RÉSUMÉ Cet article offre la première édition du début des Communia logic e, une substantielle compilation didascalique issue de la Faculté des arts de l’Université de Paris au milieu du xiiie siècle et contenue dans un manuscrit légué par maître Pierre de Limoges à l’ancienne bibliothèque de la Sorbonne. Après une présentation générale et avant des précisions sur la Ratio edendi, l’étude doctrinale qui précède cette édition montre comment l’auteur-compilateur des Communia logic e répond — en le reformulant — au (...) célèbre questionnaire porphyrien relatif aux universaux. ABSTRACT This article offers the first edition of the beginning of the Communia logic e, a substantial didascalical compilation emanating from the Arts faculty of the University of Paris during the first half of the thirteenth century and preserved in a manuscript bequeathed by master Peter of Limoges to the old library of the Sorbonne. After a general presentation and before some clarifications on the Ratio edendi, the doctrinal study which precedes this edition shows how the author-compiler of the Communia logic e answers — while reformulating it — to the well known porphyrian set of questions about the universals. (shrink)

This chapter contains sections titled: Notes References.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 38.2 (2004) 80-87 [Access article in PDF] The Beauty of Henri Matisse David Carrier Because beauty has for a long time now been politically incorrect (at least among certain influential critics and academic historians) the art of Henri Matisse has recently suffered from a kind of benign neglect. His goals were luxury, calm, and voluptuousness, not social critique. He painted female nudes, (...) and was preoccupied with artistic tradition. Celebrated in his own lifetime, he died a rich man. Matisse's famous identification of the work of art with a good armchair is another provocation. His paintings, after all, are very expensive armchairs. Liberated from any vital connection with everyday life, they often seem merely escapist. In her recent book, On Beauty and Being Just, Elaine Scarry remarks, "Matisse never hoped to save lives. But he repeatedly said that he wanted to make paintings so serenely beautiful that when one came upon them, suddenly all problems would subside."1 That some of Matisse's paintings succeed in being serenely beautiful seems self-evident to Scarry, to me, and to a great many other art lovers. What is perhaps worth exploring at greater length, however, is precisely how Matisse's paintings succeed in achieving their unfashionable goal. What is it that makes the work of Matisse so serenely beautiful?To start, consider The Painter and His Model (1918-1921), made just after his move from Paris to Nice. Like other works from this period of his career, this picture raises special problems, even for many commentators who admire his earlier experimentation. At the left, we see the painter working on a canvas of a nude. "Expression, for me," Matisse wrote, "does not reside in passions glowing in a human face."2 Like most of his models, this one appears expressionless. She poses at the center of the picture, beneath a window that admits the light filling the room. A flowering palm, a symbol of fertility, is the only object visible from the world outside the studio.Leaving behind his family and the luxury of his Paris home, Matisse lived and worked in a small room like this one. The entire picture is filled [End Page 80] with patterns — a red tablecloth on the left, orange wallpaper on the right, blue stripes on the painter's shirt, a red grid on the floor. A dark painting hangs above flowers on the table. The Painter and His Model shows the artist hard at work, but the composition appears effortlessly spontaneous. Matisse, who lived only to paint during his time in Nice, concealed the endless effort required to make his beautiful pictures. A man from North France, he discovered the power of light. There is nothing special about this room, but under the spell of his model Matisse makes it appear ravishing. Intense Mediterranean sunlight transforms ordinary patterns into a world of visual luxury.We know that The Painter and His Model is beautiful because we get great pleasure seeing the model in the golden room. Her skin is close in tone to, or in harmony with the colors of the walls; her curves harmonize with the two vases, and play against the spreading linear grids. As we move our eyes easily from the model to the entire picture, we experience a kind of sublimated erotic pleasure. In "Notes of a Painter," Matisse gave an apt description of his approach in The Painter and His Model. Suppose I want to paint a woman's body: first of all I imbue it with grace and charm, but I know that I must give something more. I will condense the meaning of this body by seeking its essential lines. The charm will be less apparent at first glance, but it must eventually emerge from the new image which will have a broader meaning, one more fully human. (MA, 36) He does not use the word "beauty," but speaks instead about expression and harmony. When he published this manifesto, Matisse was painting very different sorts of pictures — portraits, scenes of nudes in utopian settings, and... (shrink)

In Bielefeld, Germany in April, 1997 an author conference was devoted to Arthur C. Danto's 1995 Mellon Lectures After the End of Art: Contemporary Art and the Pale of History . This essay provides an introduction to seven essays given at that conference and expanded for this Theme Issue of History and Theory. Danto presented his view of the nature of art in The Transfiguration of the Commonplace . He then added in the Mellon lectures a sociological perspective on the (...) current situation of the visual arts, and an Hegelian historiography. The history of art has ended, Danto claims, and we now live in a posthistorical era. Since in his well-known book on historiography, Analytical Philosophy of History , Danto is unsympathetic to Hegel's speculative ways of thinking about history, his adaptation of this Hegelian framework is surprising. Danto's strategy in After the End of Art is best understood by grasping the way in which he transformed the purely philosophical account of The Transfiguration into a historical account. Recognizing that his philosophical analysis provided a good way of explaining the development of art in the modern period, Danto radically changed the context of his argument. In this process, he opened up discussion of some serious but as yet unanswered questions about his original thesis, and about the plausibility of Hegel's claim that the history of art has ended. (shrink)

The existence of conflicting interpretations in literature, history, and art history casts doubt on the ability of any interpretation to be true to the facts. The role of the art historian is complicated by this reconsideration of what is valuable in interpretation. Progress in the history of art is difficult to ascertain. The scope and diversity of twentieth-century criticism of Piero della Francesca's Renaissance frescoes is difficult to compare to his less extensive Renaissance criticism by Vasari. While the antirelativist would (...) be comfortable setting individual interpretations against a set of ahistorical standards, the relativist avoids evaluating differing interpretations as more or less valuable. Both relativism and antirelativism steer evaluations away from the notion of truth in interpretation. The marginalization of truth is furthered by the lack of "facts" in art. The flexibility of the data in art history makes multiple interpretations unavoidable. Only by acknowledging the inevitable coupling of form with content and the meaninglessness of searching for truth outside of the limiting structures of form, can truthful representations occur in pictures and in narratives. (shrink)

In Bielefeld, Germany in April, 1997 an author conference was devoted to Arthur C. Danto's 1995 Mellon Lectures After the End of Art: Contemporary Art and the Pale of History. This essay provides an introduction to seven essays given at that conference and expanded for this Theme Issue of History and Theory. Danto presented his view of the nature of art in The Transfiguration of the Commonplace. He then added in the Mellon lectures a sociological perspective on the current situation (...) of the visual arts, and an Hegelian historiography. The history of art has ended, Danto claims, and we now live in a posthistorical era. Since in his well-known book on historiography, Analytical Philosophy of History, Danto is unsympathetic to Hegel's speculative ways of thinking about history, his adaptation of this Hegelian framework is surprising. Danto's strategy in After the End of Art is best understood by grasping the way in which he transformed the purely philosophical account of The Transfiguration into a historical account. Recognizing that his philosophical analysis provided a good way of explaining the development of art in the modern period, Danto radically changed the context of his argument. In this process, he opened up discussion of some serious but as yet unanswered questions about his original thesis, and about the plausibility of Hegel's claim that the history of art has ended. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Artforum, Andy Warhol, and the Art of Living:What Art Educators Can Learn from the Recent History of American Art WritingDavid Carrier (bio)When around 1980 I began writing art criticism, Artforum was much concerned with historical analysis.1 When presenting the work of younger painters and sculptors, it seemed natural to explain artists' accomplishments by identifying precedents for their work. Much of my criticism published in the 1980s presented post-formalist (...) accounts of abstract painting. Seeking precedents for the painting I admired, I looked to the history of art. But such pleas for the value of tradition were doomed. Commentators preaching the values of tradition lost out to the writers emphasizing a break with the past. Much of interest for art education can be learned by studying the history of this very influential, small circulation journal.Only in retrospect did the urgency of this felt need for a break with the past become apparent. The history of responses to Abstract Expressionism suggested a different way of thinking about moments of change. HaroldRosenberg's conception of "action painting" implied that Pollock broke dramatically with the past. Clement Greenberg, by contrast, in a famous phrase said: "I do not think it exaggerated to say that Pollock's 1946-1950 manner really took up Analytic Cubism from the point at which Picasso and Braquehad left it...in their collages of 1912 and 1913."2 Greenberg's counter-intuitive analysis, asking us to see very different looking paintings as essentially similar, had prevailed. So it was not unreasonable to expect that after Greenberg, concern with tradition would remain important. But that was not what happened.Demand for a break with the past often carries political overtones. Historians debate whether the French Revolution broke with the past, or merely developed trends of the old regime. The idea of a complete break with tradition can seem attractive, but of course such dramatic ways of thinking underestimate real continuities. Struggle among post-Greenbergian artwriters to define a new critical paradigm mimics conflicts among artists to define the [End Page 1] leading post-Abstract Expressionist tradition. Once a critical paradigm has been established, debate may proceed peacefully. But when defining a period style is at issue, the stakes are high, and so conflicts are ferocious. Of course, struggle is always accompanied also by co-operation, but failing to grasp the real role of conflict leads to all-too-pious visions of what is possible.Greenberg developedthe most influential critical approach, and so when his way of thinking was rejected, a radically different approach was of most interest. Here we are dealing with what Harold Bloom famously called the anxiety of influence. Just as the most interesting painting after Abstract Expressionism deconstructed that tradition, so in criticism no ways of thinking too similar to Greenberg's stood a chance of being important. I think it interesting to reconstruct the process rationally in which an individual obtains such power. A totem, Freud explains, is "an animal (whether edible and harmless or dangerous and feared) and more rarely a plant or a natural phenomenon (such as rain or water), which stands in a peculiar relation to the whole clan."3 The communion bread and wine are just bread and wine, but for the believer they become Christ's body and blood. Rationally speaking, a representational painting is just pigment on canvas; and a minimalist sculpture, just shaped metal. But in what Arthur Danto calls the "transfiguration of the commonplace," "a work of art...has qualities to attend to which its untransfigured counterpart lacks...We are dealing with an altogether different order of things."4 Greenberg became a totem. He was not just an important writer whose arguments entitled him to reasonable respect. The mere mention of his name invoked irrational fears.Greenberg was obsessed with tradition. Abstract Expressionism was rooted in early modernism, so that the era from Manet through Pollock defined a period style. Greenberg's historiography may seem inescapable. How can a young painter be understood except by seeking precedents for her achievement? Cannot the now famous artists who emerged in the 1980s be understood in these terms? Barbara Kruger comes out of John Heartfield and dada... (shrink)

Is writing a world art history possible? Does the history of art as such even exist outside the Western tradition? Is it possible to consider the history of art in a way that is not fundamentally Eurocentric? In this highly readable and provocative book, David Carrier, a philosopher and art historian, does not attempt to write a world art history himself. Rather, he asks the question of how an art history of all cultures could be written—or whether it (...) is even possible to do so. He also engages the political and moral issues raised by the idea of a multicultural art history. Focusing on a consideration of intersecting artistic traditions, Carrier negotiates the way meaning and understanding shift or are altered when a visual object from one culture, for example, is inserted into the visual tradition of another culture. _A World Art History and Its Objects _proposes the use of temporal narrative as a way to begin to understand a multicultural art history. ��. (shrink)

Is writing a world art history possible? Does the history of art as such even exist outside the Western tradition? Is it possible to consider the history of art in a way that is not fundamentally Eurocentric? In this highly readable and provocative book, David Carrier, a philosopher and art historian, does not attempt to write a world art history himself. Rather, he asks the question of how an art history of all cultures could be written—or whether it (...) is even possible to do so. He also engages the political and moral issues raised by the idea of a multicultural art history. Focusing on a consideration of intersecting artistic traditions, Carrier negotiates the way meaning and understanding shift or are altered when a visual object from one culture, for example, is inserted into the visual tradition of another culture. _A World Art History and Its Objects _proposes the use of temporal narrative as a way to begin to understand a multicultural art history. ��. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 37.3 (2003) 99-104 [Access article in PDF] New York Art, Pittsburgh Art, Art 1 David Carrier Champney Family Professor Case Western Reserve University/Cleveland Institute of Art I. New York Art A fully developed artworld requires not only artists, but also a support system — schools to teach the artists, commercial galleries to display art, and the connected artmarket; public museums and their (...) curators to make that art available to the public; and also, last and least, artwriters to interpret and evaluate the art. This has been true for a long time in America and Europe. I speak of artwriters as "last and least" just because we are important only in some artworlds. In the seventeenth century Poussin depended upon commentary of intellectuals, but his contemporaries Rembrandt and Vermeer did not. In this country, New York is such an artworld and so, perhaps, is Los Angeles. These are the places where young artists go to establish themselves, and so they are the places where the most original new art tends to be made. Artists outside of those centers then imitate the art made there.Artworld centers tend to be large business centers because they require major museums and many collectors. Each component of this system is dependent upon the others. Unless they have collectors, artists cannot support themselves without doing other jobs; unless there are museums, there is no public space in which art can be seen. Unless there are artwriters, there is no way to articulate shared experience of this art. This artworld is a product of modernist bourgeois democracy. Premodern cultures did not have public museums. Nowadays information is disseminated quickly, but the role of centers as places where new art is made, seen, and discussed remains essential. Our novel electronic technologies have not changed this situation.A collecting culture requires not just wealth, but also a special sort of sensibility. In fact, the number of serious collectors anywhere is surprisingly small, as one can see in Los Angeles, which has a great deal of wealth, but a surprisingly thin gallery system. Like collectors, artwriters too are odd sorts of creatures. I usually identify myself as a New York-based critic, because that is where I see most of the shows I review. Artforum, the Burlington Magazine, and Tema Celeste, the journals I now work for have a real interest in exhibitions at the Carnegie and the Warhol, in Pittsburgh, but no concern with shows like this one. Partly the problem is that reviewing space is very hard to come by, but also the difficulty is that it is difficult to make sense of a review discussing artists who are known only locally. Even were I to identify [End Page 99] someone local as a wonderful original talent, it would be very difficult for readers who have never seen her art to evaluate that claim.In Pittsburgh we certainly have good artists, and there are several universities with art departments. But here, as elsewhere in the cities I know, the artmarket is focused on New York; and there is, so far as I can see, only modest critical support for artists. Major collectors here, as elsewhere in America, look to New York, which has a critical mass of galleries, museums, and critics. The Carnegie too, tends to look to New York when planning its shows. The curators travel widely, but most of the art they show, whether American or from elsewhere, is displayed in New York galleries. If one adopts this way of thinking about an artworld, then art made in Pittsburgh inevitably will be judged as "provincial." There are a few major artists, and many derivative ones; and those major ones, the innovators, are in the artworld centers.This is the model Vasari adopts, it is Clement Greenberg's model, and it is the basic model driving the present day artworld. To describe Pittsburgh artists as provincial, then, is to identify the sociological structure of this, a typical local artworld. There is a lot of adventure and intelligence in Pittsburgh art, but inevitably to the critic... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 37.3 (2003) 99-104 [Access article in PDF] New York Art, Pittsburgh Art, Art 1 David Carrier Champney Family Professor Case Western Reserve University/Cleveland Institute of Art I. New York Art A fully developed artworld requires not only artists, but also a support system — schools to teach the artists, commercial galleries to display art, and the connected artmarket; public museums and their (...) curators to make that art available to the public; and also, last and least, artwriters to interpret and evaluate the art. This has been true for a long time in America and Europe. I speak of artwriters as "last and least" just because we are important only in some artworlds. In the seventeenth century Poussin depended upon commentary of intellectuals, but his contemporaries Rembrandt and Vermeer did not. In this country, New York is such an artworld and so, perhaps, is Los Angeles. These are the places where young artists go to establish themselves, and so they are the places where the most original new art tends to be made. Artists outside of those centers then imitate the art made there.Artworld centers tend to be large business centers because they require major museums and many collectors. Each component of this system is dependent upon the others. Unless they have collectors, artists cannot support themselves without doing other jobs; unless there are museums, there is no public space in which art can be seen. Unless there are artwriters, there is no way to articulate shared experience of this art. This artworld is a product of modernist bourgeois democracy. Premodern cultures did not have public museums. Nowadays information is disseminated quickly, but the role of centers as places where new art is made, seen, and discussed remains essential. Our novel electronic technologies have not changed this situation.A collecting culture requires not just wealth, but also a special sort of sensibility. In fact, the number of serious collectors anywhere is surprisingly small, as one can see in Los Angeles, which has a great deal of wealth, but a surprisingly thin gallery system. Like collectors, artwriters too are odd sorts of creatures. I usually identify myself as a New York-based critic, because that is where I see most of the shows I review. Artforum, the Burlington Magazine, and Tema Celeste, the journals I now work for have a real interest in exhibitions at the Carnegie and the Warhol, in Pittsburgh, but no concern with shows like this one. Partly the problem is that reviewing space is very hard to come by, but also the difficulty is that it is difficult to make sense of a review discussing artists who are known only locally. Even were I to identify [End Page 99] someone local as a wonderful original talent, it would be very difficult for readers who have never seen her art to evaluate that claim.In Pittsburgh we certainly have good artists, and there are several universities with art departments. But here, as elsewhere in the cities I know, the artmarket is focused on New York; and there is, so far as I can see, only modest critical support for artists. Major collectors here, as elsewhere in America, look to New York, which has a critical mass of galleries, museums, and critics. The Carnegie too, tends to look to New York when planning its shows. The curators travel widely, but most of the art they show, whether American or from elsewhere, is displayed in New York galleries. If one adopts this way of thinking about an artworld, then art made in Pittsburgh inevitably will be judged as "provincial." There are a few major artists, and many derivative ones; and those major ones, the innovators, are in the artworld centers.This is the model Vasari adopts, it is Clement Greenberg's model, and it is the basic model driving the present day artworld. To describe Pittsburgh artists as provincial, then, is to identify the sociological structure of this, a typical local artworld. There is a lot of adventure and intelligence in Pittsburgh art, but inevitably to the critic... (shrink)

In the 1980s, when the American art market flourished, critics were heavily concerned with theory. In T_he Aesthete in the City_ David Carrier offers a personal view on the artistic activity of that decade. He begins with a theoretical perspective on the relationship between two very different forms of artwriting: art criticism and art history writing. Carrier surveys the developments within theory during the 1980s, focusing on constructive critical analysis of the then fashionable work of Jean Baudrillard, (...) Walter Benjamin, T. J. Clark, and Jacques Derrida. He provides detailed accounts of a number of painters, among them Thomas Nozkowski, David Reed, and Sean Scully, whose development he followed closely. Carrier argues that the greatest American artistic tradition,Expressionism, provides the basis for an ongoing tradition of abstract painting, a rich system whose potential has not yet been exhausted. Carrier's earlier work was concerned with a philosophical study of the methods of art criticism. This book turns to the theory and practice of art criticism, concentrating on a concrete discussion of individual theorists and artists. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 38.2 (2004) 80-87 [Access article in PDF] The Beauty of Henri Matisse David Carrier Because beauty has for a long time now been politically incorrect (at least among certain influential critics and academic historians) the art of Henri Matisse has recently suffered from a kind of benign neglect. His goals were luxury, calm, and voluptuousness, not social critique. He painted female nudes, (...) and was preoccupied with artistic tradition. Celebrated in his own lifetime, he died a rich man. Matisse's famous identification of the work of art with a good armchair is another provocation. His paintings, after all, are very expensive armchairs. Liberated from any vital connection with everyday life, they often seem merely escapist. In her recent book, On Beauty and Being Just, Elaine Scarry remarks, "Matisse never hoped to save lives. But he repeatedly said that he wanted to make paintings so serenely beautiful that when one came upon them, suddenly all problems would subside."1 That some of Matisse's paintings succeed in being serenely beautiful seems self-evident to Scarry, to me, and to a great many other art lovers. What is perhaps worth exploring at greater length, however, is precisely how Matisse's paintings succeed in achieving their unfashionable goal. What is it that makes the work of Matisse so serenely beautiful?To start, consider The Painter and His Model (1918-1921), made just after his move from Paris to Nice. Like other works from this period of his career, this picture raises special problems, even for many commentators who admire his earlier experimentation. At the left, we see the painter working on a canvas of a nude. "Expression, for me," Matisse wrote, "does not reside in passions glowing in a human face."2 Like most of his models, this one appears expressionless. She poses at the center of the picture, beneath a window that admits the light filling the room. A flowering palm, a symbol of fertility, is the only object visible from the world outside the studio.Leaving behind his family and the luxury of his Paris home, Matisse lived and worked in a small room like this one. The entire picture is filled [End Page 80] with patterns — a red tablecloth on the left, orange wallpaper on the right, blue stripes on the painter's shirt, a red grid on the floor. A dark painting hangs above flowers on the table. The Painter and His Model shows the artist hard at work, but the composition appears effortlessly spontaneous. Matisse, who lived only to paint during his time in Nice, concealed the endless effort required to make his beautiful pictures. A man from North France, he discovered the power of light. There is nothing special about this room, but under the spell of his model Matisse makes it appear ravishing. Intense Mediterranean sunlight transforms ordinary patterns into a world of visual luxury.We know that The Painter and His Model is beautiful because we get great pleasure seeing the model in the golden room. Her skin is close in tone to, or in harmony with the colors of the walls; her curves harmonize with the two vases, and play against the spreading linear grids. As we move our eyes easily from the model to the entire picture, we experience a kind of sublimated erotic pleasure. In "Notes of a Painter," Matisse gave an apt description of his approach in The Painter and His Model. Suppose I want to paint a woman's body: first of all I imbue it with grace and charm, but I know that I must give something more. I will condense the meaning of this body by seeking its essential lines. The charm will be less apparent at first glance, but it must eventually emerge from the new image which will have a broader meaning, one more fully human. (MA, 36) He does not use the word "beauty," but speaks instead about expression and harmony. When he published this manifesto, Matisse was painting very different sorts of pictures — portraits, scenes of nudes in utopian settings, and... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 38.2 (2004) 80-87 [Access article in PDF] The Beauty of Henri Matisse David Carrier Because beauty has for a long time now been politically incorrect (at least among certain influential critics and academic historians) the art of Henri Matisse has recently suffered from a kind of benign neglect. His goals were luxury, calm, and voluptuousness, not social critique. He painted female nudes, (...) and was preoccupied with artistic tradition. Celebrated in his own lifetime, he died a rich man. Matisse's famous identification of the work of art with a good armchair is another provocation. His paintings, after all, are very expensive armchairs. Liberated from any vital connection with everyday life, they often seem merely escapist. In her recent book, On Beauty and Being Just, Elaine Scarry remarks, "Matisse never hoped to save lives. But he repeatedly said that he wanted to make paintings so serenely beautiful that when one came upon them, suddenly all problems would subside."1 That some of Matisse's paintings succeed in being serenely beautiful seems self-evident to Scarry, to me, and to a great many other art lovers. What is perhaps worth exploring at greater length, however, is precisely how Matisse's paintings succeed in achieving their unfashionable goal. What is it that makes the work of Matisse so serenely beautiful?To start, consider The Painter and His Model (1918-1921), made just after his move from Paris to Nice. Like other works from this period of his career, this picture raises special problems, even for many commentators who admire his earlier experimentation. At the left, we see the painter working on a canvas of a nude. "Expression, for me," Matisse wrote, "does not reside in passions glowing in a human face."2 Like most of his models, this one appears expressionless. She poses at the center of the picture, beneath a window that admits the light filling the room. A flowering palm, a symbol of fertility, is the only object visible from the world outside the studio.Leaving behind his family and the luxury of his Paris home, Matisse lived and worked in a small room like this one. The entire picture is filled [End Page 80] with patterns — a red tablecloth on the left, orange wallpaper on the right, blue stripes on the painter's shirt, a red grid on the floor. A dark painting hangs above flowers on the table. The Painter and His Model shows the artist hard at work, but the composition appears effortlessly spontaneous. Matisse, who lived only to paint during his time in Nice, concealed the endless effort required to make his beautiful pictures. A man from North France, he discovered the power of light. There is nothing special about this room, but under the spell of his model Matisse makes it appear ravishing. Intense Mediterranean sunlight transforms ordinary patterns into a world of visual luxury.We know that The Painter and His Model is beautiful because we get great pleasure seeing the model in the golden room. Her skin is close in tone to, or in harmony with the colors of the walls; her curves harmonize with the two vases, and play against the spreading linear grids. As we move our eyes easily from the model to the entire picture, we experience a kind of sublimated erotic pleasure. In "Notes of a Painter," Matisse gave an apt description of his approach in The Painter and His Model. Suppose I want to paint a woman's body: first of all I imbue it with grace and charm, but I know that I must give something more. I will condense the meaning of this body by seeking its essential lines. The charm will be less apparent at first glance, but it must eventually emerge from the new image which will have a broader meaning, one more fully human. (MA, 36) He does not use the word "beauty," but speaks instead about expression and harmony. When he published this manifesto, Matisse was painting very different sorts of pictures — portraits, scenes of nudes in utopian settings, and... (shrink)

Adrian Stokes , long admired by a small, highly distinguished, mostly English circle, was the natural successor to Pater and Ruskin. But though his place in cultural history is important, what is of particular interest now to art historians is his theory of the presentness of painting, a theory which offers a challenging critique of the practice of artwriting. From Vasari to the present, the most familiar rhetorical strategy of the art historian is the narrative of “the form, prophet-saviour-apostles,” in (...) which the first artist poses some problem that his successors develop and their successors solve.1 Such very different books as Art and Illusion and Art and Culture deploy that plan. The three periods of naturalism in E. H. Gombrich’s narrative—antiquity, Renaissance religious narrative, nineteenth-century landscape—function like Clement Greenberg’s sequence—old master art, early French modernism, American abstract expressionism. Gombrich and Greenberg disagree about how to narrate art’s history and about which works to include in that narrative—Gombrich asserts that cubism closes the canon while for Greenberg analytical cubism anticipates Jackson Pollock—but in each case, the art historian aims, as the novelist does, to tell a satisfying story and achieve narrative closure, and so how we think of the artworks the historian discusses depends in part upon the structure of the narrative. In a certain mood, we may find this fact intolerable. Why should a mere text tell us how to see the painting we may stand before?Stokes’ attempt to respond to this mood belongs to a tradition of early twentieth-century antihistorical thinking. For Rainer Maria Rilke, Rodin’s sculpture aimed to “refer to nothing that lay beyond it.” For Ezra Pound, an image “is real because we know it directly”; Henri Gaudier-Brzeska could read Chinese ideograms without knowing that language because those ideograms are transparently meaningful images. For Wyndham Lewis, a musical piece is inferior to a statue, “always there in its entirety before you.”2 Such an artwork need not be interpreted because it contains “within itself all that is relevant to itself.”3 All art is accessible to the gifted observer, and time is, in an interesting double sense, irrelevant. We see directly the meaning of works even from distant cultures; the visual artwork is experienced all at once, outside of time. If these claims are correct, what is the artwriter to do? Speaking of the Tempio Malatestiana, Hugh Kenner points to this issue:There is no description of the Tempio in accordance with good Vorticist logic: one art does not attempt what another can do better, and the meaning of the Tempio has been fully explicated on the spot by Agostino di Duccio with his chisel.4 1. Michael Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators: Humanist Observers of Painting in Italy and the Discovery of Pictorial Composition 1350-1450 , p. 75.2. Rainer Maria Rilke, Rodin, trans. Jessie Lemont and Hans Trausil , p. 19; Ezra Pound, Gaudier-Brzeska: A Memoir , p. 86; Wyndham Lewis, Time and Western Man , p. 174.3. Frank Kermode, Romantic Image , p. 107.4. Hugh Kenner, The Pound Era , p. 428. David Carrier, associate professor of philosophy at Carnegie-Mellon University, is coauthor, with Mark Roskill, of Truth and Falsehood in Visual Images and author of the forthcoming Artwriting, a study of recent American art criticism. He is working on a history of art history. (shrink)

My recent book, Principles of Art History Writing, presents and defends a relativistic theory of art history. That book describes the changing styles of acceptable interpretations of such artists as Piero, Caravaggio and David. The validity of an interpretation, I argue, must be judged relative to the standards of its time. At each time, there is a certain consensus about what kinds of interpretations are worth taking seriously. Because those standards change with the times, the interpretations admired by earlier (...) generations may today seem confused, problematic or wrong-headed. But such changes in standards of interpretation are compatible with objectivity in interpretation, for what defines objectivity is a certain consensus about what styles of interpretation are acceptable. One aim of the philosopher of art history is to provide a history of these changing standards. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Constructive Postmodernism: Toward Renewal in Cultural and Literary StudiesDavid CarrierConstructive Postmodernism: Toward Renewal in Cultural and Literary Studies, by Martin Schiralli. Westport, CT, and London: Bergin and Garvey, 1999, 165pp., $55 cloth.Concerned with the consequences of Jacques Derrida's philosophy of deconstruction for cultural and literary studies, Martin Schiralli's elegantly written book offers, first, a critique of these claims and, then, a constructive alternative analysis. He admires Derrida's brilliantly (...) innovative writing, which as he rightly notes is "serious and philosophical" even if "the most patient reader can easily become disoriented and confused" (24). But even if, as Derrida argues, Ferdinard de Saussure's theory of meaning is flawed, we need not—he urges—become deconstructionists. Looking to the work of Stephen Toulmin, John Dewey, and late Wittgenstein, Schiralli finds suggestive ways of identifying concerns with cognitive value in literary texts. It then is possible, he argues, to offer a more reasonable perspective on recent debates about culture and politics than the recent academic arguments between "postmodern revisionists... [and] often hostile and defensive traditionalists" (73).In the second part of his book Schiralli illustrates the value of this perspective by offering a great deal of productive positive discussion. He discusses how "theoretically pertinent knowledge" (95) may be found in the novels of Jane Austen, Barbara Pym, and Anita Brookner. Appealing to Michael Polanyi's conception of tacit knowledge, he argues that Austen's ability to intuit "the rules governing social meaning... represents the tacit emergence of insight, just as her ability to use those insights explicitly in her fiction marks the emergence of more focal knowledge" (123). In analyzing an emotional response, he claims, we can ask whether it is "warranted or unwarranted in a given circumstance" (31). Using E. M. Forster's Howards End as his model, he develops this claim in an analysis that is brief, clear, and convincing. Finally, in his concluding pages he looks at the studies of character provided by Henry James and Marcel Proust. A proper theory of literary intelligence, he argues, should "treat those forms of cognitive acuity involved imaginatively in miming and representing verbally the intricacies and particularities of all aspects of human sensibility" (150).This bold, far-reaching book avoids the fanaticism that, as Schiralli notes, has marred all too much recent debate in the humanities. At this time, when the influence of Derrida has faded, I think this argumentation about his philosophical position is of less value than the constructive parts of the analysis. Treating Derrida as a theorist whose arguments tell us how to analyze literature is an unpromising project, as Schiralli well shows. Once that point is acknowledged, then we are ready to look seriously at literature as a form of social knowledge. Humanists teaching literature will find much of value in this graceful volume—and along with their colleagues in philosophy, these scholars will benefit from study of this well-argued analysis. [End Page 122]David CarrierCase Western Reserve University and Cleveland Institute of ArtCopyright © 2008 Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois... (shrink)

T. J. Clark’s two early books, The Absolute Bourgeois: Artists and Politics in France, 1848–1851 and Image of the People: Gustave Courbet and the 1848 Revolutio.

There are a variety of interpretations of Manet's Un Bar auxFolies Bergères, but there is no genuinely neutral standpoint from which to judge their seemingly opposed accounts. T. J. Clark's analysis involves placing the work in the context of critical commentary by the artist's contemporaries, and examining the exact place and role of the mirror. Just as Manet painted two versions of the picture, so Clark has published two analyses of it; and just as we can ask whether the artist (...) thus resolved the ambiguities of his first image, so an analogous question can be asked about Clark's commentaries. When we have two such pictures or texts, how do we understand their relationship? Perhaps the best way is to find a further commentary. A Lacanian interpretation is proposed. We may see in the picture a triangular structure of perception; between the gaze and the subject stands the screen on which the image is cast. This view, even more speculative than Clark's, offers a new suggestive way of grasping the relation between picture and texts interpreting it. (shrink)

Art museums frequently remove old paintings from their original settings. In the process, the context of these works of art changes dramatically. Do museums then preserve works of art? To answer this question, I consider an imaginary painting, The Travels and Tribulations of Piero's Baptism of Christ, depicting the history of display of Piero della Francesca's Baptism of Christ. This example suggests that how Piero's painting is seen does depend upon its setting. According to the Intentionalist, such changes in context (...) have no real influence upon the meaning of Piero's painting, and consequently museums can be said to preserve works of art. According to the Skeptic, if such changes are drastic enough, we can no longer identify the picture's original meaning, and museums thus fail to pre- serve works of art. Skepticism deserves attention, for such varied influential commenta- tors as Theodore Adorno, Walter Benjamin, Maurice Blanchot, Hans-Georg Gadamer, Martin Heidegger, Hans Sedlmayr, and Paul Valery hold this pessimistic view of muse- ums. I develop the debate between the Intentionalist and the Skeptic. Ultimately skepti- cism is indefensible, I argue, because it fails to take account of the continuities in the his- tory of art's display. But Intentionalism is also deficient because it is ahistorical. In pre- senting the history of Piero's painting, The Travels and Tribulations of Piero 's Baptism of Christ shows that we can re-identify the original significance of Piero's work and the rec- ognizable continuities that obtain through its changes. It thus makes sense to claim that at least in certain circumstances art museums can preserve works of art. (shrink)

Nelson Goodman’s account of representation is complicated, often obscurely presented, and deeply original. Hence an exposition of that account is the necessary prolegomena to a critique. Formalizing his notation is a useful beginning.