Misunderstanding Media: the medium is not the message*

In his famous essay "The Medium Is The Message" (1964) media guru, Marshall McLuhan uses the analogy of electric light to illustrate his view of the relation between a medium and what he sees as its wider message. He writes: "The electric light is pure information. It is a medium without a message."

McLuhan makes no attempt to clarify what he sees as the difference — if any —between this notion of "pure information" and say, pure form, pure matter or pure energy. Nor does he provide any guidance regarding the question of what quantity or kind of information might be left over once a message has been stripped of its content. If electric light is all information and no message then, according to McLuhan's logic, it is possible to rid a medium of its message whilst retaining pure information. If information exists independently of content then it follows that information must inhere or adhere to its medium in some form — presumably a detectable form. But if this information is detectable then what extra ingredients does electric light possess beyond its raw properties?

Further questions are begged. Does only electric light qualify as pure information or might gaslight also make the grade? And what of candlelight or sunlight? What is information after all? Are flowers informed by the light that falls upon them? Does the light of Springtime inform trees that it is now the moment to blossom?

If light transmits information and this information informs things, then what is the difference between information thus regarded and messages conventionally regarded? And what are we actually left with once we remove all messages from information? What information could there possibly be in an uncrackable code? Is it not the case that an unreadable message is devoid of content precisely by being devoid of information? What information is to be had from a language that cannot be understood?

Or are we to say that an unintelligible message is pure information to the extent that we recognise it as a message; as a communicative tool? That seems fair, but it still fails to explain how ordinary electric light constitutes pure information.

A further puzzle emerges. If electric light is pure information, then it follows that the electric light in a fibre optic cable is pure information also, even when it carries no encoded information. Likewise, when information is encoded and sent along a fibre optic cable it must be encoded information further comprised of pure information: an informational wheel within a wheel.

Something has evidently gone badly awry in McLuhan's thinking. Electric light is no more "pure information" than gaslight, candlelight, paint in a jar, or a stick. Almost anything can be used as a medium so long as we can control it sufficiently to produce representations of one kind or another. A medium without representation is a material without a function. In other words it is just a potentially manipulable resource. 

Media are not things that we attach messages to like clothes on a washing line. Strictly speaking, a medium doesn't actually exist as a medium unless it is used to represent something. Media are techniques in the use of objects and materials for the purposes of communication. There is nothing intrinsic to objects and materials that confers anything other upon them than the properties they already possess. Information is not an inherent property of matter  —  it is a culturally negotiated attribution. To interpret something as information is to be an informed member of a culture and to be an informed member of a culture is to be possessed of skills in the use of materials and resources for the purposes of communication.

A resource is no more a medium than a stick is intrinsically a tool.

* For Tom

The Intellectualist Attitude

In an essay entitled “Representing the Real”, Berkeley philosopher Sean Dorrance Kelly, remarks that the laws of perspective are: “the laws for drawing things as they are seen in the detached perceptual attitude.” The detached perceptual attitude he tells us: “is the attitude one takes when one not only has a perceptual experience of a thing, but at the same time pays attention to the details of the very experience one is having. In the detached attitude one pays attention not to meaningful things, but rather to the ways things look.”

For Kelly the detached attitude is to be contrasted with the standard “engaged” or “absorbed” perceptual attitude that “we adopt with respect to objects when we see them as things in our meaningful environment.”

It is true that different situations and intentions demand different kinds of attention just as different jobs require different tools. Use the wrong tool for an inappropriate task and the results can be disastrous. Kelly is right then to make a distinction between different forms of attention, but aside from this rather obvious observation is there any deeper sense or coherence to Kelly’s claims?

If, according to Kelly, our environment is meaningful and artists, when drawing, do not pay attention to meaningful things, does this mean that artists need not or cannot attend to meaning as they draw? Surely that can’t be what Kelly means. Perhaps he means that by adopting the detached attitude, artists absorb or discover meaning anyway. After all, if the environment is already meaningful, as he claims, then all they need to do is record this predetermined meaning? So, by being detached, artists get what they would otherwise get by being engaged and absorbed. But that doesn’t sound right either. Anyone who has spent even a little time trying to produce an observational drawing knows that it requires considerable engagement. Perhaps Kelly would concede that the detached perceptual attitude does actually constitute a kind of engagement, just a different kind of engagement from what we might call “standard engagement”. So, in this non-standard attitude we attend to how things look rather than what they mean. Perhaps artists might also benefit by commencing any act of drawing by adopting the standard perceptual attitude first in order to attend specifically to the meaning, before then applying the non-standard attitude in order to capture this meaning.

Does that sound okay? Well it might if our environment were meaningful but sadly it isn’t. Meaning is something that humans have to strive to produce and it requires articulation through the use of shared strategies, codes, and cultural symbols etc. Certainly we can record things that are apt for interpretation, but, once again, meaning isn’t an intrinsic attribute of things, it is an attribution based upon cultural norms, associations, references etc. There is no app that will ever tell you the meaning of the world you point your smartphone at, nor will there be such an app, at least not until smartphones become capable of inventing stories.

When discussing the standard perceptual attitude (the engaged and absorbed one), Kelly observes that running down a flight of stairs would be dangerous if you were to contemplate the colours of the carpet or to consider “where exactly the best spot is to place your foot.” True, but does it follow that we need to interpret the meaning of the stairs as we descend them? Presumably not. So what is he saying? It might be argued that Kelly is simply saying that the brain is doing a lot of intricate processing regarding the position of the stairs, body etc. Undoubtedly the brain has to process a lot of stimuli in order to respond accurately and rapidly in some situations but this doesn’t necessitate interpretation of the meaning of the environment. A defender of Kelly’s position might suggest that by “meaningful environment” Kelly means to suggest that the environment is significant in certain ways and that perceivers need to be able to apprehend and process these significances. However, significance—like meaning—requires conceptual understanding and interpretation. Environments are not things that organise themselves for our interpretive convenience. Interpretation is something that has to be learned – it certainly isn’t a genetically acquired skill.

An entirely different characterisation of the process is necessary if Kelly is to avoid the pitfall of what is known in philosophy as intellectualism*. Simply stated, intellectualism is the idea that all intelligent acts are preceded by intelligent abstract thoughts. I will have more to say about intellectualism in a later post. If the capacity to perform an action intelligently were reliant upon interpretation—on the processing of meaning—as opposed to simple recognition and efficacious action—then the demands placed upon even the simplest life-forms would be evolutionarily intractable. Even insects behave with a sophistication that makes a mockery of contemporary AI and surely nobody seriously supposes that insects conduct interpretive analysis of the meaning of their environment as they move around and interact with things.

Skilled action is reliant upon non-conceptual capacities, i.e. memory, sensory discrimination and rudimentary representational skills like mimicry which have developed over millions of years and that have been shaped by countless trials and incremental improvements (at both the phylogenetic and ontogenetic level). 

Any artist wishing to draw by observation needs to employ only two strategies, neither of which require any kind of detached attitude. (In fact the accompanying attitude is simply a behavioural side-effect of the application of these techniques.) One is to maintain a fixed point of view for the duration of the drawing—the other is to close one eye when looking at the subject.

Intellectualists, on the other hand, might benefit by opening both eyes and going back to the theoretical drawing board.

*Kelly would insist that his position is not that of an intellectualist. On the basis of my analysis, I beg to differ.

Evolution's Greatest Gift

Gifts can arrive carefully concealed or straight out of the box. Either way their consequences can only be envisaged but never seen from the outset.

I recently had a discussion with a philosopher in which he brought up the Wollheimian concept of "seeing-in." He claimed that an expert talent-scout working for a modelling agency would be able to see - literally perceive - potential in the face of a prospective model. Sadly the discussion was interrupted and I didn't get a chance to explore his view further.

It may be the case that he was using the term "perception" figuratively as an equivalent of "appreciation", "evaluation" or "inference". Potential in this sense is a projective notion, specifically a notion about a possible or even likely future. It's an anticipatory account, image or expectation. If I say that someone has potential, I don't mean that I literally see anything. If the person in question leaves the room, the potential I see doesn't walk out of the door with them. So to see something in this sense is not to perceive it in anything like the sense in which we might readily see the shape or size of objects around us.

Expertise may sometimes involve a degree heightened perceptual awareness developed through practice and experience. But to see indications, signs, suggestions, evidence etc. involves skills beyond those of mere perception. Even when we see dark clouds looming and say "It looks like it's going to rain" we can only say this because we know from past experience that dark clouds often precede rain and we can use this knowledge to inform our judgements about the future.

Expertise is thus at least partly a condition of being acquainted with certain causal regularities. Experience and education about these regularities furnishes experts with exemplars that allow them to make more accurate predictions. But these predictions are not properties of the world. This is why even experts are often wrong, especially about long-term events.

So, to say that we see potential in a student is to hedge a bet based upon their previous achievements. It is certainly not a kind of mysterious emanation that only experts can sense. It is not a perceptible thing or energy of any kind. It is a supposition, based upon evidence and supported by experience without which the determination of potential would be impossible.

If beauty were a perceptible property of a prospective model then every perceiver - other life forms included - would have to be capable of perceiving it. I don't think anyone would be confident of that view. Beauty and meaning etc. are socially negotiated attributions. They are ideas we closely associate with certain kinds and configurations of perceptible attributes and objects.

When we give gifts we often try to conceal their identity by wrapping them. It is never the point of gift giving that the recipient should be able to predict the contents. Such a skill would render the ritual of wrapping meaningless. One of the great pleasures of wrapped gifts is the expectation they elicit, an expectation that is often most pronounced in childhood. This has two important consequences. Firstly, it encourages self control; a vital life-skill. Secondly, it encourages powers of imagination that are of inestimable value to us as a species.

-------------------

Thanks to Brian for his contributions to a previous discussion on the subject of talent that was an important prompt for this post. Major revisions, July 2021.

Amongst Fiction

"Aha! Oho! Tracks in the dough" (for AOPH)

Uncertainty is more compelling than truth, possibility more intriguing than fact, suggestion more engrossing than accuracy and meaning more potent than information. 

Interpretation

“'When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, 'it means just what I choose it to mean ‚ ‘neither more nor less.'

'The question is,' said Alice, 'whether you can make words mean so many different things.”

Interpretation is something we do when we encounter experiences which seem somehow significant, that have, or appear to have, some kind of meaning. These experiences may be natural formations, patterns, correspondences or likenesses or equally they may be the result of human intention or its side effects. Interpretation involves asking such questions as what does this mean? Who is it for? How was it made? How could it be different? What does it neglect? What is it’s context? Why is it like this? What is it about? Is it clear? What do I like about it, what do I not and why?

Generally speaking there are three possible positions from which any interpretation may be made:

1: From the position of the producer: the “Artist”.

2: From the position of an individual interpreter: the “Viewer”.

3: From the position of a group: the “Audience”.

Artists may intend to produce meaning in their work, just as they might intend to express meaning through spoken language. They might choose to utilise their understanding of any number of preexistent communicative resources to articulate an idea in visual form or else they might instead trust their intuition - simply playing until something significant emerges that they then seize upon refine, emphasise or present unaltered. Alternatively, but radically differently, they might choose, like Humpty Dumpty, for their art to mean whatever they want it to mean without recourse to a more widely understood or agreed-upon set of significances. In this case the possibility for communicative coherence immediately evaporates because communication is impossible without shared understandings. (It should be admitted here that any given artwork may possess other redeeming features besides meaning but, for the purposes of this discussion, meaning is probably more than sufficient.)

Like Humpty Dumpty, I can "choose" to have a word mean anything I wish it to. I can use the word "cat" to designate a green, four-legged animal more commonly known as a frog seen at sunrise on a Tuesday morning from an elevated position. However, if no-one else were to accept this very particular meaning of the word "cat" there is no possibility of communicating anything of the object or detail which I alone ascribe to it. Individualised meanings therefore may signify all sorts of complex things to individuals, but as signifiers in coherent communication they are likely to be nothing more than nonsense. Communication is a collective process, drawing upon shared understandings. 

"Conventions are unstated agreements within a community to abide by a single way of doing things—not because there is any inherent advantage to the choice, but because there is an advantage to everyone making the same choice." - Steven Pinker

This is not to say that artists must always use generally available significances. Some artists may deliberately devise a private language in which they are able to explore or indulge interests or concerns that might compromise them if shared more widely. Similarly they might evolve a form of language which allows them to explore ideas which they feel would otherwise be unavailable to them using conventional forms. However, if at any point they wish to share these ideas then they either need to provide some means of access or else risk the possibility that their work will never be understood by others in the way that it is by themselves.

It is certainly true that receptive, attentive and perceptive viewers are often able to detect the signs of even the most obscure articulation in a wide variety of approaches and to follow these up with more concerted research and investigation. However, the only reason anyone would wish to decode an unfamiliar language is to discover what it has to communicate. Language is a means to an end and, whilst its rules might detain a linguist, it is usually the content we are after and if the content is unexceptional then the energy invested in decoding the language will most likely have been wasted.

As I briefly mentioned above, there are instances where artists deliberately choose a playful approach and observe this unfolding process in the hope of discovery. This strategy actually situates the artist, in large part, as a viewer: as an interpreter of meaning rather than its immediate producer. The artist discovers meaning rather than directly intending it. And, as with all interpreters of artworks, their view must necessarily be informed, whether consciously or unconsciously, by an understanding of the ways in which visual forms generate meaning. If this understanding is a purely personal one then there is little likelihood that it might be shared, but if it is informed by more widely held cultural codes, references and associations then it is likely that any meanings discovered might be interpreted in similar ways by other viewers.

The interpretations of individual viewers are therefore only ever partial (in both senses of the word). Even a well established and respected expert viewer or critic is limited by their experience and personal preferences. No single viewer is a catch all. The big difference in the case of critics though, is that they have a vested interest in interpreting artworks in ways that make sense to other viewers. If they stray too far into the realms of obscurity they are likely to find their professional credibility dwindling. Nonetheless critics are free to explicate the more esoteric aspects of artworks - indeed they are often expected to do so - and even to denounce them wherever they find them hollow. But we should not forget that the opinions, even of the most experienced of critics, are still only opinions – after all, Tolstoy believed Shakespeare to be vastly overrated.

Is there such a thing as the definitive interpretation of any given artwork? This is to presuppose a fundamental essence to which the artwork might be distilled, a pure originary interpretation that admits only truths and deflects all falsity. But interpretation is, by its very nature, subjective - therefore no single interpretation, no matter how commodious or authoritative, can ever pretend to the throne of objectivity. The closest interpretation ever approaches such a state is inter-subjectivity: a collection of subjectivities; a diverse and well informed audience.

Audiences consisting of varied individuals with differing backgrounds can make for fascinating discussions about artworks and such discussions rarely if ever find nothing upon which to agree concerning interpretation. But, once again, the goal of interpretation is not to distil artworks down to a single universal essence or truth. Differing interpretations draw attention to unique elements, aspects and implications of artworks and celebrate the richness and variety of experience. The value of interpretation, in this sense, is in its ability to deepen our understanding of artworks and to enrich our lives, not to furnish us with singular authoritative viewpoints that accept no alternatives.

One of the many other pleasures of discussing artworks in this way is the degree to which the act of interpretation is itself a creative process: one that generates new meanings (or old meanings in unfamiliar configurations). In her 1967 essay "Against Interpretation" Susan Sontag argued that this act of duplicating meanings, one upon the other, was a stifling nuisance:

"Like the fumes of the automobile and of heavy industry which befoul the urban atmosphere, the effusion of interpretations of art today poisons our sensibilities."

Sontag makes no mention of the creative aspects of interpretation. Instead she wants to "silence" all discussion of content in preference for a descriptive “vocabulary of forms”, to dissolve "considerations of content into those of form". In effect, she wishes to rid art of the accumulation of interpretations that she believes threaten to overwhelm it. She makes a compelling case, but I think she missed a crucial point: interpretation feels good, we enjoy it and it makes sense – literally – moreover it makes sense for us: our sense. Nonetheless, this creative aspect of interpretation also poses deeper questions concerning the origins of meaning in artworks and the attribution of insight. If we, as viewers, generate significances, what happens when these significances exceed those envisaged by the maker? Who do we credit with the insights that derive from the interpretation of art? Such questions tend towards the same thinking that gives rise to the intentional fallacy. Only when we allow ourselves to become fixated upon the necessity of authorial intention and its possessive but mistaken desire to attribute insight to the maker alone do we then find ourselves confounded by this multiplication of inventive and imaginative interpretations. Artworks invite the imagination at all levels – they encourage the play of interpretive invention and refute the tyranny and narrowness of authorial origin.

The last sentence of Sontag’s Against Interpretation declares: “In place of a hermeneutics we need an erotics of art.” Gladly Susan, but preferably one that is inclusive rather than exclusive of the pleasures of the imagination.

Meaning

What is meant by the word meaning? How do artworks come to form or suggest meanings? Is meaning 'in' artworks or do they mediate or embody meaning? Can it be said that artists are the ‘authors’ of meaning even when it is the product of luck or serendipity? Is meaning even necessary to art?

Within the context of art, when we talk of meaning, the term is usually used to refer to the implications and significances evoked by objects, images or experiences. Meaning, in this sense, is a process of signification where the references and associations elicited or articulated by artworks form some kind of coherent message (where the ambiguities add up).

A widely held assumption about meaning is that it is somehow contained 'within' the artwork, put there – concealed even - by the artist, ready for explication by an experienced viewer or critic who will draw out the 'hidden' meanings and lay them bare for the rest of us to see and to scrutinise. According to this view, 'weak' artworks and 'non-art' (pictures, snapshots etc.) simply do not contain any meanings because no meanings have been put there by the authorial ingenuity or imagination of an artist. The handy thing about this approach is that it radically simplifies the complexity of authorial intention (not to mention the attribution of “greatness”) whilst at the same time distinguishing art from non-art: if it is not made by an artist then it’s not art and if the artist didn’t intend it then it is not “the” meaning. Straightforward as this view - frequently known as the "Intentional Fallacy" - appears, it quickly flounders as soon as we begin to ask how even the most accidental of snapshots can sometimes be so self evidently laden with meaning. How did the meaning get there? "You put it there" comes the reply - "You read it into the image - it wasn't there beforehand." And how could we expect the answer to be any different? If meaning only ever gets 'into' things by being deliberately 'put' there then this is the only logical explanation.

Perhaps a little Structuralist theory might provide a means to explore these issues in greater depth. Structuralism holds that language can only be understood - is only intelligible - as a system of relationships. Words in themselves are simply sounds or marks upon a page and it is only through their relationships to a wider set of socially negotiated and agreed meanings (definitions) and rules (grammar, syntax etc.) that words are able to be deployed in intelligible communication. In comparison, there are no rules or definitions of the visual, of art, images or appearances to nearly the same degree. There is, nonetheless, a diversity of symbols, metaphors, references, associations, strategies, genres, forms, styles, codes, conventions and traditions, all of which inform both the production and the interpretation of artworks. Without these rich and varied resources there would be no possibility of communication through images.

“The expression on my face ‘ says something’ about who I am (identity) and what I am feeling (emotions) and what group I feel I belong to (attachment), which can be ‘read’ and understood by other people, even if I didn’t intend to communicate anything as formal as ‘a message’, and even if the other person couldn’t give a very logical account of how s/he came to understand what I was ‘saying’.” – Stuart Hall, “Representation” 

The meaning of any given artwork is therefore not simply the product of the artist’s intention but is constructed through and within a wider set of relationships and these relationships also enable and inform the interpretation of artworks. In order for artworks to communicate therefore, artists and viewers  are reliant upon a variety of pre-existent resources, just as in daily life we all rely upon a multitude of methods, tools and materials that we ourselves have neither invented nor produced.

I don’t mean to suggest here that artists are not the authors of their work. Artists do articulate meanings through their work but, whilst it is important to recognise that these meanings are both enabled by and reliant upon factors outside the immediate control of artists, so too is it important to recognise that artists stumble upon meanings ie: they make discoveries through the process of working and these new discoveries are often far more profound and original than those they deliberately concoct.

In the same way that artists inadvertently make discoveries they also find images and artifacts that seem to speak with an articulacy that no amount of deliberate intention could summon. But since these discoveries have not been intentionally created and are, on occasion, simply the result of accidents, incompetence or serendipity, is it logical that artists should be able to claim authorship for them?

Even though my 19 month old son speaks only a few words, he occasionally blurts out what sound like perfectly formed sentences. Despite the momentary surprise, it’s immediately obvious that he neither recognizes these as meaningful nor does the context in which they emerge suggest that they are deliberate. In order for his communications to have meaning they need to be uttered in the right context and, above all, they need to be repeatable. This aspect of repeatability is also vital in the output of artists. Repeatability is what distinguishes luck from perception. A single astounding snapshot is simply the product of probability, whereas an interrelated selection of astounding snapshots demonstrates an uncommon level of editorial selectivity, awareness and skill. In other words, the more a success is repeated, the more evidence there is of an insightful intelligence (a perception) at work.

After all, if it were the case that art could only be brought about by intentional action then discovery would be an impossibility. We can't know what we are going to discover before we discover it, otherwise it wouldn't be a discovery. We may have a hunch, or even a hypothesis, but until we encounter the actuality we can never be completely certain of the outcome. Why else experiment?

Does an artwork have to mean something in order to qualify as art? The short answer is “No”. Art is not a measure of meaning, which is to say that there is no correlation between meaning and whether something is art or not. However, it is difficult to conceive of any cultural experience that is entirely devoid of meaning. As social beings it would seem that our overriding preoccupation with communication predisposes us to notice the telltale signs of meaning in almost everything we encounter, from the lines of my hand to the configuration of coffee grounds in the bottom of a cup, from the “changes in one's shadow, after one's lover has departed in anger” to the beckoning gesture of a cat’s raised paw. Nonetheless, meaning isn’t all there is to art. All art is essentially experiential in nature and in that sense it embodies experience. Even the most intangible of conceptual art retains a dimension of what it ‘feels’ like to imagine; of what it means to see; of what it means to mean.

Dialogue

Dialogue 1

TUTOR: Are you interested in how people interpret your work?

STUDENT: Yes.

TUTOR: A lot?

STUDENT: Well I don’t go out looking for comments if that’s what you mean.

TUTOR: So you’re happy for people to interpret your work as they like?

STUDENT: Yes - I’m not interested in forcing my ideas on anybody.

TUTOR: What if someone was offended by something you'd made?

STUDENT: I’m not aiming to offend.

TUTOR: Okay, but what if lots of people were offended?

STUDENT: Then I suppose I’d have to listen to their reasons and decide if they were justified.

TUTOR: Who is your work aimed at then?

STUDENT: Anyone that’s interested.

TUTOR: What if nobody was interested – would you continue?

STUDENT: Yes, I think so.

TUTOR: And who would your work be for in that case?

STUDENT: Me, I guess.

TUTOR: So who is your work for then?

STUDENT: Probably me in the first instance and then anybody that’s interested.

Dialogue 2

TUTOR: Are you interested in how people interpret your work?

STUDENT: Not especially – I don’t really make work to find out what other people think, I make it to find out what I think.

TUTOR: And what if someone took offence at your work?

STUDENT: Well that’s up to them. I’m certainly not aiming to offend anyone.

TUTOR: And what if lots of people were offended?

STUDENT: Then I’d be interested to hear their reasons.

TUTOR: And if they had good reasons, would you consider changing your work?

STUDENT: I’m not sure… probably.

TUTOR: So you’d change your work then?

STUDENT: Probably.

TUTOR: So you are interested in how people interpret your work?

STUDENT: No. What other people think may influence me but, like I said, I make work to explore what I think, not what other people think.

Dialogue 3

TUTOR: Are you interested in how people interpret your work?

STUDENT: To a degree, yes. But I don't actively seek it.

TUTOR: Why not?

STUDENT: I don't think it's really a priority for me.

TUTOR: So what is your priority?

STUDENT: Perhaps it sounds self-centred to say so but I think I'm more interested in exploring my own thoughts rather than seeking other people's.

TUTOR: So you’re happy for people to interpret your work as they like?

STUDENT: Pretty well, yes.

TUTOR: But what if they were offended?

STUDENT: I’m not interested in offending anybody.

TUTOR: But what if it turned out that lots of people were offended?

STUDENT: Then I’d be interested to hear their reasons.

TUTOR: And if they had good reasons, would you consider changing your work?

STUDENT: Probably. I guess if their reasons were good ones then my own interpretation would change too and I’d want my work to reflect that change.

TUTOR: So you’d change your work then?

STUDENT: Probably. It wouldn’t make sense to me to show work that reflected ideas that I no longer stand by.

Interpretation, Intentionalism and Assessment

In the following post I sketch out two commonly recognised interpretive strategies (Intentionalism and Conventionalism) and propose a third (Culturalism). I then briefly touch on the research of Susan Orr in order to examine some implications for assessment in art education.

In art theory, Intentionalism is the belief that the meaning of an artwork is defined purely by the artist’s intention. What the artist says the work is about is what the work is about – no more, no less. Few but the most naïve interpreters of artworks hold much store by this idea since it leaves precious little room for interpretation at all. We might as well ask the artist to write down the meaning and we can all get on with more pressing matters. For this reason Intentionalism is often termed the “intentional fallacy”.

The alternative to Intentionalism is sometimes termed Conventionalism. Conventionalist interpretive approaches allow for a more expanded view that accommodates the full range of cultural influences available to the artist. What the artist could have meant is now admitted as legitimate currency. It is not difficult to see though, that even this proves an unsatisfactory solution to the vexed question of the meaning of artworks. The artist could have meant all sorts of things but must we credit her with each and every one?

The great advantage of the Conventionalist approach is that, instead of constituting the audience as passive receivers of meaning, it invites them to engage in an active process of interpretation. Roland Barthes’ Death of the Author can be seen as a Conventionalist strategy in this sense because it dispenses entirely with the intention of the artist and places readers centre-stage as active constructors of meaning. For Barthes the key to a text is not to be found in its origin but in its destination: "the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author".

Radical as Barthes’ idea appears, the niggling sense that we’ve overlooked something never seems to completely evaporate. As much as we might wish to neutralise authorial intention it is impossible to ignore its presence, whether real or imagined, pervading the work at all levels. And here emerges a fascinating and often confusing confluence of intention, interpretation and discovery. Artists intuitively embed tacit knowledge in the work they produce and this becomes mingled with any new discoveries that might be stumbled upon. The only 'work' to which the artist can rightfully claim authorship, or any ‘reader’ attribute to them, is the work the artist has put in, whether consciously or tacitly – though, of course, this can be extremely difficult, if not impossible, to tease out. Everything else is either the felicity of chance, the projection of readers endowed with conceptual tools that are, so far, foreign to the author or the projection of readers who happen upon their own discoveries that they misattribute to the artist. The magic, such as it is, is merely a confusion over this complex intermingling of tacit intention and unintended discovery – both those of the maker and those of their audience.

Another method (let’s call it “Culturalism”) of resolving this conundrum is to give up on individualistic explanations of intention altogether. In this scenario both artist and viewer are conceived as products both of and in culture and, as such, the artwork and any meanings generated must be seen as the result of a collective cultural dynamic in which works-of-art and works-of-interpretation are considered as conduits through which meaning is channelled, with subtle variations and additions along the way. When seen from this perspective the cause of confusion amongst Intentionalist and Conventionalist approaches can be understood as deriving from their misplaced tendency to attribute credit to an originary authorial presence whereas, in truth, any such presence stretches back indefinitely through cultural history. However, this should not be confused with determinism. The intent of the artist still plays a vital role but, just as technology never reinvents the wheel but rather stands on the shoulders of previous discoveries, so too does culture.

Within the Culturalist approach both kinds of interpretation - reader-centered and author-centered coexist. However, whilst this proves a powerful means to overcome some of the conflicts of interpretation it raises several very interesting, not to mention problematic, issues for the evaluation of artworks in a culture primarily preoccupied with the achievement of individuals. In the context of education especially, the issues become yet more pronounced since teachers inevitably have to interpret student work in order to assess it.

Interestingly, when it comes to assessment, art teachers seem to be as given to the intentional fallacy as anyone else. Evidence for this claim can be found in the art and design research of Susan Orr where one quoted lecturer makes the following remark:

“It is essential that you know something about who that person is and what they are trying to do, what they…what they think they’re doing in order to….to measure the quality of what they’ve done”.

Orr’s work shows that art teachers employ a wide variety of approaches to assessment, both Conventionalist and Intentionalist as well as Culturalist (though whether they would recognise these as such is another question). However, rather than the what or how, perhaps the real question is when ie: at what point in the process are these strategies deployed, or at what point might they be best deployed? If art teachers employ Intentionalist strategies during formative assessment* for example, then this would seem to be entirely appropriate to the formation of relevant feedback. Feedback only makes sense - has value to the learner - when it takes account of what they are aiming to achieve. Only then can advice be directed toward making this end possible or else redirecting attention toward what the teacher believes may be a more profitable goal. Conversely, to employ a single Conventionalist interpretive strategy at a formative stage would likely burden the student with what Karen-Edis Barzman has dubbed a “Master Reading” that universalizes a singular authoritative interpretation thereby terminating or, at best, inhibiting the ongoing work of interpretation by the student.

The issue of Master Readings also extends into the summative* assessment process where teachers debate the marks of students.

"When artwork is being assessed in the studio the lecturers in my studies privileged the assessment views of lecturers who had worked most closely with the students whose artwork was being marked. What this means is that if there was any kind of disagreement about the mark to be awarded the marking team would defer to the lecturer who knew the student best and had worked most closely with them." -Susan Orr

This process of advocacy might seem like a equitable form of resolving differences of opinion, however, in practice the results are often far from satisfactory. In all walks of life there exist certain individuals who are more given to the expression and maintenance of strong and stubborn opinions. Students who find themselves under the close tutelage of such individuals are therefore far more likely to be vigorously defended than those who are less fortunate. And, in situations (increasingly common in the current financial climate) where single members of staff are often responsible for entire cohorts of students, this strategy easily slips into an unhelpful, not to mention unhealthy, form of sanctioned favoritism.

So, despite the fact that we might be able to access a greater insight into the what, how, when and by whom of assessment, this still leaves completely untouched the more profound question of why?

* Formative assessment is usually understood as a form of ongoing assessment and feedback whereas Summative assessments are generated at the end of a period of study. A more accurate way to think of these two forms of assessment might be as “Supportive Assessment” (ie: Formative) and or “Unsupportive Assessment” (ie: Summative).

The Power and the Beauty

Folded card by Laurie and Thomas A Clark, 2010, 7,4 x 5,3 cm

Yesterday Peter Foolen posted the above image on Facebook. I should say straightaway that I admire Tom and Laurie Clark’s work a great deal, not least because it's both intellectually engaging as well as beautiful. However, this particular work urged me to reconsider my attitude towards beauty and in the process to re-read Susan Sontag’s essay “An argument about beauty”:

“What is beautiful reminds us of nature as such–of what lies beyond the human and the made–and thereby stimulates and deepens our sense of the sheer spread and fullness of reality, inanimate as well as pulsing, that surrounds us all. […] Imagine saying, ‘That sunset is interesting.’”

As it turns out, Sontag’s sentiments agree very closely with the Clark’s. In both cases we are presented with formidable arguments which are not in the least easy to contest, indeed they are so articulately and persuasively rendered that it’s extremely tempting simply to chime in and agree (as I did on Facebook). However, at the risk of casting myself as a "new Puritan", I’d like to consider these arguments a little more closely – not from a position of “suspicion” (mistrust) but of skepticism (doubt).

In both cases we’re presented with well articulated, highly crafted and well informed arguments. They could easily be, and probably wish to be, described as beautiful. And here perhaps is the first indication that something is amiss. Not only are these arguments beautifully rendered, they are also authoritative: they announce themselves as skillfully considered powerful ideas despite, in one case, the very unassuming form of a folded card. But this power is also, to some extent, based upon the way these arguments force anyone who opposes them to adopt the mantle of either “Puritanism” or in the case of Sontag: “ludicrousness”. Arguments from positions of certainty often do this: they cast opposing views as faulty and seek to denigrate those who hold them. Perhaps this is the crucial difference between a discussion and an argument: not so much the passions involved but the way each party seeks to characterize the other.

One thing which is only touched upon in Sontag’s essay, but which is very prominently suggested in the Clark’s card is the contrast between culture and nature: between words and feelings, images and flowers, representation and reality. Sontag writes:

“The beauty of art is better, ‘higher,’ according to Hegel, than the beauty of nature because it is made by human beings and is the work of the spirit. But the discerning of beauty in nature is also the result of traditions of consciousness, and of culture–in Hegel’s language, of spirit.”

Whilst we might take pleasure in the sheer beauty of a sunset – and sincerely describe it as such - when it comes to the products of culture, we are dealing with something else entirely. Humans are makers of meaning, whereas, as Sontag reminds us in another essay, nature just is:

“The truth is always something that is told, not something that is known. If there were no speaking or writing, there would be no truth about anything. There would only be what is.”

If it’s beauty alone that we seek then why the need for culture at all? However, if we are to ‘read’ culture - or nature for that matter - thereby perceiving them through the lens of culture, then it would seem to make sense not to be too passive in the assumptions and interpretations we make of what is presented to us. Beauty, flow, grace, unity, balance etc are all pleasurable experiences, but you don’t have to be ‘suspicious’ to realise that such things can be used – whether unintentionally or by design - to conceal, to persuade, to distract or to manipulate. When we’re presented with neat packages of beautifully articulated or rendered information there’s a tendency to accept the flow, to take pleasure in the grace, to appreciate the unity and to enjoy the balance. Perhaps a little healthy skepticism, far from diluting our experience, would help to temper such unquestioning tendencies.

A suspicious puritan is probably the last person you’d want to meet. A skeptical puritan, on the other hand, at least has the vague prospect of recognising the extent to which they've been deluded.

Sensuous Science

"Science states meanings; art expresses them." -John Dewey

In the context of Dewey's thoughts on Art as Experience, this all seemed well and good when I read it this morning. That was, until I read the following 'scientific' description of thresholds of human perception (limina) quoted on Mind Hacks:

"Approximate absolute sensitivities, expressed in everyday terms:

Vision – A candle flame seen at 30 miles on a dark, clear night

Hearing – The tick of a watch under quiet conditions at 20 feet

Taste – One teaspoon of sugar in two gallons of water

Smell – One drop of perfume diffused into the entire volume of a three-room apartment

Touch – The wing of a bee falling on your cheek from a distance of one centimeter"

- Galanter, E. (1962). Contemporary psychophysics. Holt, Rinehart, Winston.

Dewey again:

"Scientific statement is often thought to possess more than a signboard function and to disclose or be "expressive" of the inner nature of things. If it did, it would come into competition with art, and we should have to take sides and decide which of the two promulgates the more genuine revelation."

The Inequality of Nice

"And this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! — It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement; — people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." -Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

In two consecutive tutorials last week I encountered the word “nice” being used to justify a decision about the presentation of artworks for exhibition. Should I have been surprised that two final year students should feel so comfortable using such an unqualified term during a tutorial? At one point, I asked one of the students to substitute the word “appropriate” as a means of highlighting the issue. At least when you use the word “appropriate” you have to think about how something is appropriate: appropriate to what?

If we wish to talk about artworks in anything other than the most superficial terms then the word nice has very little to offer. Nice is a nice word, which is another way of saying that it signifies absolutely nothing other than vague approval based upon no other criteria than gentility and convention. Nice demands no explanation. Nice is good and not nice is bad. According to many people, swearing is bad because it's “just not nice”.

Now, I’m all for people being nice and I'm all for nice weather, nice company, nice conversation, nice food and nice wine. But at some point, when we're wanting to understand a little more about what we do and like, we have to begin to think about our criteria a little more deeply.

Recently I've been thinking quite a lot about the issue of swearing and the extent to which our attitudes towards the use of expletives are often predicated upon contextual usage rather than simply meaning. Nice may not be a swearword exactly but its meaning is no less dependent upon user and context (and therefore it can actually be mildly offensive if used inappropriately, as Jane Austen was clearly aware). My nice is not your nice, but we have a tendency to use the term as if we had a shared understanding and agreement about its meaning.

It might be worthwhile to consider the idea of connoisseurship in this context. I have some serious reservations about the idea of connoisseurship because I think it tends towards exclusivity and critical stasis, however I'd be very wary about telling a wine connoisseur that they can pick up a nice bottle of Rioja from Asda for £3.99. My nice isn't their nice, but I'd certainly be keen to test their nice and to know the criteria they were using to form their opinion, and in the process, I’d hope to refine my own version of nice. The point is an important one I think, because it goes some way to explaining an unavoidable inequality in the way that experts and novices use commonplace language in relation to their specialist field. If a wine connoisseur tells you that your local supermarket is selling a nice Rioja for £3.99, it's probably worth a trip to buy a whole case.