for our modern emphasis on the value of an artist’s individual sensibility and creative vision. Do Van Gogh’s or O’Keeffe’s irises impress us because they are accurate imitation? Plato would criticize these modern artists for creating mere images of Beauty–hopelessly striving to emulate something ineffable or Ideal. But that did not seem to be their aim, and we value Van Gogh’s or O’Keeffe’s flowers for other reasons.”

There are several other really interesting examples which Freeland spends more time elaborating. I myself looked at the Chartres cathedral in Art History class in school, and walked through the actual building in 1981. But in the present book I learned about the allegorical meaning of everything within a cathedral, such as the one at Chartres. The sculptures, the windows, the shapes of the stones, all told a story, and all related to the others:

“Chartres manifested an array of artistic expertise ranging from architectural design to the highly skilled labour of masons, woodcarvers, stone cutters, window painters, and others. Individuals of great ability worked here, perhaps receiving high pay and recognition, but ultimately subordinating their efforts to the spiritual purpose of the whole. The result of collaboration at Chartres is an overall harmony serving the three primary Gothic aesthetic principles of proportion, light, and allegory.”

Another place I visited in France was the palace at Versailles. Freeland describes how the gardens at Versailles were, like a cathedral, designed and created with much of the same intent and meaning. “In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, gardens were recognized as high artistic achievements.”

The theme seems to be that definitions of art have continually evolved, and will continue to do so. The cultural specifics and the historical milieu have their roles in determining the art of any given society, yes, okay, fair enough. This reminds me of something Steven Pinker said in his book, How the Mind Works:

“Theories of art carry the seeds of their own destruction. In an age when any Joe can buy CDs, paintings, and novels, artists make their careers by finding ways to avoid the hackneyed, to challenge jaded tastes, to differentiate the cognoscenti from the dilettantes, and to flout the current wisdom about what art is (hence the fruitless attempts over the decades to define art).” So let’s push forward, with a couple of newer theories:

John Dewey said that art “expresses the life of a community.” This is fairly close to Arthur Danto’s idea that culture determines what art can be. Warhol’s Brillo boxes are used to exemplify Danto’s definition of Art. “Danto argued [ ] that the artworld provides a background theory that an artist invokes when exhibiting something as art. This relevant ‘theory’ is not a thought in the artist’s head, but something the social and cultural context enables both artist and audience to grasp. Warhol’s gesture could not have been made as art in ancient Greece, medieval Chartres, or nineteenth-century Germany. With Brillo Boxes, Warhol demonstrated that anything can be a work of art, given the right situation and theory. So Danto concludes that a work of art is an object that embodies a meaning: ‘Nothing is an artwork without an interpretation that constitutes it as such.’ [ ] Danto argues that in each time and context, the artist creates something as art by relying on a shared theory of art that the audience can grasp, given its historical and institutional context. Art doesn’t have to be a play, a painting, garden, temple, cathedral, or opera. It doesn’t have to be beautiful or moral, It doesn’t have to manifest personal genius or devotion to a god through luminosity, geometry, and allegory.”

But she’s preaching to the choir here, of course. Far more interesting to me is always the question of good art versus bad art, and how one can make the distinction. Freeland points out that artists can exhibit talent, training, and knowledge, and still have their work condemned because of the content they choose to depict. “Artistic talent” then would seem to have no bearing on whether a given piece is to be labeled Art. I would argue that the reverse is just as true: no talent or training or expertise is necessary for someone to produce a work of art. Or Art. The point is that questions of quality are secondary when what we are attempting to do is to define what Art is.

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