THIS VERSUS THAT

I enjoyed reading Van Campen and Behrens’ articles this week. They definitely summed up the gestalten way of thinking and clarified any of the once ambiguous details that I was struggling with in the beginning of the course. I want to bring up the connection/resemblance between the gestalt principles and the Japanese inspired aestethics that Dow and others propagated as discussed in Behrens’ article. Behrens’ states, that the gestalt emphasis on the dynamic interplay of parts and wholes had been anticipated as early as the third century B.C. in China by a passage in the Tao Te Ching that states that although a wheel is made of 30 spokes, it is the space between the spokes that determines the overall form of the wheel. The yin-yang symbol can be looked at using the gestalten principles and and in Japanese art, it is an example of the notan meaning having the compositional equivalence of light and dark. The gestaltists' ideas of structural economy the propensity to perceive incomplete forms as complete are reverberated in the Japanese emphasis on elimination of the insignificant. The viewer has to be able to ‘mentally complete the incomplete to see the beauty’ in its entirety. Gestaltists are likely to say that all of a color are legitimate, because we always experience percep-tual wholes, not isolated parts. We never see figures (or swatches) alone, only dy-namic "figure-ground" relationships.
I included a few of the lattice compositional grids referenced in the article in order to compare them to those composed by Piet Mondrian and others even though it is said that there is no evidence that the gestalt psychologists were directly or knowingly influenced by eitherJapanese art or aes-theticism.


















My friend’s work who was greatly inspired by Mondrian two semesters ago:

Piet Mondrian:

Oriental lattice patterns:

Form!

I am fascinated by the way this chapter in Arnheim reflects on the task of translating the three dimensional vision into a two dimensional representation. When the chapter discussed this translation directly, it focused mostly on the failure of a two dimensional rendering to capture a three dimensional seen sufficiently. The problem was that objects on a two dimensional plane could not simultaneously display all aspects of themselves and appear as a correct, unified image. The tone was one that condemned the effect of flattening, implying that it failed on a fundamental level to achieve its implied goal of total reenactment.
A bit later on, however, Arnheim made a very interesting claim that allowed me to reconsider and reassess the accomplishments of the two dimensional translation. Arnheim writes:

"The method of copying an object or arrangement of objects from one fixed point of observation--roughly the procedure of the photographic camera--is not truer to that concept than the method of the Egyptians.... When figures in Egyptians fail to present the human body the way it 'really is,' but because the observer judges their work by the standards of a different procedure. once freed of this distorting prejudice, one finds it quite difficult to perceive the products of the 'Egyptian method' as wrong."

Arnheim goes on to say that in adopting the goals of realism, Western art lost an appreciation of the value of other methods of visual record. Without the pretense of the impossible expectation of perfect representation, the qualities in drawings and paintings that subvert the illusion of reality become exciting new visual entities unattainable by objects in the real world.
In reality, a cube can only exist in one form. It's form is dynamic so it may appear to change its form, but whatever variants occur, the cube will always be firmly and easily tethered to its simple unified qualities. When drawn, however, each different perspective of the cube becomes a distinct, autonomous entity. A simple adjustment of perspective does not begin to scratch the surface of the many ways in which a cube can exist upon canvass. The analysis involved in the 3-d to 2-d translation allows for the creation of infinite objects wherein reality there can only exist one. In this way, the translation is not one that fetters reality, rather it frees it.
It is Gestalt psychology that allows shapes freed from the laws of reality to be coherent and therefore valid. Because we inherently make something out of what we see, we allow images to have only loose ties to what would be considered thoroughly coherent. When less of the effort of the artwork is spent on recognition there is far more room to incorporate more interesting aspects of the work. Each aspect of the whole work then accrues meaning and makes for a richer experience.

At the beginning of Arnheim’s third chapter on Form, he introduces the philosophical debate about art making: “that arm aims at deceitful illusion, and that any deviation from this mechanical ideal needs to be explained, excused, justified.” Essentially, this view supports the theory that the image portrayed in a painting should have such similar physical resemblance to the object that the viewer should confuse it with the object itself, otherwise the renderer must have a lack of skill.
But, refuting these statements, he goes on later to posit that “image-making, artistic or otherwise, does not simply derive from the optical projection of the object represented, but is an equivalent rendered with the properties of a particular medium, of what is observed in the object.” This chapter, when paired with the other two readings for this week, speaks interestingly in support of Arnheim’s sentiments.

The van Campen and Behrens articles both give historical context for the rise of Gestalt psychology running parallel to the rise of the Bauhaus and other early avante-garde movements such as de Stijl, whose artists asked their viewer to reconsider the way in which the viewed even the most basic shapes and lines. Indeed, as van Campen points out, artists and scientists were employing the same ocular phenomena with radically different intentions. My sociologist brain wants to know, Why gestalt at this point in time? This seems like a radical paradigm shift from the very “what-you-see-is-what-you-get” way of looking at the world and at art, as proposed in beginning of Arnheim’s chapter.

I was also fascinated by Arnheim’s discussion of the visual conception of objects. Not only do we see an object, but our total experience of that object is not just what we see from the angle at which we are looking at it. It comes from our knowledge of what it might look like from the side, bottom, up, down, etc. David Hockney, in his photographic collages, plays upon these basic principles by showing the viewer all sides at once. In this photocollage, entitled Chair, Hockney combines images of the chair from multiple different angles – maybe he is actually showing us something closer to the totalness of our chair-viewing experience.

form

I find that the more Arnheim I read, the more I like him. At first I found him very difficult, but I guess it just took a while for me to get into his writing. I liked the simplicity of the begining of his chapter on form - it is so fascinating to think about parts of vision I do not normally pay attention to at all. He simply says, 'the difference in appearance between a teacup and a knife indicates which object is suited to containing a liquid and which to cutting a cake' (96). When you look at a teacup, you can mentally break it down into its shapes if you try to - the circular rim, the curve of the handle, the hollowed center. But what a person sees when they look at a teacup is a kind of shape; it is seen in the context of other whole objects, and not as a assemblage of parts.

My favorite part of the chapter was towards the end - the drawings of humans on page 143 made by elementary school age children. Arnheim says, 'Certianly these children were not trying to be original, and yet the attempt to put down on paper what he sees makes each of them sicover a new visual formula for the old subject" (142) It is so interesting to think, this is the way that they see the human form - and who is to say whether or not it has 'imagination' to it, they certainly do have originality and an individual take/perspective on human bodies.

Arnheim defines artistic imagination as 'the finding of new form for old content, or ... as a fresh conception of an old subject' (142). According to that definition it would be impossible for childre to do imaginative drawings, solely because of the fact that they have not learned/seen any other types of artworks and therefore cannot compare it to what they are doing. I don't know if I can articulate this very well, or if it even make makes much sense, but here we go. If a young child looks a a human, and draws them in a new and unique way, is that not a type of artistic imagination? Arnheim does talk about how surprised he is at many different ways of representing the children come up with, in fact he is impressed with 'the abundant resources of pictoral imagination that are found in the average child until lack of encouragement, unsuitable teaching, and an uncongenial environment suppresses them in all but a fortunate few' (144). I guess I am just arguing semantics in his use of 'artistic imagination'. There is an immense amount of individuality in the drawings, and they are quite different from real life (dare I ask, could this not be the 'old'?)


I also was, in addition to the post down below mine, interested in the discussion of schizophrenic artists. I have studied Nijinsky for another class, but never had the opportunity to look at his art after he stopped dancing (and was in an out of sanatoriums). I would really like to see some of the drawings/paintings he did, but can't seem to find any online right now. I would be very intersted to see how and if they connect/contrast with his previous drawings and designs for his choreography or costume designs. Anyone who has any luck with this, let me know please! Ill post anything if I find it

Disturbing Perspectives and Schizophrenic Artwork

I found Arnheim’s chapter on form interesting and thought provoking. In particular, his observations about perspective and how foreshortening or distorting perspectives can have such a confusing and intriguing effect on the way we perceive things. When I think about these shifts in perspective I think of Arnheim’s discussion of Eidetic images and visual concepts. Eidetic images are “physiological vestiges of direct stimulation” (107). They are similar to afterimages and can enable a person to see a space and project a previously viewed image on the space. Visual concepts on the other hand, are concepts that people have in their minds of the three dimensional appearance of an object. Visual concepts enable people to mentally “see” all the way around an object. Works of art that have an odd perspective or are foreshortened are disturbing or shocking to us because they pick a view of an object that is not as prominent in our visual concept and cause us to struggle to integrate this perspective. For example, the image by Fernand Léger from Ballet Mécanique, offers the viewer an uncommon perspective of a person, our visual concepts of people don’t normally focus on this perspective. We struggle to integrate this view into our existing perception of a woman. (I don’t know if I’m taking Arnheim’s theories too far here but these are the connections that formed for me while I was reading.)

I was also drawn to Arnheim’s discussion of art by people with schizophrenia. He explains that order and pattern are central aspects to this work. “Since the sensory sources of natural form and meaning are clogged and the vital passions dried up, formal organization remains, as it were, unmodulated…In some of Van Gogh’s last paintings, pure form overpowered the nature of the objects he depicted” (148). This made me think of the work of Louis Wain (1860-1939), an Englishman who only painted cats and developed schizophrenia. Pattern and form do seem to overpower the cats as his schizophrenia worsened. The cat itself becomes less and less the focus of the image, as the radiating patters and halos surrounding the cats grow larger, ultimately overtaking the cat. When I first saw his paintings of cats I thought about Van Gogh, because I remembered the radiating lines that Van Gogh used in his work. Looking at his "Self-Portrait with Felt Hat," (1888) one can see these radiating lines. He used small short and defined strokes throughout his paintings but in particular made energetic encircling rings in the background surrounding his head. This painting also has these energetic strokes throughout, for example defining the collar of his jacket, and the hair of his beard.

The effect of these lines and radiating patters both in Van Gogh’s work and in Louis Wain’s is that they bring a tremendous amount of energy to the painting. One wonders how this aspect of the form of the painting provides a glimpse of how the world actually looked to Van Gogh and Wain. Were these radiating lines, these halos part of how they perceived their visual surroundings? Arnheim continues to talk about Van Gogh’s work and his schizophrenic mind: “The violence of his disturbed mind transformed the world into a tissue of flames, so that the trees ceased to be trees and the cottages and farmers became calligraphic brush strokes. Instead of being submerged in the content, form interposed itself between the viewer and the theme of the work” (148). The “tissue of flames” seems to describe the form of Wain’s work. In the lower left picture of a cat, one can organize the picture perceptually both as a cat or as an eruption of flames. I wonder if Wain and Van Gogh fought to see the cats and the trees and not a mass of flames, whether their schizophrenia caused them to organize their visual perceptions in hallucinatory ways and struggle to see the actual images and objects before them?

Post for Class March 3^rd 2010

(Nicole and I switched weeks)

Upon reading the Crétien van Campen article for this week, I remembered what Danielle had posted last week, about her difficulty in deciphering a figure from Arnheim’s chapter on Shape. On page 70, Arnheim gives the reader Figure 42, which appears to be two completely opaque shapes, one a rectangle and the other a square, lying on top of one another on the page. Danielle described her struggle with the figure: she could recognize that the figure as a whole was made up of two parts, a rectangle and a triangle. Arnheim describes that, “At first glance, the figure may look awkward, strained, not in its final shape. As soon as it appears as a combination of rectangle and triangle, tension ceases, the figure settles down and looks fortable and definitive. It has assumed the simplest possible structure compatible with the given stimulus.” This amalgamation of the two shapes into one definite form, however, is not how Danielle saw the shape. Instead, upon first glance, she “looked at it and saw the rectangle as a layer above the triangle. I then told myself this was impossible because they were both the same color black and sitting on the same plane (the page of the book). After I told myself this, the rectangle at second glance, still appeared on top of the triangle.” For Danielle, these two “overlapping planes”, as van Campen calls them, were not perceived as “one whole or one Gestalt” (van Campen, 133). Instead, her perception of the form was focused on a figure/ground relationship. Personally, I was able to form that one whole Gestalt for the figure, though I admit it was not easy. But Danielle’s questions of whether other people also saw a figure and a ground in the form, and if so, which shape was ‘on top’ of the other, was illuminated for me as I read into the van Campen article. Specifically, as I read the perceptual rules of the figure-ground phenomenon, as established by Rubin (given by van Campen on page 134), I began to think about the various abstract artworks I have seen- and to wonder about the figure-ground phenomenon in relation to them.

My mind instantly went to the paintings of Mark Rothko. Rothko’s paintings use color and shape to distinguish different parts of the canvas. To be honest, while I have always loved viewing Rothko’s work, I have never truly understood or tried to analyze his paintings. As I began to consider the rules governing figure-ground relationships, I found myself trying to apply them to the Rothko paintings I could recall. I ponder the rules’ applicability in Rothko’s work- do I really perceive one block of color as a figure and another as the ground? And if so, do I also perceive depth between them? In this case, I think that the use of color must also really affect my perception of the work, as the visual forces put into play by the simultaneous contrast of the colors must surly affect the visual balances I perceive therein.

Another artist that comes to mind is Olafur Eliasson. Eliasson plays around with the paradigms of perception in a multitude of ways. He manipulates light and shape to produce forms that seem ethereal and confusing- and the result is often extremely unnerving. Multiple Grotto for example—you can walk inside this structure, which is lined with mirrors. The glimpses that you see of the outside world appear fragmented and are then reflected back on themselves within the mirrored spiked interior. In this way, Eliasson causes a perceptual confusion, messing with the familiarity of shape and form, forcing us to observe otherwise the normal forms of people walking around outside the sculpture in an entirely new way. I think this is extremely interesting, especially if one takes into account the ideas about the task of the observer, and what previous experiences the observer brings to his or her observation. The manipulation of otherwise familiar objects must have repercussions on the associations one will have with those objects.

Another work of his that I’d like to mention briefly, though it has little to do with the ideas that I initially addressed in this post, is one called Take Your Time. In this piece, Eliasson deliberately manipulates the physical processes of visual perception. The light in the exhibition is one wavelength, an orangey-yellow. This causes every hue in the room to become a version of that wavelength, which in itself is interesting. However, if one remains in the room for long enough, shadows will begin to appear as a purple—the opposite of the yellow wavelength of light in the room. The effect is eerie and visceral; Eliasson literally changes the way the observer views the world. The more I ponder Eliasson’s deliberate attempts at changing the visual processes of his observers, the more I feel as though his works are a true test of the gestalt principles of visual perception- and a sign of their power.

Reading Arnheim’s initial words on meaning and shape in the beginning of his chapter on Form make me want to question the applicability of these gestalt theories to work like Rothko’s and Eliasson’s. The shapes formed by the blocks of color in Rothko’s paintings do not seem to “represent something, and thereby be the form of a content,” (96) as Arnheim describes it. And the non-specificity of these geometrical shapes seems to preclude their ability to “tell us about their individual selves” (96) and to teach us “automatically about whole categories of things” (96). In other words, shapes are one key aspect of the dynamic series of associations we make as observers. I have a hard time relating that to my experience of a Rothko painting. When I see the forms and the colors, I am not directly reminded of other boxes or squares I have encountered in my life. However, it must be true that my perceptual processes are following the rules we have been discussing- because I do have a dynamic and definite reaction to the paintings.

Olafur Eliasson: Multiple Grotto (Interior view)

Olafur Eliasson: Multiple Grotto

Olafur Eliasson: Take Your Time

Mark Rothko: No. 14, 1960

Thoughts on Right-Left Bias in response to Jenna's response to Sarah.

(this got pretty long so I thought i'd post it on the main page)

This issue should yield insight on the nature vs. nurture question. I didn't know exactly where to look, and I'm sure Elizabeth would have the answers, but until then: I found this abstract of a study done on french vs. tunisian children (who write from right to left in arabic). It doesn't address the issue of a gestalt tendency, or the phenomenon of asymmetry in adults, but tests for ipsilateral bias in line bisection (the tendency to mistakenly identify a midpoint to either the right or left side of a line or circle), clockwise direction in circle drawing, and something called "outward tendency for horizontal displacement in dot filling" which I'm afraid I don't understand.

http://www.informaworld.com/smpp/content~db=all~content=a713754473

The study found a bias in children after the age of 7-9 (those who have learned to read) paralleling the directional movement of written text.

That may or may not prove anything about the idea "anisotropy of physical space" on a horizontal axis as presented in chapter 1. Written script can move from right to left, from left to right, from top to bottom, and even from bottom to top (I'm not sure if any culture has developed bottom-up writing organically, but I know that Labanotation, the system developed to notate dance and movement, starts at the bottom of the page and moves upwarddddlllllly)

On the other hand, the hands of a clock will always move counterclockwise, in order to mirror the direction of movement on the shadow of a sundial as the sun moves from east to west. For readers of a left-to-right alphabet (or I should say for people who experience a left-to-right anisotropy and I don't know if I'm using that word correctly) the hands of the clock would seem to be moving in accordance with a "natural flow.' Which would mean that someone who experienced a right-to-left anisotropy experiences the hands of the clock as having to overcome resistance as they moved "against a natural flow." This is at odds with our inherent understanding of time as a force which moves effortlessly from past to future. It seems unlikely that an opposite conception of time could develop organically. Which implies that in certain right-to-left cultures, a standard clock would be seen as out of sync with the movement of time itself. And so thank God for the digital watch.

Before leaving the analog clock: clockwise movement contains both a fall from top to bottom (12:00 to 6:00) and an ascendance from bottom to top (6:00 to 12:00). I'm not sure how to synthesize the idea of monodirectional movement around a circumference with the idea of a top/bottom anisotropy (again not sure if I'm using that word correctly). The momentum generated by circular movement makes the 6:00 to 12:00 motion less burdensome than a vertical lift.

Top to bottom is a non-cultural bias, as it incorporates our awareness of gravity (a counterexample would have to come from a culture which had developed in a weightless environment, such as those which are the future of space space space travel). Horizontal bias seems to have both cultural and non-cultural origins, and it'd be fun to get specific about what exactly influences what.

An interesting example from the world of conceptual thought: if you imagine a river flowing down-hill, you will almost certainly picture it moving from left to right.

Second to last thought: the sun always moves from what we call east to what we call west. In our culture we conceptualize this trajectory as movement from left to right, but this is a map-making convention. A right-to-left-reading person could view the sun's east-to-west trajectory as movement from right-to-left. Note that according to the windroses on our culturally biased MAPS, which place west to the left and east to the right, the sun actually moves in the OPPOSITE direction of our written text. A reader of arabic or hebrew could derive comfort from such a map, as he or she could conceive of script as moving in the same direction as the sun. Alas, for similar consolation, a reader of english would have to move to the southern hemisphere, and flip his or her atlas upside down.

Last thought: It seems like it would be worthwhile, if it were possible, to study composition and directional movement in the art of those cultures that had not yet developed a written alphabet.