josh blog
Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
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'… it can be said that the first use of serial imagery in recent painting is shared by two artists, Ad Reinhardt and Yves Klein. Klein's serial painting (begun about 1957) is marked by the systematic use of one canvas size and one grainy textured color. The similarity of color together with the low textural level of organically clustered paint grain, while it slowed down scan, was insufficient to defeat an inherent tendency towards inert uniformity. Reinhardt's use of serial imagery, on the other hand, though also basically entropic as an enterprise, is more important for a number of reasons. Reinhardt's serial usage predates that of Klein, and unlike the overtly systematic look of Albers' art, Reinhardt's serial forms imply the use of a structure whose order is inherent but concealed. In various paintings (as far back as 1955) Reinhardt employed as a structural principle a series of fundamentally positioned forms that repeated at the framing edge. At times he united four square canvases to form a larger square. This modular division of the overall format was further reiterated by the horizontal and vertical squares symmetrically placed within each segment. His early systematic use of symmetry served to purge his painting of an outdated rhetoric, which he campaigned against equally in his systematically reiterated writings.
Reinhardt clearly is a key figure in the evolution of serial imagery in the United States, as Klein was not. If, apart from the inherent entropic tendency of his painting, any deficiency could be isolated it would be his manner of paint application, which never sufficiently deactivated the internal time-flow of the structure. His method of facture, consisting of a layer-upon-layer application of flat paint over a preexistent image, left traces of a "local" time track. In his last works, however, the black overlay of paint fused more into a one-to-one relationship with his structure. As the paintings got blacker they became more and more neutral. The formal importance of Reinhardt's painting therefore resides in its quality of indetermination, its neutral emptiness. This indeterminate quality would not be remarkable in itself if it were not allied to an emphasis on symmetry and macro-structure: that which raises no claim to stand for the work in its own right, but which controls the development of the individual paintings within a series. What Reinhardt set into motion was the idea of a network of choices and limitations which were pre-formed but not logically apparent on the surface of the picture or within the whole series. Until now it has always been assumed that Reinhardt was only repeating one painting rather than painting a series. On the other hand Reinhardt's work also proved that once the hierarchical links are solved and ironed out it becomes increasingly difficult to achieve contrast, that is, to give each painting a positive identity without reasserting rank or becoming overbearingly redundant. Nevertheless, his painting was a forceful step in the serial direction and of great importance to a later generation.'
'Three basic operating assumptions separate serially ordered works from multiple variants:
1. The derivation of the terms or interior divisions of the work is by means of a numerical or otherwise systematically predetermined process (permutation, progression, rotation, reversal).
2. The order takes precedence over the execution.
3. The completed work is fundamentally parsimonious and systematically self exhausting.'
(Disappointment as a response to a losing confrontation between imagination and the actual.)
'Whether this contemplative attitude had its origin in my contemplative function as a guardian of culture within society, as a Marxist would state without further ado; or whether it represents a primary object of my existence (and one does find it in pride, freedom, the destabilization of oneself, the contemplative stoicism and the optimism which certainly form part of my primary project)—that's what I do not wish to decide here. It's certain, in any case, that this way of taking refuge at the top of the tower when its base is under attack, and of looking down from above without blenching, albeit with eyes somewhat widened by fear, is the attitude I chose in '38-'39 faced with the threats of war. It's also the one which, a little earlier, inspired my article on the transcendence of the Ego—where I quite simply eject the Self from consciousness, like some nosy visitor. With myself, I didn't have that tender intimacy which causes there to be adhesions (as in medical parlance) between the Self and consciousness—so that if one tried to remove the former, one would be afraid of tearing the latter. It was perfectly all right outside, on the contrary. It remained there, granted; but I watched it through the pane with all the calm and severity in the world.
I long believed, moreover, that the existence of a character couldn't be reconciled with the freedom of consciousness: I thought character was nothing but a bunch of maxims, more moral than psychological, in which our neighbour sums up his experience of us. Consciousness-as-refuge remained, as was propoer, colourless, odourless and tasteless. It was only this year, with the advent of war, that I understood the truth: character assuredly must not be confused with all those recipe-maxims of the moralists—'he's quick-tempered; he's lazy; etc.'—but is the primary, free project of our being in the world. I tried to show this for William II.
But that's not the aim of my present remarks. I wished simply to indicate that—not having been directly involved in things; not having felt responsible; not having had money worries—I've never taken the world seriously. In other times that could have led me to mysticism, since those whom 'diminished reality' fails to satisfy are only too ready to seek surreality. (And I imagine that fifteen years ago, it was the origin of the surrealist faith for many people—though not all: the influence of the war, which is often mentioned, seems to me far more decisive for the leaders.) But I was an atheist out of pride. Not out of a feeling of pride, but my very existence was pride: I was pride. There was no place for God beside me: I was so perpetually the source of myself that I didn't see what part an Almighty could play in it at all. Subsequently, the wretched poverty of religious thought reinforced my atheism for good. Faith is stupid or it's bad faith. My mother must have grasped something of that frivolous coldness toward the world, for she's fond of repeating that a few centuries earlier I should have become a monk.
I hate seriousness. Through an engineer's serious concern there passes the whole world—with its inertia, its laws, its stubborn opacity. All serious thought is thickened by the world and coagulates: it's a resignation by man in favour of the world. See that man who shakes his head, saying: 'It's bad! It's very bad!', and try to understand what he puts into that head-shaking. It's this: that the world dominates man; that there were laws and rules to observe—all outside us, stratified, petrified—which would have given a favourable outcome; but those rules have been violated, the catastrophe has arrived and behold man without any recourse. For he no longer has any recourse in himself: he's 'of the world', the world has installed itself within him, and that violated taboo is violated also within him.
One is serious when one doesn't even envisage the possibility of leaving the world. When the world—with its alps and its rocks, its crusts and its oozes, its peatbogs and its deserts: all those obstinate immensities—holds one fast on every side. When one gives oneself the same type of existence as the rock: solidity, inertia, opacity. A serious man is a coagulated consciousness. One is serious when one denies mind. Those unbelievers Plato speaks of in the Sophist, who believe only in what they touch—they're ancestors of the spirit of seriousness. It goes without saying that the serious man, being of the world, doesn't have the least consciousness of his freedom; or rather, if he does have consciousness of it, in terror he buries it deep within him, like some filth. Like the rock, like the atom or like the star, he's determined. And if the spirit of seriousness is characterized by the application with which it considers the consequences of its acts, that's because, for it, all is consequence.
The serious man himself is merely a consequence—an unbearable consequence—never a principle. He's caught for all time in a serious of consequences, and sees only consequences without end. That's why money—sign of all the things in the world; consequence and of consequence—is the object par excellence of seriousness. In short, Marx posited the first dogma of seriousness when he asserted the priority of the object over the subject. And man is serious when he forgets himself; when he makes the subject into an object; when he takes himself for a radiation derived from the world: engineers, doctors, physicists, biologists are serious.
Well, I was protected against seriousness by what I've said. Too much so, rather than not enough. I wasn't of the world, because I was free and first beginning. It's not possible to grasp oneself as consciousness, without thinking that life is a game.
For what is a game, after all, but an activity of which man is the first origin: whose principles man himself ordains and which can have consequences only according to the principles ordained. But as soon as man grasps himself as free, and wishes to use his freedom, all his activity is a game: he's its first principle; he escapes the world by his nature; he himself ordains the value and rules of his acts, and agrees to pay up only according to the rules he himself has ordained and defined. Whence the diminished reality of the world and the disappearance of seriousness.
I have never wished to be serious—I felt too free. At the time of my love-affair with Toulouse, I wrote a long poem—extremely bad I imagine—entitled Peter Pan: song of the little boy who doesn't want to grow up. Always those 'little boys' and those 'little girls'—those clichés of our amorous relations! On the part of a sturdy fellow of twenty and a strapping girl of twenty-three, I find that as incestuous as Rousseau sighing out 'Mother!' all those times to Mme de Warens. But that's not my subject. In any case, that little boy didn't want to grow up for fear of becoming too serious. I could have set my mind at rest: I'm fourteen years older today and I've never been serious—except once, within the walls of the cemetery at Tetuán, because the Beaver wanted to make me put my straw hat on and I didn't want to. I've always claimed responsibility for my acts with the feeling of escaping them entirely by some other route. Because of consciousness's tower, into which I could ascend at will.
But the question which interests me today is the following: is authenticity, by walling up the door to the tower for ever more, going to reinstil in me the spirit of seriousness? I think there can be only one reply: No, by no means! For to grasp oneself as a person is quite the opposite of grasping oneself in terms of the world. And however authentic one is, one's still free—even freer than in the hypothesis of the tower—since one's condemned to a freedom without shadow and without excuse. And, after all, being-in-the-world isn't being of the world. It's even the opposite. Renouncing the ivory tower, I should like the world to appear to me in its full, threatening reality—but I do not, therefore, want my life to stop being a game. That's why I subscribe whole-heartedly to Schiller's phrase: 'Man is fully a man only when he plays.''