No More Learning

The autopoiesis of communication does not tell what kinds of social formations will emerge in the course of evolution. Nor can one infer from die autopoiesis of art which works will be created. The concept's lack of explanatory power stands in disproportional relation to its revolutionizing effect. (This insight could have avoided much controversy. ) Instead of pursuing an ontology or a theory of essences, we follow the injunction: "Indicate the system from which you want to observe the world, draw a distinction, and distinguish yourself from what you observe while ac- knowledging the autological implication diat the same holds when you observe yourself (rather than the external world). "
Needless to say, the autopoiesis of life and the autopoiesis of conscious- ness come about without art, although they may be influenced by art (the brain, for example, or the fingers of a piano player). Neither life nor con- sciousness depends on art in the sense of being unable to reproduce itself without art. The same is true for the communication system of society. We can certainly consider the structural consequences of a society without art. The regeneration of art is autopoietically necessary only for art itself. This is a matter of general agreement, even in aesthetic theories of quite
117
different orientation.
come about without society, without consciousness, without life or mate- rial. But in order to determine how die autopoiesis of art is possible, one must observe the art system and treat everything else as environment.
In the following, we adopt the communication system of art as our sys- tem reference. When using compact concepts such as "observer," "be- holder," "artist," "artwork," and so forth, we are always referring to con- densations of the communication system of art--to the sediments, so to speak, of an ongoing communication that moves from one condensation to the next by means of circumscribed recursions. Artists, artworks, and so on serve a structuring function within the autopoiesis of art. They bun- dle expectations. This is why they are less ephemeral than the basal events
118
of artistic communication.
which operate as events--can reach back and forth while remaining fo- cused on the same thing--on the same work, the same artist, or on the educational qualities of an informed observer. This is not to say that com-
Of course, artistic communication could never
They make sure that communications--
52. Perception and Communication: The Reproduction ofForms
munication reaches down to the physical substratum, to life or conscious- ness, or to the sum total of structural couplings that make such a con- struction of order possible. One can certainly speak of artists as human beings or of artworks as material artifacts; indeed, one would need to the- matize such matters if one's ambition were a complete description of the object. Such a description, however, would have to deploy another system reference or switch back and forth between different system references.
Against this theoretical background, the question of how art communi-
119
cates is no longer trivial. The answer is obvious: by means of artworks. Artistic communication distinguishes itself both from communication that relies exclusively on language and from indirect communications that are either analogous to language or unable to secure the autopoiesis of com- munication, because the communicative intent of conveying information can always be denied. Artistic communication, by contrast, employs per- ceptions that it prepares exclusively for its own use. In so doing, artistic communication realizes specific forms of structural coupling between con- sciousness and society. It communicates by means of distinctions located within the work or by means of forms, for the concept of form, in the sense we use it here, implies a two-sided form, a distinction that can be dis- tinguished. The work of art, then, is anything but an "end in itself. " Nor does it serve external purposes--for example, as ornament. It determines
forms which yield the dual insight that (i) distinctions make possible indi- cations that enter into a play of nonarbitrary combination with other dis- tinctions and indications, and that (a) along with this recognition, it be- comes apparent that this order contains information that is meant to be communicated and understood. Without the fixation of forms in the work and without the opportunity of further actualizations by different ob- servers, a communication of this kind would never occur. It is important that communication can be preserved, just as language is preserved in writ- ing. This does not mean that artistic communication aims at an identical reproduction of the work (consensus and the like! ). The mere fact that the observational sequences that accompany the work's production necessarily differ from those that occur in the perception of the finished work ensures that there can never be a genuine agreement between the two--and yet communication does take place! The artwork makes sure that the observa- tion of observations--a second-order observation--continues, on the side of the producer as well as on the side of the observer of art.
Until now we have focused on how a work of art mediates communica-
Perception and Communication: The Reproduction of Forms 53
tion. An isolated work of art, however, is not yet a communication system of art. We therefore need to ask how and what the individual artwork con-
120
tributes to the social system of art.
The question we raised in conjunc-
tion with the basal elements of artistic communication thus poses itself
again: How do we get beyond the compact communication condensed in
die individual artwork? And how are individual works of art possible
within the reproductive network of art? To be sure, the artwork, in con-
trast to a communicative event negatable in the moment of its occurrence,
is not a basal element of the system; nevertheless, it only comes into being
by virtue of recursive networking with other works of art, with widely dis-
tributed verbal communications about art, with technically reproducible
copies, exhibitions, museums, theaters, buildings, and so forth. This ap-
pears to be beyond dispute. A work of art without other works is as im-
possible as an isolated communication without further communications.
The same holds for different types and genres of art--for sonatas and son-
nets, for statues and still lifes, for novellas as much as for comedies and
121
tragedies.
Works of art, broadly speaking, lead the autopoiesis of art in two direc-
tions and, in so doing, expand and secure its continuation. On. the one hand, one can learn from works of art how to observe and subsequently reintegrate what one has learned into the work's form. One can realize new variants of certain ideas--perhaps in better, more convincing ways and with less of an investment--or one can derive suggestions for new be- ginnings from works that are exhausted. An observer might then confront die task of understanding all of this as being communicated along with die artwork--Manet's black, for example, as a color. On the other hand, these and other issues can become a topic for art-related conversation and writing. One turns to the medium of language while retaining art and its works as a topic. It is well known that the romantics celebrated art criti- cism as the perfection of art, as the production of its history, even as its "medium of reflection" (Benjamin). Whatever one might think of this to- day, the fact that people write and speak about art contributes signifi- candy to the stabilization and destabilization of its autopoiesis up to the remarkable point where the search for a concept of art and the probing of its limits begins to influence the avant-garde and their exploration of forms at the level of the artworks themselves.
? 2 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
I
The activity of observing establishes a distinction in a space that re-
mains unmarked, the space from which the observer executes the distinc-
tion. The observer must employ a distinction in order to generate the dif-
ference between unmarked and marked space, and between himself and
what he indicates. The whole point of this distinction (its intention) is to
mark something as distinct from something else. At the same time, the
observer--in drawing a distinction--makes himself visible to others. He
betrays his presence--even if a further distinction is required to distin-
1
guish him. Once a distinction is established as a form, it points back to
the observer, thus generating both the form's self-reference and its hetero- reference. The self-referential closure of the form includes the question of the observer as the excluded third.
The forms of possible distinctions are innumerable. But when several observers select a certain distinction, their operations are attuned to one another. What they have in common is generated outside of the form in a manner that remains unspecified. (To call this shared space "consensus" as opposed to "dissent" would require another observer who employs just this distinction. ) This common ground entails the prospect of a formal calculus that leads all participating observers to the same result. We can therefore say that the form is the observer. This notion presupposes the reduplication of the unobservable world in the imaginary space of math- ematical forms. The same procedure--which makes communication pos- sible by creating a shared space--is used in art. Here, too, there is no pres-
54
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 5 5
sure to select a certain distinction and to transform the unobservable world into an imaginary space--now a space of art--by cutting up die world. But when this selection occurs by means of certain artistically de- termined forms, then the observers employing these forms all observe in the same vein. This is how the artist manages to bind the free-floating
23
awareness of other observers. As we indicated earlier, a distinct "object"
is thus secured as an "eigenvalue" of communication. Judgments might still diverge on the basis of different standards of artistic quality, but to deal with such differences one must focus on observing how different ob- servers observe--which is certainly possible.
Each observation immediately observes something that can be distin-
4
guished--objects or events, movements or signs. We cannot get rid of the
immediately given world, although the philosopher may doubt whether it exists at all or whether it exists as it appears and may express his doubt by withholding judgment (Husserl's epoche). Nor can we completely divorce ourselves from the intuitively apprehended world, not even in our imagi- nation; we can only simulate what we might observe under different cir- cumstances. When reading novels, we need to have the text in front of our eyes, even though our "inner eye" can furnish the text with lively details and recall its fictional world once the text is no longer at hand. We know perfectly well tliat no real world corresponds to our imagination, just as we "know away," so to speak, an optical illusion while seeing it nonetheless. Yet, we still follow an experience that accepts the world just the way it could be. Nothing can change that.
We remind the reader of this basic situation in order to introduce the-- not quite simple--distinction between first- and second-order observa- tion. Every observation--this holds for second-order observations as well --uses a distinction to mark one side (but not the other). No procedure can get around that. Even negations presuppose the prior distinction and
5
indication of what one wants to negate. One cannot start from an im-
mediately given nondetermination--an unmarked space, a primordial en- tropy or chaos, an empty canvas or a white sheet of paper--without dis- tinguishing this state from what is being done to it. Even when moving toward fictionality, away from the real world in which we exist, we need this distinction in order to indicate the "whence? " and "where? " This is how we construct reality as reality.
We shall call observations of observations second-order observations. Con- sidered as an operation, the second-order observation is also a first-order
$6 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
observation. It observes something that can be distinguished as observa- tion. Accordingly, there must be structuralcouplingsbetween first- and sec- ond-order observations, which guarantee that something is observed at all in the mode of second-order observation. As usual, there are two sides to the concept of structural coupling: the second-order observer is more irri- table as a result of his first-order observations (of textual features, for ex- ample, or of the characteristics of another observer's observations), while at the same time, he is equipped with a higher degree of indifference against all other conceivable influences.
As first-order observer, the second-order observer remains anchored in the world (and, accordingly, observable). And he sees only what he can distinguish. If he wants to observe from a second-order perspective, then he must be able to distinguish observations from other things (objects, for example).
According to a certain tradition, which, however, we shall not be bound by here, one might say that he must be able to distinguish subjects from objects. But this linguistic usage itself needs explanation and unduly re- stricts the topics we seek to approach. Hence our attempt to use a more formal terminology and to speak of second-order observations only in terms of observations that observe observations. In so doing, we remain at the level of operations. Whether we are dealing with an observation of other observers is a different question. It certainly facilitates the observa- tion of observations when we can hold on to an observer to whom we can attribute these observations. In the case of art, however, this is true only with certain reservations. We may decide to observe a work of art solely in view of its intrinsic observations without observing the artist; it is enough to know or to recognize that we are dealing with an artificial, rather than a natural, object.
The proposition that a second-order observer is always also a first-order
observer rephrases the familiar insight that the world cannot be observed
from the outside. There is no "extramundane subject. " Whoever employs
this figure of thought or wonders how a transcendental subject becomes an
6
empirical subject is thinking in the long shadow of theology or is led
astray by a philosophical theory. As we know from operative epistemol- ogy--which is widely accepted today--the activity of observing occurs in the world and can be observed in turn. It presupposes the drawing of a boundary across which the observer can observe something (or himself as an other), and it accounts for the incompleteness of observations by virtue
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 57
of the fact that the act of observing, along with the difference of the ob- servation that constitutes it, escapes observation. Observation therefore re- lies on a blind spot that enables it to see something (but not everything).
7
A world equipped to observe itself withdraws into unobservability. Or, to
use a more traditional formulation, the unobservability of the observing operation is the transcendental condition of its possibility. The condition of possibility for observation is not a subject (let alone a subject endowed with reason), but rather a paradox that condemns to failure those who want the world to be transparent. Many an artist may have dreamed of making it in another world, while being bound to reproduce the unob- servability of this one.
In order to observe the world as an object, one would have to indicate the world as distinguished from something else; one would have to pre- suppose a metaworld containing the world and its other. What functions as world in each case resists observation--as does the observing operation. The retreat into unobservability leaves nothing behind in the world; it erases, to speak with Jacques Derrida, its own traces. At best metaphysics
8 (or theology? or the rhetorical theory of how to use rhetorical forms? or
a second-order observer? ) may just barely catch a glimpse of "the trace of
9
the erasure of the trace. "
These considerations are meant to irritate philosophers. What matters
to us is deriving foundations (which are no foundations) for an operative concept of observation, so that we can describe more accurately what is going on and what we have to expect when society encourages observers 10 observe observations or even demands that the conditions of social ra- tionality be met at the level of second-order observation.
II
Once the conditions for second-order observation are established, so- ciocultural evolution embarks on a detour that--like the detour of capital according to Bohm-Bawerk--proves to be extraordinarily productive. One restricts one's observation to observing other observers, which opens up possibilities (social psychologists would speak of "vicarious learning") diat are unavailable when the world is observed directly and on the basis of the belief that it is as it appears. Second-order observing maintains a distance from the world until it dismisses the world as unity (wholeness, totality) altogether, henceforth relying entirely on the "eigenvalues" that
58 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
emerge from the dynamic-recursive process of ongoing observations of observations.
This is both true in general terms and a typical trend of all modern functional systems (and of their self-reflection as well). If one looks for further specifications within the larger framework of an operative episte- mology, one discovers a variety of starting points. This is due pardy to the multitude of participating disciplines or research fields, partly to the con- cept of observation itself, which refers to a number of quite disparate em- pirical facts. The operative execution of observations can be described in physical, biological, or sociological terms, whereby in each case potentially disruptive realities come into view as well. As a physicist and mathemati- cian, Heinz von Foerster employs the notion of computing a reality. Humberto Maturana proceeds from a very general, biologically grounded concept of cognition. George Spencer Brown develops a formal calculus that builds on the concept of "indication. " Indication presupposes a dis- tinction, but it can use only one side of this distinction as the starting point of further operations. In semiotics, one would describe the basal op- eration in terms of a sign use that makes the difference between signifier
{signifiant) and signified (signifie) available for operations (primarily, but not only, linguistic ones). Gotthard Giinther investigates logical structures that can describe in adequately complex terms what happens when a sub- ject observes another subject, not as an object but as another subject, that is, as an observer. For others, the problem is how to attribute observations to observers, and diey tend to think of psychological processes that are in- vestigated in attribution research. In the social sciences, too, one typically thinks of psychological manifestations when methodological problems arise. This is because an observer who is doing research is observed in turn and can absorb only what is presented to him as a consequence of the ob- servation of his being observed. Cybernetics, which must be mentioned here, concerns itself with operations of regulation and control, whatever
10
All of these starting points remain capable of dialogue and mutually ac- cessible--although mainly because of an extreme formalization of the con- cept of observation, which is beginning to announce itself in the literature without yet assuming the form of an integrated interdisciplinary theory. By formalization, we mean the coinage of an operative concept with em- pirical reference, which leaves open at what level of reality a given opera- tion occurs and what kinds of realities must be presumed in order to guar-
the apparatus might be that carries out these operations.
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 59
antee that the operation proceeds smoothly and without destructive inter- ference from the outside.
For our purposes, it suffices to define observation with Spencer Brown as the use of a distinction for the purpose of indicating one side and not the other. We disregard any reference, in the concept of observation, to the
11
material conditions that make observation possible.
conditions would explode the concept's unity and lead us into quite dis- parate fields of reality. Moreover, the concept embraces--this distinguishes
12
it from standard usage--experience and action,
both of which depend
on distinguishing and indication (as opposed to mere behavior). As noted
earlier, this conceptual disposition helps describe how artists and observers
participate in communication. We further assume that observation does
not merely happen (in the manner in which an avalanche tears down one
portion of a snow field and leaves the other half intact); if it did, any oper-
ation that yields an effect would be an observation. Instead, the concept
entails that the other side of the distinction is co-presented along with it,
so that the indication of one side is decoded by the system as information
according to the general pattern of "this-and-not-something-else," "this-
and-not-that. " That is to say, one can also observe operations that are not
13
observations.
ating), distinction and indication are executed simultaneously (rather than consecutively, that is, in the sense that a distinction is selected first and then followed by an indication). The observing operation--this is its dis- tinctive feature--realizes the unity of the distinction between distinction and indication. The motivation for this unity resides in observation itself; it does not depend on the prior existence of corresponding objects in a world that exists separately from this unity. Finally, we shall speak of ob- servations only when the indication of one side of a distinction is moti- vated by recursive interconnections--partly by prior observations, hence memory, and pardy through connectivity, that is, by anticipating what one can do with the distinction, where one can go with it, what kinds of pos- sibilities the observation discloses or forecloses. In this sense, observation is always the operation of an observing system (even if this fact remains un-
I observed). Observation cannot happen as a singular event; more precisely, ! when singular events occur, they cannot be observed as observations.
We shall apply this concept consistently whenever its features are given (to an observer), especially when dealing with second-order observation. Perhaps (we leave the question open) a capacity for observation can be at-
In the act of observing (as distinguished from simply oper-
Considering such
60 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
tributed even to chemical processes in living systems, if the necessary "si- multaneity" of distinction and indication can be represented in chemical terms. At the level of nervous systems or immune systems, one might con- sider the capacity for discrimination--which such systems undoubtedly possess--to be a form of observation. Animals certainly observe, and the same is true for systems of human consciousness that process meaning psychologically. One may equally well attribute a capacity for observation to communication systems on the grounds that such systems, in using language, simultaneously handle distinctions and indications. This raises the question as to whether the shaping of material by an artist's hand rep- resents an instance of observation, in that it creates a difference not just for its own sake but in view of a two-sided form, in view of a difference that produces meaning. We shall return to this question below.
What interests us here are the consequences for the notion of second- order observation. We shall speak of second-order observation when two observations are coupled in such a way that both fully realize the features of first-order observation while the second-order observer, in indicating his object, refers to an observer of the first order and, in so doing, distin- guishes and indicates an observation as observation. This raises the fol- lowing question: What needs to be observed from a first-order perspective so that second-order observation becomes possible and can, so to speak, unfold what first-order observation observes directly? Or, what tells us that the activity of observing and indication is going on somewhere? Does it suffice to say that an "observer" must be observed? Or should we prefer formulations that, rather than aiming at compact, self-organizing realities, speak of the materialities involved in the process of observation? Wouldn't this lure us onto dangerous ground in the vain attempt to distinguish mat- ter from "Spirit"?
In the face of such thorny questions, we retreat to a constructivist start- ing point: an observation of the second order is present whenever the fo- cus is on distinctions or, to use a more pointed formulation, when one's own activity of distinguishing and indicating refers to further distinctions and indications. To observe in the mode of second-order observation is to distinguish distinctions--however, not simply by placing distinctions side by side in the manner of "there are large and small objects, pleasant and unpleasant things, theologians and other academics" and so forth ad in- finitum. Rather, what is observed as a distinction--a distinction that both distinguishes and observes--must be observed in operation so that the
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 61
features we identified above as constitutive of die concept of observation come into view: the simultaneity of distinction and indication (keeping an eye on the other side) and their recursive networking with prior and subsequent observations, which, for their part, must also be distinguish- ing indications.
First-order observation is an indication of something in opposition to everything that is not indicated. In this kind of observation, the distinc- tion between distinction and indication is not thematized. The gaze re- mains fixed on the object. The observer and his observing activity remain unobserved. With the occurrence of second-order observation, the situa- tion changes--whether or not the observer is the same. Now the observa- tion indicates that the observation occurs as observation, that it must use a distinction, and perhaps even what kind of distinction it must use. The second-order observer encounters the distinction between distinction and indication. He treats the instrument of observation as the form of obser- vation, which implies that there might be other forms (and observers). The form of observation (there is no need to elaborate this point) also im- plies a reentry of the form into the form, since the distinction employed in the observation presupposes a distinction between distinction and in- dication. This distinction is always already copied into itself as a distinc-
14
tion that distinguishes itself from the indication that it makes possible. The second-order observer does not need to be as complex as to be able to observe this reentry, but he presupposes it as implied in the form he ob- serves as the form of an observation.
The unobservability of first-order observation thus becomes observable in an observation of the second order--on the condition that the second- order observer, considered as first-order observer, can now observe neither his own observing nor himself as observer. A third-order observer can point this out and draw the autological conclusion that all this applies to himself as well. Focusing one's observation on the means of observation-- on artistic means (such as the twelve-tone technique)--excludes a total view of the world. No further reflection can get around that. Nor is there a dialectical Aufhebung that would elevate the blindness of distinguishing into a form of "Spirit" for which the world, including Spirit, becomes fully transparent. Rather, second- and third-order observations explicate the world s unobservability as an unmarked space carried along in all ob- servations. Transparency is paid for with opacity, and this is what ensures the (autopoietic) continuation of the operations, the displacement, the
6 2 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
diffirance (Derrida) of the difference between what is observed and what remains unobserved.
Second-order observation observes only how others observe. Once the question "How? " is posed, a characteristic difference between first- and second-order observations comes into view. The first-order observer con- centrates on what he observes, experiences, and acts out within a horizon of relatively sparse information.
He may be puzzled by some things and look for explanations when his expectations go unfulfilled; this, however, is the exception rather than the rule and happens in accordance with his capacity to process information. The first-order observer lives in a world that seems both probable and true [wahr-scheinlich]. By contrast, the sec- ond-order observer notices the improbability [Unwahrscheinlichkeit] of first-order observation. A movement of the hand, a sentence spoken-- every such act is extremely improbable when considered as a selection among all other possibilities. But since this improbability characterizes every operation, it is also quite normal and unproblematic. It remains la- tent in the operation itself, even the operation of first-order observing. There is no need to thematize this improbability, nor can it be thematized. One could never begin if one were to consider all possible beginnings. This holds for second-order observation as well, to the extent that it is an oper- ation. It cannot think through all possible ways of observing an observer before setding on observing a certain observer. Second-order observation recognizes (and experiences in observing itself) that the total information contained in the world cannot be concentrated in one point--unless one assumes a God. But as second-order observation, it can at least thematize the improbability of first-order observation (including its own). It can comprehend more extended realms of selectivity and identify contingen- cies where the first-order observer believes he is following a necessary path
15
or is acting entirely naturally.
say that only the second-order observer notices that the first-order observer "reduces complexity"; it makes no sense to ask a first-order observer to re- duce complexity. Or to put it in yet another way, the world of possibility is an invention of the second-order observer which, for the first-order ob- server, remains necessarily latent.
From the viewpoint of an observer whose reality is guaranteed by his own observations, there are two ways of engaging in second-order obser- vation: self-observation and hetero-observation. Such abstract terminol- ogy has certain advantages. It permits both types of observation to be con-
Simplifying matters somewhat, one might
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 63
sidered as parallel possibilities, as two instances of the same principle, and it calls attention to the necessity of a system reference for the self/hetero distinction. Above all, we begin to sense that there may be a link between the possibility for self-observation, on the one hand, and of second-order observation of others, on the other. If one can see others as observers, then why not oneself, too?
But can observation turn reflexive in this manner? How does such a hyper-formation emerge on top of first-order observation?
It is important to preserve our astonishment in view of this phenomenon, because our goal is to combine second-order observation with a theory of modern society which claims that second-order observation is at once a highly improbable evolutionary fact and an entirely normal occurrence.
Ill
There is nothing extraordinary in the assertion that the functional sys- tems of modern society should establish themselves at the level of second- order observation. Take the system of science [Wissenschaft], for example. Recent investigations of scientific laboratories amply demonstrate that first-order observation plays a role in science and that the behavior of sci-
16
entists can hardly be explained in terms of a "striving for Truth. "
trary to what such research suggests, however, scientific practice*does not preclude second-order observation. The instrument that mediates between first- and second-order observation and ensures their structural coupling is die publication of articles. From a first-order perspective, these are pro- duced and read as texts, but they acquire genuine scientific significance by
17
providing a window onto the observational mode of other scientists. Publishing a text (including summarizing the current state of research and quoting other publications) becomes the basis of scientific produc-
18
tion, the operation of the autopoiesis of science.
meory of science, the code true/untrue along with its own supplementary semantics, the special programs containing theoretical and methodologi- cal directives that rule over the code values true/untrue--all of these be- come meaningful only in relation to texts that are published for the sake of communication. This is how publications secure the continuity of the differentiated system of science at the level of second-order observation.
We can identify similar features in the economic system. Assisted by the
19
market, the economy, too, has shifted toward second-order observation.
The semantics of the
Con-
64 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
This shift requires a focus on a medium of first-order observation. One observes payments in the context of transactions: How much for what? This requires and makes possible variable prices that indicate someone's
20
readiness to sell or buy.
bring about) a temporary stability of prices. This makes second-order ob- servation possible. A player in the market watches others (and himself), asking whether they will buy/sell at a certain price; whether or not it may be worthwhile to produce and invest in view of expectations concerning future market prices. At the same time, the markets for products, raw ma- terials, labor, and money generate situations at the level of second-order observation that are subject to change and need to be monitored con- stantly. Without market-dependent prices, there can be no second-order observation and thus (as socialist state planning learned the hard way) no specific economic rationality. This is why economic theory must distin- guish values and prices, depending on whether it observes an observer of the first or of the second order. And it makes sense to transform values (ecological harmlessness, for example) into prices--not to make sure that such values are implemented, but for the sake of observing how an obser- vation of observations establishes itself under these structural conditions.
Our third example is taken from the political system. Not surprisingly, the same structure is realized in this system as well, albeit in an entirely dif- ferent context. Politics employs power to enable collectively binding deci- sions. At the level where power is exercised, this can be observed directly in institutions specifically designed for this purpose. Classical political the- ory insisted that the ruler ought not to be indifferent to public opinion; speaking with Machiavelli, he must have his fortress in the hearts of his
21
22
The transactions assume (and simultaneously
people.
slaves must observe (whether and) how the master observes them, whereas the master is master only to the extent that he can be content with first- order observation--to the master, the slaves are merely objects who carry
23
out orders or fail to do so.
ment, an asymmetry must be preserved wherever second-order observa- tion occurs--whether it looks down from above or up from below.
In the wake of the so-called democratization of politics and its depen- dence on the media of public opinion, this situation has changed. Today, hierarchy plays a role only at the organizational level. Those participating in politics--politicians and voters alike--observe one another in the mir- ror of public opinion, and behavior is "political" when participants react
In Hegel's dialectic of master and slave, on the other hand,
the
According to the political concept of govern-
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 65
to how they are being observed. The level of first-order observation is guaranteed by the continuous reports of the mass media. Initially, the ef- fects of such media are information and entertainment. Second-order ob- servation occurs via the inferences one can draw about oneself or others, if one assumes that those who wish to participate politically encounter one another in the judgment of public opinion, and that this is sufficient. Public opinion is not an aggregate of psychic system-states, but rather a product of a specific communication that provides the starting point for
24
further communications.
We could supply further examples. In the system of religion God has al-
ways been conceived as an observer, and this is why observing this ob- server became a problem that surfaced in the Devil's fate or the theolo- gian's own, and for some courageous theologians even in the very notion of God. Under the logic of intimacy, modern families (for which there was no concept in the Old World) are hot cells of observation, burdened with a pressure to observe that makes spontaneous behavior difficult and gen-
25
erates either communication routines or pathologies.
tem, the relationship between legislation and jurisdiction is considered in terms of mutual observation, and in the so-called realistic legal doctrine, die law boils down to a mechanism for predicting the decisions of judges (instead of securing the implementation of norms that are recognized as correct). These analyses, evoked for the sake of comparison, cannot be pursued any further here. Our question is, rather, whether art--at least since it differentiated itself as the fine arts against the artes in general--un- folds its own dynamic at the level of second-order observation and distin- guishes itself at this level as a social system from other social systems.
In order to pursue this question, we return to the concept of form in-
26
troduced above, a concept that indicates a two-sided distinction.
must get used to this concept. Being two-sided, a form presupposes the si- multaneous presence of both sides. One side, taken by itself, is not a side. A form without another side dissolves into the unmarked state; hence it cannot be observed. Yet, the two sides are not equivalent. The "mark" in- dicates this. That asymmetry is difficult to interpret, particularly if one wants to give it a very general meaning. But this much is clear: only one side of a distinction can be indicated at any given time; indicating both sides at once dissolves the distinction. We assume further that an opera- tive system must execute subsequent operations always on its marked side, and that this is the meaning of the indication. We leave the question open
In today's legal sys-
One
66 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
whether a system can cross the form's boundary, whether, in other words, it is capable of operating in the form of negation and can continue work- ing on the other side. It goes without saying that no system can opera- tively step out of itself and continue operating in the environment. There are, however, form-coded systems--systems capable of employing a code of binary distinctions, such as true/untrue, having / not having property, being/not being an official, in ways that permit them to operate on both sides of the distinction without leaving the system. Someone who doesn't own a certain thing can buy it (only such a person), just as one cannot sell a thing unless one owns it. In the legal system, this rule--once it is codi- fied in the institution of the contract--distinguishes between right and wrong depending on whether the rule is followed or not. This enables the legal system to operate legally (! ) by declaring that something is legal or against the law.
The theory of art has always been concerned with form. This is an ob- vious starting point. The identity of the word form should not deceive us, however, when the concept undergoes a fundamental change. We are not
27
referring to the controversial distinction between form and content; hence, it is not our goal to overcome this distinction--whether in radi- cally subjectivist terms or in a reductionist attempt at "pure forms. " Nor are we thinking of the concept of the symbol. These efforts merely sought to eliminate the distinction as distinction. The opposition against the form/content distinction was meant to emphasize the autonomy of art and to reject any preestablished models, anything that could not be as- similated into art. In this regard, the discussion belongs to a history of the semantics that accompanies modern art. But why return to a root distinc- tion that was never fully clarified? In view of what follows, we suggest that the distinction between form and content was meant to articulate the dis- tinction between self-reference and hetero-reference. But we have not yet reached the point where this insight can be put to work.
Instead, we shall exploit the formal similarity, indeed coincidence, be- tween the concepts of form, distinction, and observation. The observer uses a distinction to indicate what he observes. This happens when it hap- pens. But if one wants to observe whether and how this happens, em- ploying a distinction is not enough--one must also indicate the distinc- tion. The concept of form serves this purpose. We call the instrument of observation--the distinction--a form, for example, in view of the possi- bility that there may be other forms that yield different observations.
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 6j
Whoever observes forms observes other observers in the rigorous sense that he is not interested in the materiality, the motives, expectations, or utterances of these observers, but strictly and exclusively in their use of distinctions.
Once again, we encounter the extreme improbability of a second-order observation that has become established, institutionally supported, and habitual. At the same time, however, an analysis of other functional sys- tems suggests that this is not an obstacle to evolution. (The noises we make in order to speak intelligibly are every bit as improbable in the world of noises, and yet we produce them routinely and without much effort. ) Moreover, our previous investigations have shown that an observation of the second order--one that utilizes forms--does not exclude first-order observation. On the contrary, it presupposes and builds on the latter. Without seeing or hearing, without reading or drawing intuitions from works of art, no second-order observation could get off the ground. We need to know where to find artworks and artists, which buildings to iden- tify as art, and which texts make artistic claims. Second-order observation, by contrast, requires a rigorous selection of its material regarding the
"how" of first-order observation; it must penetrate to the observational forms that are fixated in these observations. Second-order observation transforms everything, including what it observes at the level of first-order observation. Second-order observation affects the modality of whatever ^appears to be given and endows it with the form of contingency, the pos-
28
sibility for being different. And, for the sake of including the excluded, it
must constitute a world that, for its part, remains unobservable. Accordingly, the question is how to observe, from a first-order perspec-
tive, works of art as objects in such a way as to gain access to an observation of observers. We already know the answer: by paying attention to forms.
IV
The invitation to observe in such an unusual manner comes from the works of art themselves. (If in doubt, try it. ) The man-made nature of the work, its artificiality, offers a first clue. In the course of a long history, this recognizable signal has become ever more prominent, gradually develop- ing the specialized function of orchestrating second-order observations.
The necessity of affecting the modality of utterances by mentioning the observer provides a starting point. It is the only way of signaling that the
68 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
entire communication is to be carried out at the level of second-order ob- servations. In early modern times, works began to be signed, thereby in- troducing the figure of the author. This subsequendy gave rise to anony- mous authors or "unknown masters. " Mentioning the observer is not just an option but a necessary signal by which one communicates that the ad- dressee of the communication is being engaged as a second-order observer.
This function, however, remains latent. As is always the case in com- municative systems, the topics of communication must be distinguished from their function in guiding further communication and, ultimately, in maintaining the system's autopoiesis. At the thematic level, artificiality is introduced as characteristic of the concept of art and established as distinct from nature. In explaining a work of art, one frequently draws on the artist's intention in producing the work, but this is trivial, a tautological explanation, because the intent must be feigned, while its psychological
29
correlates remain inaccessible.
only be comprehended as intentional, this raises the issue of how to dis- solve the tautological construct of productive intent and unfold this tau- tology in ways that yield intelligible representations. The perception or communication of the work's artificiality provokes the question of pur- pose. The work of art does not emerge in the course of being perceived, it deliberately calls attention to itself. It displays something unexpected,
30
something inexplicable, or, as it is often put, something new. At the same
time, the work's artificiality signals that it cannot be the result of chance. The question remains: "What's the point? "
With this question in mind, one initially sought to establish a connec- tion to what is already known. To this desire corresponded, at the level of reflection, the (Aristotelian) premise of a natural teleology of nature and human action. Art could serve the purpose of glorifying both otherworldly and secular powers, which starting in the seventeenth century were char- acterized with increasingly negative connotations as "pompous. " Art sym- bolized what was otherwise invisible. Or it served as an illustrated Bible to educate illiterate subjects. Another way of circumventing the dangers of arbitrariness and randomness was by committing art to imitating nature and by restricting one's astonishment to the skill capable of creating a re- semblance between the two. Can art avoid such models? Can it forgo an external relation to meaning and appear, as it was phrased around 1800, as an "end in itself"? If so, then how?
Starting in the nineteenth century, connoisseurs and, above all, compe-
Since the production of the artwork can
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 69
tent critics increasingly paid attention to the means by which a work elic- its certain effects rather than to subject matter as such. This tendency an- nounced itself as early as antiquity in the concept of the still life--which presented objects that were considered unworthy by the ancient imagina- tion and that could acquire meaning only by presenting the art of presen- tation itself. With the expansion of the domain of the still life in Italian and Dutch painting, the same idea was suggested by the blatant discrepancy be-
31
tween the banality of the subject matter and its artful presentation.
what is meant by the word means when there is no purpose or when a pur- pose is evident solely in the empty formula of an "end in itself"?
The formula "disinterested pleasure" is equally problematic. Apparently it was supposed to exclude certain interests in the use of art. It promises the possibility for demarcating phenomena that can claim artistic value. But the formula fails to clarify just how one goes about observing without interests, or how an observer can make sure that he or any other is in a po- sition to bracket interested perspectives while retaining the motivation to deal with art. Is there perhaps a special interest in being disinterested, and can we assume that such an interest also motivates the artist who produces the work, and who can neither preclude nor deny an interest in the inter- est of others?
The theory of second-order observation offers a more appropriate an- swer to these questions. It proposes general correlations between the func- tional differentiation of the social system, the differentiation of individual functional systems that exhibit the features of autopoietic reproduction and operative closure, and their self-organization at the level of second- order observation. These correlations are not specific to art but are of a general kind initiated by the structure of society. They are realized in the art system and imprint on this system the specific signature of modernity.
To create a work of art under these sociohistorical conditions amounts to creating specific forms for an observation of observations. This is the sole purpose for which the work is "produced. " From this perspective, the artwork accomplishes the structural coupling between first- and second- order observations in the realm of art. As usual, structural coupling means that irritability is increased, canalized, specified, and rendered indifferent to everything else. The unique meaning of the forms embedded in the work of art--always two-sided forms! --becomes intelligible only when one takes into account that they are produced for the sake of observation. They fixate a certain manner of observation. The artist accomplishes this
But
jo Observation of the First and of the Second Order
by clarifying--via his own observations of the emerging work--how he and others will observe the work. He does not need to anticipate every possibility, and he can try to push the limit of what can still be observed, deciphered, or perceived as form. But it is always assumed that the point is to observe observations, even if the effort is directed at producing un- observability, for then we would be dealing with an unobservability of the second order. The same holds for the observer. He can participate in art only when he engages himself as observer in the forms that have been cre- ated for his observation, that is, when he reconstructs the observational directives embedded in the work. Produced without apparent external purpose, the artwork immediately conveys that this is the task. Subse- quently, the work takes control and defines the conditions of inclusion, and it does so by leaving open the possibility for discovering something that no one, not even the artist, has seen before.
In the language of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, one can
call what is thereby accomplished pleasure [Genufi], This notion rests on
a complex conceptual environment whose history has never been fully
32
clarified. At any rate, the notion of pleasure emancipates itself from the
cold opposition utilfrui toward a juxtaposition between work and pleasure under conditions that revalorize work and accordingly problematize plea- sure. Work is externalization [Entaufierung\ or expenditure, whereas plea- sure is appropriation, now above all appropriation from within. The dis- tinction no longer refers to a hierarchical world architecture or a social hierarchy. It replaces this schema by the distinction between the "outside" and the "inside. " For the pleasurable consumption of art, it becomes im- portant, indeed indispensable, that the work of art contains information. Or, in contemporary terms, only what is new can please.
The positive value of pleasure appears to reside in an artful concentra- tion of observational relationships--whether in social interaction or in the consumption of art. In the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, morality and aesthetics were generally not yet fully differentiated--both were concerned with the production and pleasurable consumption of "beautiful appearance. " But at least a concept close to experience had be- come available. It implied the social reflection of pleasure in the pleasure of others (and, simultaneously, the possibility for reflexively enjoying one's own pleasure). Rather than indicating the activation of a certain kind of emotive psychological faculty, the concept of pleasure signaled a height- ened experience that results from a reciprocity of observation created pre-
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 71
cisely for that purpose. As a semantic indicator, the concept suggests that
social interaction searches for its specific rationality in this domain and
that the arts and literature both serve this function. So long as these two
aspects were joined, it made sense to call the critical judgment of artworks
taste. Once the nexus between art and sociability was lost and no longer
served as an orientation for art, it was impossible to recapture a concept
for the unity of a second-order observation guided by art. The reflection
on the unity of the art system that followed the differentiation of an "aes-
thetics" had difficulties going beyond simply naming the diverging per-
spectives of artist and viewer, that is, beyond the mere complementarity of
roles. Correspondingly, positional theories, following the model of "pro-
duction versus reception aesthetics," entered into controversy. But the
problem resides in the operational unity that allows for the reproduction of
33
the system and the system boundaries of art.
The concept of form yields a more precise formulation of the increasing
demands placed upon artist and observer as a result of the recursivity of ob- servation. To the extent that we are concerned with first-order observation, the concept of form must be applied twice, whereas at the level of second- order observation, both applications merge and condition one another.
A first-order observer must first identify a work of art as an object in contradistinction to all other objects or processes. He succeeds when he produces the work himself and observes it as a work of art in progress. For mose who do not work but instead consume the work, the situation is dif- ferent. For them, the identification of artworks as special objects (from the first-order observer's viewpoint) may present a problem, especially if they are asked, in addition, to distinguish between art and kitsch or between original and copy. The work of art can be marked as such; it can be rec- ognized by its presence in the museum, in galleries, in studios, in the con- cert hall, in the theater, in publisher's announcements, or by the names of well-known artists. This, too, has become a considerable problem ever since artists such as Marcel Duchamp and John Cage have specialized in eradicating any sensuously perceptible difference between art and nonart (with the exception of their names! ), in order to confront the observer with the question of how he goes about identifying a work of art as a work of art. The only possible answer is: by observing observations, by observ-
34
ing the disposition
missing all other distinctions as irrelevant.
of the artist, which calls attention to itself by dis- 35
Once we identify an object as a work of art, we can observe it as such
72 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
and use it as a topic of communication. For a second-order observer, this is not enough. He searches the work for clues to guide further observations, and only when these observations succeed will he be ready to identify the work as art. In order to do so, he must follow the forms embedded in the work. All of these are forms of difference; they fixate something on one side, which eliminates, or at least constrains, the arbitrariness of the other side. A second-order observer will notice that multiple distinctions work together in such a way that the other side of the distinction (for example, what remains of a canvas when a line is drawn) is treated as the side of an- other side.