-
Aesthetics for Contemporary Artists
- Leonardo
- The MIT Press
- Volume 15, Number 4, Autumn 1982
- pp. 311-315
- Article
- Additional Information
Leonardo. Vol. 15. No. 4. pp. 311-315. 1982 Pergamon Press Ltd. Printed in Great Britain 0024-094)82/0403 11-05$03.00/0 Pergamon Press Ltd. AESTHETICS FOR CONTEMPORARY ARTISTS Elmer H. Duncan Readers are invited to draw attention to articles on aesthetics appearing in English languagejournals that are of special interest to studio artists and art teachers.for review by: Elmer H. Duncan. Dept. of Philosophy. Baylor University. Waco. TX 76798, U.S.A. K. C. Bennett, The Purging of Catharsis, Brir. J. Aesth. 21, 204 (1981). Are there some problems that philosophers should give up trying to solve? K. C. Bennett thinks he may havefound one, i.e. the nature of Aristotelian ‘catharsis.’ To be specific, Aristotle’s work, the Poetics, is certainly one of the most discussed and admired work in the entire history of the philosophy of art. But the Poetics is incomplete and fragmentary, possibly made up of student notes. As Bennett says, there is a passage ‘...in what is commonly designated chapter six of the Poetics, which usually reads something like this, “tragedy ...arouses pity and fear, thereby performing a catharsis of these emotions’” @. 204). But, as he notes further, ‘...what seems simple and direct can be full of pitfalls’ @. 204). Critics and philosophers, for more than two thousand years since Aristotle wrote, have argued about what is meant by ‘catharsis’. There is a medical use in which the term means purgation, and a religious use in which it means purification. And who or what is it that getspurified or purged? That is, does this happen to the audience (probably the most common position), or the author (or the actors or artists), or is catharsis a ‘structural concept’? All of these have been suggested. And what is meant by pity and fear? Are these two emotions, or just one complex emotion? Does fear mean terror? Also, to add to the confusion, should the word translated ‘these’ in the quote be translated ‘such’ instead? That is, should the quote read ‘...arouses pity and fear, thereby performing a catharsis of suchemotions’? Doesthis mean the arts can perform their wondrous work on other emotions, not just pity and fear? Bennett’s thesis seems to be that these questions are not only unanswerable, but also distracting. Critics and philosophers spend too much time, he thinks, discussing the sorts of questions raised by the text of the Poetics, and not enough time on questions they might be able to answer, ‘Instead of belabouring the problem of purgation or purification, we need to ask different, more penetrating, questions about the whole emotive aspect of literature’ (p. 211). J. D. Carney, Wittgenstein’s Theory of Picture Representation, J. Aesth. Art Crir. 40, 179(1981). What must be the casein order for one to be able to say that a certain painting depicts or represents something or someone? This general topic has been the subject of a great deal of debatein philosophy recently, most of it centering around the works of N. Goodman and K. Walton. Must it be the case that to depict something or someone, a picture must resemble that somethingor someone?One might at first think so, but Goodman,especially, has argued persuasively that this is not the case. One might represent Hitler, for example, with a picture that looks like him. But one might use a stick figure, with only a small moustache, to represent him. A play or movie may depict him as he was, or perhaps better or worse (or uglier or handsomer, taller or shorter) than he was. But can just anything be used to depict something or someone? On Goodman’s account, it is difficult to see why not. Could one use a single dot to depict Hitler? Carney contrasts the view set forth by the early L. Wittgenstein in his TracrarusLogico-Philosophicus with those of Walton and Goodman. In Wittgenstein’s view, a dot could not be used to depict a cat on a mat (or Hitler) because it is too simple. It lacks the required ‘logical multiplicity’ (p. 181). According to Carney, Wittgenstein’s view on pictorial representation would amount to saying that ‘A picture represents or depicts a subject when and only when the parts of the picture have the same logical multiplicity as the parts in the subject represented, and appropriate rules are assumed relating picture parts and relations to the parts and relations of the subject represented’ (p. 181). Carney concludes his essay by considering several possible objections that could be made to Wittgenstein’s account and the responses that could be made to them. He says of Wittgenstein’s account, ‘It does have its difficulties, but, I believe, none of them are fatal’ @. 182). D. Cottom, Taste and the Civilized Imagination, J. Aesrh. Art Crir. 39, 367 (1981). It is well known that many eighteenthcentury thinkers held what could now be called ‘ideal observer’ views on aesthetics. That is, to say that the flower is yellow is to say that it would be seen as yellow by someone having certain visual equipment, under certain conditions. In the same way, the ideal observer view holds that to say ‘the painting is beautiful’ functions in the same way. The painting would, on this view, be seen as beautiful by a certain kind of observer under the right conditions. David Hume seems to have held some such view. People who consistently make the right kind of aesthetic judgments are said to have ‘good taste’. But what is it, exactly, to have good taste? Cottom argues that, in the eighteenth-century mind, good taste was thought to be the priority of the upper classes. ‘In fact, it is only by supporting a particular social order and the repression of the lower classes within that order that eighteenth century writers are able to maintain a universal standard of taste’ (p. 267). People of the better sort were though to be better in every way. They had a privileged socialposition. more money, etc. and they were able to make correct aesthetic judgments, as the common people were not. Cottom explores his thesis from several different points of view, and in all its implications, and he supports his thesis with quotations from a large number of eighteenth-century writers. But in at least one case, he argues his position in what seems to be the wrong terminology. He says, ...the pleasures of the aristocracy must be secret’ (p. 369). ‘Secret’ does not seem to be the right word for what he has in mind. The lowerclasses simply do not ‘see’ what the cultivated man of taste is able to see; the man of taste has a special ability which they lack. The situation is not unlike the way I feel when I talk with a fine physicist. Einstein’s theory of relativity is not a ‘secret’which the physicist (for whatever reason) is keeping from me; the point is simply that I lack the ability to comprehend it. Cottom’s thesisseems to be that this is the way things are between the cultivated man of taste and the commoner. 311 312 Aesthetics for Contemporaty Artists E. H. Duncan, Van Meter Ames: An Examination and Appraisal of His Philosophy of Art, J. Aesth. Ed. 15, 98 (October, 1981). This paper is important, not because of its author, but because of its subject. V. M. Ames was born in 1898. He is retired now, but he was a major force in aesthetics in the United States for fifty years and more. Ames’ work is not easy to summarize. He was always very much an individual, but he was also an eclectic philosopher. As a student at the University of Chicago, his favorite teacher was G. H. Mead, and he has always admired the work of the pragmatist J. Dewey. But he also admired G. Santayana, and such existential thinkers as J. P. Sartre and A. Camus and (the phenomenologist) M. Merleau-Ponty. And he once spent a year in Japan studying Zen Buddhism. He published classic studies of all of these. But Ames took from each of these thinkers and schools of thought just what he wanted, and no more. He was eclectic, but he remained very much himself. His students regarded him as a great teacher, but his influence extended beyond the classroom. Aesthetics is a significant part of the philosophy curriculum in the U.S. today, and it can be argued (and has been) that this is largely due to the existence of the American Society for Aesthetics and its journal, the Journal of Aesthetics andArt Criticism.Ames was a frequent contributor to the journal from its founding in 1941, and once served as president of the society. Ames was a cosmopolitan figure. He traveled to Japan (as noted above) and spent long periods in France. Before World War 11, he brought Max Dessoir (for many years the editor of the Zeitschriyt fur Aesthetik und allgemeine Kunstwissenschaft) to the U.S. to give a series of lectures at the University of Cincinnati. Finally, Ames was a great philosopher of art because he has always loved the arts-and his writings reveal the fact that he was, himself, an artist. Few philosophers have written so well. N. Edmondson, An Agnostic Response to Christian Art, J.Aesth Ed. 15.31 (1981). Why does anyone respond to Christian art? It is often claimed that such art fills its appreciators with various religious emotions. It makes the believer feel closer to God, or filled with the sadness of the crucifixion of Christ, or the joy (and the triumph) of His resurrection. But agnostics are not convinced that there is a God, or that Jesus ever lived and died for the sins of the world. Why, then, should an agnostic respond to Christian art? Edmondson is an agnostic who finds that he greatly admires at least some works of Christian art, both ‘graphic’ art and music. Edmondson considers two principal examples. First, there is an icon in Russia known as the ‘VladimirMotherof God’. There is a tradition that this icon was painted by the evangelist Luke during Mary’s lifetime (p. 32), though actually it probably dates from the twelfth century. It is easy to see why believers would be moved by this icon, but why should it attract an agnostic? Obviously, agnostics can respond to formal composition.There is also a sad expression on Mary’s face which Christians find moving. Edmondson is moved, too, ‘But without belief in these doctrines I am no stranger to sorrow in my personal life and on this experiental basis alone can identify with Mary’s response’ Edmondson also admires the music of the sixteenth-century Spanish composer Tomas Luis de Victoria. The texts used by Victoria ‘ ...attest to the awesome power of God; they affirm a final judgment by God of the souls of men ...’(p. 36), etc. Why should this appeal to an agnostic?He can concentrate ‘ ...on the music itself, as distinct from a concentration on the message of the text ...’ (pp. 36-37). Further, he does respond to the text, while remaining agnostic, ‘I am not unaware that my fate is subject to forces beyond my control, and I often yearn for some repose in the face of life’s struggles’ (p. 37). Another question Edmondson considers is, could an agnostic (or even an atheist) produce great works of religious art? Verdi (pp. 33-34). did produce great religious music. Edmondson notes that Verdi’s ‘last compositions wereireligious songs, a TeDeum and a Stabat Muter’ (p. 40). And, though this is a debatable point, it is arguable that he never renounced his early agnosticism. J. J. Fletcher, Artifactuality Broadly and Narrowly Speaking, South. J. Phil. 20, 41 (1982). G. Dickie, in his ‘institutional’ analysis, has claimed, contrary to M. Wietz, that ‘art’ can be defined. To be art, something must, Dickie asserted, in a book and a number of articles (frequently discussed in this column), be an artifoct on which someone, acting on behalf of the ‘art world’, has conferred the status of being a candidate for appreciation. In his paper, Fletcher has given a good summary of Dickie’s view as well as related materials, especially those relating to the question of artifactuality. But, in this writer’s judgement, Fletcher makes two mistakes, which may be instructive. First, consider the case of those ‘paintings’done by Betsy the chimpanzee. Dickie thinks Betsy’s work became art by being placed in the Chicago Art Museum. Fletcher thinks this is a mistake because it makes the museum director an artist. Thus he says of Betsy’s paintings, ‘According to Dickie’s account, if her paintings are displayed in an art museum they become works of art, not because Betsy painted them but because the director of the museum is an artist for having displayed them’ (p. 47). Fletcher then goes on to argue that, of course, the director cannot be an artist because he did not produce the paintings. But Dickie did not say the art museum director is an artist, only that he makes something art by acting on behalf of the art world. Fletcher makes a second mistake that requires a second sort of example. Consider a personal case. I have a godchild who is presently the world’s most beautiful eighteen-year-old, whereas I am almost fifty. Suppose I, overcome by her beauty, decide to marry the girl. This action is subject to two types of mistakes. I may make a mistake in marrying her, because I already have a wife, so a second marriage would be illegal. I could also make a mistake by marrying her because, lovely as she may be, such a marriage would surely be unhappy. This example is relevant because Dickie contends that in conferring the status of art on something one cannot make a mistake in conferring (because there are no formal regulations governing such matters), but only by conferring-since this may make us look foolish. But Fletcher objects, ‘Surely this is not an adequateresponse. While it is true that loss of face before one’s colleagues is not to be taken lightly, such loss of face is not an aesthetically relevant consideration’ (p. 47). Again, that’s true enough, and Dickie would surely agree, but Dickie’s point is that the object upon which we choose to confer the status is art, but we won’t confer the status on just anything because to do so would be to make ourselves look foolish, in some cases. And, presumably, nobody wants to appear foolish. T. Kukla, The Artistic and the Aesthetic Value of Art, Brit. J. Aesth. 21,336 (1981). Stipulationsoften seem to be trivial things. They do not change the facts. But sometimes they can be useful. Sometimes they embody distinctions which are quite common, but for which one does not seem to have the proper terms. In his essay, T. Kukla notes that a painting, e.g. Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon, can be evaluated in two quite different ways. On the one hand, the painting may be valued very highly for its contribution to the history of art. It marked a turning point in the history of painting; it is often recognized as the first ‘cubist’ painting. But in terms of design, composition, execution, it is far from being Picasso’s best work. Does this mean that it was a good painting, and yet bad? Well, yes, in a way. It had one sdrt of value but lacked another.Kukla suggests a distinction, ‘I shall call the first type the artistic or arthistorical value while the second is what we commonly refer to as the aesthetic value’ (p. 338). Aesthetics f o r Contemporary Artists 313 This logical move may seem innocent enough, but without point. But it can be significant, because it provides a way to answer certain questions which have recently troubled philosophers of art. For example, if a forgery can be made so as to be virtually indistinguishable from an original, why isn’t the forgeryjust as good? Kukla’s answer is that in onesenseit is;the forgery would, by definition, have the sameaestheticqualitiesas the original, and hence would have equal aesthetic value. But that’s only half the story, ‘The qualitative differencebetweenan original and its forgery is to be sought in the artistic, or arthistorical value’ (p. 341). The original played an important role in the development of this particular art form; the fake did not. Kukla thinks the distinction can shed light on problems relating to the ways in which art islike, or unlikescience.Is there progress in art? Again, there can be no doubt that art has a history, that artists learn to do things differently, makingthe old ways archaic. But are the new ways better? Clearly, they are better, as regards artistic value, though perhaps not as regards aesthetic value. In general, ‘It seems that the main problem in clarifying the similarities and differences between art and science derives largely from the difficulties in characterizing the basic features of art and its history’ (pp. 345-346). M. Moran, On the Continuing Significance of Hegel’s Aesthetics. Brit. J. Aesth. 21, 214 (1981). This paper is an extended discussion-too long to summarizeeasily-of G.W.F. Hegel’s philosophy of art. M. Moran shows that Hegel was interested in art throughout his life, and gave a seriesof lectures for many years, at the University of Berlin. Hegel died in 1831. After he died, some of his students reconstructed his lectureson the topic into the Vorlesungeniiber die Aesthetik, first published from 1836to 1838.The lectures wereinfluential all over Europe, including England (largely,in England, through the efforts of A. C. Bradley and B. Bosanquet). Moran doesnot mention the fact that, in the United States, they were also known, and portions were translated in the Journal of Speculative Philosophy, edited by W. T. Harris. Moran’s account is long and complicated, but he focuses on three aspects of Hegel’s Aesthetics: First, Hegel’s grasp of the particularity of art; secondly, his views about art’s social or cultural function; and thirdly, ‘...the sense in which Hegel considers art to be autonomous...’ @. 215). One thing that always seems to surprise philosophers who read him for the first time is Hegel’s knowledge of the several arts. His knowledge was encyclopedic, and he always kept his theorizing about the arts close to the concrete art works themselves. Finally, aesthetics tends to be an ‘ivory tower’ discipline, remote both from art works and the work of practicing critics. Hegel’s work was not. As Moran notes, ‘Hegel’sgreat merit asa philosophical aesthetician is that he himself convincingly demonstrated, by recourse to individual works, just how his own insights could find concrete meaning and application’ @. 229). As a final evaluation of Hegel’s ‘Vorlesungen’, Moran states emphatically, ‘On balance, however, it is still true to say that no otherphilosopher has lectured sowell on art as Hegeldid ...’@. 235). G. Scarre, Kant on Free and Dependent Beauty, Brit. J. Aesth. 21, 351 (1981). Philosophers disagree on the matter, but many think that the philosophy of art, as known today, began with the publication of the Critique of Judgment by I. Kant in 1790. But it’s a difficult work, and philosophers also disagree about the proper interpretation of several passages. One such is Section Sixteen, in which Kant discussed ‘free and dependent beauty.’ Again, there is disagreement, but, in so far as there is a received opinion on the topic, the distinction seems to be that some ‘beauties’, e.g. flowers, are simply and unconditionally beautiful. But ‘dependent beauty’ is anothermatter. Thisbeauty is dependent on a concept, i.e. a thing can be beautiful of a kind. Some philosophers think that Kant based his idea of dependent beauty on Lord Kames’ Elements of Criticism (1762). Kames spoke of a ‘Gothick tower’ which certainly was not beautiful in and of itself, but could be regarded as beautiful in that itseemed ready to provide a defense against potential enemies. Scarre finds several problems with the received opinion. For one thing, it runs counter to just about everything else Kant wrote in his Critique of Judgment: e.g. Kant often said that art pleases without a concept. Further, if the received opinion were correct, almost anything could be beautiful. The fangs of a rattlesnake or a cobra could be beautiful because so admirably fitted for the purpose of killing the snake’s victims-and surely Kant would never have said that. Scarre therefore makes a novel suggestion. It is well known that Kant’s interest in moral philosophy was greater than his interest in aesthetics, and he wanted to relate the beautiful and the morally good. For example, Kant has a negativejudgment on a tattooed New Zealand warrior? Why? Scarre answers, ‘Thus Kant’s rather prim comment on the tattooed New Zealander: yes, the decoration might be very fine, but it is not right for a human being to be painted in that way’ (p. 358). There is a certain ‘moral decorum’ involved here. By contrast, ‘Questions of decency or dignity hardly arise about some sorts of things, for instance flowers or abstract patterns’ @. 358). ‘Free’ beauties are, then, those which do not give rise to questions of ‘moral decorum’, while ‘dependent’ beauties do. R. Scruton, Photography and Representation, Criticallnquiry7, 577 (1981). There would seem to be a clear sense in which photography isa representational art. Photographs are usually pictures of something, or of someone. Thus photography is representational, rather than nonrepresentational. But there is another sense, which R.Scruton thinks more basic, in which he argues that photography is not ‘a mode of visual representation ’. To be clear, Scruton notes that ‘...if a painting represents a subject, it does not follow that the subject exists nor, if it does exist, that the painting represents the subject asit is’@. 579). On the other hand, ‘if a photograph is a photograph of a subject, it follows that the subject exists’ @. 579). Further, ‘In characterizing the relation between the idealphotograph and its subject, one is characterizing not an intention but a causal process’ (p. 579). Scruton’s paper is too long,and his argument too involved,to be usefullysummarized here. But perhaps two comments should be made. First, it is difficult not to feel that Scruton has won the argument by definition, i.e. he has defined representation in such a way that this is, of course, not the sort of thing photographs could do. And second, Scruton seems to undervalue modem photography and photographers. How could anyone who has seen the work of Ansel Adams, for example, say that ‘...we lack all except the grossest features of style in photography; and yet it isstylethat persuades us that the question, Why this and not that? admits such fruitful exploration in the case of painting’ (p. 593)? Again, one would think it enough to look through such photography magazinesas Modern Photography, Camera Arts, or the British WideAngle to show that Scruton is off the mark when he writes: ‘The search for meaning in a photograph is therefore curtailed or thwarted; there is no point in an interest in detail sincethere isnothing that detail can show. Detail, likethe photograph itself,is transparent to its subject’ (p. 593). This is not to argue, necessarily, that photography can equal painting as a fine art. It isto say that Scruton underestimates the extent to which the modem photographer, using the fine cameras and lenses now available, can use his materials and techniques in the service of his art to produce works with 314 Aesthetics for Contemporary Artists exceptional aesthetic value. In other words, photography may not be the highest art, but it is, or can be, a fine art. R. A. Sharpe and E. Schaper, Interpreting Art, The Aristotelian Society. Supplementary Volume 55, 19 (1981). This is actually two papers, i.e. a paper on ‘Interpreting Art’ by R. A. Sharpe, and a response by E. Schaper (p. 32ff.). Sharpe begins by recognizing two senses of ‘interpretation’in the arts. First, a critic may explain the play, Hamlet. telling his hearers that (my example) Hamlet’s delay in taking vengeance for the murder of his father reveals deep-seated psychological problems. Second, L. Olivier and R. Burton may, asperformers, play the title role differently. As Sharpe notes, the two senses are different, but ‘ ... not unconnected. Ifa conductor describes to a master class the way the piece should go then his verbal description might well amount to that sort of interpretation which could be given by a critic’ (p. 19). A central thesis of Sharpe’s essay is set forth in his remark that ‘Interpretations of either sort, it seems, begin where the facts end’ (p. 21). He notes, accordingly, that various critics and performers differ in their interpretations of a work ‘...but we would be uneasy about claiming that one interpretation is right and that the other is wrong’ (p. 21). This means that the reader may accept a Freudian interpretation of Hamlet, but this need not mean that a Marxist interpretation of the same work is to be ruled out as simply false. All of this has been argued before, e.g. by J. Margolis in many papers. What is somewhat unusual in Sharpe’s account is his claim that this does not mean that the critic sets out his interpretation in a generous ‘take it or leave it’ way. Rather, ‘In fact commonly a critic will propose his as the central or core account of a work to which others are more or less peripheral’. and ‘A commitment to one account places the others in a certain pecking order’ (p. 23). Sharpe speaks of these various ways of interpreting a given work as being based on differing ‘readings’ of that work. Much of E. Schaper’s response is given over to pointing out obscurities in Sharpe’s essay. One question she raises is: can a given ‘reading’be wrong?Apparently not, on Sharpe’sview, ‘for him, readings may be “wayward” or “idiosyncratic” or “eccentric”, but never wrong’ (p. 37). But these ‘readings’ lead to interpretations, and, as Schaper later notes, ‘Nevertheless, in the best traditions of scientific theory, interpretations can be falsified’ (p. 45). To say that there can be various differing interpretations of a work is not to say that anything goes. Finally, Schaper also makes the useful point that though these two papers use. for the most part, examples taken from drama and literature, this need not have been the case ‘ ...there seems point in extending the notions of vocabulary and meaning and so on to, for example, pictures, so that we can speak of reading pictures as we read texts-an invitation frequently extended to us by critics who offer interpretations of them’ (p. 43). D. Walsh, Some Functions of Pictorial Representation, Brit. J. Aesth. 21, 32 (1981). D. Walsh begins her essay by noting that ‘Nelson Goodman’s account of pictorial representation is based on the claim that it is not resemblance but denotation that is at the core of representation’ (p. 32). The reference is to Goodman’s Languages of Art (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1968).This account produces problems, Walsh claims, because denotation is referential, and artists can (and sometimes do) create pictures of unicorns, centaurs and other ‘fictive representations’. But such pictures cannot refer to anything, since nothing exists to which they could refer. Nevertheless, Walsh is not primarily concerned with Goodman’s work. She seeks instead to contrast non-art pictures, of which she says ‘Precision in denotation is essential in such cases’ (p. 33), and art pictures. For example, she considers the opinion many people have that non-art pictures are ‘naturalistic’.while art pictures are not. But this need not be the case, not always, ‘the picture of the male red-winged blackbird in the guide-book will display all characteristic markings (p. 33). and is thus very ‘naturalistic,’ but ‘a diagram denoting a distribution by means of a bell-shaped curve’ (p. 33)need not be. Further, she notes that ‘Standardization is a desirablefeature in non-art pictures’ (p. 34), while obviously it is not in art pictures. Finally, it is often claimed by art critics andaestheticians that representation is not only irrelevant in judging aesthetic value (as Clive Bell once claimed), but actually inhibits the creativity of the visual artist. Walsh insists this is not the case: ’...what artistic possibilities are provided by the use of representation?In answer to this question, I suggest: structural elaboration, extension of expressive potentiality, interpretation, invention’ (p. 35). She thinks this is true because when ‘ ...perceiving depicted objects, we spontaneously draw our funded experience of actual objects of the same general sort. This allows the artist to evoke suggestions of distance, of depth, of weight, oftexture, above all of vectoral forces’ (p. 35). Many examples are given. To cite just one, ‘Cubist painting depends on being representational in order to show an object, such as a head, can be seen from different spatial perspectives at once. This is not possible for ordinary perception’ (p. 37). R. W. Webber, Church Buildings: Shapes of Worship, Christianity Today 25, 1023 (1981). This paper begins with a quotation from the late Winston Churchill, ‘We shape our buildings, and afterwards our buildings shape us’ (p. 1023).The point is important, and appliesto all sorts of buildings, churches and others. Stated another way, the point is, ‘The design and shape of space in some measure determines and interprets the activity that takes place there’ (p. 1023).Of course, this version of the doctrine that ‘form follows function’ could be crudely applied, as when builders made their bank buildings look like storage vaults. But the application to church buildings may be more interesting, in at least two ways. First, the buildings can indicate what the builders take worship, e.g. Christian worship, to be. The building may be large, with a spire pointing skyward, and this has obvious symbolism. A building’s construction can also express a sense of mystery, awe, etc. Second, the way space is allocated and arranged can help convey what is to happen in that space. Where, for example, should the pulpit be located? ‘Should it be in front, to the side, on the same level, above? Each location symbolizes a relationship between Word and people’ (p. 1024). Webber’s paper is followed by four responses, by J. P. Newport, J. A. Stahr, E. H. Duncan and D. P. Hallmark. Their responses do not, in general, take issue with Webber, but rather echo the main points listed above with reference to their differing Protestant denominations. Stahr, a member of the Christian Brethren (Plymouth Brethren) Church, insists that, ‘In contrast to the detailed pattern given Moses, simplicity characterizes Christian worship’ (p. 1026). Duncan, a Presbyterian, notes the fact that his church has the baptismal font in the center of the sanctuary. This reflects the fact that, in a church that practices infant baptism, the whole congregation is involved. Again, the aesthetic considerations involved apply to all sorts of buildings-homes, schools, businesses, etc.-and not just churches. J. Wieand, Can There Be an Institutional Theory of Art?, J. Aesth. Arr Crir. 39, 409 (1981). G . Dickie’s ‘institutional’ analysis of art is well known, and much criticized. Very briefly, he claims that something becomes art by having that status conferred upon it by someone’s acting on behalf of the relevant institution. In this case, that institution is something that Dickie (following A. Danto) calls ‘the Artworld’. An analogy often Aestheticsf o r Contemporary Artists 315 used to illustrate Dickie’s point is that somethingbecomes art in a way similar to the way someone becomes a Ph.D., or even a knight. Again, the view has been criticized, but Wieand’s response to Dickie is somewhat unusual. He begins by distinguishing two kinds of institutions, what he calls ‘A-institutions’ and ‘Pinstutions ’. ‘P-institutions’ function as persons; they do things. To cite one of Wieand’s examples: ‘The Catholic Church, for example, may hold a fund drive or condemn an injustice’ (p. 409). Is the ‘Artworld’ a ‘P-institution’? It would seem not, and, significantly, Dickie has not attempted to show that it is. Wieand explains: ‘It is easy to see why Dickie does not want the Artworld to be construed as an established society or corporation: no such thing exists. The Artworld does not pay taxes and is not listed in the phone book’ (p. 411). But the ‘Artworld’ is not an ‘A-institution,’ either. Wieand says, ‘AnAinstitution , then, is simply a kind of conventional act. Examples of such acts include promising, christening, saluting and marrying’ (p. 409). Note that such social practices are, so to speak, rule-governed. But the Artworld, as the abstract noun (not a gerund) used to refer to it suggests,is not asocial practice. So, Wieand concludes, the ATtworld is neither type of institution: ‘Consequently, the Artworld is not, in any theoretically interesting sense, an institution at all’ (p. 413). For all that, Wieand finds much to praise in Dickie’s analysis. He simply thinks Dickie overstates his case, ‘Art is inextricably bound up with social institutions and artistic conventions, but none of these is so crucial as to determine the nature of art itself‘ (p. 416). A. T.Winterbourne, Objectivity in Science and Aesthetics, Brit. J. Aesth. 21,253 (1981). It is sometimes claimed that the clearest way to differentiate between science and aesthetics is to recognize that science is objective while aesthetics is subjective. In a recent articleon ‘The Objectivity of Aesthetic Appreciation’ (Brit. J. Aesrh 20,115 ff., 1980), D. Best argued that this is not the case. Winterbourne seems to think that Best may have been right in his major thesis but for all the wrong reasons. In his paper, Best discussed the many alleged similarities between art and science, and claimed that it was wrong to identify the scientific enterprise with objectivity. Winterbourne asks the rhetorical question: ‘If the term “objective knowledge” is to have any meaning at all, then surely the knowledge obtained through science is paradigmatic’ (pp. 254-255). Winterbourne counters Best’s arguments point by point, and it may not be worthwhile to repeat the entire process here. One interesting point he makes is that he thinks Best ‘...takes far too little account of the crucial debates which have dominated the philosophy of science in the last twenty years or so’ (p. 257). As an indication of just what he has in mind, Winterbourne instances the fact that ‘The hypothetico-deduction methodwidely , though not universally, accepted as the scientific method, superseding the deductive, inductive dichotomyintroduces a creative element into scihtific discovery which is increasingly being recognized as “aesthetic”’ (p. 258). Again, Best may have been right, but for all the wrong reasons. P . Z i f f ,Art and Sociobiology, Mind 90, 505 (1981). This is a technical paper devoted to a rather technical topic. The question Ziff asks is, ‘Can sociobiologycontribute to an understanding of contemporary aesthetic practices? (p. 505). Ziff is aware that many thinkers give the question a negative answer, because aesthetic practice is related to one’s culture. But Ziff is convinced that the answer should be positive because, after all, culture itself is ultimately a matter of the sort of animal being acculturated. Ziff s essay is complicated. Readingit left this reader with two impressions. First, Ziff makes a lot of statements that are extremely interesting and thought-provoking. For example, he muses, ‘Although there are millions of species presently extant on this small planet, aesthetic practices are exemplified solely in the behaviour of Homo supiens’ (p. 505). That is, what is there about the human animal that makes it possible for man, and only man, to have aesthetic experiences? Unfortunately, the second impression is that Ziff s answers to such questions are sometimes neither clear nor helpful. There is much speculation about such topics as those fungus-eating New Zealand gnats that learned to ingest dead insects off cave walls (p. 516). Is aesthetic practice somehow like that? Ziff speculates: ‘Conceivably aesthetic behaviour could be attributable to a nonadaptive pleiotropy testifying to nothing more than the phenotypic flexibility of Homo supiens. But conceivably not’ (p. 518). Well, conceivably. ...