Analytic Aesthetics and the Dilemma of Timelessness

ANALYTIC AESTHETICS AND THE DILEMMA OF TIMELESSNESS Derek Allan This essay examines certain assumptions underlying Anglo-American “analytic” aesthetics, and more specifically the areas of that discipline that concern themselves with the nature and significance of art. The issues considered here are seldom discussed by analytic philosophers of art themselves – a matter to be regretted, as I will argue – but they are, nevertheless, of a quite fundamental kind and tell us much about the nature of the discipline, the presuppositions on which it is based, and, as I shall argue in the concluding stages, certain factors that isolate it from the world of art as we now know it. The dilemma I address here also affects the other major school of thought in modern aesthetics – the “Continental” school – but in that context it assumes a somewhat different form which would require separate consideration. To keep discussion within manageable proportions, the focus here is placed principally on the analytic school, a limitation that is perhaps less serious than it might seem given that this approach to the philosophy of art is currently quite influential not only in Anglophone countries but elsewhere as well. The dilemma in question concerns the relationship between art (understood in the general sense of the term) and the passing of time, and to avoid possible confusion, it is important to begin by clarifying what is at stake. The issue here has nothing to do with the function of time within works of art – for example, the ways in which the passing of time might be represented in film or the novel, or the role of tempo in music. Those questions are doubtless valid and important and, as one might expect, philosophers of art discuss them periodically, some employing the term “temporal arts” to identify art forms such as music or poetry in which time seems to play a prominent role. The present discussion, however, concerns the external relationship between art and time, that is, the effects of the passing of time – of history in the broadest sense of the term – on those objects, whether created in our own times or in the distant past, that we today call “works of art”. Given that from the moment of their creation, and whether the creator wills it or no, works of art are, like all other objects, immersed in the world of change – changing values, changing beliefs, changing ways of life – how are they affected, if at all? The question is not, of course, about physical change. Objects such as sculptures and paintings are as vulnerable to damage as any others, and if they are fragile, more so. It might seem unnecessary to make this obvious point but one writer, purporting to discuss the relationship between art and time, argues that, “No art is immortal and no sensible person could believe it was. Neither the human race, nor the planet we inhabit, nor the solar system to which it belongs will last forever. From the viewpoint of geological time, the afterlife of an artwork is an eyeblink.” As a contribution to a discussion of the relationship between art and time, the comment is quite beside the point. As indicated here, the issue is about meaning and importance. The question here concerns meaning and importance. In what way has the passing of time affected the meaning and importance of those objects we call works of art? We know that the customs and beliefs of many earlier cultures have been swept away and consigned to what the French art theorist André Malraux vividly, but aptly, calls “the charnel house of dead values”. All translations from French sources are my own. Is the same true of their sculpture and painting? Are they also dead for us? To give a concrete example: if, for most of us today, the medieval belief in angels (shared even by Thomas Aquinas) seems little more than an historical curiosity, can we say the same of some of the sculptures of angels we encounter today on medieval cathedrals such as the celebrated Smiling Angel at Reims? Are they only historical curiosities? Clearly, the answer is no. It is common knowledge – a cliché, one might almost say – that those objects from the past that we today admire as works of art have “lived on” (as we conventionally say) and are not simply evidence of times gone by. To choose more recent examples, the eighteenth century saw the publication of many thousands of novels that have now sunk into in oblivion and are of interest, at best, to specialist historians; but a small number of eighteenth-century novels such as Tom Jones and Les Liaisons dangereuses are much more than historical evidence of their times; they are powerfully alive for us – as alive as the plays of Shakespeare, the music of Mozart, or the paintings of Titian. And if one draws comparisons with objects outside the realm of art, the point is equally obvious. We would hardly ask if a map of the world drawn by a cartographer of Elizabethan times is still a reliable navigational tool, and we know that a ship’s captain who relied on such a map today would be acting very foolishly. But we might quite sensibly ask if Macbeth or King Lear is still pertinent to life today and we might well want to answer yes. The map has survived as an object of historical interest but it is no longer applicable to the world we live in. Shakespeare’s plays, on the other hand, have lived on; they have endured and defied time in a way the map has not. At this point, however, an important caveat should be entered. The issue in question here concerns the relationship between art and the passing of time but it has nothing to do with the familiar, indeed rather hackneyed, idea of a “test of time” – the claim occasionally advanced by philosophers of art (principally from the analytic stream of aesthetics) that works of art can be distinguished from objects that are not art by a capacity to endure over time. This proposition, as we will see more clearly later, serves only to muddy the waters of any worthwhile consideration of the relationship between art and the passing of time and needs to be firmly set aside. The present discussion concerns an aspect of the general nature of art, not an attempt to establish a rule about which particular objects are, or are not, art (an endeavour in which, in any case, the philosophy of art has rarely shown any sign of success). The discussion arises, as we have seen, from a quite straightforward, if intriguing, observation: many objects created in the past that we today regard as works of art – the Smiling Angel at Reims, Macbeth, Les Liaisons dangereuses, Titian’s Pietà, Mozart’s piano concertos and many others, including large numbers from non-European cultures past and present – seem to possess a capacity to defy the passing of time while others fade into oblivion. The conclusion one seems entitled to draw from this – a conclusion to which the modern philosophy of art has paid very little attention – is that works of art as a class (and setting aside debates about which particular objects might belong to that class This assumes, of course, that some objects belong to this class. One might, of course, argue that there is no such thing as a work of art but in that case the philosophy of art as a whole has no point anyway. It is worth adding that there is arguably some minimal degree of consensus about which works might belong to the class. Most people familiar with the world of art are likely to agree that well-known examples such as the Mona Lisa, the Victory of Samothrace, Macbeth, and Mozart’s Magic Flute are rightly regarded as works of art. As indicated, however, this is not the issue in the present discussion.) have a particular temporal nature, a special power to defy, or “transcend” time, which is not possessed by other objects. This simple observation tells us nothing about the nature of that power – a crucial matter to be considered shortly – but it does tell us, as a fundamental point of departure, that in addition to any other qualities one might wish, rightly or wrongly, to ascribe to works of art as part of their general nature (and philosophers of art have proposed a variety, such as a capacity to give “aesthetic pleasure”, a power to “represent” the world, an affinity with beauty, and so on) there is a specific temporal property – the capacity for a particular form of temporal existence, manifest as a power to defy or transcend time. How might this power operate? If we agree that art has a capacity to transcend time, in what way, precisely, does this occur? The question is more involved than it might first seem and to fully appreciate the nature of the issues at stake it is important to reflect a little on the history of art and certain ideas that have been part of that history. For although, as we shall discuss in more detail later, the nature of the relationship between art and time has been relegated to a marginal position in the modern philosophy of art, this has by no means always been the case in the past. Indeed, this same issue, and a certain familiar answer to it, has a long and illustrious history in European thought and while a detailed discussion is not possible here, certain key points need to be made. Classical precursors aside, aesthetics in its modern forms had its beginnings in the eighteenth century but like many significant intellectual developments, it did not spring fully armed out of a cultural vacuum. Certain key beliefs about the nature of art, including the nature of its relationship with time, had been adopted – and adopted with enthusiasm – at least two centuries before. The Renaissance, as we know, had seen the resuscitation of the art of classical antiquity, an art that Byzantine civilization and medieval Europe had spurned or ignored for nearly a thousand years. Apart from rare exceptions such as the classical sculptures of horses that were used to decorate the Hippodrome in Constantinople. But this unexpected rebirth posed a major intellectual problem. How was it possible for works that had meant so little for so long to be suddenly radiant with life again? What power had enabled them to survive across the intervening centuries (a period that Renaissance thinkers were increasingly viewing as a dark age)? The answer that was given – an answer that has echoed powerfully down the centuries in Western thought – was that certain classical sculptures (the Apollo Belvedere and the Laocoön were favourite examples) and many works of classical literature were immune from the passing of time. Like the works that Renaissance artists were themselves now creating – consciously repudiating what was now regarded as Byzantine and medieval “clumsiness” – such objects possessed a demiurgic power called “beauty”, and beauty, like the goddess Venus who was its tutelary deity, was unaffected by change – timeless, eternal, immortal. Today, the well-worn proposition that art is timeless can strike us as somewhat banal, partly no doubt because it has been part of our Western cultural heritage for some six centuries, and partly because its casual use in fields such as advertising (“this timeless classic”, “this immortal melody”) has rather blunted its meaning. In its proper philosophical sense, however, its meaning is quite precise and not at all banal. “Timeless”, “eternal” and “immortal” do not simply mean long-lasting or unusually resistant to change. As the word timeless implies, they mean exempt from change – outside time. Cf. the reminder by the contemporary French philosopher, Jean-Luc Nancy: “‘Eternal’ does not mean that which lasts a long time but that which is outside time”. In effect, the Renaissance was assigning art a divine power (a step unimaginable in the Middle Ages when God alone was eternal), a development that doubtless helps explains why from then onwards art – and artists – were held in such high regard, and why the idea that art is timeless was celebrated again and again by major poets of the period such as Petrarch, Ronsard, Drayton, Spenser, Shakespeare – and also by Michelangelo whose sonnet “The Artist and His Work” proudly affirms that “[art’s] wonders live in spite of time and death, those tyrants stern”. Sonnet XVII. The examples in Shakespeare’s sonnets are doubtless too familiar to require quotation. A well-known example from Spenser, from his sonnet beginning “The famous warriors of the anticke world”, is: “What trophy then shall I most fit devise,/In which I may record the memory/Of my love’s conquest […]? Even this verse, vowed to eternity,/Shall be thereof immortal monument.” The immortality of art was part of the “ideology” of the Renaissance, if one can put it that way – a key ingredient of intellectual life, in much the same way that historical and social theory (for instance) have been in the modern world. Moreover, the idea was destined for a long and illustrious life. So influential was it indeed, that Romantic poets were still celebrating it centuries later, as Théophile Gautier did in his celebrated poem “L’Art” which proclaimed that “All things pass. Sturdy art/Alone is eternal”. Théophile Gautier: “L’Art”, Émaux et Camées. More importantly for present purposes, the same belief was fundamental to the thinking of the eighteenth-century philosophers who laid the foundations of the discipline we know as aesthetics. The evidence is plain to see. David Hume writes in his well-known essay Of the Standard of Taste that the function of a suitably prepared sense of taste is to discern that “catholic and universal beauty” found in all true works of art, and that the forms of beauty thus detected will “while the world endures … maintain their authority over the mind of man”, a proposition Hume supports by his familiar dictum that “The same Homer who pleased at Athens and Rome two thousand years ago, is still admired at Paris and London”. The claim was endorsed by a chorus of other Enlightenment figures often in the form of a belief that classical times had discovered the one true, timeless style and that artists today needed only to imitate it. The Laocoön, Johann Winckelmann asserted, “was the standard of Roman artists, as well as ours; and the rules of Polycletus became the rules of art”, a view echoed by Kant, one of Winckelmann’s many admirers, who writes that “some products of taste” are “exemplary”, and that there is such a thing as an “Ideal of the Beautiful”, the basic conditions of which are illustrated by “the celebrated Doryphorus of Polycletus”. (Book One, §17, “Of the Ideal of Beauty”.) Kant’s emphasis. Some writers contend that Kant’s comments here are inconsistent with other aspects of his argument such as his opposition to the notion that beauty obeys objective rules of taste. They may well be inconsistent; they are nonetheless part of what he writes. Other examples abound. Lessing considered the works of antiquity to be the embodiments of ageless principles of beauty, Homer being the “pattern of all patterns.”. Sir Joshua Reynolds in his Discourses counsels that the true artist should pursue the invariable forms of “Ideal Beauty” which furnish “the great leading principle, by which works of genius are conducted” and by which “Phidias acquired his fame”. “This is the idea,” Reynolds adds, “which has acquired, and which seems to have a right to the epithet of divine”. Ibid. 45. Emphasis in original. And eighteenth-century poets were happy to take up the theme, Pope in his Essay on Criticism saluting his classical precursors with the lines: Hail! bards triumphant! born in happier days; Immortal heirs of universal praise! Whose honours with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound… In short, where the relationship between art and the passing of time was concerned, the Enlightenment gave a firm stamp of approval to the well-established view. The Renaissance had declared art immune from time – immortal, eternal – and the Enlightenment was in full accord. I will argue shortly that despite this illustrious history, the proposition that art defies time because it is timeless has now ceased to be believable and that if we today wish to understand how this aspect of art operates, we require an entirely new explanation. Before consigning the idea to the archives of intellectual history, however, we do well to pause and reflect a moment. In particular, we should recognize that the notion that art is timeless at least provided a complete answer to the question it addressed. In principle, art might endure – transcend time – in a number of ways. It might do so for a predetermined, perhaps quite lengthy, period and then disappear into oblivion. It might endure for a time, disappear, and then return with the same meaning and value – in a cyclical fashion. It might endure timelessly – the alternative currently under consideration. And as we shall see later, there is at least one other important option. So by itself, the bare proposition that art endures or “lives on”, vital though it is (and ignored though it so often is today by philosophers of art), leaves us with an unanswered question, an explanatory gap. How, we need to know, does art endure? Or to put that another way: What does “endure” mean in the case of art? Now the claim that art is timeless answered that question. Art endures, it said, not simply because it persists in time in some unknown, unspecified way, but because it is impervious to time and change, “time-less”, unaffected by the passing parade of history, its meaning and importance always remaining the same, and able, as Hume wrote, “while the world endures … [to] maintain [its] authority over the mind of man”. As indicated, I will argue that this idea has now ceased to be credible but it was at least a complete solution. It did not rest content with the simple observation that art endures; it specified the manner of the enduring and the explanatory gap was closed. Why, then, has this solution ceased to be satisfactory? There are two principal reasons, which we shall consider in turn. First, the proposition that art is exempt from time encountered a major obstacle in the nineteenth century when writers such as Hegel, Marx and Taine began to situate art, along with all other human activities, within an ongoing flow of historical change. In The German Ideology, for instance, Marx asserts that Raphael as much as any other artist was determined by the technical advances in art made before him, by the organisation of society and the division of labour in his locality, and, finally, by the division of labour in all countries with which his locality had intercourse…. And in his influential Philosophy of Art published in 1873, Hippolyte Taine writes that To understand a work of art, an artist, or a group of artists, one must precisely determine the general state of mind and the beliefs of the times to which they belong. Therein lies the first cause which determines all the rest. Pursued in different ways by different theorists, the basic thought underlying these comments continues to exert a powerful influence today, especially in the Continental branch of aesthetics which looks to writers such as Theodor Adorno, Walter Benjamin, Jean-Paul Sartre, Jacques Rancière and others who, like Hegel, Marx and Taine, also frown on any attempt to isolate art from its social and historical context. And although the effects of such “historicising” arguments on the proposition that art is timeless are not fatal, they are nonetheless quite damaging. As discussed, if something is understood as timeless, it is exempt from time and change, and above the battle of history. Finesse the matter how we will, however, we cannot argue that something is, at one and the same time, exempt from change yet essentially a creature of its historical context – simultaneously outside time and within it. Thus, the argument that art belongs within the flow of history attacks the concept of timelessness like a powerful corrosive. It is certainly true (as, interestingly, Marx himself acknowledged) that the argument offers no alternative explanation of how art endures, In the Grundisse, Marx writes: “But the difficulty is not so much in grasping the idea that Greek art and epos are bound up with certain forms of social development. It lies rather in understanding why they should still constitute for us a source of aesthetic enjoyment and in certain respects prevail as the standard and model beyond attainment.” Marx’s comment reflects a degree of deference to classical art that we today might regard as excessive but his basic point remains intact. The more strongly a work is linked to a particular historical context, the greater the difficulty in explaining how it is able to rise above that context and evoke the admiration of subsequent ages. but it nevertheless constitutes a direct and powerful challenge to the claim that art is exempt from time. In effect, the intellectual developments stemming from Hegel, Marx and Taine resulted in a stalemate between two irreconcilable ideas – a stalemate which arguably plays no small part in the well-known divide today between analytic aesthetics and its Continental counterpart, the former continuing, as we shall see, to be influenced by the traditional notion that art endures timelessly, the latter far more receptive to the view that art is inseparable from its social and historical context. The second challenge to the notion of timelessness is less widely appreciated but, if anything, more serious, and we quickly become aware of it once we reflect on the far-reaching changes that have taken place in our world of art over the past century or so. Even as late as the final decades of the nineteenth century, the compass of the world of art (as illustrated by objects normally found in art museums, for example) was limited exclusively to the works of post-Renaissance Europe – usually from about Raphael onwards – plus selected sculptures from ancient Greece and Rome. The rubric “art” (more often “fine art” or les beaux-arts at the time) as then understood excluded everything from pre-Renaissance Europe such as the Gothic, Romanesque and Byzantine periods, and from non-European cultures past and present such as Hindu India, tribal Africa, ancient Egypt, Pre-Columbian America, China, Japan and many others. Sculptures, figurines, paintings and similar objects from cultures such as these were not regarded as “bad art”: they were simply beyond the pale of art and had nothing in common with the works of, say, Raphael, Titian, Watteau, or David. Objects of this kind were certainly not unknown: Gothic, Romanesque and Byzantine works were, after all, in plain sight on cathedrals and basilicas across the length and breadth of Europe, and non-European artefacts had frequently been brought back to Europe by traders and explorers and placed in cabinets de curiosités. But there was no question of regarding any of these objects as art and admitting them into art museums. A representative case for Asian art is the Asiatic art collection in the Rijksmuseum. From the seventeenth century onwards, Dutch traders had brought large numbers of Asian artefacts back to Europe but it was not until 1918 that a “Society of Friends of Asiatic Art” was founded in Holland with the purpose of building a collection of items chosen for artistic value rather than decorative appeal, ethnographic significance, or curiosity value. By 1932, the work of the Society had led to the establishment of a Museum of Asiatic Art in Amsterdam, and this collection eventually became the nucleus of the Rijksmuseum’s collection of Asiatic art, first established in 1952. See A representative case for African art is the Art Institute of Chicago. The Institute began collecting African artefacts in the mid-1920s but prior to the 1950s they were displayed only in the Children’s Museum. In the late 1950s the Institute created a Department of Primitive Art, later renamed the Department of African, Oceanic and Amerindian art, and only then did African art, along with that of the other cultures mentioned, take its place in the museum’s general collection. At best, they were clumsy, botched attempts to do what Raphael and his successors had done, nothing more. Quite clearly, however, the world of art has changed dramatically since then. Over the past hundred or so years, the range of objects welcomed into the world’s art museums, or in the case of immovable objects, admired as art in situ, has extended to embrace large numbers from the once-despised Gothic, Romanesque and Byzantine periods, and from a wide range of non-European cultures. And in no sense are such works considered to be of secondary importance; indeed many, such as the Romanesque statues on the Royal Portal at Chartres, the Byzantine mosaics of Justinian and Theodora at Ravenna, the Hindu sculptures at Elephanta, the Takanobu portrait of Shigemori, are now regarded as among the masterpieces of world art, on a par with the very best in the European post-Renaissance tradition. Such a state of affairs would have been unthinkable prior to the 1900s. It is as if the eyes with which we today look at the sculpture and painting of other cultures are no longer the same as the eyes of our forebears, the result being an unprecedented expansion in the scope of the notion “art”, and the emergence of what André Malraux aptly terms “the first universal world of art” – a world of art which, for the first time, encompasses works from cultures from the four corners of the earth, including many from the distant past. The reasons why this vast and relatively sudden transformation of the world of art took place – an issue rarely mentioned, still less examined, by modern philosophers of art, analytic or Continental – are beyond the scope of the present discussion, I have discussed this matter in See also: but once we appreciate how far-reaching the change has been, we quickly see that its consequences for the traditional notion that art is timeless have been fatal. Consider just two new entrants (so to speak) into our modern universal world of art: an ancient Egyptian sculpture such as the celebrated image of the Pharaoh Djoser dating from around 2600 BC, and any of the superb statues of Old Testament figures on the Royal Portal of Notre-Dame de Chartres, sculpted about 1150. In both cases, these works were created for religious purposes in cultures in which the concept “art” in anything resembling its modern sense was quite unknown. The archaeologist Gay Robins comments that “… as far as we know, the ancient Egyptians had no word that corresponds exactly to our abstract use of the word ‘art’. They had words for individual types of monuments that we today regard as examples of Egyptian art – “statues”, “stela”, “tomb” – but there is no reason to believe that these words necessarily included an aesthetic dimension in their meaning.” The absence in the Middle Ages of the term “art” in anything approaching its modern sense is well known. Cf: “In medieval texts we find no term to denote what we today call artists…The term was occasionally used to denote a person who studied or practised the liberal arts [and from the thirteenth century] for a person who possessed a particular technical ability.” The image of Djoser, originally placed in a mortuary temple beside his pyramid, was his spiritual “double” to which offerings were brought to aid him in the Afterlife. The statues on the Royal Portal at Chartres, like all medieval sculpture, had one purpose only – to evoke a sense of reverence for God’s sacred world and to aid the faithful in worship. The idea that either statue might be something termed a “work of art” and that its purpose was simply to evoke admiration and – even worse – do so alongside statues of gods and spirits from other cultures, as in an art museum today, would never have crossed the minds of those who created it or for whom it was created, not only because the institution of the art museum did not exist (having no purpose) but also because the idea would have been unthinkable – as apposite as a visitor to an exhibition of Picasso’s paintings today believing he should fall to his knees and make offerings to them. Yet the simple fact is that Djoser and the sculptures on the Royal Portal are now very much part of our modern universal world of art, alongside large numbers of other works which, like these, were created in cultures in which the notion of art was non-existent, and which, until a century ago, were strictly excluded from the European world of art. All such works, many now considered masterpieces, have become something they never were – “works of art” – and were originally something that, in modern Western culture at least, they no longer are. Clearly, these objects have endured: they have “lived on” and are not merely objects of historical interest like an old potsherd or the Elizabethan map mentioned earlier; but the manner of their enduring is far less suggestive of timelessness – existence exempt from change – than, as André Malraux has argued, a capacity for metamorphosis: a capacity for transformation in significance (involving resurrection from obscurity in these cases) in which time has played an integral part. Far from being exempt from time, works such as these – and they are legion in art museums around the world today – have defied time through a process in which, paradoxically, time and change have played a central role, not only in terms of whether or not they were considered important but also in terms of the kind of importance placed on them. Although not simply creatures of their historical context (as Marx and Taine would have it) their significance has nonetheless been affected by historical change. In Malraux’s words, they are “both subject to time and yet victorious over it”. These brief remarks do not do justice to Malraux’s revolutionary concept of metamorphosis – a topic I have examined in detail elsewhere See Also, – but the purpose of this element of the discussion is not to examine Malraux’s thinking in depth but to highlight two key points: first, given the world of art as we know it today, the traditional claim that art is exempt from time no longer fits the facts; and second, that as mentioned earlier, there is more than one possible explanation of the way in which art defies time – the notion of metamorphosis being the fourth alternative foreshadowed there. All this clearly raises grave doubts about the claim that art endures timelessly. The challenge posed by thinkers such as Hegel, Marx and Taine was serious enough, as we saw: although offering no alternative explanation of the way in which art transcended time, their accounts nevertheless placed a major question mark over the claim that it is impervious to historical change. But once we also factor in the points just discussed, which take account of the unprecedented developments in the world of art over the past century, the theory of timelessness loses all credibility. Adapting Hume’s dictum about “the same Homer”, does the Pharaoh Djoser mean “the same” to us as it did to the ancient Egyptians who brought it offerings? Does it mean the same to us as it did when, after the decay of Egyptian civilization, countless generations were indifferent to its fate and it disappeared under layers of debris and dust? Do the solemn statues of Old Testament kings and queens at Chartres mean the same to us as they did to the twelfth century Christian faithful as they answered the bells calling them to worship? Do they mean the same to us as they did in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when so much “unsightly” medieval sculpture was plastered over or torn down and reduced to rubble? A striking example in the eighteenth century was the plastering over of the superb Romanesque tympanum on the cathedral of Autun, hiding it under baroque motifs. And choosing just two more examples from innumerable others: do the surviving examples of Aztec statuary have the same meaning and importance for us as they had for the Aztecs for whom they embodied the fearsome gods of the underworld, or for the sixteenth century Europeans who broke them apart for their gold and precious stones or destroyed them as heathen idols? Do the splendid mosaics of Justinian and Theodora at Ravenna, now regarded as artistic treasures, have the same meaning and importance for us as they had for Hippolyte Taine who, as late as 1865, echoing views that had been standard at least since Vasari, described them as art that had become “irremediably corrupt and degenerate”, or as they had for sixth century worshippers in the Basilica of San Vitale? In what sense could we argue that these works – and so many others that began as religious objects, sank into indifference or ignominy, and have now revived as “works of art” – have been exempt from time and change, and that they have the same meaning and importance for as they had for those for whom they were created, or for later generations who so often ignored or despised them? This discussion has focussed mainly on visual art because the issues at stake are more easily appreciated when long periods of time are involved: far less literature and music has survived for such long periods. Nevertheless, if we choose Hume’s example, are we sure that the same Homer who pleased at Athens and Rome two thousand years ago is the Homer who was admired by belle-lettrists in eighteenth century Paris and London, or the Homer we admire today? Little is known about the composition and early history of the Iliad – to choose that as our example – but we know that it was probably sung not recited, and certainly not read silently from the pages of a book. We also know that the gods and heroes of the story were figures in whom the Greeks of the time firmly believed, not personages from “Greek mythology” as the eighteenth century saw them, and as we see them today. And there is little doubt that our modern practice of regarding the Iliad as part of “world literature”, to be placed on the same footing as epics of other ancient peoples such as Gilgamesh or the Bhagavad Gita would have been unthinkable to Greek communities circa 750 BC when the Iliad was composed – as unthinkable as placing the image of the Pharaoh Djoser in an art museum on the same footing as gods from other cultures would have been in the eyes of ancient Egyptians. The music of the distant past is mostly lost to us but even in more recent history one can readily see the effects of time – of metamorphosis. For instance, since the mid-twentieth century, the music of medieval and Renaissance times, including the religious music, has re-emerged from almost complete oblivion. This is not, of course, to claim that our modern response is somehow superior – or even definitive Malraux’s concept of metamorphosis implies continual and, in principle, endless transformation in significance. Thus, even the status as “work of art” is not a definitive significance. See my discussion of this point in – but it does tell us quite clearly that the capacity of works of art to live on across the centuries is inseparable from processes of change – of metamorphoses in significance – which will involve resurrection from oblivion if, like the examples just considered, those processes have at a certain point led to a loss of all meaning. As André Malraux commented in a television program about art in 1975, For us today, metamorphosis isn’t something arcane; it stares us in the face. To talk about “immortal art” today, faced with the history of art as we know it, is simply empty words. Every work has a power of resurrection or it doesn’t. If it doesn’t, end of story; but if it survives it’s by a process of resurrection not by immortality. The notion of resurrection is contained within the overall concept of metamorphosis. For some objects – Egyptian statuary is a convenient example – metamorphosis resulted, at a certain point in history, in the loss of all significance. Resurrection occurred when, at a later stage, metamorphosis conferred a new significance on it (at present as “work of art”). Some works with a shorter history have undergone metamorphosis without falling into oblivion. Malraux argues, for example, that the works of Renaissance painters such as Titian and Tintoretto are no longer viewed as they originally were although they have always been considered great artists. See my discussion in The proposition that art endures because it is exempt from time has, in short, become a nonsense. Ingrained in conventional thinking though it often still is, this traditional explanation, inherited from the Renaissance and endorsed by Enlightenment thinkers as prominent as Hume and Kant, is no longer believable. In retrospect, it is not difficult to imagine why the proposition seemed plausible to Renaissance and Enlightenment minds. As discussed, the boundaries of the world of art at that time extended no further than European art from the Renaissance onwards and selected works from antiquity. It was doubtless easy enough to conclude – as in fact it was concluded – that the reason why the “timeless” works of antiquity were despised for so long was simply, as mentioned earlier, that there had been an interregnum of cultural barbarism during which the achievements of ancient Greece and Rome had been misunderstood. Today, in the wake of the vast transformation of the world of art over the past century (which inter alia places Byzantine and medieval art on a quite different footing) an explanation of this kind is obviously no longer available. This is a convenient point to revisit the notion of a “test of time” which was discussed briefly earlier. This topic is one of the very few that have occasionally prompted analytic philosophers of art to broach the question of the relationship between art and time, but in fact, as we shall see, it tends to do more harm than good. Earlier, it was pointed out that the supposed test is a distraction from present concerns because it is an attempt to establish a rule distinguishing objects that are art from those that are not, while the present discussion concerns the general nature of art. There is, however, an important additional point to be made. The most extensive discussion of the would-be test is a book by Anthony Savile entitled The Test of Time published in 1982, but there have also been more recent contributions by analytic philosophers of art such as an article by Anita Silvers in the British Journal of Aesthetics and another by Alan Goldman in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism. 19:00:15 Writers usually concede that the idea of a test of time is not without problems and Hume’s comments quoted earlier are normally given only qualified approval. The basic concept, nevertheless, is treated quite seriously, Goldman asserting, for example, that, given certain reservations, “only with the passage of time can we become certain of the security of [artistic] value. Hence the test of time is necessary for stable evaluations of historical importance or worth”. As we can now see, however, thinking of this kind short-circuits any worthwhile analysis of the relationship between art and time. The issue at stake is far less to know that art has a power to endure; that much is fairly obvious; indeed, as noted earlier, it has become something of a cliché. The threshold question, as discussed earlier, is what enduring means in the case of art – that is, what it means to speak about the capacity of art to “live on” or transcend time. And as we have seen, there are at least four conceivable answers: art might endure for a predetermined period then disappear into oblivion; it might endure for a time, disappear, and then return with its original meaning, cyclically; it might endure eternally as the Renaissance and Enlightenment believed; or it might, as André Malraux argues, endure through a process of metamorphosis. All four possibilities, one should note, would be perfectly compatible with a work appearing to pass a “test of time” over a certain period, perhaps even a lengthy one (and advocates of the test are typically vague about the length of time they believe necessary Anthony Savile, for example, writes that it is legitimate to ask of a work that it “hold our attention” or “survive” for “a sufficient period”, a period which, he says, he intentionally leaves vague. ) so deliberations of this kind will, by their nature, tell us nothing about the nature of art’s capacity to transcend time. Moreover, focussing simply on the fact of endurance not only neglects the question of how art endures, it also tends to bias our view of the matter by predisposing us to think in terms of continuous, uninterrupted survival, exempt from change, when, as we have seen, this by no means always the case. The notion of a test of time is, in short, a red herring. In any serious consideration of the relationship between art and the passing of time it hinders and distracts far more than it helps. What else have writers in analytic aesthetics had to say about the topic under discussion? Do they continue to espouse the Enlightenment view that art endures timelessly and, if not, what alternative explanation do they offer? What, in other words, has been the contribution of analytic aesthetics to the question of the relationship between art and the passing of time, a topic which, as we have seen, has a long and important history in Western culture? Without doubt, the most striking feature of this contribution is how slight it has been. Indeed, the topic has been all but forgotten. Textbooks for analytic aesthetics seldom discuss it or carry an index reference; the two leading journals, the British Journal of Aesthetics and the American Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, rarely carry an article with anything more than tangential relevance; and the topic is conspicuously absent from the curricula for courses of study. Other issues inherited from the eighteenth century are discussed quite regularly, such as the nature of “aesthetic pleasure”, whether or not disinterestedness is essential to one’s response to art, the meaning of beauty, what exactly Hume meant by taste, what Kant meant by the notion of “free beauty”, and more besides; indeed, topics such as these are among the staples of the modern analytic philosophy of art. Yet apart from an occasional excursus into the unproductive notion of the “test of time”, the question of the relationship between art and time is rarely mentioned, even though, as we have seen, the belief that art is timeless was common ground for the Enlightenment thinkers – Hume and Kant in particular – who figure so prominently in the writings of analytic philosophers of art. Ignoring an issue, however, does not necessarily ensure it will go away. And, indeed, there are clear signs that although analytic aesthetics seldom gives explicit endorsement to the Enlightenment belief that art is timeless, its practice as a school of thought implies that it generally accepts this view, or at least assumes that art is atemporal in some unexplained, unspecified way. Hence the characteristically “static” feel of analytic aesthetics – its reluctance to offer explanations of art that involve historical factors in any but peripheral ways, and its characteristic focus on topics that can plausibly be discussed without reference to temporal considerations, such as “aesthetic properties”, disinterestedness, whether art is a form of representation, the difference between a work and an object (the “ontological” issue said to be raised by works such as Brillo Boxes), and so on. Hence as well, a tendency to hold the discipline of art history at arms’ length as if to imply that art is best understood in abstract, atemporal terms, free from the distractions of historical “contingencies”. As one commentator observes, the disciplines of aesthetics and art history “pass each other like ships in the night”. Hence also the propensity of analytic aesthetics, when referring to specific works or artists, to choose its examples from modern and contemporary art where historical factors might seem less significant. Cf. the comment by Dennis Dutton (a writer close to the analytic school): “…aesthetics at the outset of the twenty-first century finds itself in a paradoxical, not to say bizarre, situation. On the one hand, scholars and aesthetes have accessible to them – in libraries, in museums, on the Internet, first-hand via travel – a wider perspective on artistic history across cultures and through history than ever before … Against this vast availability, how odd that philosophical speculation about art has been inclined toward endless analysis of an infinitesimally small class of cases, prominently featuring Duchamp’s readymades, or boundary-testing objects such as Sherry Levine’s appropriated photographs and John Cage’s 4’33”.” In all these cases, writers rarely make explicit appeals to the notion of timelessness or, still less, examine its implications, but their philosophical practice strongly suggests an underlying assumption that art is essentially exempt from the passing of time. Moreover, there are occasions when the proposition that art is timeless – or at least ahistorical in some unstipulated way – is given something resembling explicit endorsement. A 1991 essay in the British Journal of Aesthetics declares that “There is a tendency among scholars and non-scholars alike to think that art works, or more specifically, great art works, are in some sense immortal”, the writer adding that he himself sees “some truth in the view”; and a more recent article in the same journal asserts that “Classics are timeless and transcendental, appealing to all historical eras, because they capture what is essential about humanity”, the suggestion apparently being that great art is timeless because it expresses timeless truths. Analytic aesthetics has a fondness for the idea of timeless truths. Like the related concept of human nature, however, the idea has clearly taken a severe battering over the past century or so. See my discussion in In a not dissimilar vein, the contemporary philosopher of art, Peter Lamarque, distinguishes analytic aesthetics from its Continental counterpart by explaining that the latter “is more historically oriented” while the analytic approach (which he espouses) “tends to examine issues about the nature of art and the aesthetic qualities of objects in an ahistorical manner, even if noting and evaluating ideas from earlier periods”. And in a like vein, though with a puzzling “more” qualifying the term “timeless”, Lamarque argues in the Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism that the value we place on a work of art is due not just to its historical significance but to its capacity “to engage the mind, the imagination, and the senses with some more timeless interest”, these qualities allowing a work to “enter a more timeless canon of literature”. In the strict sense of the word relevant to philosophy, “timeless” means exempt from time – outside time. Like “unique”, for example, it cannot be qualified. The phrase “in some sense immortal” poses a similar problem. Comments such as these are not frequent; as indicated, analytic aesthetics pays very little attention to the relationship between art and time. It is noteworthy, however, that when specific references such as these are made, they are always in terms of timelessness and no other possibility is canvassed. All this clearly leaves modern analytic aesthetics with a serious dilemma. To marginalise the question of art and the passing of time is to marginalise the obvious fact that while certain human artefacts from the past, such as an old map or a potsherd, are simply evidence of times gone by, there are others that possess an extraordinary power to live on across the centuries – to defy time. And simply to echo the Enlightenment/Renaissance explanation that art endures timelessly (and to do so, typically, without supporting argumentation) is to ignore historical evidence of the kind discussed earlier showing that, in the very different world of art we now inhabit, this explanation is no longer viable. If it is true, as the writer quoted above suggests, that scholars tend to think that “art works, or more specifically, great art works, are in some sense immortal” – and this does seem to be true of most of the thinking in analytic aesthetics, even if it is not explicitly acknowledged – then scholars are continuing to accept an account of the relationship between art and the passing of time that self-evidently fails to correspond with the realities of the modern world of art and the history of large numbers of the objects that go to make it up. What is to be done? How should the analytic philosophy of art deal with this problem? The first step, surely, is to recognise that there is a problem and that the capacity of art to defy time is something real and important, not a matter to be lightly put aside. Once this is acknowledged, the threshold question for any serious analysis is, as we have seen: how does this aspect of art operate? What does “living on”, or transcending time, mean in the case of art? Among other things, this question may require analytic aesthetics to ask certain questions about aspects of its philosophical practice. For example: Should it pay more attention than it currently does Cf. note . to works of the past, both European and non-European, which, after all, often make up the largest proportion of the objects that greet visitors to major art museums today, and which pose the question of a capacity to transcend time very acutely? Should it place more importance on evidence from neighbouring disciplines such as history, and especially cultural history, which, among other things, allow one to view the assumptions of Enlightenment aesthetics in a wider context, as previous discussion here has done? Should more attention be paid to other relevant disciplines such as anthropology and archaeology where evidence placing large question marks over the universality of the notion “art” is often to be found, and where one soon discovers that many objects from the past which we today regard as works of art were originally viewed in a quite different light? Writers in analytic aesthetics occasionally refer to such evidence but only to dismiss it, suggesting that whatever other cultures may have said or thought about their sculpture and painting (for example), they “really” regarded it essentially as we do – as “art”. One recent writer argues, for example, that prehistoric cave painters “in one sense … did not know what they were making” and “could not bring their activities under the relevant concept” – the relevant concept, of course, being art. Given that historical evidence is entirely lacking, the claim seems hasty, to say the least, and ignores the possibility that prehistoric works had a quite specific cultural purpose. Moreover, as noted earlier, there have been many cultures within historical times, such as ancient Egypt, that had no concept “art”. Should we claim that they also “did not know what they were making”? Or should we consider the possibility that we may be projecting our own understandings on them? A similar problem arises in the analytic philosopher, Jerrold Levinson’s, attempt to “define art historically” which has found favour with a number of others in the same school of thought. Levinson’s definition hypothesizes a chain of “art-regards” stretching back into the past, anything benefiting from such a “regard” being art. The definition would rule out large numbers of objects currently regarded as works of art which originated in cultures in which the idea was non-existent. These matters, one should stress, are not just of specialist concern. If the philosophy of art has a raison d’être, part of it, surely, must be to give the wider art-loving public the intellectual tools it needs to make sense of the world of art. Exhibitions in major art museums today often encompass vast stretches of the human past and many objects on display raise the question of a capacity to transcend time in a stark and immediate way. What response could analytic aesthetics give to this question? Would it reiterate the eighteenth-century view that the objects in question are “timeless”– that a powerful image of an Egyptian pharaoh which, as the visitor may well know, was originally of deeply religious significance, had the same meaning for ancient Egyptians as it has today in the art museum where, quite possibly, it shares space with ancient Hindu or Aztec gods – all of which, the visitor may also know, were once strictly excluded from the rubric “art”? The response would be manifestly inadequate. In cases such as these – and they are around every corner in major art museums today – the notion that art is timeless perplexes far more than it enlightens. To persist with it can only isolate the analytic philosophy of art from the needs of those with a genuine interest in art. My own answer to the question “What does transcending time mean in the case of art?” is doubtless evident from the foregoing discussion. I believe that the concept of metamorphosis developed by the much-neglected, twentieth-century theorist André Malraux provides a powerful and convincing answer. The aim of this essay, however, has been much less to argue for a particular solution (which is why discussion of Malraux here has been very brief) than to highlight the importance of the question and to urge that it be given a place on the agenda of debate in the modern philosophy of art. André Malraux once wrote that, “as well as being an object, a work of art is an encounter with time” and this, in a nutshell, is the issue at stake here. The analytic philosophy of art has had a lot to say over many decades about the “object” aspects of art. It has asked whether works of art function as a means of representation, whether they are intended to give “aesthetic pleasure”, whether art provides a kind of knowledge and if so what kind, how form and content might be related, and a range of other questions that concern the work of art’s condition as an object. But it has said very little about art’s temporal nature – the nature of its relationship with the passing of time, and to the extent that it has expressed an opinion, it has clung to the Renaissance/Enlightenment view that art endures timelessly. Yet this explanation has manifestly ceased to be acceptable. As Malraux writes, “To talk about “immortal art” today, faced with the history of art as we know it, is simply empty words.” If analytic aesthetics is to escape the realm of empty words, it needs to give careful thought to its Enlightenment inheritance which, in this respect at least, is leading it astray. References PAGE \* MERGEFORMAT 1