Philos Stud (2007) 135:111–121 DOI 10.1007/s11098-007-9095-y
Portraits as displays Patrick Maynard
Received: 8 February 2007 / Accepted: 23 February 2007 / Published online: 24 May 2007 Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2007
Abstract Cynthia Freeland’s investigation of four kinds of ‘fidelity’ in portraiture is cut across by more general philosophical concerns. One is about what might be called the expression of persons–the persons or ‘inner selves’ of portrait subjects and of portrait artist: whether either is possible across each of the four kinds of fidelity, and whether these two kinds of expression are in tension. More fundamental is the problem of telling how selfexpression is at all possible in any of these forms. Finally, she wonders how photography affects all these questions. This comment addresses portraiture not so much in terms of the four fidelities, but with another quartet of concepts: four ordinary types of ‘display’, in terms of which we see how artists’ self-expression is possible in all these forms, also including photography. Its key idea is that portraits are displays simply by being pictures or sculptures, which are kinds of artifacts, hence things that we perceive as having intentional affordance: that is, as being intentionally made ‘for’ something. Keywords Visual art
Portrait Artifact Display Self-expression Intentional affordances
Cynthia Freeland approaches portraiture with two concerns. The first is about a seeming tension between two ‘‘aims’’ of portraiture: capturing the person of the subject and allowing for the artist’s expression (‘‘revelatory’’ versus ‘‘creative’’). The second is a background, more ‘‘philosophical,’’ worry, about ‘‘rendering the subjective objectively visible’’ at all by means of physical images–a concern apparently regarding both terms of her tension: the subject’s depicted individuality, and also the artist’s expressed individuality. Most of her paper addresses the former issue of the portrait subject, in terms of four kinds of fidelity, regarding traditional media, then photography. Since Freeland has only concluding suggestions about ‘‘the second aim, creative expression,’’ my comments complement hers by addressing that issue, as generalized in her concluding remarks, which P. Maynard (&) Philosophy, University of Western Ontario, 781 Waterloo Street, N6A 3W5 London, Ontario, Canada e-mail:
[email protected]
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raise an even more basic philosophical problem (discussed by such diverse philosophers as Merleau-Ponty and Dewey) of how artistic self-expression is at all possible in art: or, in Freeland’s terms, how the subjectivity of an artist can be made visible in something physical, an image. (1) I will argue that artistic self-expression being possible in portraiture, or in any kind of visual depiction, is tractable without recourse to metaphysics, once we understand that they are displays. Let’s begin as Freeland usefully does, with a sketch history of portraiture. As with all cultural objects, the early images that we call ‘portraits’ have had varied use. Some might be called effigies. Thus an Egyptian steward Senbi intended his to house his soul, while the Sumerian despot Gudea’s multiple versions were to spread his image widely—successfully, as they have wound up in a number of museums, owing not only to their craft and beauty but also to their compact shapes in hard stone.1 Like Gudea’s, the formal portraits of ancient rulers, including coins and medals, were used to put them on ‘display,’ to display the powerful as powerful, thereby increasing their power. There were also colossal portrayals of the likes of pharaohs and Constantine. For many of these, Freeland’s first and third categories of veracity appear not so much at issue (few people actually saw pharaohs and emperors), whereas authority was. Nor was a revealing air of the inner person much sought. With a few adjustments, Amenhotep III had his name carved into his predecessors’ massive stone portrayals, only to have his own suffer the same fate. Of course, personal portrayal—some of it quite sensitive—did find its way into such contexts, for example, early in Hatshepsut’s reign (although on later, often bearded, versions her successor simply changed names). Evocative personal portraits of non-royalty also appear in the Egyptian and Classical worlds, although some of these—such as those of philosophers—are of types. Still, we think we know what some of the famous— Socrates, Epicurus, Seneca, Marcus, Caligula—looked like, and also—at least during Roman republican times—many middle class people, as well.2 Regarding the royal images, what is meant here by ‘display’? Such displays are things visible, where it’s also clear that that they’ve been made visible: that is, not only that their visibility is intentional but that part of the intent is that we recognize this as the intent: this massive stone was cut, this coin stamped, for you to see the ruler. That kind of display obviously contrasts with a more modern idea of revealing the person, where ‘the real person’ tends to be taken to be a private one, with an inner consciousness usually best glimpsed in unguarded moments when one isn’t on display. Still, what went for old imperial portraits applied to some extent to the later middle-class portraits. In ancient times wealthy people, as now, displayed not so much their power as their recognizable social selves: their best (public) faces, clothes, jewelry. When photography began, such were their first and main commercial uses: the studio photo, full of props and formal poses for
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These two examples and the comment on Gudea are due to Paul Magriel and John T. Spike, in Magriel and Spike (1987), pp. 89, 109.
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I am grateful to Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada grants for assisting travel to the following sites: the The Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek Museum, Copenhagen; the Pergamon Museum, Berlin; The National Archeological Museum, Naples; uncountable visits to the British Museum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, at the last, notably for the exhibit, ‘‘Hatshepsut: From Queen to Pharaoh’’ (June– July, 2006). Freeland’s second category, presence, may be satisfied by monumental works, whose obdurate physical massiveness might in imagination transfer to a sense of the persons depicted.
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everyperson, everywhere. Thus in painting we had the birth of the society portrait, but, not to exaggerate the point, many were made for households, so the matter is complex. What of the more intimate portrait? That appears to evolve, too, as we find in classically based encaustic Fayum coffin portraits of Egypt, where, as has been observed, a sense of interior life and individuality—hence of the fleeting mortality definitely not sought by rulers— shows up. (2) Examination of the rich variety of cases for each of the historical types of portrayals would greatly qualify these reckless generalizations. Leaving that task to art historians, let’s return to the idea of ‘display,’ where we have already suggested a distinction. At first we considered images that displayed the pharaoh or emperor, but with the other formal portraits just alluded to we have something rather different, closer to our central conception of ‘portrait’ than are the ancient ones: that is, depictions of people who are in the act of displaying themselves–notably for the portrayal. Many such formal portraits, later also of royalty, exist. With such representations goes the idea of posing or sitting for one’s portrait, that is, of collusion between artist and subject, which might be called ‘portrayal proper.’ This is implied by neither the earlier power image nor the unguarded, intimate, revealing modern one. Why do we now sometimes find this second kind of formal portrait off-putting? A quick answer, of their sitters seeming rather self-conscious about their appearances, isn’t right, for we all are conscious that way—and well should be. Indeed, some social self-consciousness, Michael Tomasello argues, is part of the social evolutionary process basic to our very humanness.3 According to that account, at about nine months of age children achieve what no other primates can: an awareness of the intentionality of conspecifics, other people—not just of their behavior—and with that, the conception of another’s point of view. An important step from this is the conception of oneself as an object of another’s attention, from another’s point of view: the idea that we, too, have appearances to others—thus the conception of social appearance. As Michael Podro stated, ‘‘We have an awareness of how we appear to others, for some sense of this is built into our expressive behavior; we have the sense of our being in a shared world in which our conduct has a shape and expressiveness for others.’’4 Self-consciousness of one’s appearance to others is therefore an acknowledgement of other people’s points of view. (Abraham Lincoln, considered ugly in his time, would quip, ‘‘I have the advantage in looks: I look at you, but you have to look at me.’’) In children, shyness ensues, followed by socially self-conscious presentation. Next, things get complicated. Quite when social appearance might reverse this acknowledgement of others’ points of view, substituting a self-absorbed mask that hardly acknowledges others, may be interesting to tell, but having made these additional points about display in portraits, let’s move on to a third sort of portrait display.5
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Tomasello (1999), esp. pp. 89f.
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Podro (1998), p. 88.
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Regarding Freeland’s fourth kind of ‘‘subjectification,’’ John Shearman—who reminds us what a muchdiscussed topic that was during the Renaissance—suggests an important distinction between imparting the sense of ‘‘a mind behind the mask’’ and of ‘‘the specific emotional identity, of an individual’’—the former but not the latter being achieved in ‘‘Mona Lisa,’’ whose perceived deficiency Raphael set out to remedy. See Shearman (1992), pp. 121–125.
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(3) This display leads to one of Freeland’s histories , the artist’s self-portrait—indeed
with her apt example of Du¨rer, who from the age of 13 seemed not shy about his good looks. In his Madrid self-portrait at age 27 we find our first two kinds of display: display of the subject and display of the subject socially displaying himself—that is, sitting for his portrait in rich clothes and cascading curly-locks. ‘‘Look,’’ the picture seems to say, ‘‘He’s young, handsome, successful.’’ Where is the third kind of display? This is literally show or display, in the sense of sampling, of the artist’s skill with techniques of oil painting, for rendering fabric, flesh, hair, light and shadow, an Alpine scene, which then becomes part of the second kind—indeed of Du¨rer displaying himself as successful as a consummate artist, besides the other things he’s showing off.6 Such show of skill shares the three-part structure of display noted with the first two types: first, Du¨rer’s skill is visible in the picture—we see it there—second, we’re clearly meant to do so, and, third, we’re meant to notice that intention, as well. Such is generally true of show-offs: they not only make displays of themselves, we’re supposed to know they’re doing it. The richness of this new layer of display for artistic meaning is wellknown. So is its absence, for example in Rembrandt’s and Chardin’s more profound late self-portraits, in which they don’t show off. They don’t need to.
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Podro (1998): ‘‘the painter...is also presenting himself socially, so the apt mode of self-presentation combines in exercising his skill with representing himself’’ (97); ‘‘the appearance of the painter and the exemplification of his skills give focus to each other’’; ‘‘the logic of the self-portrait, the self-presentation through one’s likeness, embodying one’s skill’’ (98).
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(4) With this third kind of display, we are already into the topic of the artist’s selfexpression in the work. But here, as the richness of portraiture’s history once more tends to overwhelm, let’s step back again, to see whether what we have considered contains further clues regarding the philosophical question of how, according to Freeland’s citation of Vale´ry (and Merleau-Ponty), the painter ‘‘takes his body with him’’ into a painting, or how there could be a ‘‘thoroughgoing integration of … ‘subject’ and ‘object’’’ in ‘‘every work of art,’’ as Dewey states. If such can be done in other works of art, it can be done in portraits. But how can it be done at all? Self-portraits displaying (or not) the artist’s skill being such a singular class, how could they help regarding this broad question? I suggest beginning with a simple factor, all along presupposed in this discussion: a fourth kind of display, which should really be counted as the first, since all the others presuppose it: the very fact of being a picture (or sculpture). All pictures, before being portraits or even depictions, are and must be perceived to be displays in this sense. For, as pictures, they are visible, meant to be visible, meant for us to see that they are so meant. Being a picture is therefore a functional role that a thing can have; it may have other roles, possibly main ones. For example, what is true of Senbi’s wooden effigy may hold for some painted ones: their original function was not depictive, but to be physical vessels for persons after death; it’s we who have changed their role. Let’s consider this most basic kind of display more closely, to see what it reveals about the question of artists’ self-expression. Understanding that pictures are displays makes it clear that they are artifacts: that is, things made on purpose, for purposes–purposes of use. The first use is their very display visibility. Curiously lost to much theoretical discussion of pictures—and popular conceptions—is that we understand pictures and sculpture, recognize and experience them, as artifacts of a particular, extremely ancient kind. After such artifacts as stone tools, which long predate our species, pictures and associated figurative representations are among the most ancient we know, going back about a fifth the estimated age of the species. Things of their kind have pride of place among artifacts, tools, long before the proverbial wheel. ‘Material culture’ is what we call such remains and what that entails is culture: society. As Michael Tomasello points out, humans exist in societies, rather than in flocks, because we are capable of experiencing just what our later idea of portraiture celebrates: the intentionality or mental life of others of our kind. Because of this, the artifacts other people produce are also perceived by us intentionally—perceived as having uses connected to human purposes, goals and their means (Tomasello, 1999 pp. 84–86): that is, as having what are called ‘intentional affordances.’ Apparently, no other creature shares this perceptual capacity, although animals are of course resourceful in recognizing physical affordances, the properties of their environments that allow their use in order to do things. Accordingly, perception of a thing as an artifact, not as natural, is basic to us—like taking something as alive or not.7 This strongly affects how anything looks to us—indeed, how we look at it: figure…
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Although Tomasello further argues that it is only because we can perceive artifacts as artifacts, puzzle out their intended functions, that we have been able to retain inventions, so that we could begin to improve on them. What he calls the ‘ratchet effect’ isn’t required by the present argument.
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When I first saw this shape on a studio floor I took it to be a paint splash. Then I recognized it to be an acetate flat form of a fairy-depiction,8 and immediately my visual experience shifted—no doubt, bodily, head and eye movements, as well, as I sought its depictive affordances. When we recognize pictures, including portraits, that’s literally how they look to us, and how we look at them: we look at them as a specific kind of artifact, with not only physical but also intentional affordances, thus as made on purpose for distinct purposes, and clearly their first purpose would be visible ‘display’ in the sense stated. This is as exciting as saying that when we perceive nuts and bolts we perceive them as a kind of artifact, made on purpose for a purpose, which is joinery and not basically display. Of course, some natural (especially living) things also have functions, and people understand them that way. Of them, too, people ask, ‘What’s this for?’ But, except for the very religious, natural things aren’t understood as intentional, whereas for everybody artifacts are. Furthermore, only with artifacts does the ‘for’ in ‘what’s this for?’ mean: ‘what do we use this for?,’ where ‘we’ denotes a culture.9 Thus with any artifact we assume two kinds of intention: one that shaped it and another that uses it for goals, with the shaping effected with those goals in mind. This is consistent with artifacts being used for multiple purposes—perhaps an essential feature of our understanding of tools. Children learn to understand artifacts and procedures this way from an early age; telling them what something ‘is for’—indicating not just its physical but its intentional affor-
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Although neither Cottingley nor Cottington: neither the Cottingley fairy photo fraud involving Arthur Conan Doyle nor Brian Froud’s Lady Cottington’s Pressed Fairy Book.
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See Tomasello (1999), p. 84.
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dances—is the standard way of telling them what the thing is. Strangely, many philosophers and cognitive scientists have conspired to forget these simple points—only regarding pictures and the like. That is, they can remember them about spear tips and ship prows, but not about the animal carvings on them. The cognitive scientists’ version is to reduce pictorial perception to the bits of environmental perception that it accesses; the aestheticians’ is to deny the relevance of what are tendentiously called ‘artists’ intentions.’ Both strategies are based on denying that pictures are normally understood as artifacts, both are mistaken. Despite such professional denials, the way we all go on experiencing pictures is as artifacts—for example, as depictions, maybe portraits, self-portraits—and therefore as made for something, and—crucial point—that includes their parts and aspects. This matters because the normal, relevant way to look at any picture is as a display, and with an eye to any aspect or detail of it, considering ‘what is this for, why is that there, what’s this doing (is it necessary, a mistake)?’—just as we do with parts and aspects of all sorts of artifacts, such as computers and program requirements, except that here the emphasis is on why something has been made visible. It’s the only way to make sense of them. (5) Consider the implications of these facts about display-artifact perception on the reductive tendencies of much picture-perception research. Whenever such sciences discover natural-perceptual cues to be exploited in picture-making—say, occlusion, diminution gradients (closer to our topic: facial recognition cues such as highlight luster on eyes, indicating inwardness—as in the Fayum portraits)—rather than a reduction, what we get is another recognition cue, taken from nature, that can be used by artists—and that will look to be so, since it’s part of a display, a picture—which isn’t true of the natural situation. Therefore it will look different than it does in nature, since in nature it (say, a catchlight on an eye) does not look like someone put it there for purposes of recognition, whereas in the picture it does.10 The extent to which this difference of appearance matters depends on the picture and on our uses of it. The meaning of this for philosophy of art is that pictures, e.g. portraits, have meaning: that is, are intentional all the way down—including plenty of accidents, since it’s standard for artists to use accidents. And since we see all those aspects of portraits as being there for reasons—reasons of display—it’s pertinent to understand them in terms of artists’ actions. Thus pictures’ being, as Dewey says, ‘‘neither merely physical nor merely mental’’ is no paradox, once we take them for what they are and appear as, artifacts of a specific kind, therefore—unlike natural objects—formed on purpose, for detailed purposes.
10 This point is complicated by people’s purposely enhancing or disguising perceptual cues in nature, where it also appears that they have done so, in architecture or personal adornment, for example.
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That’s, for example, how a Wilhelm Busch caricature of Schopenhauer looks to us (see Fig. Schopenhauer), in its every loop and scribble, making affordances for the poodle’s body but not head shaved, the philosopher’s frock-coat darker (emphasizing the oval of his hat, matching his head’s), legs bandy, heels turned in. We are aware of the artist’s firm overall grasp of the main figure in every mark, dexterous in its placement, shape, length and emphasis (an intentional term), that characterizes it. That also importantly includes perception of the design, of three sizes of vertical rectangles set within a larger, whimsically depicted as a piece of paper—thus the depiction as depicting itself to be a picture. It needs to be emphasized that it’s wrong to understand Busch’s self-expression simply in terms of his characteristic way of making marks: a ‘brush-stroke’ fallacy. The artist ‘‘takes his body with him’’ into the work indeed, but a body with a mind. Clearly, Busch’s visible actions include not only making marks but making them in order to get certain effects. That’s a statement about human action not specific to aesthetics. Denying it would be saying that where one thing is done in order to do another, only the first is done: clearly unacceptable. Thus looking at depictions and looking at real scenes differ radically, even where the former borrows much from the latter. The easily apparent reason for the presence of scribbled cast shadows outward from the figures’ feet is to place them on the ground, whereas placing them on the ground isn’t a reason for, or even a cause of, figures casting such ‘Waltzian’ shadows in nature. But not only is the artist’s skilled depictive intent
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visible throughout, so is his mental attitude of irreverence regarding a famous philosopher. Thus visual art’s equivalent for verbal narration. We see that Schopenhauer holds his hat where it is, not with humorous intent; we also see that Busch has placed the marks depicting the hat—as he has the two at the base of the dog’s tail—with humorous intent. Once they are understood in terms of such actions of producing them, all such aspects of pictures are open to the intellectual, psychological, moral, social, spiritual qualifications by which human actions are generally understood—as already observed with the contrast of Du¨rer’s self-portrait with those of Chardin and Rembrandt. This conforms to what we all know: that depictions—just as much as verbal descriptions—can be perceptive, scathing, funny, coarse, compassionate, ironic, distant, sensitive, shallow, mechanical, morally great. That’s how they normally appear to us, and exactly how we describe them. So we have a straightforward answer to our question of how artists can express themselves in depictions, from which proceeds an answer to how this is possible while being faithful to a subject in the four ways listed. Busch has not only captured his subject with Freeland’s first and third kinds of truth, and expressed himself; he has mainly expressed himself by the way in which he has captured his subject. Once we see artworks as artifacts, things done on purpose (and it’s very difficult not to), there is no particular theoretical problem about artistic self-expression—about ‘‘rendering the subjective objectively visible.’’ Indeed, among artifacts—partly because they are display artifacts— depictive works are especially open to such ‘‘combinations of subjectivity and objectivity’’: more so than are such artifacts as bolts, ditches, bylaws, which have other functions. That is a main reason why a few pictures go, as we say, ‘on display,’ in museums, over long periods, and are much commented on, since they reward repeated perceptions that investigate precisely the interplay between purposive actions—the procedures of making them—their subjects and their materials. Thereby it’s possible for pictures, including portraits, to be fine art—something very significant that reduces neither to aesthetics nor to involvement in fictional worlds. (6) Regarding our more specific topic, the challenge to photography’s status as fine art has always been this very artifactuality: deciding whether enough of the image is there on purpose—the extent to which one can ask of it, ‘why is that there?,’ with reference to purposive actions rather than natural events. But we cannot expect the proportion of intentionality of aspects and features in a photo to be near what it is in other kinds of pictures—although we must make room for intentional use of accident. In that connection I suggest that we beware three common fallacies. The first is to suppose that, regarding intentionality, it’s an all or nothing matter.11 Since control is never complete, no deliberate action excludes accident. It’s therefore a matter of degree, and beyond doubt photographers are able to control much of the compositions of their images: we wouldn’t be able to identify and appreciate their styles otherwise, and clearly we do. A second is that with photos one needn’t consider what was put there on purpose—or that one can determine this by looking at single photographs, for normally one must look at a number by a given photographer to see what’s being done in any: that is, by normal inductive process of intelligent perception, seeking invariants over different cases. There is space here to dis-
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The first and third fallacies are notable in an influential paper by Roger Scruton: Scruton (1981). Regarding the first, Siegfried Kracauer had already discussed the issue of degrees of formative control in Kracauer (1960). The second fallacy is a prominent principle of argument in Malcolm (1997). (Coincidentally, Schopenhauer seems the earliest-born famous philosopher of whom we have photographs—even a daguerreotype.)
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cuss only a third fallacy, mentioned by Freeland: to suppose that detecting, even seeing, things by their means interferes with photographs’ powers to depict. This may relate to Freeland’s other concern about the physical and the mental, about the artist’s making ‘‘a person into an object, an image.’’ Of course, artists don’t literally do that; even Senbi thought only his body was to be replaced by ‘‘an object, an image.’’ What depictive artists do is to produce objects that direct us to imagine that when we perceive them we perceive their subjects.12 We don’t believe, looking at Du¨rer’s self-portrait, that it’s the depicted subject; rather, we imagine of our seeing of it that this is the seeing of that subject. Its depictive affordances are in aid of that project. What photo-depiction adds to the situation are other affordances, not shared by painting, for indirectly seeing or detecting the subject by looking at the picture.13 Thus photographic portrayals have double aspects, deployed in various ways. One is to keep them separate: we photograph actors in order to portray others. Then what we imagine seeing is the subject, what we indirectly, actually see is the actor.14 However, often what are depicted and indirectly seen are the same: a photograph is taken of the person who is depicted by it—including, as observed before, subjects acting themselves. Issues arise concerning what was true of the subject, what we can detect about the subject, and how the photograph has us imagine seeing it. When we include working by composition or design, together with depiction and actually seeing or detecting the subject, photography provides an interacting triad of means, and thereby a new dimension to portrayal.15 Those who think that the detection function necessarily effaces the other two in our experience might be reminded that something similar has mistakenly been claimed about each of the others, regarding traditional media: that our interest in abstract design and production processes conflicts with our attention to depictive content, despite the fact that these typically interact and enhance one another. Even in our Busch caricature, we can see how the walking-stick depicting line’s crossing the diagonal and attaching to the frame-line affects the depiction. Cover it and that frame becomes a window, the figures lying beyond; uncover, and the main figure comes back to us, animating the characterization. Meanwhile, our perception of the lines is influenced by our attempt to recognize what they depict: the line for the hat brim is seen as a single broken oval because it is understood as depicting a contour. In a similar way, photography’s third element of indirect perception of the subject may interact with the other two in our experience, producing inimitable graphic effects, with the possibility of unique arts of photographic portrayal, including subjectivity made ‘‘objectively visible.’’ References Kracauer, S. (1960). Theory of film: The redemption of physical reality. New York: Oxford University Press. Magriel, P., & Spike, J. T. (1987). A connoisseur’s guide to the Met. New York: Vintage Books. Malcolm, J. (1997). Diana & Nikon: Essays on photography. New York: Aperture. 12
See Walton (1990), ch. 8.
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Sometimes called ‘transparency,’ a provocative term that should be avoided. To see other things, we look through transparent objects such as spectacles, contact lenses and windows, certainly not at them, whereas one must look at photographs indirectly to see or detect their subjects. Furthermore, in most instances, in order to do this we must look at photographs as depictions: that is, imagining that seeing them is seeing their subjects. I have treated this topic several times, especially in Maynard (1997), esp. ch. VII. 14 As in cinema and television, we may imagine seeing the actors as well, but we don’t even indirectly see the subjects in such cases. See Walton (1990), p. 27. 15 I have attempted to place use of this triad in a wider cultural and historical perspective in several articles and Maynard (1997), ch. VIII.
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Maynard, P. (1997). The Engine of visualization: Thinking through photography. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press. Podro, M. (1998). Depiction. London: Yale University Press. Scruton, R. (1981). Photography and representation. Critical Inquiry, 7, 577–603. Shearman, J. (1992). Only connect: Art and the spectator in the Italian Renaissance. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Tomasello, M. (1999). The cultural origins of human cognition. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Walton, K. (1990). Mimesis as make-believe: On the foundations of the representational arts. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.
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