No More Learning

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. By retracing the corresponding decisions, he is able to recon- struct the composition and observe what the observer of his observations expects from him. The point is to recognize what kinds of choices are still available on the other side of a determined form and what degree of cer-
36
tainty is involved in their execution.
"harmonious whole" along this path is illusory. As the futile attempts to ex-
37
plain this concept illustrate, "harmony" is an embarrassing formula. metaphor of the organism ("organic unity" according to Kant and Cole- ridge) has failed. A judgment of unity comes about only when, after work- ing through the play of differences, after reconstructing the work's inner circularity, one distinguishes the work from something else (above all, of
38
course, from other artworks).
The
Unity requires other distinctions, distinc-
tions external to the work. But then everything depends on how one dis-
tinguishes the work as a work of art (and not just as an object) from other
things. This calls for second-order observation, more specifically, for the re-
construction of the referential nexus of forms that are open toward one
side. Undifferentiated unity, unity "as such," is encountered and lost in dis-
tinctions, and whether or not these distinctions "fit" can be experienced
only by crossing the boundary of each one of the work's fixed distinctions.
Disregarding this necessity leaves one with a disjointed collection of static
39
details.
servation of a work of art is always a temporal unity that is either no longer or not yet observed. In this sense, the artwork is the result of intrinsic form decisions and, at the same time, the metaform determined by these deci- sions, which, by virtue of its inner forms, can be distinguished from the unmarked space of everything else--the work as fully elaborated "object. "
There are some distinctions whose other side is what remains when something is selected and indicated--for example, when we are speaking of a specifically marked object. Spencer Brown's calculus accounts for such
The observer's hope of ever seeing a
What is at stake, operatively speaking, in the production and ob-
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 73
a case. In our daily lives, however, an indication we use is more likely to constrain its other side as well. Suppose we ask ourselves, "Where did I put my keys? " This question turns the world into the totality of possible key locations marked by different probabilities.
What used to be called "nature," too, is constructed in such a way that
it is altered by the interaction of different composites--just as the chem-
ical combination of elements into molecules alters the electronics of the
participating atoms, or living in communities changes the interior life of
animals. Whatever can be described as an "emergent order" rests on the
fact that the qualities of components require composition, and composi-
tion cannot come about without changes in the qualities of the compo-
40
nents.
changes once it is distinguished not from technology but from grace, and it shifts again when it is distinguished from civilization. Art counts on the mutability of concepts--and in this sense one can once again speak of an imitation of nature.
Every operative intervention into an emergent work of art alters far more than what the intervention indicates. Adding an accent calls for cor- rections in other places. These corrections are not automatic or deter- mined in advance--they create complications because they occur in the context of distinctions that cannot be specified without generating a cor- responding demand with regard to their other side. Operatively speaking, one intervention follows another. However, the consciousness that accom- panies and controls the operation always perceives (no matter how incom- pletely and tentatively) both sides simultaneously--that is, it perceives the form. The operational mode is always concerned with unfolding a tempo- ral paradox: it must either realize simultaneity sequentially or control a se- quence of operations through an observation that exists only as an opera- tion, that is, in the instantaneous simultaneity of the two sides of its distinction. Observing art amounts to observing an emergent order that evolves or has evolved like nature--albeit not as nature--but with differ- ent forms and under different conditions of connectivity. For the artist (as observer), observation unfolds the temporal paradox that the simultaneity of the distinguished and the consecutive nature of the operation occur si- multaneously. For the beholder (as observer), observation unfolds the fac- tual paradox of a unity that can be apprehended only as a multiplicity
(which cannot/can be apprehended). Both observers coincide in the mode of second-order observation. Both are called upon to get down to work.
The same is true for semantic concepts. The meaning of nature
74 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
The possibility for creating the possibility of being observed enables the artist to separate himself from his work. In himself, the artist cannot be ob- served (or can be only at the cost of intolerable simplifications). If, despite this limitation, he manages to represent himself in his work--as an author who mentions himself, or as an actor, singer, or dancer concerned to display his talents--he copies himself into the work. This creates a problem of au- thenticity--the temporal problem that the artist can be observed repeat- edly although he is always already another.
Traditional rules banned the os-
41
tentatious presentation of the artists talent in the work.
signature was invented. ) This might have been good advice. At any rate, the reentry of the creative operation into the work gives rise to the paradox that the authentic (that is, immediate) action is observed as inauthentic-- both by the observer and by the artist, who counts on this effect.
Summarizing, we can say that the work of art presents itself to observa- tion as a series of intertwined distinctions, whereby the other side of each of these distinctions demands further distinctions. The work becomes ob- servable as a series of deferrals {differance in Derrida's sense) that objectify the perpetually deferred difference in the "unmarked space" of the world, thus rendering it unobservable as difference. And all this shows (to whom? ) that a work of art emerges only on condition that the world's invisibility is respected.
V
What distinguishes the art system from other functional systems is that second-order observation occurs in the realm of perception. Objects or quasi objects are always at stake in art, whether we are dealing with real or imagined objects, with static objects or with sequences of events. To cover all of these distinctions, we shall speak of forms in terms of their object- like determination. The formal decisions embedded in objects permit us to observe observations by observing the same object.
This proposition has considerable consequences. It liberates art, to a large extent, from the demands of consensus. The sameness of the object sub- stitutes for the conformity of opinion. Without losing contact with the artist's formal decisions, the beholder can arrive at judgments, valuations, or experiences that radically diverge from the artist's. One stays with the forms created by the artist while perceiving things other than what he in- tended to express. Likewise, when producing for other observers, the artist
(This is why the
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 75
need not surrender to their gaze or become dependent on them. The artist knows that his decisions remain his own; he can go about his work au- thentically and leave it to the observer to form his own judgment.
In this way, judgment is released from the constraints of consensus,
while its relation to the object is preserved. This is worth emphasizing be-
cause it flies in the face of widely held notions concerning the conditions
of social communication. Once the old European idea of a natural corre-
spondence between art and nature became obsolete, one began to count
on consensus. This shift is evident in the social contract doctrines of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and even more so in Enlightenment
premises of a public circulation of ideas and rationally disciplined control
42
of opinions.
stantial consensus (of opinions) leads to complications that surface in cer- tain aberrations in Enlightenment thematizations of art. On the one hand, the debate about good and bad taste failed to come up with the desired criteria. Instead, it drove home the point that all so-called objective crite- ria have the effect of social discrimination; that is to say, those who expe- rience differently find themselves in bad company. On the other hand, the entire realm of art is degraded because it is contaminated with sensory ex- perience and compromised by its dependence on inferior types of cogni- tion. In a state of turmoil, society decides to search for consensus, general- izing as transcendental a prioris or as new mythologies to be expected from the future only those symbols capable of binding each and every subject. In the meantime, one puts up with ideologies.
Today the realization that communication is coordinated by objects
43
The one-sided understanding of society as a kind of sub-
rather than justifications is gaining ground.
Dissent in the realm of jus-
tifications is tolerable so long as adjustments mediated by objects are at
work. This situation implies that bodies can be treated like phenomena,
without understanding the biochemistry of their lives, the neurophysiol-
ogy of their brain processes, or the conscious states actualized at any given
44
moment.
for consensus and ensure that object orientation will have its proper place. This has at least one significant advantage. It releases further communica- tion from its fixation on any given topic and leaves it to communication to decide whether or not opinions are at stake, and if so, how serious and binding they are meant to be.
All of this considerably affects our understanding of art as a form for second-order observations. Art permits a kind of playful relationship to
Limited resources prevent society from overestimating its need
j6 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
questions of reasonable consensus or dissent. It avoids degrading or ex- cluding those who think differently. And it does so in such a way that doubts about whether or not one communicates about the same thing never arise. This is not to say that art does not place high (and exclusive) demands on an observation that seeks to be adequate. The measure for adequacy is not a consensus determined by a "shared symbolic system" (Parsons), but resides instead in the question of whether the viewer can follow the directives for adequate observation embedded in the work's own formal decisions.
VI
Traditionally, the theory of art and literature did not describe the rela-
tionship between artist and observer (author and reader) in terms of an
observational relation. Instead, it assumed a causal relation, an effectua-
tion of effects. Accordingly, the artist was believed to be interested in elic-
iting a certain impression in the beholder, an endeavor at which he could
be more or less successful. The modern critique of this theoretical con-
stellation led to the discovery of the observer of art and, in literary theory,
to the demand that the texts be understood from the perspective of the
45
reader.
it fails to provide a sufficiently adequate theory of art (of the artwork, the text). We must assume that the author of an artwork adapts to the be- holder in the same way as an observer anticipates another observer, and that the artwork must not only mediate between diverging observational modes as they arise but also needs to generate such diverging perspectives to begin with. This is why the demise of the causal theory of art calls for a theory of second-order observation.
Many endeavors point in this direction. The widely popular "symbol-
ism" in twentieth-century literature, for example, can be taken to imply
that every interpretation, including the author's own, imposes limita-
46
tions.
petence. In a series of significant phenomenological investigations, Ro- man Ingarden has called attention to the "blanks" embedded in literary works. Such blanks both assume and require an independent "concretiza-
47
tion" on the part of the reader. An observer can perceive only schemati-
cally; he cannot simultaneously see the front and the back of the same ob- ject. But he can check his speculations against reality and find out if the
While this shift is a plausible reaction to the causal theory of art,
This may be a calculated effect aimed at the author's own incom-
Observation of the First and of the Second Order JJ
rear of a red sphere is as round, smooth, and red, and so forth as its front. In art, this kind of reality check is not possible. The viewer needs to con- jure up the necessary completion (and which one would that be? ). The creator of the work or the author of the text can know that. But is he also in a position to control, direct, mislead (as in the mystery novel), deliber- ately obstruct, or confuse the observations generated by his work? Ingar- den notes--without pursuing the question--that the author may have a
48
stake in inviting the reader to a "grotesque dance of impossibilities," then focuses only on the limits of what is aesthetically acceptable.
but
49
Umberto Eco's Opera aperta takes a step further in this direction. Eco
considers an intentional and deliberate need for supplementation built into the work itself. The observer is called upon to participate in the artis- tic process. The performers not only supplement the work but engage in its composition (a feature already present in the structure of the corn- media dell'arte and its lazzi [jests]). Finally, the spectators step onto the stage, or the actors into the audience, to give the play a deliberately spon- taneous twist. Literary works, too, increasingly expect the reader to en- gage on his own in the production of meaning (in a manner that differs from case to case). Eco's prime example is Finnegan'sWake. We still find the most daring experiments of this sort in literature or in works that re- quire performance. But the visual arts follow closely with works whose meaning or even their status as artworks reveal themselves, if at all, only at a second look. And this seems to be just what the artist has in mind. He revels in saying farewell to the idea of a passive consumption of art and takes delight in the prospect that the beholder will have to do some work on his own.
Calculating this effect amounts to observing observers, which was un- necessary when observing an artwork simply meant supplementing inde- terminacies. Today, this is no longer a matter of supplying accidentals but of cooperating at the level of second-order observation. And the observer too must know, must be able to recognize the choices conceded to him as well as the boundaries he cannot overstep without rejecting the work as a work of art.
We leave our presentation on so abstract a level because it must account for every artistic genre. We could supply concrete examples from painting or lyric poetry, from ballet or drama. For the time being, however, we only wish to show that, and in what ways, art participates in a specifically mod- ern type of operation, how it constitutes itself at the level of second-order
jS Observation of the First and of the Second Order
observation as an autopoietic, operatively closed subsystem of society that decides what does and what does not concern art.
VII
The time has come to explicate the nexus between "second-order obser- vation" and "operative closure" with reference to our example, the functional system of art. To do so, we shall draw on the concept of communication.
As noted earlier, what is at stake in this system is not the mere fact that one can speak and write about art. Works of art, just like everything else, iare potential topics for communication, but this does not qualify them as something out of the ordinary. Nor does it follow that the functional sys- tem of art can differentiate itself as a social system that consists entirely of communications. Rather, works of art themselves are the medium of com-
munication, insofar as they contain directives that different observers fol- jlow more or less closely They are designed exclusivelyfor thatpurpose. Both the artists and their audiences participate in communication only as ob- servers, and the abstract concept of observation, related to distinction and indication and encompassing action and experience, permits us to formu- late what they have in common when they participate in communication.
50
Following Gotthard Gunther,
kction and experience resides in the application of the distinction between
self-reference and hetero-reference, or, from the viewpoint of the system, in the distinction between system and environment. From the cognitive perspective of the observer, experience appears to be determined by the environment. Against this determination, one posits one's own distinc- tions--true/false, pleasure/pain, agreeable/disagreeable--as if one could thereby cancel its effects. If, on the other hand, we are dealing with par- ticipation through action, then the system determines the environment. The system establishes a difference, and assuming the unity of the will, this difference exists in the environment (which does not preclude judg- ing this operation from a cognitive viewpoint as a success or failure). Both perspectives (which may appear in complex combinations), presuppose an
51
we presume that the distinction between
observer who draws distinctions and can distinguish their locations. both cases, a distinction is posited against what would otherwise be expe- rienced as determined in order to ensure the continuation of the system's autopoiesis and the perpetual oscillation between the perspective of cog- nition and the perspective of the will. Since both positions mark observer
In
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 79
standpoints, one might say that art observes itself from alternating per- spectives. The forms that constitute the work's structure are initially fix- ated by an observer for other observers. Like texts, forms abstract from the physical and mental aspects of whoever produces or observes them. Like writing, they assume a material expression that overcomes the temporal distance between subsequent observations. Today, we can find art forms that deliberately focus on a singular event or are performed in front of a random group of spectators--so as to reduce the work's social and tem- poral components to a minimum. But even if the performers staged the work entirely for their own sake, it would still be an art that experiments with its own boundaries, and it would still be communication addressed to an audience, albeit an audience tending toward zero. To produce ob- servability is to communicate order within a formal arrangement that doesn't come about spontaneously. The harlequin may dance in the dark--but his dance is still communication, a communication that sabo- tages its own perfection only to convince itself that it owes its existence to itself alone, not to die gaze of an observer. To top this triumph, one would have to observe what others would observe if they were not excluded from observation.
The other is always anticipated as observer. The audience, too, is bound by communication. They attribute the work of art to an artist. They don't confuse the work with nature. They are aware of themselves as (anony- mous) addressees of a communication and take die artwork as a minimal guarantee for the sameness of their experience. They assume that this is intentional, that something was to be shown to them. And this suffices for communication to realize itself in the observation of a difference between
52
information and utterance.
Understanding system formation via communication requires exclud-
ing the material embodiment of artworks from the system. Bodies belong to the system's environment--although they are connected to communi-
53
cation through structural couplings. What counts is their objecthood. The system knows only one operator: communication. Communication is reproduced by communications and not by operations consisting of marble, colors, dancing bodies, or sounds. One can speak of autopoietic, operatively closed systems only when the system's elements are produced and reproduced by the network of die system's elements and no prefabri-
54
cated, heterogeneous parts are used widiin the system. Like any other so-
cial system, the art system is closed on the operative basis of communica-
8 o Observation of the First and of the Second Order
tion--otherwise it would not be a system but something randomly se-
lected and "thrown together" by an observer. Materials of any kind are
merely resources that are used by communication according to its own
measure of meaning, even when they display their idiosyncratic material-
ity (for example, as raw materials). The social autonomy of the art system
;
those of society at large.
Communication by means of art, like communication about art, was
customary long before the art system organized itself on the basis of com-
munication. Several attempts were necessary to gain autonomy. The first
efforts to systematize second-order observation might conceivably be
traced to ancient Greece, where they were facilitated by writing, by a high
degree of diversity within structures and semantics, and by the privatiza-
56
tion of religion.
development. It would be difficult to account for the evolutionary emer- gence of autopoietic closure in art--or in any other domain--if there had been no prior experience with suitable components of meaning, here works of art. For autopoietic systems to emerge, the ground must be ready. But the stratified societies of the Old World were far from realizing a fully differentiated art system. Art had to please, and whom it should please was no matter of indifference. Not until modernity--we can date its beginning in the Renaissance--did the art system begin to set its own standards for recruiting observers, and the heyday of the arts in the Mid- dle Ages most likely facilitated this change. For an artist who worked in the service of God, it was only a small step to present himself as directly inspired by God. We will elaborate these issues in the following chapters.
VIII
Looking at a painting, listening to a piece of music, or simply identify- ing a work of art (as opposed to another object) from a first-order observer position does not yet imply a capacity for judging the work. The naked eye does not recognize artistic quality. But if this is true, how do we ac- count for the possibility for qualitative judgment?
The standard answer to this question invokes the role of experience, ed- ucation, or socialization in dealing with art. In the seventeenth and eigh- teenth centuries, the problem was solved via the idea of (cultivated) taste. Taste, while not innate, can be acquired in the course of a class-specific so-
rests on its ability to define and use resources in ways that differ from
55
The role of the chorus in Greek drama highlights this
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 81
cialization and then judges intuitively. The notion of good/bad taste was a first attempt to introduce the recipient or consumer into the theory of art and to problematize, on this basis, the criteria according to which the fine arts ought to be judged. This gave rise to the trend (which did not yield results until the mid-eighteenth century) of subsuming all the arts under a unified concept. This solution may have worked at first, but it begged the question of how taste is acquired to begin with, and how one can recognize its lack when it is not yet fully developed. Staring at the work of art for a prolonged period of time is of no help in this matter. Rather, the observer must assume the presence of qualitative differences that can be mastered in principle, even if they are now beyond his reach. A temporal horizon of further observations is projected into the work-- the possibility for observing with more precision, for using further dis- tinctions, for dissolving identities in dissimilarities--in short, the possi- bility for learning. Since the future is unknown, the evidence for such prospects relies on observing observers; one must observe that, and in what ways, others arrive at cultivated judgments. This temporal dimen- sion refers to the social dimension, not necessarily to the artist but to a generalized observational competence that can be activated in the en- counter with art.
These considerations suggest that a differentiating awareness of quality
emerges, along with a fully differentiated art system, at the level of second-
order observation. (This can be verified historically. ) Prior to the emer-
gence of this system, art depended on catching the beholder's eye (no mat-
ter by what means). By the seventeenth century at the latest, works that all
too deliberately called attention to themselves became suspect. It might be
necessary to impress the crowd, but the connoisseur preferred simpler and
less pompous means. According to French classicism, the artist had to
avoid baroque overkill, strive for natural expression, and reduce the work
to clear and essential forms. In the early eighteenth century, the upper
classes were still expected to distinguish themselves by acquiring good
57
judgment.
mirer in terms of direct interaction, which meant that the artist had a right to be judged competently and critically. As the system evolved, the de- mands upon the experts kept growing. Professional art criticism turned into a business and became the target of criticism. The growing dissatis- faction with arrogant "connoisseurs" and experts reflected changes in the relationship between artist and audience, which was increasingly mediated
One still thought of the relationship between artist and ad-
8 2 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
by the art market and generated a need for certain kinds of expert knowl-
edge that were no longer considered as appurtenances of the privileged
58
classes. Whether or not there were explicable qualitative criteria that
could be employed in the manner of cognitive rules became more and
59
more questionable.
doubtedly emerged and was subject to variation within the context of second-order observation.
Once even the experts no longer provide security, the problem of crite- ria resurfaces in a more radical form. Since the seventeenth century, the originality or authenticity of an artwork has generally been considered the condition of its aesthetic value. But when impostors become experts, sur- passing even the true experts, one can no longer trust one's trained eyes. Nelson Goodman has raised the question of how to preserve authenticity as a criterion for art when the experts (in our sense, #//second-order ob- servers) have failed and recourse to extra-aesthetic (for example, chemical)
60
criteria becomes inevitable.
ever. Goodman begins with the content of the criterion and then points to the future: one cannot claim that one will never be in a position to dis- tinguish the authentic work from a copy (no matter how perfect a copy). In contrast, we draw again on the concept of second-order observation. If it is true that there cannot be two authentic instances of the same object, then one assumes that a criterion capable of distinguishing the two can be found--even if one has no idea who will discover it and when. One pos- tulates an unidentified observer, whom one would have to observe in or- der to arrive at an answer to the question. The problem does not pose it- self unless art shifts to the mode of second-order self-observation.
The restoration of art belongs to the same context. If the aging of art- works, to the point of decay, is considered part of their authenticity, any restoration (even if based on credible theories about the work's original appearance) becomes problematic. Several potentially contradictory crite- ria are at work in such attempts, but one thing is certain: restoration be- comes a problem that can no longer be disposed of once the primary form of observation in art shifts to the level of second-order observation.
IX
In what follows, we will address a special problem that belongs to the realm of second-order observation but displays different logical structures.
But the ability to differentiate between qualities un-
His answer is not entirely satisfying, how-
Observation of the First and of the Second Order 83
This problem concerns the observation of what other observers cannot ob- 61
serve. In operative terms, there is nothing extraordinary about this. Neg- ative versions of, say, neurophysiological processes, thought, or commu- nication are no different from the general form of such processes. Executing a negative version does not require a specialized brain, con- sciousness, or language. But to an observer, it makes a difference whether another observer affirms or negates a proposition. We are led into regions of improbable observations when second-order observation deliberately chooses a negative version and distinguishes itself from the observing ob- servation by this very negativity, in other words, when it wants to observe what another observation does not observe, or, to radicalize the issue, when an observation specializes in observing what another observer is in- capable of observing. In this case, it is not enough to observe observations as particular phenomena* Rather, the second-order observer must focus on the instruments of observation, must observe the distinctions used in the other's observations in order to determine what these distinctions, considered as conditions of possibility for observations, exclude. In this case, the other's mode of observation is observed as a unity, as a form that
enables the observation of something by the exclusion of something else. What is excluded from observation is, first of all, the unity of the distinc- tion that underlies the observation in the form of "this and nothing else. " This is not merely a matter of positional advantages/disadvantages that could be altered by a certain shift of perspective or temporal progression. What is at stake here is rather the exclusion implied in the necessity of basing one's observation on a (any! ) distinction.
The abstractness of these introductory remarks is meant to call atten- tion to the extreme improbability of observational forms that focus on la- tencies. When thought was still based on the idea of perfecting one's na- ture, not being able to see was simply registered as an imperfection, as steresis, or corruptio, as the loss of a basic faculty. After all, we always al- ready find ourselves in the position of an observer and can take this fact for granted. Gradually, the negative version of habitually performed oper- ations turns into a figure of reflection. Blindness--not seeing--becomes the condition of possibility for seeing (and replaces other transcendental categories).
One and a half centuries of "ideology critique" and a hundred years of "psychoanalysis" have failed to incorporate this possibility into our com- mon epistemology or even to consider it as a potential expansion of that
84 Observation of the First and of the Second Order
62
epistemology.
The debate about truth claims in the "sociology of knowl-
edge" shows that the ambition to do so ruptures the cosmos of truth in
ways that can no longer be bridged--neither by "Spirit" in the Hegelian
sense nor through the construction of "metalevels" common in logic and
63
linguistics.
meet observational requirements that replicate the problem. This is why we need to think of this form of latency observation (as we shall abbreviate it here) in terms of a technique of distancing by a second-order observer that explodes the unity of the world or displaces it into unobservability. The question is: What kind of social order can afford and tolerate such a move?
Against this evolutionary theoretical background, we can see that soci- ety apparently used art to play with the possibility of second-order obser- vation before art was adapted to the realms of religion and knowledge, where it would have more serious consequences. The traditionally antago- nistic relationship between art and philosophy can help us understand this process. Philosophy is concerned with the nature and essence of things, whereas art is content with appearances. So long as it remains focused on imitation, there is no need for art to penetrate to the essence of things; it can gain (from the philosopher's viewpoint, superficial) access to nature simply by observing and replicating observations. Second-order observa- tion is at first tested in the fictional realm, and only when this practice yields sufficient evidence so that analogies to everyday experience and ac- tions suggest themselves can one begin to dissolve the unity of the Great Being, of the visible universe, of the cosmos resting securely in its forms, and reduce this unity to relative conditions of observation. This has not yet been done in an appropriately radical manner. Kant's version of tran- scendental theory still assumes that consciousness (that is, every single consciousness) has access through reflection to the conditions of possibil- ity for knowledge. Einstein's relativity theory still assumes the calculability of observational differences that can be traced to differences in speed/ accelerations between observers. It takes a radical constructivism to dis- solve these last residues of certainty. But how could one know that this is a possible, indeed, an inevitable, condition of knowing the conditions of possibility for knowledge?