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object:1.02 - The Three European Worlds
book class:The Ever-Present Origin
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subject class:Philosophy
author class:Jean Gebser

Part One - Chapter Two
The Three European Worlds

1. The Unperspectival World
The transformation of European sensitivity to, and comprehension of, the world is nowhere more clearly discernible than in painting and architecture. Only our insight into this transformation can lead to a proper understanding of the nature and meaning of new styles and forms of expression.

Restricting ourselves here primarily to the art of the Christian era, we can distinguish two major self-contained epochs among the many artistic styles, followed today by an incipient third. The first encompasses the era up to the Renaissance, the other, now coming to a close, extends up to the present. The decisive and distinguishing characteristic of these epochs is the respective absence or presence of perspective; consequently we shall designate the first era as the "unperspectival," the second as the "perspectival," and the currently emerging epoch as the "aperspectival."'

As we shall see, these designations are valid not only with respect to art history, but also to aesthetics, cultural history, and the history of the psyche and the mind. The achievement of perspective indicates man's discovery and consequent coming to awareness of space, whereas the unrealized perspective indicates that space is dormant in man and that he is not yet awakened to it. Moreover, the unperspectival world suggests a state in which man lacks self-identity: he belongs to a unit, such as a tribe or communal group, where the emphasis is not yet on the person but on the impersonal, not an the "I" but on the communal group, the qualitative mode of the collective. The illuminated manuscripts and gilt ground of early Romanesque painting depict theunperspectival world that retained the prevailing constitutive elements of Mediterranean antiquity. Not until the Gothic, the forerunner of the Renaissance was there a shift in emphasis. Before that space is not yet our depth-space, rather a cavern (and vault), or simply an in-between space; in both instances it is undifferentiated space. This situation bespeaks for us a hardly conceivable enclosure in the world, an intimate bond between outer and inner suggestive of a correspondence only faintly discernible between soul and nature. This condition was gradually destroyed by the expansion and growing strength of Christianity whose teaching of detachment from nature transforms this destruction into an act of liberation.

Man's lack of spatial awareness is attended by a lack of ego-consciousness, since in order to objectify and qualify space, a self-conscious "I" is required that is able to stand opposite or confront space, as well as to depict or represent it by projecting it out of his soul or psyche. In this light, Worringer's statements regarding the lack of all space consciousness in Egyptian art are perfectly valid: "Only in the rudimentary form of prehistorical space and cave magic does space have a role in Egyptian architecture . . . . The Egyptians were neutral and indifferent toward space . . . . They were not even potentially aware of spatiality. Their experience was not trans-spatial but pre-spatial; . . . their culture of oasis cultivation was spaceless . . . . Their culture knew only spatial limitations and enclosures in architecture but no inwardness or interiority as such. Just as their engraved reliefs lacked shadow depth, so too was their architecture devoid of special depth. The third dimension, that is the actual dimension of life's tension and polarity, was experience not as a quality but as a mere quantity. How then was space, the moment of depth-seeking extent, to enter their awareness as an independent quality apart from all corporality? . . . The Egyptians lacked utterly any spatial consciousness."

Despite, or indeed because of, Euclidean geometry, there is no evidence of an awareness of qualitative and objectified space in early antiquity or in the epoch preceding the Renaissance.

This has been indirectly confirmed by von Kaschnitz-Weinberg, who has documented two opposing yet complementary structural elements of ancient art as it emerged from the Megalithic (stone) age. The first, Dolmen architecture, entered the Mediterranean region primarily from Northern and Western Europe and was especially influential on Greek architecture. It is phallic in nature and survives in the column architecture in Greece, as in the Parthenon. Space is visible here simply as diastyle or the intercolumnar space, whose structure is determined by the vertical posts and the horizontal lintels and corresponds to Euclidean cubic space.

The second structural element in von Kaschnitz-Weinbergs view is the uterine character of Grotto architecture that entered the Mediterranean area from the Orient (mainly from Iran) and survives in Roman dome architecture, as in the Pantheon or the Baths. Here space is merely a vault, a Grotto-space corresponding to the powerful cosmological conception of the Oriental matriarchal religions for, which the world itself is nothing but a vast cavern. It is of interest that Plato, in his famous allegory, was the first to describe man in the process of leaving the cave.

We are then perhaps justified in speaking of the "space" of antiquity as undifferentiated space, as a simple inherence within the security of the maternal womb;. expressing an absence of any confrontation with actual, exterior space. The predominance of the two constitutive polar elements, the paternal phallic column and the maternal uterine cave the forces to which unperspectival man was subject reflects his inextricable relationship to his parental world and, consequently, his complete dependence on it which excluded any awareness of an ego in our modern sense. He remains sheltered and enclosed in the world of the "we" where outer objective space is still non-existent.

The two polar elements which made up the spaceless foundation of the ancient world were first united and creatively amalgamated in Christian ecclesiastical architecture. (The symbolic content of these elements does not, as we will see later emphasize the sexual, but rather the psychical and mythical aspects.) Their amalgamation subsequently gives rise to the Son of Man; the duality of the column and tower, the vault and dome of Christian church architecture made feasible for the first time the trinity represented by the son-as-man, the man who will create his own space.

Understood in this light, it is not surprising that around the time of Christ the world of late antiquity shows distinct signs of incipient change. The boldness and incisive nature of this change is evident when we examine the Renaissance era that begins around 1250 A.D. and incorporates stylistic elements that first appear around the time of Christ. We refer, of course, to the first intimations of a perspectival conception of space found in the murals of Pompeii.

Besides their first suggestions of landscape painting, the murals are the first examples of what has come to be known as the "still life," i.e., the objectification of nature already expressed in the Roman garden designs of the same period and heralded by the pastoral scenes of late Bucolic poetry such as Virgil's Ecloges. It was principally by incorporating these novel elements of ancient culture and realizing their implications that the Renaissance was able to create the three-dimensional perspectival world from a two-dimensional and unperspectival culture.

2. The Perspectival World
Although already shaped in the Mediterranean world of late antiquity, the perspectival world began to find expression about 1250 A.D. in Christian Europe. In contrast to the impersonal, pre-human, hieratic, and standardized sense of the human Body in our sense virtually nonexistent held by the Egyptians, the Greek sensitivity to the body had already evidenced a certain individuation of man. But only toward the close of the Middle Ages did man gradually become aware of his body as a support for his ego. And, having gained this awareness, he is henceforth not just a human being reflected in an idealized bust or miniature of an emperor, a philosopher, or a poet, but a specific individual such as those who gaze at us from a portrait by Jan van Eyck.

The conception of man as subject is based an a conception of the world and the environment as an object. It is in the paintings of Giotto that we See first expressed, however tentatively, the objectified, external world. Early Sienese art, particularly miniature painting, reveals a yet spaceless, self-contained, and depthless world significant for its symbolic content and not for what we would today call its realism. These "pictures" of an unperspectival era are, as it were, painted at night when objects are without shadow and depth. Here darkness has swallowed space to the extent that only the immaterial, psychic component could be expressed. But in the work of Giotto, the latent space hitherto dormant in the night of collective man's unconscious is visualized; the first renderings of space begin to appear in painting signalling an incipient perspectivity. A new psychic awareness of space, objectified or externalized from the psyche out into the world, begins a consciousness of space whose element of depth becomes visible in perspective.

This psychic inner-space breaks forth at the very moment that the Troubadours are writing the first lyric "I"-Poems, the first personal poetry that suddenly opens an abyss between man, as poet, and the world or nature (1250 A.D.). Concurrently at the University of Paris, Thomas Aquinas, following the thought of his teacher Albertus Magnus, asserts the validity of Aristotle, thereby initiating the rational displacement of the predominantly psychic-bound Platonic world.

And this occurred in the wake of Petrus Hispanus (PetrusLucitanus), the later Pope John XXI (d. 1277), who had authored the first comprehensive European textbook on psychology (De anima), introducing via Islam and Spain the Aristotelian theory of the soul. Shortly thereafter, Duns Scotus (d. 1308) freed theology from the hieratic rigors of scholasticism by teaching the primacy of volition and emotion. And the blindness of antiquity to time inherent in its unperspectival, psychically-stressed world (which amounted to a virtual timelessness) gave way to the visualization of and openness to time with a quantifiable, spatial character. This was exemplified by the erection of the first public clock in the courtyard of Westminister Palace in 1283,an event anticipated by Pope Sabinus, who in 604ordered the ringing of bells to announce the passing of the hours.

We shall examine the question of time in detail later in our discussion; here we wish to point out that there is a forgotten but essential interconnection between time and the psyche. The closed horizons of antiquity's celestial cave-like vault express a soul not yet awakened to spatial time-consciousness and temporal quantification. The "heaven of the heart" mentioned by Origen was likewise a self-contained inner heaven first exteriorized into the heavenly landscapes of the frescoes by the brothers Ambrogio and Pietro Lorenzetti in the church of St. Francesco in Assisi (ca. 1327-28). One should note that these early renderings of landscape and sky, which include a realistic rather than symbolic astral-mythical moon, are not merely accidental pictures with nocturnal themes. In contrast to the earlier vaulted sky, the heaven of these frescoes is no longer an enclosure; it is now rendered from the vantage point of the artist and expresses the incipient perspectivity of a confrontation with space, rather than an unperspectival immersion or inherence in it. Man is henceforth not just in the world but begins to possess it; no longer possessed by heaven, he becomes a conscious possessor if not of the heavens, at least of the earth. This shift is, of course, a gain as well as a loss.

There is a document extant that unforgettably mirrors this gain and loss, this surrender and beginning; in a few sentences it depicts the struggle of a man caught between two worlds. We refer to the remarkable letter of the thirty-two year old Petrarch to Francesco Dionigidi Borgo San Sepolcro in 1336 (the first letter of his Familiari, vol. 4), in which he describes his ascent of Mount Ventoux. For his time, his description is an epochal event and signifies no less than the discovery of landscape: the first dawning of an awareness of space that resulted in a fundamental alteration of European man's attitude in and toward the world.
Mount Ventoux is located to the northeast of Avignon, where the Rhne separates the French Alps from the Cevennes and the principal mountain range of Central France. The mountain is distinguished by clear and serene contours; viewed from Avignon to the south, its ridge slowly and seamlessly ascends against the clear Provenal sky, its south western slope sweeping broadly with soft restraint toward the valley. After a downhill sweep of nearly two kilometers, it comes to rest against the sycamore slopes of the Carpentras, which shelter the almond trees from the northern winds.

Although then unaware of its full significance, the present writer saw the mountain years ago and sensed its attraction. Certainly this attraction must have been sensed by others as well; it is no accident that Petrarch's discovery of landscape occurred precisely in this region of France. Here, the Gnostic tradition had encouraged investigation of the world and placed greater emphasis on knowledge than on belief; here, the tradition of the Troubadours, the Cathari, and the Albigensi remained alive. This is not to say that the affinity makes Petrarch a Gnostic, but merely points to the Gnostic climate of this part of douce France which is mentioned in the opening lines of France's first major poetic work, the Chanson de Roland (verse16): "Li empereres Carles de France dulce."

Petrarch's letter is in the nature of a confession; it is addressed to the Augustinian professor of theology who had taught him to treasure and emulate Augustine's Confessions. Now, a person makes a confession or an admission only if he believes he has transgressed against something; and it is this vision of space, as extended before him from the mountain top, this vision of space as a reality, and its overwhelming impression, together with his shock and dismay, his bewilderment at his perception and acceptance of the panorama, that are reflected in his letter. It marks him as the first European to step out of the transcendental gilt ground of the Siena masters, the first to emerge from a space dormant in time and soul, into "real" space where he discovers landscape.

When Petrarch's glance spatially isolated a part of "nature" from the whole, the allencompassing attachment to sky and earth and the unquestioned, closed unperspectival ties are severed. The isolated part becomes a piece of land created by his perception. It may well be that with this event a part of the spiritual, divine formative principle of heaven and earth (and nature in its all-encompassing sense) was conveyed to man. If this is indeed so, then from that day of Petrarch's discovery onward man's responsibility was increased. Yet regarded from our vantage point, it is doubtful whether man has been adequate to this responsibility. Be that as it may, the consequences of Petrarch's discovery remain unaltered; we are still able to sense his uneasiness about his discovery, and the grave responsibility arising from it as documented in his letter.

"Yesterday I climbed the highest mountain of our region," he begins the letter, "motivated solely by the wish to experience its renowned height. For many years this has been in my soul and, as you well know, I have roamed this region since my childhood. The mountain, visible from far and wide, was nearly always present before me; my desire gradually increased until it became so intense that I resolved to yield to it, especially after having read Livy's Roman history the day before. There I came upon his description of the ascent of Philip, King of Macedonia, on Mount Haemus in Thessalia, from whose summit two seas, the Adriatic as well as the Pontus Euxinus, are said to be visible."

The significance of Philip's ascent cannot be compared to Petrarch's because Livy's emphasis is on the sea, while the land - not yet a landscape - is not mentioned at all. The reference to the sea can be understood as an indication that in antiquity man's experience of the soul was symbolized by the sea, and not by space (as we shall see further on in our discussion). The famous ascents undertaken by such Romans as Hadrian, Strabo, and Lucilius were primarily for administrative and practical, not for aesthetic purposes. As an administrative reformer, Hadrian had climbed MountAetna in order to survey the territory under his jurisdiction, while the fugitive Lucilius, the friend of Seneca, had been motivated by purely practical reasons.

Let us return to Petrarch's letter. Having mentioned the passage in Livy, he describes his wearisome trek as well as an encounter: "In the ravines we [Petrarch and his brother Gerardol] met an old shepherd who, in a torrent of words, tried to dissuade us from the ascent, saying he had never heard of anyone risking such a venture." Undaunted by the old man's lamentations, they pressed forward: "While still climbing, I urged myself forward by the thought that what I experienced today will surely benefit myself as well as many others who desire the blessed life . . . . "

Once Petrarch reaches the summit, however, his narrative becomes unsettled; the shifts of tense indicate his intense agitation even at the mere recollection of his experience at the summit. "Shaken by the unaccustomed wind and the wide, freely shifting vistas, I was immediately awe-struck. I look: the clouds lay beneath my feet . . . . I look toward Italy, whither turned my soul even more than my gaze, and sigh at the sight of the Italian sky which appeared more to my spirit than to my eyes, and I was overcome by an inexpressible longing to return home . . . . Suddenly a new thought seized me, transporting me from space into time [a locistraduxit ad tempora]. I said to myself: it has been ten years since you left Bologna . . . ." In the lines that follow, recollecting a decade of suffering, and preoccupied by the overpowering desire for his homeland that befell him during the unaccustomed sojourn on the summit, he reveals that his thoughts have turned inward. Still marked by his encounter with what was then a new reality, yet shaken by its effect, he flees "from space into time," out of the first experience with space back to the gold-ground of the Siena masters.

Having confessed his anguish and unburdened his soul, he describes further his perception of space: "Then I turn westward; in vain my eye searches for the ridge of the Pyrenees, boundary between France and Spain . . . . To my right I see the mountains of Lyon, to the left the Mediterranean surf washes against Marseille before it Breaks on Aigues-Mortes. Though the distance was considerable, we could see clearly; the Rhne itself lay beneath our gaze."

Once again he turns away and yields to something indicative of his poetic sensibility. Helpless in the face of the expanse before him and groping for some kind of moral support, he opens a copy of Augustine's Confessions where he chances upon a phrase. It stems from that realm of the soul to which he had turned his gaze after his initial encounter with landscape. "God and my companion are witnesses," he writes, "that my glance fell upon the passage: `And men went forth to behold the high mountains and the mighty surge of the sea, and the broad stretches of the rivers and the inexhaustible ocean, and the paths of the stars, and so doing, lose themselves in wonderment [et relinquunt se ipsos].' "

Once more, he is terrified, only this time less by his encounter with space than by the encounter with his soul of which he is reminded by the chance discovery of Augustine's words. "I admit I was overcome with wonderment," he continues; "I begged my Brother who also desired to read the Passage not to disturb me, and closed the book. I was irritated for having turned my thoughts to mundane matters at such a moment, for even the Pagan philosophers should have long since taught me that there is nothing more wondrous than the soul [nihilpraeteranimumessemirabile], and that compared to its greatness nothing is great."

Pausing for a new Paragraph, he continues with these surprising words: "My gaze, fully satisfied by contemplating the mountain [i.e., only after a conscious and exhaustive survey of the Panorama], my eyes turned inward [in me ipsuminterioresoculosreflexi]; and then we fell silent . . " Although obscured by psychological reservations and the memory of his physical exertion, the concluding lines of his letter suggest an ultimate affirmation of his ascent and the attendant experience: "So much perspiration and effort just to bring the body a little closer to heaven; the soul, when approaching God. must be similarly terrified.

The struggle initiated by his internalization of space into his soul - or, if you will, the externalization of space out of his soul - continued in Petrarch from that day on Mount Ventoux until the end of his life. The old world where only the soul is wonderful and worthy of contemplation, as expressed succinctly in Augustine's words "Time resides in the soul," now begins to collapse. There is a gradual but increasingly evident shift from time to space until the soul wastes away in the materialism of the nineteenth century, a loss obvious to most people today that only the most recent generations have begun to counter in new ways.

The transition mirrored in Petrarch's letter of six hundred years ago was primarily an unprecedented extension of man's image of the world. The event that Petrarch describes in almost prophetic terms as "certainly of benefit to himself and many others" inaugurates a new realistic, individualistic, and rational understanding of nature. The freer treatment of space and landscape is already manifest in the work of AmbrogioLorenzetti and Giotto; but although Giotto's landscape with its hill motifs, for example, is still a predominantly symbolic representation of Umbrian nature, his treatment represents a decided shift away from the unperspectival world. This shift is continued by his apprentices, FraAngelico and Masolino, and later by Paolo Uccello and the brothers Limbourg (in the Trs riches heuresduDuc de Berry), who elaborate perspectival painting with ever greater detail. What Giotto merely anticipated, namely the establishment of a clear contour of man, is first achieved by Masaccio. It is a characteristic also expressed in Andrea Pisano'sreliefs, particularly in his "Astronomer's relief" on the campanile in Florence, and notably evident in the works of Donatello. We must also remember Lorenzo Ghiberti, whose early Bronze relief, the "Sacrifice of Isaac"(1401-02),is a remarkably authentic rendering of free, open, and unenclosed space.

To the extent that a relief is able to convey spatiality, this relief depicts a space where neither the transcendental gold illumination nor its complement, the darkness of the all-encompassing cavern, are present but rather one where man is able to breath freely.

All of these manifestations arose as genuine artistic expressions and direct, that is, unreflected utterances of the change in man's attitude toward the world. Not until the third decade of the fifteenth century did European man begin to reflect and theorize, that is, consciously come to terms with the possibilities and expressive forms of the new style.

The intent of our somewhat detailed outline of the history of perspective is to indicate the length of time and the intensity of effort that man required to fully express internal predispositions in externalized forms. An equally detailed description of such specific factors will be required further on in our discussion if we are to apply criteria to the inquiry of our own times that will permit a valid or, at the very least, a considered judgement.

In the third decade of the fifteenth century, CenninoCennini wrote his celebrated Trattatadellapittura, the first theoretical treatise an art. The various investigations that had preceded his work, notably those by the friars of MountAthos, Heraclius and Theophilus, had been mere formularies. But Cennini, proceeding from a defense of Giotto's style, offers advice on techniques, suggestions for differentiating man from space, and instructions an rendering mountains and space by the use of gradations and shadings of color, thereby anticipating in principle the "aerial and colorperspectivity" of Leonardo da Vinci.

About the same time, the brothers van Eyck began to bring increasing clarity and force to the perspectival technique of their painting, while a plethora of attempts at perspective by various other masters points up the need for spatializationon the one hand, and the difficulty of rendering it on the other. Numerous works by these frequently overlooked minor masters bear witness to the unprecedented inner struggle that occurred in artists of that generation of the fifteenth century during their attempts to master space. Their struggle is apparent from the perplexed and chaotic ventures into a perspectival technique which are replete with reversed, truncated, or partial perspective and other unsuccessful experiments. Such examples by the minor masters offer a trenchant example of the decisive process manifest by an increased spatial awareness: the artist's inner compulsion to render space which is only incompletely grasped and only gradually emerges out of his soul toward awareness and clear objectivation and his tenacity in the face of this problem because, however dimly, he has already perceived space.

This overwhelming new discovery and encounter, this elemental irruption of the third dimension and transformation of Euclidean plane surfaces, is so disorienting that it at first brought about an inflation and inundation by space. This is clearly evident in the numerous experimental representations of perspective. We will have occasion to note a parallel confusion and disorder in the painting of the period alter1800when we consider the new dimension of emergent consciousness in our own day. But whereas the preoccupation of the Early Renaissance was with the concretion of space, our epoch is concerned with the concretion of time. And our fundamental point of departure, the attempt to concretize time and thus realize and become conscious of the fourth dimension, furnishes a means whereby we may gain an all-encompassing perception and knowledge of our epoch.

The early years of the Renaissance, which one might even characterize as being dramatic, are the source of further writings in the wake of Cennini's treatise. Of equally epochal importance are the three volumes of Leon Battista Alberti'sDellapittura of 1436,which, besides a theory of proportions and anatomy based anVitruvius, contain a first systematic attempt at a theory of perspectival construction (the chapter "Della prospettiva"). Earlier, Brunelleschi had achieved a perspectival construction in his dome for the cathedral of Florence, and Manetti justifiably calls him the "founder of perspectival drawing." But it was Alberti who first formulated an epistemological description of the new manner of depiction, stated, still in very general terms, in the words: "Accordingly, the painting is a slice through the visual pyramid corresponding to a particular space or interval with its Center and specific hues rendered an a given surface by lines and colors." What Vitruvius in his Architettura still designated as "scenografia" has become for Alberti a "prospettiva", a clearly depicted visual pyramid.

Some dozen years later, the three Commentarii of Lorenzo Ghiberti also treat of this same perspective; but despite his attempt to remain within the tradition, his treatises describe in a novel way not only perspective but also anatomy and a theory of drawing (teorica del disegno). It is significant that he corrects his principal model, Vitruvius, by inserting a chapter an "perspective" where Vitruvius would have included a chapter an the "knowledge of rules," and consequently intentionally 'elevates perspectivity to a basic axiom of his time.

There is yet another major artist of that age who continues the discussion of this subject in advance of the definitive statements of Leonardo. Toward the end of his life, Pierodella Francesca furnishes a penetrating theory of perspective compared to which Alberti's seems amateurish and empirical. In his three books De Perspectiva Pingendi based anEuclid, which were written in collaboration with Luca Pacioli, he defines for the first time costruzionepittorica as perspective. He had himself been successful in the practical application of perspective during the time ofFoquet, i.e., the latter half of the fifteenth century, though after the brothers van Eyck (to mention only the outstanding figures). This had facilitated the ultimate achievement of perspectivity, the "aerial perspective" of Leonardo's Last Supper.

Before returning to Leonardo, we must mention two facts which demonstrate better than any description the extent of fascination with the problem of perspective during the later Part of the fifteenth century when perspective becomes virtually normative (as in Ghiberti's modification of Vitruvius). In his DivinaProporzione, Luca Pacioli - the learned mathematician, translator of Euclid, co-worker with Pierodella Francesca, and friend of Leonardo - celebrated perspective as the eighth art; and when Antonio del Pollaiuolo built a memorial to perspective on one of his papal tombs in St. Peters some ten years later (in the 1490s), he boldly added perspective as the eighth free art to the other seven.

At the risk of exasperating many readers, we would venture to point out that this supersession of the number seven, the heptaos, can be interpreted as an indication of the symbolic conquest of the cavernous and vaulted heaven of unperspectivity. With the arrival of the eighth "art," which can also be considered an eighth muse, the world of the ancient seven-planet heaven collapses; the "n-", the negation retained in the night-sky [Nacht] of the unperspectival cavern gives way to the clarity and diurnal brightness of the eight (acht), which lacks the negating "n". The heptagonal cosmos of the ancients and its mystery religions are left behind, and man steps forth to integrate and concretize space.

It is, of course, considered disreputable today to trace or uncover subtle linguistic relationships that exist, for example, between the terms "eight" (acht) and "night" (Nacht). Eventhough language points to such relationships and interconnections, present-day man carefully avoids them, so as to keep them from bothering his conscience. Yet despite this, the things speak for themselves regardless of our attempts to denature them, and their roots remain as long as the word remains that holds them under its spell. It will be necessary, for instance, to discuss in Part Two the significance of the pivotal and ancient word "muse," whose multifarious background of meanings vividly suggests a possible aperspectivity. Here we would only point to the illumination of the nocturnal-unperspectival world which takes place when perspective is enthroned as the eighth art. The old, seven-fold, simple planetary cavern space is suddenly flooded by the light of human consciousness and is rendered visible, as it were, from outside.

This deepening of space by illumination is achieved by perspective, the eighth art. In the Western languages, the n-less "eight," an unconscious expression of wakefulness and illumination, stands in opposition to the n-possessing and consequently negatively-stressed "night." There are numerous examples: German acht-Nacht; French huit-nuit; English eightnight; Italian otto-notte; Spanish ocho-noche; Latinocto-nox (noctu); Greekochto-nux (nukto).

By unveiling these connections we are not giving in to mere speculation; we are only noting the plainly uttered testimony of the words themselves. Nor are we inventing associations that may follow in the wake of linguistic investigation; on the contrary, only if we were to pursue such associations or amplifications as employed by modern scientific psychology, notably analytical psychology, could we be accused of irrational or non-mental thought. It would be extremely dangerous, in fact, to yield to the chain reaction of associative and amplified thought-processes that propagate capriciously in the psyche and lead to the psychic inflation from which few psychoanalysts are immune.

While plumbing the hidden depths of the word roots, we will have to be constantly mindful of connections forgotten by contemporary man. Any attempt to probe this region is likely to unleash a negative reaction in present-day man, since such insights into the shadowy depth are unsettling; they remind him too much of the dark depths which he does not yet dare to acknowledge in himself. Yet it is perfectly permissible today, and to some degree indispensible, to think symbolical while describing symbolic processes. If we insist an such symbolic thinking, however, one precept must be observed: as far as possible we must possess an insight into the particular symbol; that is, we must be certain and aware of the symbolism involved. If we are not, we lose our self-assurance and become victims of the symbol, captive to an unknown power that controls us according to its will. We would expressly warn here of such psychic violation by the symbol, as well as of the psychic bondage that results from an inadequate awareness and knowledge of symbolic thinking.

Let us, however, return to the question of perspectivity. We have noted that perspective is the pre-eminent expression of the emergent consciousness of fifteenth-century European man, the palpable expression of his objectivation of spatial awareness. Besides illuminating space, perspective brings it to man's awareness and lends man his own visibility of himself. We have also noted that in the paintings of Giotto and Masaccio this evident perception of man comes to light for the first time. Yet this very same perspective whose study and gradual acquisition were a major preoccupation for Renaissance man not only extends his image of the world achieving spatialization but also narrows his vision - a consequence that still afflicts us today.

Perspectival vision and thought confine us within spatial limitations. Elsewhere we have alluded to the antithesis inherent in perspective: it locates and determines the observer as well as the observed. The positive result is a concretion of man and space; the negative result is the restriction of man to a limited segment where he perceives only one sector of reality.

Like Petrarch, who separated landscape from land, man separates from the whole only that part which his view or thinking can encompass, and forgets those sectors that lie adjacent, beyond, or even behind. One result is the anthropocentrism that has displaced what we might call the the ocentrism previously held. Man, himself a part of the world, endows his sector of awareness with primacy; but he is, of course, only able to perceive a partial view. The sector is given prominence over the circle; the part outweighs the whole. As the whole cannot be approached from a perspectival attitude to the world, we merely superimpose the character of wholeness onto the sector, the result being the familiar "totality."

It is no accident that the ambivalence inherent in the (Latin) primal word totusis evident in the word "totality." Although in more recent times the word totushasmeant "all" or "whole," it would earlier have meant "nothing." In any event, theaudial similarity between totus and [German] tot, "dead," is readily apparent. But let us forget the totality with its nefarious character; it is not the whole. Andal though the whole can no longer even be approached from the perspectival position, the whole, as we shall see further on, is again being approached in novel ways from the aperspectival attitude.

Perspectivation, let us remember, also includes a reduction; and this reductive nature is evident, for instance, in perspectival man's predominantly visual or sight orientation in contrast to unperspectival man's audial or hearing orientation. The basis of the perspectival world view is the visual pyramid; the two lines extend fromthe eyes and meet at the object viewed. The image formed by the isolated sector includes the subject, the object, and the space in between. Pierodella Francesca clearly expresses this in his remark: "The first is the eye that sees; the second, the object seen; the third, the distance between the one and the other." On this Panofsky comments: "It [perspective] furnished a place for the human form to unfold in a life-like manner and move mimically [which is equivalent to the discovery of space]; but it also enabled light to spread and diffuse in space [the illumination of space is the emergence of spatial awareness] and permitted considerable freedom in the treatment of the human body. Perspective provides a distance between man and objects." Such detachment is always a sign of an emergent objectifying consciousness and of the liberation of previously innate potentialities that are subsequently rediscovered and realized in the outer world.

This example again suggests to what extent perspective is the most tangible expression of an entire epoch. The basic concern of perspective, which it achieves, is to "look through" space and thereby to perceive and grasp space rationally. The very word "perspective" conveys this intent, as Drer suggests: "Besides, perspectiva is a Latin term meaning `seeing through." It is a "seeing through" of space and thus a coming to awareness of space. It is irrelevant here whether we accept Drers interpretation and translate perspicere (from which perspectiva derives) in his sense as "seeing through," or render it, with Panofsky, as "seeing clearly." Both interpretations point to the same thing. The emergent awareness of distantiating space presupposes a clear vision; and this heightening of awareness is accompanied by an increase of personal or ego-consciousness.

This brings us back to our thesis about the antithetical nature of perspective; it locates the observer as well as the observed. Panofsky too underscores this dualistic, antithetical character: "The history of perspective [may be] considered equally as a triumph of the Sense of reality with its detachment and objectivation, and as a triumph of human striving for power with its negation of distances, just as it can be Seen as a process of establishing and systematization of the external world and an expansion of the ego sphere." Let us for now postpone a discussion of his critical term "power expansion," although he has here noted an essential aspect of perspectival man, and turn back to Leonardo da Vinci on whom Drer (as Heinrich Wlfflin points out) indirectly based his understanding.

With Leonardo the perspectival means and techniques attain their perfection. His Trattatodella Pittura (a collection of his writings assembled by others after his death based on a mid-sixteenth-century compilation known as the Codex Vaticanus Urbinas 1270) is the first truly scientific and not merely theoretical description of all possible types of perspective. It is the first detailed discussion of light as the visible reality of our eyes and not, as was previously believed, as a symbol of the divine spirit. This emergent illumination dispels any remaining obscurities surrounding perspective, and reveals Leonardo as the courageous discoverer of aerial and color, as opposed to linear, perspective. Whereas linear perspective created the perspectival illusion on a plane surface by the projections of technical drafting, aerial and color perspective achieve their comprehension and rendering of space by techniques of gradation of color and hue, by the use of shadow, and by the chromatic treatment of the horizon.

Above and beyond this Leonardos establishment of the laws of perspective is significant in that it made technical drafting feasible and thereby initiated the technological age. This concluded a process which had required centuries before it entered human consciousness and effected a fundamental transformation of man's world. It is only after Leonardo that the unperspectival world finally passes out of its dream-like state, and the perspectival world definitely enters awareness. Having attempted to show the initial thrust toward awareness of space documented in Petrarch's letter, and to account for the process of painful withdrawal from traditional perceptions, we would here like to indicate the nature of Leonardos decisive development, for it was he who fully realized Petrarch's discovery.

Among the thousands of Leonardo's notes and diary entries, there are several which, if we compare those of presumably earlier with those of presumably later origin, can document the course of his emergent spatial awareness and thus his extrication from the world he inherited.

Of these, we shall select two, one earlier and one later. The first (from Manuscript A of the Institut de France) contains one of Leonardos earliest general definitions of perspective:

"Perspective is a proof or test confirmed by our experience, that all things project their images toward the eye in pyramidal lines." In addition to the fact that we again meet up with Alberti's important idea of the pyramid, now given its valid restatement by Leonardo, the remark expresses the very essence of Leonardo's rather dramatic situation: it expresses his Platonic, even pre-Platonic animistic attitude that "all things project their image toward the eye," which the eye does not perceive, but rather suffers or endures. This creates an unusual and even disquieting tension between the two parts of the sentence, since the purely Aristotelian notion of the first part not only speaks of proof but indeed proceeds from the "experience" of early science. This struggle in Leonardo himself between the scientist demonstrating things and the artist enduring them reflects the transitional situation between the unperspectival and the perspectival worlds.

A note on perspective of presumably later date is illustrative of Leonardos complete dissociation from the dominant unperspectival structure of ancient and early medieval consciousness. In Manuscript G of the Institut de France he writes: "In its measurements perspective employs two counter posed pyramids. The one has its vertex in the eye [he often calls the vertex `the point'] and its base on the horizon. The second has its base resting against the eye and its vertex at the horizon. The first pyramid is the more general perspective since it encompasses all dimensions of an object facing the eye . . . while the second refers to a specific position . . . and this second perspective results from the first."

These remarks express the change from a participation inconsciente to what we may call a relation consciente, or conscious relationship. Leonardo was able to place the vanishing point in space (on the horizon) in opposition to the passive or "enduring" point of the eye, the receptor of the stream of object impressions, and thus realized the close interrelationship between the two. As he himself notes, "the second pyramid [realized externally] results from the first." The emphasis has shifted to the eye of the subject the eye which has realized space and thus established an equilibrium between the ego world (of the eye) and the external world (the horizon).

This Statement of Leonardo's is also a conceptual realization or actualization of perspective a realization that has determined the Western image of the world ever since. Perspective has determined and corresponded to this view to such a degree that even a mere generation after Leonardo (around 1530), Agrippa of Nettesheim was able to include a brief chapter entitled De Opticavel perspectiva in his late work De Incertitudine et Vanitate Scientiarum et Artium. There we find the revealing statement: "It [the art of perspective] shows how deformity can be avoided in painting." And in Pietro Aretino's Dialogodella Pittura, written about the same time in honor of Titian, there is a verse frequently repeated: "Chespessoocchioben san favedertorto," which alludes to the no longer current tendency toward a kind of prejudicial kind of seeing that, as the verse notes, "frequently allows even healthy eyes to see falsely."

Aretino's reproach, as well as Agrippa's more pointed remark, both of which characterize the unperspectival world and its mode of expression as "deformity" and "false vision", demonstrate clearly that space had already entered consciousness and become accepted at the outset of the sixteenth century. Having achieved and secured the awareness of space, man in the sixteenth century is overcome by a kind of intoxication with it. This perspectival intoxication with space is clearly evident, for example, in Altdorfer's interiors and in the many depictions of church interiors by the Netherlandic masters that have an almost jubilant expression. It is this jubilation that silences the voice of those who still attempted to preserve the old attitude toward the world. The silencing of objections was facilitated to a considerable degree by the fact that Petrarch's experience of landscape and space, as well as Leonardo's application and theory of perspective, had become common property and were evident in the increasing prevalence of landscape painting throughout Europe. We shall only mention a few of the great European masters who repeatedly took up the question of the perception and depiction of space in landscape: Altdorfer, van Goyen; Poussin, Claude Lorrain; Ruysdael, Magnasco; Watteau, Constable, Corot, Caspar David Friedrich; Millet, Courbert;Manet,Monet, Renoir, and finally, van Gogh and Rousseau.

Space is the insistent concern of this era. In underscoring this assertion, we have relied only on the testimony of its most vivid manifestation, the discovery of perspective. We did, however, mention in passing that at the very moment when Leonardo discovers space and solves the problem of perspective, thereby creating the possibility for spatial objectification in painting, other events occur which parallel his discovery. Copernicus, for example, shatters the limits of the geocentric sky and discovers heliocentric space; Columbus goes beyond the encompassing Oceanos and discovers earth's space: Vesalius, the first major anatomist, bursts the confines of Galen's ancient doctrines of the human Body and discovers the body's space; Harvey destroys the precepts of Hippocrates' humoral medicine and reveals the circulatory system. And there is Kepler, who by demonstrating the elliptical orbit of the planets, overthrows antiquity's unperspectival world-image of circular and flat surfaces (a view still held by Copernicus) that dated back to Ptolemy's conception of the circular movement of the planets.

It is this same shape - the ellipse - which Michelangelo introduces into architecture via his dome of St. Peters, which is elliptical and not round or suggestive of the cavern or vault.

Here, too, we find a heightened sense of spatiality at the expense of antiquity's feeling of oceanic space. Galileo penetrates even deeper into space by perfecting the telescope, discovered only shortly before in Holland, and employing it for astronomical studies preparations for man's ultimate conquest of air and suboceanic space that came later and realized the designs already conceived and drawn up in advance by Leonardo.

This intense desire evident at the turn of the sixteenth century to conquer space, and to break through the flat ancient cavern wall, is exemplified not only by he transition from sacred fresco painting to that on canvas, but even by the most minute and mundane endeavours. It was around this time that lace was first introduced; and here we see that even the fabric could no longer serve merely as a surface, but had to be broken open, as it were, to reveal the visibility of the background or substratum. Nor is it accidental that in those years of the discovery of space via perspective, the incursions into the various spatial worlds mentioned above brought on with finality a transformation of the world into a spatial, that is, a sectored world. The previous unity breaks apart; not only is the world segmented and fragmented, but the age of colonialism and the other divisions begins: schisms and Splits in the church, conquests and power politics, unbounded technology, and all types of emancipations.

The over-emphasis an space and spatiality that increases with every century since 1500is at once the greatness as well as the weakness of perspectival man. His over-emphasis on the "objectively" external, a consequence of an excessively visual orientation, leads not only to rationalization and haptification but to an unavoidable hypertrophy of the "I," which is in confrontation with the external world. This exaggeration of the "I" amounts to what we may call an ego-hypertrophy: the "I" must be increasingly emphasized, indeed over-emphasized in order for it to be adequate to the ever-expanding discovery of space. At the same time, the increasing materialization and haptification of space which confronts the ego occasions a corresponding rigidification of the ego itself. The expansion of space brings on the gradual expansion and consequent disintegration of the "I" on the one hand, preparing favorable circumstances for collectivism. On the other hand, the haptification of space rigidifies and encapsulates the "I," with the resultant possibility of isolation evident in egocentrism.

As to the perspectival attitude, it is thus possible to maintain that the domination of space which results from an extreme perspectivization upsets and unbalances the "I." In addition, the one-sided emphasis on space, which has its extreme expression in materialism and naturalism, gives rise to an ever-greater unconscious feeling of guilt about time, the neglected component of our manifest world.

As we approach the decline of the perspectival age, it is our anxiety about time that stands out as the dominant characteristic alongside our ever more absurd obsession with space. It manifests itself in various ways, such as in our addiction to time. Everyone is out to "gain time," although the time gained is usually the wrong kind: time that is transformed into a visible multiplication of spatially fragmented "activity," or time that one has "to kill." Our time anxiety shows up in our haptification of time (already heralded by Pope Sabinus' hourly bellringing) and is expressed in our attempt to arrest time and hold onto it through its materialization. Many are convinced that "time is money," although again this is almost invariably falsified time, a time that can be turned into money, but not time valid in its own right. A further expression of man's current helplessness in the face of time is his compulsion to "fill" time; he regards it as something empty and spatial like a bucket or container. devoid of any qualitative character. But time is in itself fulfilled and not something that has to be "filled up" or "filled out."

Finally, our contemporary anxiety about time is manifest in our flight from it: in our haste and rush, and by our constant reiteration, "I have no time." It is only too evident that we have space but no time; time has us because we are not yet aware of its entire reality.

Contemporary man looks for time, albeit mostly in the wrong place,: despite, or indeed because of his lack of time: and this is precisely his tragedy, that, he spatializes time and seeks to locate it "somewhere." This spatial attachment - in its extreme form a spatial fixation prevents him from finding an escape from spatial captivity. But simple exits and paths are mere Phantoms here, for time is not an avenue. Although man's horizons expanded, his world became increasingly narrow as his vision was sectorized by the blinders of the perspectival world view. The gradual movement toward clearer vision was accompanied by a proportionate narrowing of his visual sector. The deeper and farther we extend our view into space, the narrower is the sector of our visual pyramid.

As it developed over the centuries, this state of affairs gave rise to the most destructive of the stigmas of our age: the universal intolerance that prevails today, and the fanaticism to which it leads. A person who is anxious, or who is fleeing from something, or who is lost either with respect to his own ego or with respect to the world - it holds equally true in both instances - is a person who will always be intolerant, as he feels threatened in his vital interests. He "sees" only a vanishing point lost in the misty distance (the vanishing point of linear perspective of which Leonardo once wrote); and he feels obliged to defend his point fanatically, lest he lose his world entirely.

The European of today, either as an individual or as a member of the collective, can perceive only his own sector. This is true of all spheres, the religious as well as the political, the social as well as the scientific. The rise of Protestantism fragmented religion; the ascendancy of national states divided the Christian Occident into separate individual states; the rise of political parties divided the people (or the former Christian community) into political interest groups. In the sciences, this process of segmentation led to the contemporary state of narrow specialization and the "great achievements" of the man with tunnel vision. And there is no "going back"; the ties to the past, the re-ligio, are almost non-existent, having been severed, as it were, by the cutting edge of the visual pyramid. As for a simple onward progression and continuity (which has almost taken an the character of a flight), they lead only to further sectors of particularization and, ultimately, to atomization. After that, what remains, like what was left in the crater of Hiroshima, is only an amorphous dust; and it is probable that at least one part of humanity will follow this path, at least in "spirit," i.e., psychologically.

In summary, then, the following picture emerges: there is on the one hand anxiety about time and one's powerlessness against it, and on the other, a "delight" resulting from the conquest of space and the attendant expansion of power; there is also the isolation of the individual or group or cultural sphere as well as the collectivization of the same individuals in interest groups. This tension between anxiety and delight, isolation and collectivization is the ultimate result of an epoch which has outlived itself. Nevertheless, this epoch could serve as a guarantee that we reach a new "target," if we could utilize it much as the arrow uses an overtaut bow string. Yet like the arrow, our epoch must detach itself from the extremes that make possible the tension behind its flight toward the target. Like the arrow on the string, our epoch must find the point where the target is already latently present: the equilibrium between anxiety and delight, isolation and collectivization. Only then can it liberate itself from deficient unperspectivity and perspectivity, and achieve what we shall call, also because of its liberating character, theaperspectival world.

3. The Aperspectival World
The full outlines of the aperspectival world can emerge only gradually. It is our hope that it will take on shape and contour as we have occasion to treat its "past prefigurations and contexts; an object becomes clearly visible and distinct, after all, only when placed against a background or substratum which furnishes sufficient contrast to prevent its being misconstrued. Although that requirement may not yet be fulfilled at this stage of our discussion, it would seem to us necessary here to outline the basic nature of aperspectivity in order to indicate how it came to be expressed. Whether this "indication" is understood as a thesis or merely as a point of departure, it will be convincing only when we contrast the recent forms of expression in painting, as in the other arts, with the background which remains to be described in the course of the present work.

Let us then select and examine from the many new forms of expression a particularly vivid example from the pictorial arts as a first step toward clarifying our intention. During recent decades, both Picasso and Braque have painted several works that have been judged, it would seem, from a standpoint which fails to do them justice. As long as we consider a drawing like the one by Picasso reproduced here (fig.1) in purely aesthetic terms, its multiplicity of line, even where the individual lines appear "beautiful" in themselves, will seem confusing rather than beautiful. And, as we have been taught to believe, beauty is a traditional category for evaluating a work of art. Yet such pictures or drawings as this demand more of the viewer than aesthetic contemplation based an criteria of beauty; and the relationship of the two is palpably evident, in German at least, from the previously overlooked root kinship of the words schn (beautiful) and schauen (to view, contemplate).

Both words have a predominantly psychological connotation; contemplation is the mode of mystic perception, while the beautiful is only one - the more luminous - manifestation of the psyche. At least to the Western mind, both concepts exclude the possibility of a concretion of integrality (though not of unity). They are only partial activations or incomplete forms of the harmony that is itself merely one segment of wholeness. Mere contemplation or aesthetic satisfaction are psychically confined and restricted, at best approaching, but never fully realizing, integrality., Yet it is precisely integrality or wholeness which are expressed in Picasso drawing, because for the first time, time itself has been incorporated into the representation. When we look at this drawing, we take in at one glance the whole man, perceiving not just one possible aspect, but simultaneously the front, the side, and the back.

In sum, all of the various aspects are present at once. To state it in very general terms, we are spared both the need to walk around the human figure in time, in order to obtain a sequential view of the various aspects, and the need to synthesize or sum up these partial aspects which can only be realized through our conceptualization. Previously, such "sheafing" of the various sectors of vision into whole was possible only by the synthesizing recollection of successively viewed aspects, and consequently such "wholeness" had only an abstract quality.

In this drawing, however, space and body have become transparent. In this sense the drawing is neither unperspectival, i.e. a two-dimensional rendering of a surface in which the body is imprisoned, nor is it perspectival, i.e., a three-dimensional visual sector cut out of reality that surrounds the figure with breathing space. The drawing is "aperspectival" in our sense of the term; time is no longer spatialized but integrated and concretized as a fourth dimension. By this means it renders the whole visible to insight, a whole which becomes visible only because the previously missing component, time, is expressed in an intensified and valid form as the present. It is no longer the moment, or the "twinkling of the eye" - time viewed through the organ of sight as spatialized time - but the pure present, the quintessence of time that radiates from this drawing.

Every body, to the extent that it is conceived spatially, is nothing but solidified, crystallized, substantivated, and materialized time that requires the formation and solidification of space in order to unfold. Space represents a field of tension; and because of its latent energy, it is an agent of the critical or acute energy of time. Thus both energetic principles, the latency of space as well as the acuteness of time, are mutually dependent. When we formulate this thought in advance of our discussion, it is to emphasize the basic import that we accord to the present, for both space and time exist for the perceptual capacities of our body only in the present via presentiation. The presentiation or making present evident in Picassos drawing was possible only after he was able to actualize, that is, bring to consciousness, all of the temporal structures of the past latent in himself (and in each of us) during the course of his preceding thirty years of painting in a variety of earlier styles.

This process was unique and original with Picasso. By drawing on his primitive, magic inheritance (his Negroid period), his mythical heritage (his Hellenistic-archaistic period), and his classicistic, rationally-accentuated formalist phase (his Ingres period), Picasso was able to achieve the concretion of time (or as we would like to designate this new style which he and his contemporaries introduced in painting, "temporic concretion"). Such temporic concretion is not just a basic characteristic of this particular drawing, but is in fact generally valid: Only where time emerges as pure present and is no longer divided into its three phases of past, present and future, is it concrete. To the extent that Picasso from the outset reached out beyond the present, incorporating the future into the present of his work, he was able to "presentiate" or make present the past. Picasso brought to the awareness of the present everything once relegated to the dormancy of forgetfulness, as well as everything still latent as something yet to come; and this temporal wholeness realized in spatiality and rendered visible and transparent in a depiction of a human form, is the unique achievement of this temporic artist.

We shall in consequence designate as "temporic" artists those painters of the two major artistic generations since 1880 (i.e., following the classicistic, romantic and naturalistic movements) who were engaged - doubtless unintentionally in concretizing time. From this point of view, all of the attempts by the various "movements" - expressionism, cubism, surrealism, and even tachism - show as their common trait this struggle to concretize and realize time. Understandably, such experimentation resulted in numerous faulty solutions; but as we noted earlier, such faults were equally unavoidable during the search for perspective and spatial realization.

The unavoidable attempt to presentiate the past, for instance, was accompanied by a certain chaos; yet this very chaos is always evident wherever a once-valid world begins to undergo a transformation. In this instance many contemporary artists, including a majority of the surrealists and later the tachists, were inundated by an inflation of time; a seemingly endless quantity of exhausted residua was dredged up and revived from the past, engulfing those artists unable to master this reawakened heritage. This has its parallel in the inflation of unconscious residua which have become conscious in the wake of efforts begun by Freud.

Instead of the wholeness these artists had hoped for, they inherited a world of bits and pieces; instead of attaining the spiritual supremacy they had desired, they became decidedly psychistic. By "psychistic" we mean contemporary Western man's inability to escape from the confines of the psyche. Even among Picassos works we find those which mirror such psychic chaos and psychistic inflation. Had he created only pictures in this chaotic manner, we could not definitively number him among the greatest temporic artists; there are, however, many other works by Picasso, notably from the 1930s, that bring his temporic endeavours toward a solution. We shall consider here only two types of pictures: some specific portraits as well as a landscape painting. (The extent to which Picasso's still life paintings exemplify the concretion of time, and also to what extent temporic art is anticipated in impressionism and even in earlier art, as in the work of Delacroix, will be examined later in greater detail.)

Among the portraits to which we refer are several executed since 1918 in which Picasso shows the figure simultaneously "full face" and "profile," in utter disregard of aesthetic conventions (fig.2). What at first glance appears to be distorted or dislocated, as for example the eyes, is actually a complementary overlapping of temporal factors and spatial sectors, audaciously rendered simultaneously and conspatially on the pictorial surface. In this manner, the figure achieves its concrete character of wholeness and presence, nourished not by the psychistic demand for beauty but by the concretion of time.

In the drawing of fig.1, as well as in the portraits, the unimaginable and the truly unrepresentable become evident; its structures rendered transparent, time becomes visible in its proper and most unique medium, the human body (or the head).

This type of temporic portrait does not represent merely a willful or fortuitous playfulness of Picasso's style, but rather reflects his specific need to express and shape the uncontainable emergence of concrete time. This is evident from his early incomplete solutions, as well as from similar portraits by Braque done independently during the same period. Two of Picasso's paintings, Harlequin with a Guitar of 1918 and 1924, as well as his two major works of 1925,

La cage d'oiseau, and Nature morte la tte de pltre, further manifest his search for concrete time. Picasso himself underscored the importance of these two works by selecting them to appear among the reproductions of nineteen works printed in Sabarts' collection of 1935. In addition we refer the reader to two portraits of 1927, Buste de femme en Rouge and Femme, as well as to the Femme aubonnet rouge of 1932.

With reference to Braque, who by 1939 was at work on his Greek heritage, we can discern distinct early indications of a temporic treatment in his portraits such as the Woman's Head of 1930 and Sao of 1931.There is evidence of his preoccupation and increasing mastery of this temporic treatment after 1936.

The works cited here embody the full creative force of the two most powerful painters of our era, and even our brief discussion should suggest the extent to which the concretion of time and the attempts to formulate it, dominate contemporary forms of expression. The emergent transparency of the time characteristic of the portraits can also be observed in the landscape painting of Picasso mentioned above. Since there is, so far as we know, only a single and virtually inaccessible reproduction of this work, we shall venture a description.

I visited Picasso after his return from Britanny to Paris in the autumn of 1938 at his studio, located at that time in the Latin Quarter, where he had done his Guernica the work that almost abolished spatiality. As I recall, he showed me on this occasion the new oils he had completed during the summer of that year. I was especially attracted to one small picture representing a landscape of village roofs as seen from a window; the painting was nearly devoid of depth and any central point of illumination. The entire picture showed nothing but layers of almost flat, multifariously colored roofs suggesting at first glance a mere aggregation of rectangular planes. I felt attracted to it at first, or so I thought, by its abundance of color, until the true reason for my interest finally emerged: its lack of any spatial localization of time.

Instead of presenting a temporal moment, the picture renders an enduring, indeed eternal present. The shadows that appear among the gradations of hue were not the result of the specific spatial-temporal position of the sun, as in the landscapes of Watteau or Poussin, where one can ascertain the specific park, the particular year, month, indeed the specific day, the very hour, and, from the outline of the shadows, the very second, the exact temporal moment in space.

In Picasso's roof the dislocation and layered arrangement of the shadows mirror the natural movement of time; he has rendered the landscape by audaciously incorporating all of the changes of illumination (visible in the shifts of shadow and shading), the temporal motions brought on by the altered positions of the sun during the time when he was painting. This capturing of the present as it affects nature could not have been bolder, precisely because of its simplicity. What is here visible in this unique painting is not the spatializing temporal moment. It is the present emerging in its transparent entirety - the present corresponding in its indispensable accidentals to our notion of eternity; for neither can be conceptualized or imagined. In Picasso's paintings both the present and the eternity are rendered transparent and thus ever-present, evident, and concrete.

Aperspectivity, through which it is possible to grasp and express the new emerging consciousness structure, cannot be perceived in all its consequences be they positive or negative unless certain still valid concepts, attitudes, and forms of thought are more closely scrutinized and clarified. Otherwise we commit the error of expressing the "new" with old and inadequate means of statement. We will, for example, have to furnish evidence that the concretion of time is not only occurring in the previously cited examples from painting, but in the natural sciences and in literature, poetry, music, sculpture, and various other areas. And this we can do only after we have worked out the new forms and modes necessary for an understanding of aperspectivity.

The very amalgamation of time and the psyche noted earlier, with its unanticipated chaotic effect as manifested by surrealism and later by tachism, clearly demonstrate that we can show the arational nature of the aperspectival world only if we take particular precautions to prevent aperspectivity from being understood as a mere regression to irrationality (or to an unperspectival world), or as a further progression toward rationality (toward a perspectival world). Man's inertia and desire for continuity always lead him to categorize the new or novel along familiar lines, or merely as curious variants of the familiar. The labels of the venerated "Isms" lie ever at hand ready to be attached to new victims. We must avoid this new idolatry, and the task is more difficult than it first appears.

Let us again look at our example of the fusion of time and the psyche: as long as time is dredged up from oblivion and thrust into visibility in bits and pieces, our preoccupation with the past aspect of time will bring on further chaos and disintegration. But the moment we are successful, like Picasso, in wresting past "time" - that is latently present time - from oblivion via its appropriate structure and means of expression, and render it visibly anew and thus present, then the importance we accord to the earlier times and their diverse structures of consciousness will become apparent in the development of aperspectivity.

If we fail to recognize this still potent past legacy, it may at any time become critical and threaten to overwhelm us; and this would prevent us from perceiving the new with the requisite vigilance and detachment.

Because of this, we will examine in the following chapter those incisive occurrences that have manifest themselves (to use our term) as mutations of the consciousness of mankind. The results of these mutations are latent in each and every one of us in the form of the various consciousness structures and continue to be effective in us. It is our hope that this brief outline of the nature of the unperspectival and the perspectival worlds has clarified one point: the degree to which the aperspectival world must be built on the foundations of the perspectival world if it is to surpass it. And as we expand and extend the temporal breadth and depth of its temporality, the bases for the aperspectival world will become broader and increasingly supportive.




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