A funny day spent dealing with a variety of folks, most pleasant, some noticably less so, and attempting to trace the historical lineage of the following passage:

"That universe is something akin to to the mainstream of idealist and Romantic aesthetics of modern art. On this highroad, the work of art tends to be composed as an expression of the dynamic unity of nature. In this perspective, a work whose theme might be the conflict between its elements formulates that disunity on the basis of a rhythmic ground which binds, stages and contains the conflict. The work is thus a transcendental ground of a disunity that does not envelop it, but which, on the contrary, is recovered from its potential formlessness and brutality by the dance of its own rendering, composition, and expression. This allows us to claim that, in a work of art, nothing is destroyed, even, and especially, that which is depicted as being or having been destroyed. This is the basis for the idealist tradition's claims for the healing and redemptive character of art." (Jeff Wall, "An Artist and His Models," in, Roy Arden (Contemporary Art Gallery, Vancouver, 1993)).

Fair enough, and well articulated, too, but from whence does the passage spring? Coleridge? Schelling? Hegel? Orsini thinks so: "After Schelling, Hegel definitely affirmed (in 1838) that organic unity was the basic characteristic of a poem: 'Every genuine work of poetry is an essentially infinite organism... in which the whole, without any visible intention, is sphered within one rounded and essentially self-enclosed completeness.' (Philosophy of Fine Art, Part III: 'Poetry'). From Germany the idea spread to other European countries where it found support in native traditions."

Why should I care? Well, because I'm currently writing something akin to one of Greenberg's Seminars, a text that begins from my own experience, then slowly works its way into critical philosophy. And here I feel at a definite disadvantage; my shopkeeper's mind isn't really oriented to the abstractions that philosophy requires; I'm a much more nuts-and-bolts kind of guy. Six cents tax on that table book; no thanks to your boyfriend's manky marked-up Barthes text; fuck off to anything vended door-to-door or by telephone (beanbag Spider-Man dolls; a "comprehensive employee health benefits package.") Although maybe I protest too much; I remember hiking with a pal last fall, who at one point snapped something along the lines of, I give up. On 99 of 100 topics, you claim, 'No opinion,' but then on the 100th, one that no one cares about, you deliver an impromptu non-stop 35-minute monologue. Whoops. Which is maybe a roundabout way of saying that the transitions from shopkeeper -- a Yaletown resident's term, based on his sneering assessment that, given my position behind the till, and my round, bald, prematurely middle-aged face, I must have fucked up badly, must have repeatedly failed -- to critic to photographer are only growing more pronounced as I age.

- posted by cjb @ 8:55 PM