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Arts 1: Definition of Art

Definition of Art Robert Stecker

Axe is most often used to refer to a set of forms, practices or institutions. However, when we ask: 'Is that art?' we are usually asking whether an individual item is a work of art. The project of defining art most commonly consists in the attempt to find necessary conditions and sufficient conditions for the truth of the statement that an item is an artwork. That is, the goal is normally to find a principle for classifying all artworks together while distinguishing them from all non-artworks. Sometimes the goal is set higher. Some look for a 'real' definition: that is, one in terms of necessary conditions that are jointly sufficient for being an artwork. Sometimes the aim is to identify a metaphysical essence that all artworks have in common. A definition of art should be distinguished from a philosophical theory of art, which is invariably a broader project with vaguer boundaries. Such a theory may touch on many issues other than the issue of definition, or may even studiously avoid that issue in favour of others. A theory of art will typically concern itself centrally with questions of value, for example whether there is some unique value that only artworks offer. In any case, it will attempt to identify the valuable properties of art that are responsible for its great importance in most, if not all, cultures. It may give attention to cognitive issues, such as what one must know to understand an artwork, and what it is for an interpretation of a work to be good, acceptable, or true. A theory of art may be interested in other sorts of responses or attitudes to artworks, such as emotional responses. It may focus on the fictionality characteristic of so many works of art, or on their formal, representational, or expressive properties. It may deal with the social, historical, institutional, or intentional characteristics of art. A theory of art will address several of these issues, display the connections among them, and sometimes, but only sometimes, attempt to formulate a definition either of art or of artistic value, or both on the basis of some of these other artistic properties This chapter will survey the main trends that mark the history of the project of defining art in the twentieth century before discussing the most important efforts in the past thirty years. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND Even before turning to the twentieth century, something should be said about the historical roots of the attempt to define art. It is sometimes supposed that the earliest definitions of art are to be found in the writings of ancient philosophers such as Plato and Aristotle. In fact, one will not find, in these writers, a definition of art, in the sense of an item belonging to the fine arts or of art in its current sense, if that departs from the concept of the fine arts. It is now widely accepted that the former concept was not fully in place until some time in the eighteenth century, and hence it seems implausible that the ancients would think in terms of, or try to define, art in that sense- What is true is that they wrote about such things as poetry, painting, music, and architecture, which came to be classified as fine arts and saw some common threads among them. Plato was very interested in the fact that poetry, like painting, was a representation or imitation of various objects and features of the world, including human beings and their actions, and that it had a powerful effect on the emotions. Aristotle also emphasized the idea of poetry as imitation and characterized other arts, such as music, in those terms. This way of thinking of the arts wielded enormous influence in the Renaissance and Enlightenment, and so when the concept of the fine arts solidified the first definitions of art were cast in terms of representation, by such important figures as Hutcheson, Batteux, and Kant. It is not necessary to set out the exact content of all of these definitions here, since in the later period in which we are interested they were superseded by other approaches. Of those earlier definitions, Kant's is the one that has had truly

lasting influence. Fine art, according to Kant, is one of two 'aesthetic arts', i.e. arts of representation where 'the feeling of pleasure is what is immediately in view: The end of agreeable art is pleasurable sensation. The pleasure afforded by the representations of fine art, in contrast, is 'one of reflection, which is to say that it arises from the exercise of our imaginative and cognitive powers. Fine art is 'a mode of representation which is intrinsically final ... and has the effect of advancing the culture of the mental powers in the interest of social communication' (Kant 1952: 165-6). There are elements in this conception that survive even after the idea that the essence of art is representation is abandoned. One is a series of contrasts between (fine) art, properly understood, and entertainment (agreeable art). Art makes more demands on the intellect but offers deeper satisfactions. Art is 'intrinsically final', i.e. appreciated for its own sake. Art has some essential connection with communication The struggle to replace the mimetic paradigm t ices place in the nineteenth century. This occurs on many fronts, just as did the formation of the concept of the fine arts a century earlier. Artistic movements such as romanticism, impressionism, and art-for-art's-sake challenge ideals associated with mimeticism and direct attention to other aspects of art, such as the expression of the artist and the experience of the audience. Debates among critics in response to these movements raise questions about the boundaries of art. The invention of photography challenges the mimetic ideal in painting, at least if that is regarded as the increasingly accurate, life-like representation of what we see. The increasing prestige of purely instrumental music provides at least one clear example of non-representational art. For some, such music provides a new paradigm captured by Walter Pater's claim that all the arts aspire to the condition of music. In response to all this, new definitions of art appear, especially expression theories, formalist theories, and aesthetic theories. What all these theories have in common with each other, as with monasticism, is that they each identify a single valuable property or function of art, and assert that it is this property that qualifies something as art. Call these simple functionalist theories. Such theories dominate the attempt to define art right through the middle of the twentieth century. Although they now no longer dominate, they are still regularly put forward. Those cited at the end of the last paragraph have been the most important and influential examples of this type of theory Each deserves attention in some detail. ART AS EXPRESSION The ostensible difference between expression and representation is that, while the latter looks outward and attempts to re-present nature, society and human form and action, the former looks inward in an attempt to convey moods, emotions, or attitudes. We seem to find instances of expressive art where representation is de-emphasized or absent. It is very common to think of instrumental music, or at least many pieces of music, in these terms. As the visual arts moved towards greater abstraction, they too often seem to de-emphasize, or abandon representation for the sake of expression. One can even extend this to literature, which pursued expressivist goals from the advent of romantic poetry through the invention of `stream of consciousness' and other techniques to express interiority. So it might seem that one could find art without representation but not without expression. This might encourage the further thought, independently encouraged by various romantic and expressivist movements in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, that, even when expression and representation co- occur, the real business of art is expression. Space permits the examination of only one specific proposal to define art in terms of expression. The definition comes from Collingwood's Principles of Art (1938). Collingwood defines art primarily as an activity: that of

clarifying an emotion, by which he means identifying the emotion one is feeling not merely as a general type, such as anger or remorse, but with as much particularity as possible. Collingwood does not deny that one can rephrase this definition in terms of a work of art rather than an activity, but he believes that the work exists primarily in the minds of artist and audience, rather than in one of the more usual artistic media. However, he seems to think of the job of the medium as enabling the communication of the emotion to the audience who then have the same clarified emotion in their minds, which is to say, for Collingwood, the work of art itself. The definition has well known problems. First, even if expressiveness, in some sense, is a widespread phenomenon in the arts, it is far too narrowly circumscribed by Collingwood. He prescribes a certain process by which a work of art must come about, whereas it is in fact a contingent matter whether works are created in the way he recognizes. Not unexpectedly, the definition rules out many items normally accepted as art works, including some of the greatest in the Western tradition, such as the plays of Shakespeare, which by Collingwood's lights are entertainment rather than art. The definition assumes that the emotion expressed in a work is always the artist's emotion, but it is not at all clear why a work cannot express, or be expressive of, an emotion not felt by the artist when creating the work. In recent years, the idea that art expresses an actual person's emotion has given way to the idea that art is expressive of emotion in virtue of possessing expressive properties, such as the property of being sad, joyful, or anxious, however such properties are analysed. Such properties can be perceived in the work, and their presence in a work does not require any specific process of creation. Traditional expression theories like Collingwood's have been widely rejected, even if some still believe they point towards one of the central functions of art. However, the idea that art is expression, qualified by a number of additional conditions, lives on in work of Arthur Danto. Though properly regarded as an expression theory of art, I would claim that Danto's version of this theory arises within a sufficiently different intellectual and artistic context as to be best treated at a later stage of this discussion. So, putting it on hold for now, we turn to other simple functionalist conceptions of art. FORMALISM Developing alongside expression theories of art were formalist theories. If one stops thinking that art is all about representation, a natural further thought, if one is thinking in simple functionalist terms, is that what art is all about is form rather than representational content. This thought gained support from various developments in the arts during the time of high modernism, along, exciting period roughly between 188o and 1960. Though many artforms contain modernist masterpieces, the work of painters were the paradigm and inspiration for many of the most influential formalist theories. Cezanne in particular was the darling of the early formalists Clive Bell (1914) and Roger Fry (1920). Cezanne's paintings contain perfectly traditional representational subjects— landscape, portraiture, still life--but his innovations could be seen as formal, with virtually no concern, furthermore, to express anything inner other than Cezanne's eye making features of visual reality salient. These innovations involved the use of an wide-ranging palette, a handling of line, and an interest in the three-dimensional geometry of his subjects, which give his figures a 'solidity' not found in his impressionist predecessors, while at the same time 'flattening' the planes of the pictorial surface. Taking such formal features as the raison d'être for these paintings became the typical formalist strategy for understanding the increasingly abstract works of twentieth-century modernism, as well as for reconceiving the history of art. Like the other simple functionalist theories under

discussion here, formalism is not just an attempt to define art. It is a philosophical theory of art in the sense indicated above. It also attempts to identify the value of art, and what needs to be understood in order to appreciate an artwork A formalist attempt to define art faces several initial tasks. They all have to do with figuring out how to deploy the notion of form in a definition. One can't just say: art is form or art is what has form, because everything has form in some sense. The first task is thus to identify a relevant sense of 'form' or, in other words, to identify which properties give a work form. Second, if objects other than artworks can have form in the relevant sense, one has to find something special about the way artworks possess such form. The best known and most explicit formalist definition of art is Clive Bell's. According to Bell, art is what has significant form. Significant form is form that imbues what possesses it with a special sort of value that consists in the affect produced in those who perceive it. Bell rails the affect 'the aesthetic emotion', though, as Carol Gould (1994) has pointed out, this is probably a misnomer since what he has in mind is more likely a positive, pleasurable reaction to a perceptual experience so Bell performs the second task mentioned above by claiming that what is special about form in art is that it is valuable in a special way. However, until Bell dispatches the first of the tasks mentioned above, i.e. until we know what he means by form, his claims about significant form are unilluminating. Unfortunately, regarding this task, Bell is remarkably cavalier. Being concerned primarily with the visual arts, he sometimes suggests that the building blocks of form are line and colour combined in a certain way. But this is not adequate to his examples, which include: St Sophia, the windows at Chartres, Mexican sculpture, a Persian bowl, Chinese carpets, and the masterpieces of Poussin. Perhaps even three-dimensional works such as buildings, bowls, and sculptures in some abstract sense are 'built' out of line and colour. A more straightforward way to itemize the formal properties of a bowl would be colour, three-dimensional shape, and the patterns, if any, that mark its surfaces. Notice that any three-dimensional object has formal properties so characterized, and those that have significant form are a subclass of those that have form. Essentially the same is true in the cases of buildings and sculptures, though these are typically far more complex in having many parts or sub-forms that interact with each other and with a wider environment. But a similar complexity can be found in many three-dimensional objects, both manufactured and natural. In the case of pictures in general, and paintings in particular, which is the sort of visual art in which Bell was most interested, speaking of form as arising from line and colour is, if anything, more illuminating because all sorts of its properties, including the representational properties so arise. Further, it gives no indication of the complexity of the concept as it applies to a two-dimensional medium capable of depicting three dimensions. The fact is that the form of a painting includes, hut is hardly confined to, the two-dimensional array of lines and colour patches that mark its surface. As Malcom Budd (1995) has pointed out in one of the most sensitive treatments of the topic, it also includes the way objects, abstractly conceived, are laid out in the represented three- dimensional space of the work and the interaction of these two- and three-dimensional aspects. If we can pin down the sense of form as it applies across the various art media, can we then go on to assert that something is an artwork just in case it has significant form? Bell's definition hinges on his ability to identify not just form, but significant form, and many have questioned whether he is able to do this in a noncircular fashion. His most explicit attempts on this score are plainly circular or empty, involving the interdefinition of two

technical terms, significant form being what and only what produces the aesthetic emotion, and the aesthetic emotion being what is produced by and only by significant form. Others (Gould 1994), however, have claimed that a substantive understanding of when form is significant can be recovered from formalist descriptions of artworks purportedly in possession of it. Even if Bell can successfully identify significant form, his definition is not satisfactory. It misfires in a number (if respects that are typical of the simple functionalist approach. First, it rules out the possibility of bad art, since significant form is always something to be valued highly. Perhaps there can be degrees of it, but it is not something that can occur to a very small degree unless one can say that a work has negligible significant form. Second, it displays the common vice of picking out one important property for which we value art, while ignoring others at the cost of excluding not just bad works but many great works. Thus, someone who defines art as significant form has little use for artists like Breughel whose paintings, many of which teem with vast numbers of tiny human figures, give a rich sense of many aspects of human life but lack art's defining feature as Bell would understand it. Perhaps there is a better way to deploy the notion of form or formal value in a definition of art. This is a possibility that, whatever its merits, has gone largely unexplored. Instead, those who remained attached to the simple functionalist model turned to an alternative approach using a more flexible concept, that of the aesthetic. So, rather than exploring hypothetical formalisms, we turn to this new approach. AESTHETIC DEFINITIONS The concept of the aesthetic is both ambiguous and contested, but there are other chapters in this volume devoted to the explication of those issues, and so little will be said about them here. For our purposes, we can stipulate that the aesthetic refers in the first instance to intrinsically valuable experience that results from dose attention to the sensuous features of an object or to an imaginary world it projects. Aesthetic properties of objects are those that have inherent value in virtue of the aesthetic experience they afford. Aesthetic interest is an interest in such experiences and properties. Aesthetic definitions--attempts to define art in terms of such experiences, properties, or interest--have been, with only a few exceptions, the definitions of choice among those pursuing the simple functionalist project during the last thirty years. The brief exposition above of definitions of art in terms of representational, expressive, and formal value suggests why this is the case. Each of the previous attempts to define art do so by picking out a valuable feature of art and claiming that all and only things that have that feature are artworks. One of the objections to each of the definitions was that they excluded some works of art, even some possessing considerable value, but not in virtue of the feature preferred by the definition. Hence such definitions are not extensionally adequate. By contrast, aesthetic definitions seem, at first glance, to be free of this problem. Form and representation can both afford intrinsically valuable experience, and, typically, such experience does not exclude one aspect in favour of the other. The same is true for the experience afforded by the expressive properties of works. All such experience can be regarded under the umbrella of aesthetic experience. Aesthetic definitions of art are numerous and new ones are constantly on offer. I mention here a few of the better known or better constructed definitions. An artwork is something produced with the intention of giving it the capacity to satisfy aesthetic interest (Beardsley 1983). A work of art is an artefact which under standard conditions provides its percipient with aesthetic experience (Schlesinger 1979). An 'artwork' is any creative arrangement of one or more media whose principal function is to communicate a significant

aesthetic object (Lind 1992). Functionalist than the notions of representation, expression, or form, such definitions are still far from satisfactory. To bring this out, consider two basic requirements on the definition of any kind (class, property, concept) K: (i) that it provide necessary conditions for belonging to (being, falling under) K, and (ii) that they provide sufficient conditions for belonging to (being, falling under) K. To be an artwork, is it necessary that it provide aesthetic experience or even that it be made with the intention that it satisfy an interest in such experience? Many have thought not. Those who deny it are impressed with art movements like Dadaism, conceptual art, and performance art. These movements are concerned, in one way or another, with conveying ideas seemingly stripped of aesthetic interest. Dadaist works, such as Duchamp's readyrnades, appear to be precisely aimed at questioning the necessary connection between art and the aesthetic by selecting objects with little or no aesthetic interest, such as urinals, snow shovels, and bottle racks. Some instances of performance art appear to be based on the premise that political ideas can be conveyed more effectively without the veneer of aesthetic interest. Conceptual works seem to forgo or sideline sensory embodiment entirely. Defenders of aesthetic definitions take two approaches to replying to this objection Some (Beardsley 1983) attempt to deny that the apparent counter-examples are artworks, but this seems to be a losing battle as the number of ostensible counterexamples increase and gain critical and popular acceptance as artworks. What has recently come to be the more common tack in replying to the objection is to claim that the apparent counter-examples do have aesthetic properties (Lind 1992.). The ready-mades, for example, have such properties on more than one level. Simply regarded as objects, they have features that to a greater or lesser degree reward contemplation. As artworks, they powerfully express Ducharnp's ironic posture towards art. Can we deploy the notion of the aesthetic to provide a sufficient condition for being an artwork? As the previous paragraph already begins to suggest, any object has the potential to be of aesthetic interest, and so providing aesthetic experience is hardly unique to art Beardsley's definition rules out natural objects, since they are not made with the requisite intention, but it seems to rule in many artefacts that are not artworks but are made with aesthetically pleasing features. There are three ways in which a defender of aesthetic definitions of art might try to cope with the pervasiveness of the aesthetic outside of art per se. One way is to redefine what counts as art as any artefact with aesthetic interest. (Zangwill 2000 suggests this approach.) The problem with this move is that it just changes the subject from an attempt to figure out why we classify objects as art to a mere stipulation that something is art if it is an aesthetic object. A definition that includes doughnut boxes, ceiling fans, and toasters, even when not put forward as ready-mades, is simply not a definition of art in a sense others have attempted to capture. Second, one can attempt to rule out non-art artefacts by claiming that artworks have a `significant' aesthetic interest that distinguishes them from the `mere' aesthetic interest possessed by other artefacts (see Lind 1992). But this line is equally unlikely to succeed. The more one requires such 'significance', the less likely it is that all artworks will possess it, for we have seen that many recent works are not concerned primarily with creating a rich aesthetic experience. The last strategy is to claim that, despite intuitions to the contrary, aesthetic experience is something that is either uniquely or primarily provided by art. This strategy faces the daunting task of specifying an experience common to all artworks, and one that art uniquely or primarily provides, but without making essential reference to the concept of art. Though some, such as

Beardsley (1969), have attempted such a specification, the consensus is that no proposal has been successful. ANTI-ESSENTIALISM Although aesthetic definitions of art continue to have adherents, the dominant trend within this topic since the 195os has been to reject simple functionalism in all of its forms. This rejection began with the more sweeping thought that the attempt to define art is misguided because necessary and sufficient conditions do not exist capable of supporting a real definition of art. The most influential proponents of this anti- essentialism were Morris Weitz (1956) and Paul Ziff (1953). Guided by Wittgenstein's philosophy of language, they claimed that it was atypical for ordinary language empirical concepts to operate on the basis of such conditions. Rather, as Weitz put it, most such concepts were 'open-textured', meaning that the criteria by which we apply the concept do not determine its application in every possible situation. While the concept of art is by no means unique in being open textured for Weitz and Ziff, the concept still stands apart from many other empirical concepts in one respect. For many empirical concepts, open texture merely creates a theoretical possibility that situations may arise in which criteria no longer guide us, and a new decision is needed whether the concept applies. Weitz and Ziff conceived of art as requiring such decisions on a regular basis as new art movements continually create novel works. This novelty provides a constant source of counter-examples to simple functionalist definitions. Instead of being classified by necessary and sufficient conditions, claimed Weitz and Ziff works are classified as art in virtue of 'family resemblances', or sets of similarities based on multiple paradigms. So one work is art in virtue of one set of similarities to other works, while another is art in virtue of a different set of similarities. An alternative approach, also Wittgensteinian in spirit, is that art is a duster concept (see Gaut z000). This means that we can discern several different sets of properties the possession of any of which suffices for an object to achieve art status, but no one of which is by itself necessary for such status. Each of these suggestions, while proposing that the concept of art is best captured by something other than a definition, in fact lays the ground for new approaches to defining art. The family resemblance view claims that the concept of art is formed by a network of similarities. But which ones accomplish this? If none are specified then the view is empty, since everything bears a similarity to everything else. In fact, Ziff suggested that the relevant domain of similarities will be social or functional in nature, though, in the case of the latter, not in the way simple functionalists had hoped for. As for the cluster concept view, if the set of conditions sufficient for being an artwork are finite and enumerable, it is already equivalent to a definition of art, viz, a disjunctive definition. While attempting to demonstrate that art cannot be defined, anti- essentialism actually resulted in a whole new crop of definitions, most of which look completely different from their simple functionalist predecessors and rivals. DANTO AND DICKIE In a highly influential article, Maurice Mandelbaum (1965) was among the first to point out that the appeal to family resemblance does not preclude, but rather invites, definition. It may be true that when we look at the resembling features within a literal family, we may find no one exhibited likeness that they all have in common. However, Mandelbaum observes, family resemblance is no more satisfactorily explicated in terms of an open-ended set of similarities differentially shared among the family's members; for people outside the family may also possess the exhibited features without these thereby bearing a family resemblance to the original set of people. Rather, what is needed to capture the idea of family resemblance is a non-exhibited relation, namely that of resemblance among those with a

common ancestry. Without proposing a specific definition, Mandelbaum suggested that in attempting to define art we may fill in the gap left to us by the family resemblance view by appealing to some non-exhibited relational property--perhaps one involving intention, use, or origin. Among the first to explore the possibility of defining art in these terms, and certainly the most influential proponents of this approach, were Arthur Danto and George Dickie. In part because both cast their thought about art in terms of 'the artworld', in part because Danto was not explicit about his proposed definition, for some time it was thought that they were advancing similar definitions of art. However, it is now understood that each was developing quite different theories, Danto's being historical and functional and Dickie's, radically afunctional and institutional. In some early papers, Danto (1964,1973) outlines desiderata to which a definition of art must conform without yet setting forth a definition that satisfactorily meets the desiderata. The first point, illustrated by the readers as well as by such works as Warhol's Brillo Boxes, is that art and non-art can be perceptually indistinguishable and so cannot be marked off from each other by 'exhibited' properties. (A corollary to this is that one artwork cannot always be distinguished from another by appeal to exhibited properties.) Second, an artwork always exists in an art historical context, and this is a crucial condition for it to be art. Art historical context relates a given work to the history of art. It also provides 'an atmosphere of artistic theory', art being 'the kind of thing that depends for its existence on theories' (Danto 1981: 135). Third, 'Nothing is an artwork without an interpretation which constitutes it as such' (p. 135). Every work of art is about something, but, equally, invariably expresses an attitude of the artist towards the work's subject or 'way of seeing' the same. An interpretation, then, tells us what the work is about and how it is seen by its maker; further, it expresses the artist's intention on this score. Danto's most important work in the philosophy of art, and his most sustained attempt to discern the essence of art, is his book The Transfiguration of the Commonplace (1981), in which he elaborates on the considerations stated above and adds others. However, it was left to commentators to fashion an explicitly stated definition of art from this material. The best statement, and one endorsed by Danto, is provided by Noel Carroll (1993: 8o) as follows. X is a work of art if and only if (a) X has a subject (b) about which X projects an attitude or point of view (c) by means of rhetorical (usually metaphorical) ellipsis (d), which ellipsis requires audience participation to fill in what is missing (interpretation) (e), where both the work and the interpretation require an art- historical context. To a considerable extent, this definition follows the pattern of traditional simple functionalist definitions of art. Basically, conditions (a) and (b) give to art the function of projecting a point of view or attitude of the artist about a subject, and this puts it in the broad class of attempts to define art in terms of expression. That this function is accomplished in a special way (c), and requires a certain response from the audience (d), are not uncommon features of expression theories. If anything sets Danto's definition apart from other simple functionalist proposals, it is the final condition, (e), which requires that a work and its interpretation stand in a historical relation to other artworks. It is this last feature that has made Danto's definition influential, but it is not dear that it helps very much to save it from the fate of other simple functionalist definitions. Many believe that there are works of art that fail to meet all of the first four conditions. For example, aren't many works of music, architecture, or ceramics, and even some abstract or decorative works, which are arguably not about anything, nevertheless instances

of works of art? George Dickie's artworld is different from Danto's. Rather than consisting in historically related works, styles, and theories, it is an institution. In attempting to define art in terms of an institution, Dickie abandons the attempt to offer a definition not only in terms of exhibited features, but in terms of functions of any sort. Dickie originally conceived of this institution as one that exists to confer an official status, even if it does so through informal procedures. Increasingly, however, he came to view it differently, as one geared to the production of a class of artefacts and to their presentation to a public As might be guessed from his changing understanding of the institution of art, Dickie has proposed two distinct institutional definitions of art, the second being based on his own rejection of the first. Both, however, have received a great deal of attention and exercised considerable influence, so each deserves some discussion here. The first definition goes as follows: Something is a work of art if and only if (1) it is an artifact, and (2) a set of aspects of which has had conferred upon it the status of candidate for appreciation by some person or persons acting on behalf of the Artworld. (Dickie 1974: 34) Notice that the status conferred that makes some artefact an artwork is the status not of being art (at least, not straightforwardly that), but of being a candidate for appreciation, and this status is conferred on a set of aspects of the item rather than on the item itself. Dickie's definition itself does not tell us who in the artworld typically confers status. One might think it would he people like critics, art gallery owners, or museum directors, because they are the ones who select and make salient to a broader public aspect of a work for appreciation. However, Dickie's commentary on the definition makes dear that he thinks artists are the exclusive agents of status conferral. Since conferring would seem to be an action, one might wonder what an artist does to bring it about. It can't just be making something with properties capable of being considered for appreciation. Stephen Davies (1991: 85) has suggested that conferral consists in someone with the appropriate authority making, or putting forward, such an object. For many, the crucial idea that makes this definition of art institutional is that being an artwork consists of possessing a status conferred on it by someone with the authority to do so. However, this is precisely the idea that Dickie eventually rejected. Rightly or wrongly, he came to view status conferral as implying a formal process but felt that no such process need occur--nor, typically, does it occur--in bringing artworks into existence. Dickie's second definition of art is part of a set of five definitions that present the 'leanest possible description of the essential framework of art': An artist is a person who participates with understanding in making a work of art. A work of art is an artifact of a kind created to be presented to an artworld public. A public is a set of persons whose members are prepared in some degree to understand an object that is presented to them. The artworld is the totality of all artworld systems. An artworld system is a framework for the presentation of a work of art by an artist to an artworld public. (Dickie 1984: 8o--i) The basic idea here is that the status of being art is not something that is conferred by some agent's authority, but instead derives from a work being properly situated in a system of relations. Pre-eminent in this system is the relation of the work to the artist and to an artworld public It is the work's being created by the artist against the 'background of the artworld' (Dicicie 1984: n) that establishes it as an artefact of a kind created to be presented to an artworld public, i.e. an artwork. If we abstract from the particulars of Dickie's two definitions, one can discern a common strategy that gives rise to a set of common problems for his approach. In both definitions, Dicicie set out a

structure that is shared with other institutions or practices beyond the 'artworld'. Conferral of status occurs in many settings, and even the conferral of the status of candidate of appreciation frequently occurs outside the artworld (whether or not it occurs within it). For example, an 'official' tourist brochure issued by a tourism board confers the status of candidate for appreciation on some particular place. So does official recognition that a building is 'historical'. (Remember that Dickie self-consciously refuses to say what kind of appreciation is conferred by agents of the artworld.) Even advertising might be thought to confer such status, as is certainly its aim. How does Dickie's first definition distinguish between these conferrals of candidacy for appreciation from an-making conferrals? Only by referring to the artworld, i.e. gesturing towards artfonns and their making, distribution, and presentation, without explaining what marks these off from other status-conferring practices. Similarly, regarding the second definition, there are many artefact production and presentations systems outside the artworld. Wherever a product is produced for consumers, there is such a system. How does Dickk distinguish artworld systems from other artefact presentation systems? He does so only by naming the artworld systems 'artworld systems', i.e. by gesturing towards the relevant systems without explaining what marks them off. This strategy gives rise to the problems of circularity and incompleteness (see Walton 1977; Levinson 1987; Davies 1991; Stedcer 1986, 1997). Dicicie acknowledges that his definitions are circular, but denies that this is a problem. It is clearly a problem, however, when a definition is insufficiently informative to mark off the extension of what it is attempting to define. Because Dickie's definitions simply gesture towards the artworld without marking it off from similar systems, it is incomplete for lack of informativeness. Dicicie (1989) replies that it is ultimately arbitrary whether or not a system is part of the artworld, but such a claim seems to be an admission that the definition cannot be completed. HISTORICAL APPROACHES AND THE REVIVAL OF FUNCTIONALISM Others have proposed that the situation is not as hopeless as Dicicie (inadvertently) suggests. Kendall Walton (1977) was among the first to suggest that the artworld systems that Dicicie gestures towards might be defined historically. Walton's suggestion is that the artworld consists of a limited number of proto-systems plus other systems that develop historically from these in a certain manner (1977: 98). Dicltie (1984: 76) has pointed out that this leaves unsettled the issue of why the proto-systems belong to the artworld in the first place, and has expressed the belief that no real explanation is possible. This assessment may again be over-hasty. One possible place to look for the set of original prow-systems would be the formation of the system of the fine arts in the eighteenth century, with poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture, and music (possibly confined to vocal music) being the paradigmatic proto-artforms. Surely, there is an explanation of why these forms comprised an important category at this time. This explanation might refer to a common functional property, or, it might itself be historical. A residual problem with this approach is whether it accounts for all items classified as artworks. The view appears to imply that to be art it is necessary and sufficient that it belong to an artform or art system, and not everyone would accept both parts of that claim (Levinson 1979; Stecker 1997). The view, even rehabilitated along quasi-historical lines, may also fail to account for artworks and artforms from non-western and earlier western cultures that are conceptually but not historically linked in the right way to the eighteenth-century prototypes. Stephen Davies is the most important defender of the institutional approach since Dicicie. Davies does not actually offer a definition of art, but sketches lines along which it

should develop. First, it should reinstate the idea that the artworld is structured according to roles defined by the authority they give to those who occupy them. Art status is conferred on works by artists in virtue of the authority of the role they occupy. Second, artworld institutions should be understood historically. Davies's discussions of the historical roots of art has come to focus more on individual artworks than on artworld systems. Consider very early artworks. Did such works exist in an institutional setting? If so, what gave rise to these institutions? Surely, it was even earlier works around which the institutions grew. Davies initially attempted to give an institutional analysis to cases like this as well as cases of isolated artists whose work is disconnected from art institutions as we know them (Davies 1991). His current view, however, is that the earliest art, the prototypes from which art and its institutions arose, are to be understood functionally. Such items are art because their aesthetic value is essential to their function. However, once art institutions become established, art can develop in ways that no longer require an aesthetic--or any other--function (Davies 1997, woo). In addition to attempts to historicize the institutional approach to defining art, a number of philosophers have explored other forms of historical definition. Jerrold Levinson has proposed that an historical relation holding among the intentions of artists and prior artworks is definitive of art (Levinson 1979, 1989, 1993); James Carney claims that the relation is one holding among historically evolving styles (1991, 1994); while Noel Carroll, though not offering a definition, has put forward the suggestion that art is identified by historical narratives which link later works to earlier ones (Carroll 1994). Robert Stecker asserts that art is defined in terms of historically evolving functions (1997). Levinson's proposal is one of the best worked out and most carefully defended. It is that 'an artwork is a thing that has been seriously intended for regard-as-a -work-of-art, i.e., regard in any way pre-existing artworks are or were correctly regarded' (Levinson 1989: 21). One wants to know more about what it is to intend a thing for regard-as-a-workof-art, and why this core aspect of Levinson's definition does not make it as tightly circular as DicIde's. It turns out there can be two relevant types of intention. On the 'intrinsic' type, one intends a work for a complex of regards for features found in earlier artworks without having any specific artwork, genre, movement, or tradition in mind. One might intend it for regard for its form, expressiveness, verisimilitude, and so on. Alternatively, there is the 'relational' type of intention, in which one intends an object for regard as some particular artwork, genre, etc. is or was correctly regarded. When one fills in these possible regards, in theory, one eliminates the expression 'as-a-work-of-are, which is the basis of Levinson's defence against the charge of circularity. As with some other historical accounts (such as Carney's and Carroll's), Levinson's main idea is that something is a work of art because of a relation it bears to earlier artworks, which are in turn art because of a relation they bear to still earlier works, and so on. Once this is clear, it becomes obvious that, as one moves back along the relational chain, one will come across artworks for which there are none earlier. These earliest artworks have come to be called 'first are. We need a separate account of what makes first artworks art, and a reason for thinking that this separate account won't serve to explain why all artworks are art, obviating the need for a historical approach. Davies now gives an essentially functional account of first art in his historical institutional approach (1997,2000), and would claim that this won't explain why all artworks are art because, within an art institution, objects can acquire art status while lacking the original function of art. Levinson prefers to avoid

this straightforwardly functionalist approach to first art. For him, what makes something first art is that it is 'the ultimate causal source and intentional reference of later activities we take as paradigmatically art'. Furthermore, first art aims at 'many of the same effects and values, that later, paradigmatic art has enshrined' (Levinson 1993: 421). These remarks come dose to a functional approach similar to that of Davies, but substitute causal and intentional relations to functions for direct reference to the functions themselves. There are a number of objections to Levinson's definition. Against taking it as a sufficient condition for being art, various examples have been offered where the requisite intention is purportedly present, but the item in question is arguably not an artwork. In 1915, Duchamp attempted to transform the Woolworth Building into a readymade. He was not successful, but not for lack of an appropriate intention (Carney 1994). A forger of a Rembrandt self-portrait may intend that his work be regarded in many ways as the original is correctly regarded, without thereby creating another artwork (Sartwell 1990:157). There are also objections questioning whether the definition provides a necessary condition for being art. There can be objects that achieve functional success as art, in that they reward a complex set of intrinsic regards, but lack the required intention- They may spring from an artistic intention based on a misunderstanding of earlier works, or from a utilitarian intention that adventitiously results in an object with artistically valuable properties. For example, one might set out just to make a vessel that holds water and end up with a remarkably beautiful pot. Levinson has replies to all of these counter-examples (see Levinson 1990, 1993). Duchamp failed because he lacked the relevant 'proprietary right' to the building. The forger does not create an artwork because, though he intends the forgery to receive many of the regards correctly directed to the Rembrandt, they are not correctly directly to his own painting. Levinson seems to admit that there can be art that lacks the intentions he ordinarily requires for arthood, but holds that this points to farther, less central, senses of art. All these replies, as well as the above remarks on first art, add new conditions to, and hence considerably complicate. Levinson's original definition. Sometimes, too many qualifications can kill a proposal. In this case, though, the patient is arguably still alive and attempting to recuperate. Still, at a number of junctures it appears that Levinson might have achieved a simpler definition by appealing directly to functions or regards rather than intentions. Robert Steelier (1997) formulates a definition of art that appeals more directly to an historically evolving set of functions, without completely dispensing with a reference to artistic intentions. (For another such attempt, see Graves 1998.) Stecker does not define art explicitly in terms of an historical relation linking the art of one time with the art of an earlier time. Rather, his definition proceeds by reference to time- relative artforms and functions. At any given time, art has a finite set of functions that range from genre-specific values to those widespread representational, expressive, formal, and aesthetic values enshrined in the simple functional definitions considered earlier. The functions of art at a given time are to be identified through an understanding of the artforms central to that time. However, that does not mean that items that don't belong to a central artform are never art. According to Stecker, almost anything can be art, but artefacts outside the central artforms have to meet a higher standard. This motivates a disjunctive definition of art an item is an artwork at time t where t is not earlier than the time at which the item is made, if and only if (a) it is in one of the central artforms at t and is made with the intention of fulfilling a function that art has at t, or (b) it is an artefact that achieves

excellence in achieving such a function. With this definition too there are various problems. The appearance of circularity is handled in much the same way as with Levinson's definition: by eliminating reference to art by enumerating central forms and functions. However, this requires that Stecker provide some account of these items. What makes something a central artform? How are genuine functions of art distinguished from accidental functions (e.g. using sculptures as a doorstops or paintings for insulation) and extrinsic functions (e.g. using art an investment)? Further, not every function is appropriate to every candidate artwork, so functions have to be coordinated with their appropriate forms. Finally, there are things that appear to fulfil functions of art to a high degree, but no one would call them artworks. Suppose there were a pill that induced a fine aesthetic experience. The pill is not a work of art even though it appears to fulfil a function of art with excellence. (For replies to these and other objections see Stecker 1997: 51-65.) Views like those of Davies, Levinson, and Stecker suggest that a consensus is developing about how art should be defined (see Stecker z000; Matravers z000). Though each at first appears to represent a different approach (institutional, intentional, functional), the similarities among these views are more striking than the differences. All accept Danto's view that art must be defined historically; and all, in the end, are committed to a definition that consists of a disjunction of sufficient conditions rather than a set of necessary conditions that are jointly sufficient (so-called real definitions). Further, unlike simple functionalist definitions, these definitions do not form the kernel of a larger, normatively aimed theory of art, but are compatible with many different theories. In particular, these definitions, like Diclde's definitions, distinguish an understanding of what art is from a conception of the value of art. In fact, the disjunctive character of recent definitions suggests not only that there is no one value or function essential to art, but that there is no essence of art at all. Whatever the extent of this consensus, it excludes two parties to the debate. One comprises those who are still interested in pursuing a simple functionalist definition, typically in terms of aesthetic experience or properties (see Anderson z000; Zangwill z000). The other comprises those who are skeptical of the possibility of any definition of art (Tilghman 1984; Novitz 1996). It is an interesting question just where future work in this area should direct its efforts (see Stecker z000). On one side of the issue, those in the skeptical camp might do more to develop their arguments. On the other side of the issue, instead of developing more proposals of the sort we have just been considering, it would be worthwhile for the non-skeptical to step back to ask more basic questions. What is it that we are trying to define? Is it the concept of art, the property of being art, or a classificatory (or possibly evaluative) social practice, or something else? Suppose we say we are trying to define a concept. There is an interesting general literature on this question (Peacocke 1992; Fodor isiog) which it might be useful to bring to the issue of defining art. What should we hope to achieve with such a definition? The traditional goal was to identify the essence of art. If we follow recent definitions in abandoning that goal, what are we doing instead-describing or idealizing, for instance? Should we even continue to assume that we are looking for a single correct definition, or should we now accept the possibility that there can be several equally useful definitions of art, several equally good solutions to the same problem-or perhaps several problems calling for different solutions? See also: Value in Art; Ontology of Art; Aesthetics of Popular Art; Aesthetic Experience.

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divinehumanism-blog · 7 years ago

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Without Eugene England, I Probably Wouldn’t Attend Church

Reflections on the Growth-Promoting Gifts of Paradox

First, A Confession

Let me begin with a confession: I often don’t like going to church. I find the experience incredibly taxing, exacerbating, and just plain boring. Rarely am I uplifted. Frequently am I peeved. Paradoxically, and interestingly, I also find going to church one of the most redemptive experiences I am trying to learn to love. It is very difficult for me to articulate the origin, nature, and depth of this love-angst relationship. And to be honest, if I wasn’t aware of who Eugene England was, I probably wouldn’t appreciate the discipline of community that comprises church-going, nor respect its attendant paradoxes. Put differently,without Eugene England, I probably wouldn’t attend church.

This loaded, semi-provocative thesis needs unpacking before it’ll make sense to orthodox ears. Let me drill down a bit.

In 1986, Eugene England, a faithful, critical Latter-day Saint scholar, wrote a game-changing essay entitled, “Why the Church is as True as the Gospel.” Personally, this essay has had a huge influence on me and my relationship with the institutional Church. It has carried me through difficult times in my discipleship, given me a lot of hope, beauty and pragmatic bearing, and has provided invaluable perspective on how “not only to endure but to go on loving what [is] unlovable.” In short, it is an essay that I think all Latter-day Saints should read and become familiar with.

The Power of Paradox: The Gospel and the Church

Much of England’s treatment of effective church-going meditates heavily on the power of paradox. Joseph Smith referred to the concept of paradox when he stated that “by proving contraries, truth is made manifest.” Half a century earlier, the poet William Blake had similarly observed, “Without contraries there is no progression.” Contraries, or oppositions, give energy, force and meaning to virtually everything.

Think about it.

The art you see in a theater, a museum, or historic site has risen from the tension of human conflict and opposition. Economic, political and social enterprises have and continue to emerge from competition and dialogue. Human life itself grows out of pain and controversy. Galaxies form spectacularly amid swirls of chaos and explosion.

The gospels, too, are awash with many paradoxical statements:

To be rich you must be poor. To be comforted you must mourn. To be exalted you must be humble. To be found you must be lost. To find your life you must lose it. To see the kingdom you must be persecuted. To be great you must serve. To gain all you must give up all. To live you must die.

Paradoxes, contraries, or oppositions can sometimes tempt us to think that two conflicting propositions will always be incompatible. Yet, it is often when we sacrifice traditional concepts and change our frame of reference that rival statements of paradox suddenly appear compatible.

A paradox, in other words, is not antithetical to the pursuit of truth, but in fact the very definition of it. In his acclaimed essay, “The Institutional Church and the Individual,” Bonner Ritchie stressed the importance of this pursuit: “By confronting the contradictory constraints of a system and pushing them to the limit, we develop the discipline and strength to function for ourselves. By confronting the process, by learning, by mastering, we rise above.”

“It must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things” is thus a profound statement of abstract theology in our scriptures that describes how vital paradox is to the development of all living things.

From the perspective of paradox, England is armed to build a persuasive case for why the Church (the Work) is as true as the Gospel (the Plan). Upon first blush, this rings like a weighty contradiction that just can’t be. The principles of the Gospel are pure and ideal, we say, but the workings and people of the Church are weak and imperfect. As Hugh Nibley once recognized, “The Plan looks to the eternities and must necessarily be perfect; but the Work is right here and is anything but the finished product.” We seem to envision the Gospel as a “perfect system of revealed commandments based on principles which infallibly express the natural laws of the universe,” says England, but in reality all we have is merely our current best understanding of these principles, which is invariably limited and imperfect. Such an unwieldy divine-human paradox seems to put us in a spiritual straightjacket.

In what world can the Church and the Gospel be as “true” as each other?

Consider first how England uses the word “true.” He’s not bearing down any sort of indexical relationship nor conflating the two with some grammatical set of historical, empirical, or metaphysical propositions. His approach is much more pragmatic and existential in nature. What he means is that the “Church is as true — as effective — as the gospel” because it is precisely the place where we are given a genuine and participating feel to practice the Gospel in specific, tangible ways. “The Church,” he says, “involves us directly in proving contraries, working constructively with the oppositions within ourselves and especially between people, struggling with paradoxes and polarities at an experiential level that can redeem us.”

Callings, for example, draw us into a very practical, specific, sacrificial relationship with others. We learn firsthand how exasperating people can be, how demanding and nagging human diversity often is. Paradoxically, when we work with, serve, and are taught by those who differ from and sometimes frustrate us, we allow ourselves room to become more open, vulnerable, gracious, and willing. When we grapple with real problems and work towards practical solutions with those we serve, we are pushed “toward new kinds of being in a way we most deeply want and need to be pushed.”

The “truthfulness” of the Church thus lies in its ability to effectively concretize the principles of the Gospel, bring them down to earth, down into our bodies, our hearts and minds, giving them corporeal form, thereby allowing imperfect agents to painfully develop divine gifts. And the better any church or organization is at drawing out these gifts, the “truer” it is.

Remember this point: “truth” from England’s perspective gains its meaning in relation to the quality of life, or being, it inspires.

England’s argument follows the late eighteenth century existential tradition of how our pursuit of truth must exist in relation to a more pressing concern than mere historical, metaphysical or scientific claims. Truth must lead us to a certain quality of life and quality of character —what philosophers and theologians have long since called “the good life.” Truth must bear down on the particular, not the general; the concrete, not the abstract. England isn’t elevating one over the other per se. He’s merely exposing the myth that the Gospel (the general) can somehow be salvifically divorced from the Church (the particular), as if pretending that sheer academic knowledge alone, and with it the freedom from dealing with the querulous, niggling life-pulse of a congregation, were sufficient for redemption.

This paradigm, he contends, is misguided.

Abstract and Practical Gospel Living

There are many principles of the Gospel that are conflicting and paradoxical and can’t be effectively lived in the abstract. They must instead be faithfully embodied for them to prove redemptive. Agency and obedience, for example. These two foundational principles are in dynamic tension with another, creating a critical paradox in the Church for how we work with others who may offend us or exercise unrighteous dominion. If God’s anointed leader makes a decision without inspiration, are we bound to sustain that decision? The friction created between obedience to authority and obedience to agentive conscience sparks the creative energy “we need to allow divine power to enter our lives in transforming ways.”

These moments of friction call us to walk an authentic path carved out between two easier paths of blind obedience and blanket rejection. They reveal the truth of how to act and not merely be acted upon.

England continues: “It is precisely in the struggle to be obedient while maintaining integrity, to have faith while being true to reason and evidence, to serve and love in the face of imperfections, even offenses, that we can gain the humility we need [to] …literally bring together the divine [the Gospel] and the human [the Church].”

The confession I began with is a good example of the tension I feel each Sunday while wrestling with these principles in the pews. I’ve attended many wards throughout my life, each replete with a common brand of middlebrow, prejudiced, intellectually unsophisticated types whose opinions I oftentimes vehemently disagree with. I’ve struggled endlessly with socially scripted class discussions, platitudinal public prayer, legalistic watchdogs, and those who proof-text the scriptures to support some idolatrous claim. The people in the Church, to put it mildly, have exasperated me to no end. And it is these very “exasperations, troubles, sacrifices [and] disappointments” that characterize my experience at church that England says “are especially difficult for idealistic liberals to endure.”

But herein lies the power of his thesis: it is precisely in our exasperations with other people at church — those who sometimes piss us off — where we are invited to enter a “school of love,” one that enables us to painfully grow in Christ-like character by “loving what [is] unlovable.”

How might this work?

Not many people I imagine willingly choose to build relationships with those whom they have very little in common with, or who have vastly different temperaments. Paradoxically, when we struggle to serve people we normally would not choose to serve (or possibly even associate with) we enter into a very specific, sacrificial relationship with them that allows us to exercise divine muscles that otherwise may have remained dormant. To accept this challenge, to enter this school, is to potentially become “powerfully open, empathetic, vulnerable people, able to understand, serve, learn from, and be trusted by people very different from [ourselves].”

By entering this school of contraries, we give birth to divinely needed gifts such as patience, compassion, mercy and forgiveness.

These gifts are forged in the furnace of paradox.

Terryl and Fiona Givens have also rightly backed the paradoxes at play in England’s thesis. Sometimes we “imagine a religious life encumbered by fallible human agents, institutional forms, rules and prohibitions, cultural group-think and expected conformity to norms.” Sometimes we “insist on imposing a higher standard on our co-worshippers” by wishing that their prejudices and blind spots did not inflame us. We wish others could simply think about the Gospel like we do. Practice it like we do. Yet when we “submit to the hard schooling of love” the Church offers, we’re able to experience wards and stakes that “function as laboratories and practicums where we discover that we love God by learning to love each other.”

The Church’s perceived weaknesses, paradoxically, are thus actually its greatest strengths.

Each imperfect encounter we experience at church will no doubt stretch and wear down on us, and yet if endured with the right attitude, can act as the very experience, the very gift, needed to become more Christ-like.

If this sounds too sentimental, too lofty, if we would prefer instead our worship services to constantly align with what “we get out” of a meeting, we may be missing the point. England argues, “If we constantly ask “What has the Church done for me?” we will not think to ask the much more important question, “What am I doing with the opportunities for service and self-challenge the Church provides me?” If we constantly approach the Church as consumers, we will never partake of its sweet and filling fruit. Only if we can lose our lives in church and other service will we find ourselves.”

It is a fairly easy exercise to analyze these principles from afar, criticize and make stupid those whose opinions we don’t share. Sometimes we remain too bookish, academic, or idealistic, with little hands-on involvement for the ongoing life of faith. If knowledge and books and abstract learning is where we tap real meaning, and have not charity, the principles we claim to admire so much will have the hollow, disembodied ring of “sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.” We will not know the character-transforming truths that the Church means to imbue us with. It is only when we step into the arena with others, play the game, tussle with their ideas, wishes, and misinformed biases, and try to give constructive answers, that we come to slowly learn the truth of the child-like phrase, “I know the Church is true.”

Or rather: I know the Church is an effective vehicle for divine endowment, despite of, even because of, its very real and imperfect people.

And here is Mormonism asking us to do just that:

Step into the imperfect arena. Wrestle with our leaders. Create an embodied relationship with others. Maintain individual integrity in the face of pressures to obey and conform. Patiently serve those who irritate, bruise, thwart and offend. Love obedience and agency — learn not to resolve their tensions in favor of one conflicting set over the other. Rather, learn to transcend them in our own customized ways while still remaining true to ourselves and our community. Remember, it is not about blind obedience or wholesale rejection. It is about walking the harder path carved out between the paradox. In doing so, we develop divine character in creative ways that no abstract system of ideas (uncoupled from service) could ever produce.

By acting within the zone of this paradox, balancing our individual conscience while serving others and sustaining church leaders, we open doors to prove contraries and encounter truth in tactile ways.

But Really, How Necessary is Church?

Can we not find a framework for practicing divine gifts such as mercy, humility, patience, and service in any number of settings? Of course we can. The Church has not cornered the market on what it means to be a good person nor to practice goodness. All faiths and secular walks of life can be receptive to the larger world of truth and beauty and moral goodness.

Ok, but if the Church doesn’t provide unique opportunities for spiritual practice that can’t be obtained elsewhere, why go at all?

When England takes a hard, all-or-nothing line on this question by evoking the traditional, orthodox answer that the Church has the authority to perform essential saving ordinances, his response is less than satisfying. However, there’s another approach that hides in the margins of his thought that better articulates why church-going (or some semblance of formalized community) can be a powerful boon for developing divine gifts.

To start, we might ask:

How often are most people sufficiently finding ways of their own efforts to love those they would normally not choose to love? And what value could there be in loving those we might consider as enemies?

One way to approach these questions is to consider the kinds of people we normally choose to associate with: If, for example, we choose only to surround ourselves with like-minded souls, people who think, feel, share and welcome our commitments, praise our ideas, flower our egos, what reward do we have? If we salute only those who salute us, if we love only those who love us, what good does hearing what we want to hear and having others confirm what we think we already know do for us? In truth, such groupishness is thoughtlessness. It remains too cloistered. Too bubbled. It runs the risk of creating an in-group echo chamber that appraises the status quo while at the same time teaching us to demonize those who disagree.

Admittedly, it is often in the nature of religious institutions to homogenize disparities and command conformity.

We might ask, but isn’t church just some big, sequestered parrot hall where everyone thinks the same, talks the same, gives unfettered assent to the same basic truth claims? Loyalty to an organization of course can and should be a very positive force, but it can also be a careless excuse to unload responsibility for our spiritual lives onto another. Bonner Ritchie has persuasively framed the dangers involved. Loyalty bent on unthinking conformity, he says, can be “a force which victimizes the individual, who feels freed from the burden of moral choice…We cannot allow the dictates of anyone to relieve the burden, pain, or growth that goes with individual responsibility.”

Indeed, religious institutions are enmeshed in shared networks of meaning and moral matrices that tend to lean towards conservative groupthink, sometimes to the point of giving off the appearance of complete doctrinal uniformity and a fierce, hive-minded group homogeny.

Such tendencies and appearances do not yield optimal religion.

We need the wisdom that is to be found scattered among diverse kinds of people, those who can pull us out of the status quo and be willing to create the dynamic tension needed to constructively fight the overbearing cultural orthodoxy. We need people in our congregations who revel in distinctions, variations, and differences, even those we’d deem as enemies — those we would normally not choose to associate with or love.

As Adam Miller contends, our love of people must be fearless, “marked by [our] confidence that every truth can be thought again — indeed, must be thought again — from the position of the enemy.”

To translate Miller into England’s terms: we must learn to love those who differ from us from the position of paradox. While those who differ from us can always be found both inside and outside the institutional walls of the Church, the practice of going to church can have a unique way of positioning paradox and framing our enemies in redemptive ways that might not be as readily available or instinctive on the outside.

Take the Church’s organization, for example.

That congregations are organized at the local level with a lay clergy and are bounded “geographically rather than by personal choice” cannot be overstated in how Mormon culture is shaped. Many members attend the ward they locally find themselves in rather than shopping around for the ideal, heavenly congregation. There are exceptions of course, but the significance of such standard Zion-building creates a particular kind of community that keeps us within intimate range of each other. We’re threaded together with the devout, the wayward, the liberal, the conservative, the feminist, the watch dog, the intellectual, etc. All kinds of disciples and potential enemies abound. We need all kinds of temperaments, too, to complement the full body of Christ, providing a cohesive enough space to bind our temperaments and differences into mutual loving ties.

Callings, as mentioned earlier, then provide constant encouragement, even pressure, to practice this spiritual binding; they help socialize, reshape, and care for people who, if stripped of them, would have less opportunity to make the sacrifices needed to grow and develop divine gifts. As the Givens put it, church attendance causes us to be “forced back to the renegotiating table by an unavoidable proximity” to iron out, smooth over, and make atonement with those who irritate, bruise, and deeply offend. The luxury to click the block or mute button, like on social media, is not readily available. We are commanded instead to be in harmony. To be at one. And that it is up to each individual to get there through prayer, service and ritual. Though difficult, the rewards of such a community are often, paradoxically, the empowered gifts of patience, mercy, humility, charity, kindness, and forgiveness.

Nothing here suggests that non-religious people living in looser communities with a less binding moral matrix can’t find opportunities to equally advance a charitable praxis. Many in fact do. I’d wager to bet there are actually many atheists who care for people better than some religious people do. The point rather is to raise the question of how often we naturally feel compelled to associate ourselves with people of vastly different temperaments, especially enemies. How often do we assume the hard work of paradox, take up the mantle of sacrifice and renegotiation, then strive to love, serve, cooperate, and bless our enemies in ways that better awaken divine gifts?

This question gets at a critical distinction that has less to do with pitting religion against secularism and more to do with how we might better encounter the growth-promoting gifts of paradox. As Patrick Mason has observed, “there are many orbital paths around the sun, but not all are equally suited to maximize opportunities for life to flourish.” We might, for example, join a book club, attend a conference, or volunteer at a homeless shelter. Each of these activities would help foster a sense of community and provide chances to put the gospel into practice.

For England, the Church is the best vehicle “for helping us to gain salvation by grappling constructively with the oppositions of existence.” He doesn’t draw out specifically why church attendance is the best medium above others. Nor does he deny other existing contexts to help promote the good life. He walks the harder path carved out between the paradox that suggests that while the Church may be in possession of sacred and distinctive truths, it by no means owns a monopoly on truth.

It might be noted here that religious ideology, interestingly, even paradoxically, does make one thing obligatory that secularism doesn’t always reveal as instinctive: it sacralizes and binds us to the enemy.

We must do as Jesus says: we must love our enemies, bless those that curse us, and do good to those that hate us. No escape hatch. No transfer to another school. As the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer realized, cheap grace would be to remove ourselves from the “discipline of [this] community.” This distinction, this obligation to love someone who hates us, is ground zero for the greatest manifestation for the life of paradox and divinity to thrive. It is the ultimate school of love that reveals, as England would say, a “frustrating, humbling, but ultimately liberating and redeeming” spiritual praxis. To the extent that people feel a disproportionately powerful gravitational pull of being repeatedly drawn out of their comfort zone to love, serve, wrestle with, and sacrifice on behalf of their enemies, these communities provide the best context to awaken divine gifts. Whether we experience this pull in religious or secular settings is secondary.

What matters first is that we actually feel and experience it.

On a Personal Note

If we need to go to church, like we need ethics or community, it is because we live with other human beings. Who would need church, alone on a desert island? The very act of congregating with others helps us achieve together what we cannot merely achieve on our own. And yet, to be educated and wise is to admit what sometimes we would rather not: however special we believe our spiritual customs are, no church, no God, no system or secular organization has conquered the world so dramatically as to universally compel all human hearts and minds to follow it.

We are all, in our own way, still searching for the ideal community — that place to best awaken divine gifts.

While acknowledging that my community experience at church is far from ideal, I personally have yet to find a better substitute than Mormonism to work through and redemptively prove contraries. I have yet to hear a more compelling story of human potential; one that frames the divine nature of paradox in more educative, purposeful, and ennobling ways to help me realize that potential. In this regard, England is a big hero of mine. He’s opened my eyes to the real redemptive possibility of what the Church means to engender within me. It’s full of nagging, irritable people, yes. The historical record is muddy and replete with skeletons, yes. Our leaders are liable to sin and error and actually have made egregious mistakes, yes. The gospels themselves are rife with contradictory tensions, yes. And our meetings are often so boring and soul-suckingly lifeless, yes. Does this all mean the Church is a scam? That it’s broken? That it doesn’t work?

I believe, like England, that all of these detours and complications are paradoxes that can behave more as blessings than curses, if we let them. They encourage me, though sometimes painfully, to sacrifice traditional concepts of the divine, take risks, become vulnerable, and reassess my assumptions. They become harrowing lessons that help me “engage in not merely accepting the struggles and exasperations of the Church as redemptive but in genuinely trying to reach solutions where possible and reduce unnecessary exasperations.” Church attendance is not about singing kumbaya or blithely picking marigolds while ignoring the Church’s myriad problems, failures, and contradictions. That would be “returning to the Garden of Eden where there is deceptive ease and clarity but no salvation.”

Rather, church attendance for me is about being stretched and challenged, even disappointed and exasperated, in ways I would never otherwise choose to be. I’m meant to be bruised and irritated by the flaws and limitations of others, then called to walk the harder path of working to serve and love and patiently learn from them. These experiences provide lessons in grace, charity, and Christ-centered moral improvement. And when accepting these sacred bonds and obligations to love the unlovable, I’m given “a chance to be made better than [I] may have chosen to be — but need and ultimately want to be.”

Living with contraries is a burden for both the religious and irreligious alike. England has merely reminded me of how to thrive in the face of paradox rather than be frozen by it. He’s provided a redemptive context that’s helped me “see and experience the conflicts [at church and elsewhere] in more positive ways.” He’s framed a particular kind of discipleship that to me is most worth believing and following. Without him, I honestly don’t know how well I’d endure on the path of discipleship.

Who knows, without Eugene England I probably wouldn’t know if the title of this post was meant as hyperbole.

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percentmagazine · 5 years ago

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Cyberpunk

Cyberpunk — high tech, low life

What is Cyberpunk?

Is it a science-fiction sub-genre? A visual aesthetics? An atmosphere? A philosophy? An 80's neon rain in the night? Human augmentations? Black leather jackets and sunglasses in the night hour? I'd say — none of that… and at the same time all at once… and so much more. In order to understand what the Cyberpunk is, we have to go the very beginning of the genre and concept.

Its inception begins with a notorious writer and a philosopher Willam Gib… no… the other Willam. Well, Wilhelm — to be more precise. That is Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche — a german thinker and social critic of the 19th century, who changed the western civilisation forever. He is considered to be the father of the 20th century, a grandfather of postmodernism and a guru of new-age philosophy. He is the most beloved and hated minds in the modern history.

Among his many written works Nietzsche wrote a book titled "Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None" — probably one of his most notable and quoted works. In it he continued the concept of Übermensch he previously started in a publication "The Gay Science", but made famous via "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" book. So what is Übermensch and why is it important? Übermensch is translated from German as Super-human, Over-Human or — my personal favourite variant — Beyond-Human. It is basically like Surrealism, only in human morality. Nietzsche believed that a mankind is not a crown of creation, but merely a bridge between a monkey and an Übermensch. It can be interpreted as an evolutionary bridge — yes (but we will get back to it later), and it also meant the moral and ideological bridge. Being Beyond-Human means to be beyond all morals and ideologies… beyond good and evil, since all existing human institutions that dictate rules and world views (even the most fundamental once like churches and governments) could no longer provide the consistent moral directions for humanity. Everything is a lie and nothing is true. Thus Übermensch has to find his own ways — the better ways, that suit him best.

Unfortunately, like all philosophers of the past… and all the times, who try to sound smarter than they probably are, leaving plenty of room for readers' imagination and interpretations, Nietzsche never provided any detailed clarifications regarding the true Übermensch characteristics. Just vague explanations that Übermensch is better than an ordinary human-being in all the way possible. No wonder that Übermensch concept was so beloved by nazis, as they thought that they are the new and better people. Well, we all know where it all lead. The biggest war in human history happened due to the wrong interpretation of a fiction novel. It's nothing new to the world, as wars constantly happen due the different interpretations of fiction books. People always fought over the correct views on "Torah", "Bible", "Quran" and other texts, but this time mankind went way too far. And it was just the beginning.

However Nietzsche wasn't a nazi. On a contrary he detested the anti-Semite movements and stood agains all authorities, thus he would have never supported nazism or anybody else. It was Nietzsche who singlehandedly killed the highest authority figure in human history by writing the most rebellious statement in philosophy — "God is dead". By doing so he didn't mean that there is an actual god that is actually dead. No. What he meant is that all authorities and institutes that dictate moral values are no longer legit, as they are all come and gone. Nor church, nor state, nor the academic world — nothing could serve as a moral compass for humanity any longer. In other words: Nietzsche was an anarchist and one of the earlier punks. Just look at his portraits — those moustache look nowadays as funky as the green mohawks of 1980s.

German influence on punk and cyberpunk culture is not limited by Nietzsche's work alone. Germany in early 20's century was the most artistically avant-garde countries in the world. It's music, fashion, paintings and cinema shaped the entire look of the century. The style of German expressionism was dominating the worldly art. Absurd shapes mixed with tilted perspectives and contrasty shadows. The most stylish and visionary silent films where the direct result of German expressionism in action. Tim Burton, David Lynch and other modern "innovative" filmmakers with "their own style" are merely copying the long forgotten by general audience German expressionism in the new package.

Fritz Lang — the German filmmaker of early 20's century — was true visionary director and innovator. His motion picture "Metropolis" was the first fully realised depiction of a cyberpunk future long before such genre was even named. "Metropolis" has it all — high tech, low life… cyborgs, grand cityscapes, flying vehicles, the underground rebellious groups, criticism of social inequality, even the Nietzschean philosophy — everything. The true root of the Cyberpunk genre.

But the genre would have never emerged only due to one film. "Metropolis" is an important step — both visually and ideologically, but there had to be another sub-genre of German expressionism to catalyse the inception of Cyberpunk. That catalyst was the other Fritz Lang motion picture called "M" — the film that spawned an entire cultural phenomenon, known as "film noir". "Film noir" came to Hollywood as a direct result of German expressionism style — contrast, shadows and questionable moral values. And in many ways Fritz Lang's "M" and "film noir" genre played much more important part in the creation of Cyberpunk then even a first Cyberpunk feature film "Metropolis". How is that? How all those private eyes, mobsters in fancy black and white suits, depressing music, never ending rain, femmes fatales in evening dresses and constant smoking helped to shape Cyberpunk? The answer is in the context.

Lets look at the stereotypical "film-noir" protagonist. He is a privet eye, definitely a loner in the corrupt and alienating world. He is a bit of a libertine, but he respects traditions. He is cynical on words, but principal in all his actions. He cannot be intimidated or bribed, as he stands by his principles and money doesn't mean nothing to him in comparison with the truth. He probably used to be a cop, but was fired due to obvious insubordination issues. An anti-authoritarian figure that breaks rules for his benefit and rejects moral codes, but doesn't dwell into nihilism. He lives by his personal values that exist outside the religion or the law… and he is probably played by Humphrey Bogart, of course. Isn't it a description of a Nietzschean Übermensch? A perfect role model for future punks and cyberpunks. Funny, the most conservative art genre — that is “film noir" — gave birth to the most rebellious one — Cyberpunk.

The turning point for Cyberpunk was the year of 1982 with the release of "Blade Runner" motion picture — directed by Ridley Scott and loosely based on Philip Dick's novel "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" The film is the golden standard of the Cyberpunk genre by any means. And it is obviously a "film noir" piece of art… or "neo-noir", or "tech-noir" (as it will be named later… after the release of "The Terminator" — another Cyberpunk classic highly influenced by the "film noir" aesthetics). "Blade Runner" has it all: a lone detective with personal moral values in a corrupt society, the bleak alien world, the contrast lighting, the shadows, the never ending rain… even the femme fatale is present — the classic damsel in distress with a dark secret. The story features not one, but two archetypes of Übermensch rivalling each other: Roy — played by Rutger Hauer— a nexus replicant both physically and mentally superior to ordinary human being, the true manifestation of Übermensch… versus Rick Deckard — played by Harrison Ford — a stereotypical "film noir" protagonist, a representation of moral Übermensch. I think that the "film noir" roots of the genre are very important to highlight, since most critics and scholars refer to "Blade Runner" as a "Science Fiction" film, classifying the whole Cyberpunk as a "sci-fi" sub-genre, while I see Cyberpunk primarily as a sub-genre of "film noir". In my opinion it IS "film noir" with "sci-fi" elements, and not the other way around.

The differences between "Science Fiction" and Cyberpunk may seam not too obvious and minor, but they are crucial in understanding the culture and genres. "Science Fiction" follows the traditions set by novelist Jules Verne — the themes of adventure, journey into the unknown and explorations, while Cyberpunk is inspired by philosophical works of Friedrich Nietzsche — the concept of a personal and social development. "Science Fiction" is abstract and its main question is "What if…?". For example, "Back to the future" — a beloved "sci-fi" classic by Robert Zemeckis — the main focus of the story is "What if the time machine existed?", or "Alien" — another cult film by Ridley Scott — it asks "What if alien species existed?", or "Jurassic Park" by Steven Spielberg — "What if dinosaurs could be resurrected?" etc. While Cyberpunk's main question is not just "What if…?", but rather "How the today's world would react to…?" or even "What sort of moral dilemmas we will have to face if…?" Lets take "Ghost in the shell" by Mamoru Oshii — its main theme would be "How would the today's world react to the machines gaining their own consciousness?", or "Strange days" by Kathryn Bigelow — "How would the today's world react to memories being recorded and sold?", or "Minority report" by Steven Spielberg — "What moral dilemmas we will have to face if all our crimes are predetermined?"… and "Blade Runner", of course — "What moral dilemmas we will face if artificial humans will be identical to us… or even superior? And how the today's world will react to it?" Yes, the "today's world", not the "world of times to come".

It's the "Science Fiction" that explores the days and nights of tomorrow, since it can go far away into the future, assuming that the present political and social problems are resolved somehow or entirely ignored, allowing to focus primarily on its main "sci-fi" themes. Or it can go back in time and rewrite the history, turning genre into the alternate world "Fantasy" or even "Steampunk". Even if "Science Fiction" takes place in modern times, it tries to remain abstract and idealised to the point that it has nothing to do with present days reality. While Cyberpunk is aways grounded. No matter how surreal and stylised its presentation may be, Cyberpunk keeps realism and believability at its core, since all its characters and even futuristic equipment follow the rules of present day logic and physical capabilities.

Cyberpunk doesn't ignore modern political and social problems, as it is usually set in the near future, deliberately exaggerating present day issues to their extreme. The future is so near and illustrated themes are usually so familiar to present day life, that sometimes the line between today and tomorrow blurs into obscurity. Instead of putting the hot topics comfortably remote, they are uncomfortably close. Thus Cyberpunk is a risky genre, since closer it is to our times and reality — easier it is to go wrong with predictions and observations. Therefore the art pieces of Cyberpunk doesn't age well, but that is not the weakness of the genre, but its core strength. Cyberpunk authors take risks, and that is always a good sign for the artistic value. And this is where the last major difference between "sci-fi" and Cyberpunk takes place, since Cyberpunk is "punk"! Yes, it is right there in the title and it's named as such not without a reason. Cyberpunk is everything that the punk culture is — it implies passion, idealism, rebellious nature, philosophy, street freedom, hairstyles, dress code (or should I say a total fashion chaos) and more… plus cyber elements dictated by the technological progress.

Text: Jurii Kirnev

Omnifinery Editorial: Article 010

#cyberpunk #blade runner #longread #sci fi #fritz lang #metropolis #strange days #neitzsche

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transhumanitynet · 6 years ago

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Episode 97 - Zak Stein on Love in a Time Between Worlds: A Metamodern Metaphysics of Eros

This week’s guest is Dr. Zak Stein, an author and educator whom I met as fellow students of the work of philosopher Ken Wilber over ten years ago. Zak took the road of serious high academic scholarship while I was learning the less laudable and messier way through immersion in the arts and entertainment world, but here we are converging to discuss one of the most important issues of our time: the need for a new human story that includes both modernity’s rigorous scientific inquiry and postmodernity’s revelation of how everything we know is framed by language, culture, and perspective. Without some clever, soulful balance of the two we’re stuck in a “post-truth” era where our need for answers to our fundamental questions leads us backwards into “isms” instead of forwards into something more good, true, and beautiful than what has come before.

Zak’s answer (like so many other guests on Future Fossils) is to get MORE rigorous about the scope and limits of the world disclosed by science, MORE honest with ourselves about the context-bound claims we can make on knowledge, and MORE open to how all “reality” starts in direct experience, as conscious subjects – where we meet to make new, open-ended, ever-more refined, evolving answers to the questions:

What is human? What is love? What are we here to do?

youtube

Read Zak’s new paper, “Love in a Time Between Worlds: On the Metamodern ‘Return’ to a Metaphysics of Eros”:

http://www.zakstein.org/love-in-a-time-between-worlds/

‘Where modern scientists often critique the claims of metaphysics as unverifiable and thus untrue, postmodernists critique both science and metaphysics for making truth claims in the first place. Either way, to call an idea or theory “metaphysical” has become another way of saying it is unacceptable. Often with comes with some implication that the theory is a kind of superstition, which means metaphysics is taken not as an attempt to engage the truth but rather as a kind of covert power play or psychological defense mechanism. I argue the opposite: metaphysics is what saves us from a descent into discourses that are merely about power and illusion. Believe it or not, there are metaphysical systems that survived postmodernism and popped-out of the far end of the 1990’s with “truth” and “reality” still intact. These include object oriented ontology and dialectical critical realism, among others.’

Zak is also the Co-President and Academic Director at the Center for Integral Wisdom:

https://centerforintegralwisdom.org/

…and on the scientific advisor board at Neurohacker Collective:

https://neurohacker.com/

— In this episode we discuss:

Lewis Mumford, Ken Wilber, Barbara Marx Hubbard, Jurgen Habermas, Seth Abramson, Timothy Morton, Rudolf Steiner, Alfred North Whitehead, Hanzi Freinacht, Daniel Schmachtenberger, Jordan Greenhall, and many other luminaries.

Right-wing and authoritarian political thought is resurgent today because of the absence of reasonable discourse about metaphysical realities during a time when exactly these realties are being put in question due to the apocalypse of global capitalism and the accompanying planetary transition into the Anthropocene .

The way we answer questions like, “What is the human?” will determine the next century because of the emerging power of new technologies that render the human mailable in unpresented ways, which has been made clear by writers like Yuval Harari.

“The difference between metaphysics and science is not about what you can see and what you cannot see. It is about what you are paying attention to when you are seeing.”

“What we call postmodernism is just modernism with the volume turned WAY up.”

The difference between modern, postmodern, and metamodern views on science and the realities disclosed by science.

What does it mean to cut a definition of the human out of our education systems?

The relevance of Rudolf Steiner’s metaphysics and pedagogy in 21st Century education – especially its attention to subjectivity and interiority.

How fundamentalism, nationalism, racism, and other regressive movements in society are symptoms of a postmodern assault on consensus reality.

“In the absence of metaphysics, there’s a vacuum of meaning…what can step into that is not always pretty.”

“After postmodernism, we can’t return to some pat, totalizing answer for everybody. After postmodernism, when we begin to build a new coherence, it’s always going to be a polycentric and dynamic and always renegotiated coherence. And that’s what science ought to be, which is to say, knowledge building, and not knowledge finding. Period.”

“Ideas matter – and right now, we live in a context where ideas matter only insofar as they can be leveraged for clicks on websites that generate advertisement revenue.”

When did we start gladly giving our decision-making powers over to others? And who do we trust now when we know that expertise is so contextual and frequently abused?

Making the Earth into a giant building is the beginning of metamodern history – the Anthropocene signaling our deep relationship with the ecosphere.

Michael reveals his vision of an Eclipse Station & Black Madonna University as a nobler motivation for a second “space race.”

We’ve succeeded in making mega-machines out of people but need to reframe what it means to be IN relationship…

Hyperobjects and a metamodern investigation of synchronicity and time…the objectivity of time is tricky.

“Animals do not build sundials, even though they would benefit greatly from them. And so you’ll notice that one of the things that sets humans apart is their ability to make metaphysics – that they relate to things that are objectively real, like time.”

The eternal and the everlasting – two different things.

“Who gets to decide, and how do we get to decide, on these deep questions?”

“To reify a false and truncated metaphysics – for example, to say that love doesn’t exist, that free will doesn’t actually exist – to really try to build institutions based on that, which would result in a radically authoritarian society – these things have been done. But never with the technological power that we now have to, for example, to build a school around that hypothesis. Or an army. And so there’s this very sincere need to make sure that as we move through this period, we’re keeping the voices who want to simplify and reduce and return to modernity and the monological at bay. So applaud, the postmodernists, but we also want to get beyond the postmodern critique, and the whole spirit and emotion of critique, and somehow move into a space where we’re reconstructing a new metanarrative, instead of taking potshots and deconstructing anyone who steps up to offer a metanarrative. After postmodernism it needs to be provisional, polycentric, built iteratively through collaboration. But there needs to be a project in good spirits in that direction. Because the regressive tendencies on the right who want to drive us toward racism and nationalism are having questions about, ‘What is the human?,’ and answering them irrationally. We need to have VERY reasonable and profound answers to questions like, ‘What is human?,’ ‘What are we here on Earth to do?,’ ‘What is a relationship?,’ ‘How important are relationships?,’ ‘What is love?,’ ‘Is love real?’, ‘What’s the significance of love?’…these things are part of what it means to be human.”

How do we build a just and humane, “post-tragic” culture on the other side of the Crisis of the Anthropocene?

We are all dependent on unjust and ecologically devastating supply chains…now what?

“Hate creates externalities. Love creates no externalities.”

The logic of the metamodern system has to be one in which there are no externalities.

Episode 97 – Zak Stein on Love in a Time Between Worlds: A Metamodern Metaphysics of Eros was originally published on transhumanity.net

#future fossils #integral #metamodern #podcast #Zak Stein #crosspost #transhuman #transhumanitynet #transhumanism #transhumanist #thetranshumanity

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nicholemhearn · 7 years ago

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Public Policy after Utopia

People often ask me how the Niskanen Center’s philosophy differs from standard-issue libertarianism. Usually I say something substantive and policy-related like, “We think the welfare state and free markets work better together, and that hostility to ‘big government’ can actually be counterproductive and leave us with less freedom,” or something in that vein. That’s the sort of contrast people are generally looking for. But I’m never really happy leaving it at that.

Why not? Because this kind of answer is actually pretty superficial. It doesn’t get to the heart of the matter. For example, it doesn’t really get at what I take to be the nature of intellectual mistake involved in the standard libertarian rejection of the welfare state. There’s a deeper intellectual issue about how to theorize about politics, and it has nothing in particular to do with libertarianism. It has to do with the utility of something political philosophers call “ideal theory.”

Politics without a compass

Many political philosophers, and most adherents of radical political ideologies, tend to think that an ideal vision of the best social, economic, and political system serves a useful and necessary orienting function. The idea is that reformers need to know what to aim at if they are to make steady incremental progress toward the maximally good and just society. If you don’t know where you’re headed—if you don’t know what utopia looks like—how are you supposed to know which steps to take next?

The idea that a vision of an ideal society can serve as a moral and strategic star to steer by is both intuitive and appealing. But it turns out to be wrong. This sort of political ideal actually can’t help us find our way through the thicket of real-world politics into the clearing of justice. I’ve discussed the problems with ideal theory at length, in the context Gerald Gaus’ tremendous book The Tyranny of the Ideal, in a Vox column. This piece will be easier to understand if you read that first. Jacob Levy’s paper, “There’s No Such Thing as Ideal Theory,” is an outstanding complement. And, on the more technical side, the work of UCSD’s David Wiens is state of the art, and adds texture to Gaus’ critique.

A major paradigm shift in political theory is underway, and it’s all over but the shoutin’ for ideal theory. But it takes a while for the shoutin’ to peter out. New paradigms can take a generation or more to trickle down through the intellectual culture. So we’ve barely begun to grasp what it means to give up on ideal theory, especially in public policy. It’s a bit dramatic to say that the death of ideal theory changes everything, but it changes a lot. It definitely changes what it means to be an ideologically principled think tank.

If you agree with Gaus, as I do, then you will think that there’s a pretty major intellectual mistake lurking within the ideal-theoretic version of libertarianism that the most prominent institutions of the “freedom movement” were built to promote. Again, this has nothing to do with libertarianism, per se. Gaus’ argument is general. It doesn’t matter which normative standard you use to rank possible social systems. It could be the orthodox libertarian conception of freedom as non-coercion, John Rawls’ two principles of justice, or a radically egalitarian conception of material equality. It doesn’t matter. In order to say that any particular system is the best in terms of your chosen normative standard, you’ve got to be able to rank rival systems against that standard. Doing that ranking in a principled, non-arbitrary way, requires evidence of what the realization of your favorite possible social world would actually look like. Otherwise you can’t really say that it does better in terms of your chosen standard than competing systems.

Utopia is a guess

The fact that all our evidence about how social systems actually work comes from formerly or presently existing systems is a huge problem for anyone committed to a radically revisionary ideal of the morally best society. The further a possible system is from a historical system, and thus from our base of evidence about how social systems function, the more likely we are to be mistaken about how it would work if it were realized. And the more likely we are to be mistaken about how it would actually work, the more likely we are to be mistaken that it is the more free, or more equal, or more socially just, than other systems, possible or actual.

Indeed, there’s basically no way to rationally justify the belief that, say, “anarcho-capitalism” ranks better in terms of libertarian freedom than “Canada 2017,” or the belief that “economic democracy” ranks better in terms of socialist equality than “Canada 2017.”

You may think you can imagine how anarcho-capitalism or economic democracy would work, but you can’t. You’re really just guessing—extrapolating way beyond your evidence. You can’t just stipulate that it works the way you want it to work. Rationally speaking, you probably shouldn’t even suspect that your favorite system comes out better than an actual system. Rationally speaking, your favorite probably shouldn’t be your favorite. Utopia is a guess.

Again, this is a general problem. But it does hit especially hard for those who appreciate the unpredictability of complex systems and the inevitability of unintended consequences. It’s no coincidence that Gaus is a Hayekian. As my colleague Jeffrey Friedman argues, expert predictions about the the likely effects of changing a single policy tend to be pretty bad. I’ll use myself as an example. I’ve followed the academic literature about the minimum wage for almost twenty years, and I’m an experienced, professional policy analyst, so I’ve got a weak claim to expertise in the subject. What do I have to show for that? Not much, really. I’ve got strong intuitions about the likely effects of raising minimum wages in various contexts. But all I really know is that the context matters a great deal, that a lot of interrelated factors affect the dynamics of low-wage labor markets, and that I can’t say in advance which margin will adjust when the wage floor is raised. Indeed, whether we should expect increases in the minimum wage to hurt or help low-wage workers is a question Nobel Prize-winning economists disagree about. Labor markets are complicated! Well, the comprehensive political economies of nation-states are vastly more complicated. And that means that our predictions about the outcome of radically changing the entire system are unlikely to be better than random.

If your favorite system is quite a bit different from any system that has existed, then even if it were true that it would rank numero uno in terms of your favorite normative standard, you’re not in a position to rationally believe it. Clearly then, it’s not actually useful to aim toward a distant ideal when you don’t really have a good reason to believe that it’s better than actually existing systems in terms of liberty or equality or nationalist solidarity or whatever it is you care about

This is a hard lesson for ideologues to swallow. I still haven’t totally digested it. But a number of things have become much clearer after giving up on my sinful, ideal-theoretic ways.

Analysis after ideal theory: measurement and comparison

The death of ideal theory implies a non-ideological, empirical, comparative approach to political analysis. That doesn’t mean giving up on, say, the value of freedom. I think I’m more libertarian—more committed to value of liberty—than I’ve ever been. But that doesn’t mean being committed to an eschatology of liberty, a picture of an ideally free society, or a libertarian utopia. We’re not in a position to know what that looks like. The best we can do is to go ahead and try to rank social systems in terms of the values we care about, and then see what we can learn. The Cato Institute’s Human Freedom Index is one such useful measurement attempt. What do we see? Look:

Every highlighted country is some version of the liberal-democratic capitalist welfare state. Evidently, this general regime type is good for freedom. Indeed, it is likely the best we have ever done in terms of freedom.

Moreover, Denmark (#5), Finland (#9), and the Netherlands (#10) are among the world’s “biggest” governments, in terms of government spending as a percentage of GDP. The “economic freedom” side of the index, which embodies a distinctly libertarian conception of economic liberty, hurts their ratings pretty significantly. Still, according to a libertarian Human Freedom Index, some of the freest places in on Earth have some of the“biggest” governments. That’s unexpected.

This is why we need to try to rank social systems in terms of our prized political values. Our guesses about which systems lead to which consequences are likely to be pretty bad. Suppose we were to poll a bunch of American libertarians, and ask them to tell us which country enjoys more freedom, according the Cato Institute’s metrics. The United States or Sweden? The United States or Germany? The United States or Canada? The United States or Lithuania? I’m pretty sure almost all of them would get it wrong in each of these pairwise comparisons. Why? Because typical libertarians carry an ideal-theoretic picture of the “the free society” around in their heads, and (for some reason!) a minimum of taxation and redistribution is among the most salient aspects of that picture. And that means that Denmark, say, doesn’t seem very free relative to that picture. But there’s a great deal more to freedom than fiscal policy. And we see that, as a matter of fact, the country with the biggest-spending government in the world is among the freest countries in the world, and ranks first in personal freedom.

That is our basic data. It doesn’t necessarily imply that the United States ought to do more redistributive social spending. But when a freedom index, built from libertarian assumptions, shows that freedom thrives in many places with huge welfare states, it should lead us to downgrade our estimate of the probability that liberty and redistribution are antithetical, and upgrade our estimate of the probability that they are consistent, and possibly complementary. That’s the sort of consideration that mainly drives my current views, not ideal-theoretical qualms about neo-Lockean libertarian rights theories.

Though libertarianism is of personal interest to me, I want to emphasize again that my larger point has nothing to do with libertarianism. The same lesson applies to alt-right ethno-nationalists dazzled by a fanciful picture of a homogenous, solidaristic ethno-state. The same lesson applies progressives and socialists in the grip of utopian pictures of egalitarian social justice. Of course, nobody knows what an ideally equal society would look like. If we stick to the data we do have, and inspect the top ranks of the Social Progress Index, which is based on progressive assumptions about basic needs, the conditions for individual health and well-being, and opportunity, you’ll mostly find the same countries that populate the Freedom Index’s leaderboard. Here:

The overlap is striking. And this highlights some of the pathologies of ideal theory: irrational polarization and the narcissism of small differences.

Some pathologies of ideal theory, both personal and political

Ideal theory can drive political conflict by concealing overlapping consensus. Pretty much any way you slice it, Denmark is an actually-existing utopia. But so is Switzerland. So is New Zealand. The effective difference between the Nordic and Anglo-colonial models, in terms of “human freedom” and “social progress” is surpassingly slight. Yet passionate moral commitment to purist ideals of the justice can lead us to see past the fact that the liberal-democratic capitalist welfare state, in whatever iteration, is awesome, and worth defending, from the perspective of multiple, rival political values. We miss the fact that these values fit together more harmoniously than our theories lead us to imagine.

I suspect this has something to do with the fact that utopia-dwellers around the world seem to be losing faith in liberal democracy, and the fact that “neoliberalism” can’t get no love, despite the fact that they measurably deliver the goods like crazy. Yet ideologues interpret this loss of faith as evidence of objective failure, which they diagnose as a lack of satisfactory progress toward their version of utopia, and push ever more passionately for an agenda they have no rational reason to believe would actually leave anyone better off.

It is intellectually corrupt and corrupting to define liberty or equality or you-name-it in terms of an idealized, counter-factual social system that may or may not do especially well in delivering the goods. Commitment to a vision of the perfect society is more likely than not to lead you astray. Consider how unlikely it is for a typical libertarian to correctly predict more than a couple of the top-ten freest countries on the libertarian freedom index. The fact that ideological radicals are pretty unreliable at ranking existing social systems in terms of their favored values ought to make us skeptical of claims that highly counterfactual systems would rank first. And it ought to lead us to suspect that ideal-theoretical political theorizing leads us to see the actual world less clearly than we might, due to cherry-picking and confirmation bias.

If you’ve already irrationally ranked a fanciful social system tops in terms your favored value, you’ve effectively committed to the idea that the world works in a certain way without sufficient evidence that it actually does. This is almost always a commitment of identity and group membership rather than a judgment of reason. And it leads you to cast about for evidence that the world does work the way it would need to work in order to vindicate your ranking. You end up lending a great deal of credibility to comforting evidence, while ignoring and dismissing evidence that the world doesn’t work that way you’d like it to work. The result is that your ideal-theoretic commitment ends up driving your model of the world.

But if your ideal theory is likely to be wrong in the first place, using it as a filter for evaluating evidence is going to leave you with a disastrously distorted picture of the way the world actually works. And that means you’re going to make systematically terrible predictions about the likely consequences of this or that policy change. You may want to identify reforms most likely to promote or liberty or equality, or whatever, but you’ll end up really bad at this because your distorted ideological model of the world will leave you unable to evaluate evidence objectively.

Progress in policy requires idealistic moral passion without preconceived ideals

For me, the death of ideal theory has meant adopting a non-speculative, non-utopian perspective on freedom-enhancing institutions. If you know that you can’t know in advance what the freest social system looks will look like, you’re unlikely to see evidence that suggests that policy A (social insurance, e.g.) is freedom-enhancing, or that policy B (heroin legalization, e.g.) isn’t, as threats to your identity as a freedom lover. Uncertainty about the details of the freest feasible social scheme opens you up to looking at evidence in a genuinely curious, non-biased way. And it frees you from the anxiety that genuine experts, people with merited epistemic authority, will say things you don’t want to hear. This in turn frees you from the urge to wage quixotic campaigns against the authority of legitimate experts. You can start acting like a rational person! You can simply defer to the consensus of experts on empirical questions, or accept that you bear an extraordinary burden of proof when you disagree.

I think the reign of ideal theory in political philosophy turned lots of incredibly smart, principled, morally motivated people into unreliable, untrustworthy ideologues. This has left the field of rational policy analysis to utilitarian technocrats, who have their own serious problems. Long story short, we ended up with a sort of divide in public policy between morally passionate advocates trapped in epistemic bubbles and technicians capable of objective analysis but devoid of guiding vision.

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