"Can Beauty Ever be Considered a Moral Trait?" Part Two: Naturalism and Repose

Introduction

Perceptions of the female body begin to change from the 15th century through to the 20th century; there is a greater emphasis on naturalistic representations, propositions and poses. From Giorgione to Rubens to Renoir, the female body takes a distinct turn away from the previously aesthetically contorted forms. Bodies have natural more diverse shapes and are more comfortably posed in this period. Neither mathematics nor morality dictates the form of the female nude during this time.

That is not to say, however, that feminine subjectivity has broken free of its constraints; the gaze of the artist and the connoisseur is still the male gaze, but there is, nevertheless, growing diversity in the representation of the female body. The growing diversity of representation of the female form over this period represents a diversity of taste. The weakened strictures of style open up a space for reflection and reform with regard to feminine subjectivity, in particular towards the end of this period in the 19th century when the first wave of feminism hits.

 Venus Awakens: The Nude in Repose

The reclining nude is a special feature of this period; prior to the 15th century the reclining nude - the nude in repose - is almost non-existent. This represents an important shift in the recognition of feminine subjectivity and the values that emerge from its increasing presence. Two of the earliest, and most famous, reclining nudes belong to Giorgione and Titian, both "Old Masters." There is some controversy about Giorgione's Sleeping Venus (it was completed posthumously by Titian), but this does not concern us here. For my tastes, Sleeping Venus is the best example of the reclining nude discussed here.

Venus lies outside, totally disrobed, and on the verge of sleep; she is at rest in a rural scene. Her relaxed demeanour blends well with the relaxed rural setting (a "sleepy" village); her white skin, however, contrasts with the earthy colours of the fields and the village. Her repose fits into the scene by standing out, so to speak. She is relaxed, the scene is relaxed (I say "sleepy" because there's not another soul around); yet her figure dominates in the foreground, everything else is blurred by the whiteness of her skin.

Her hand rests discretely on her pudendum, concealing her genitals; her breasts, however, are unashamedly bare. The use of the hand to conceal the genitals is a common theme for the reclining nude (as we will see). It can be argued that this motif represents a sense of modesty (arguably, imposed), or an enduring discomfort with female sexuality, perhaps both. Either way, it represents an "aesthetic seal" that encloses the feminine form. The vagina is a confusing mess to the gender whose genitals sit (somewhat) neatly outside the viscera.

The hand replaces the "fig leaf" in the functional role of the aesthetic seal from older represents (see the previous post in this thread), but it perpetuates the discomfort the male gaze has for female sexuality; or, rather, the functional dimensions of female sexuality. It has always been acceptable for the breasts to be exposed, but not the vagina. Although, the vulva and labia is obscured by neither hand nor fig leaf on the Venus of Willendorf. Her breasts are far more prominent, but she shows no shame or modesty about her sexual organs at all (she does, however, lack arms and a discernible face, which I've discussed in the previous post).

Titian's Venus of Urbino differs in certain significant aspects to Giorgione's. The aesthetic seal remains in place, but Venus is awake, and therefore not passive; moreover, she gazes back at the (presumably male) gazer.

Her belly is a little plump, but not distended; her breasts are small, but proportional. Her gaze, while directed at the viewer, is not intimidating. Her head is tilted in a bashful/flirtatious mode, engaging but not intimidating. It is, perhaps, the "ideal" female gaze, at least from the perspective of the male: her gaze is inviting, yet she remains "modest" with the appropriately placed hand. What is important, however, is that gaze meets gaze, even though it is the inviting female gaze meeting the (unrepresented, and therefore omnipotent) male gaze.

In Manet's Olympia, the gaze is different again, although the pose remains the same. Olympia's skin is far paler than the Venus of either Giorgione or Titian, her hand more firmly planted on her thigh, concealing her pudendum. Her body is more rigid, and her gaze less inviting. It is more obvious that Olympia is posing. Her engagement with the gaze with of the viewer is more forceful, or confrontational.

Not only is her pose more rigid, her body is leaner, more taut than the Venuses; her stomach is flatter, and her shoulders appear broader. She is also not as reclined as the other Venuses. Her pale white skin and lean physique, along with the presence of the African servant indicate a manicured lifestyle. It is also generally accepted that Olympia is a prostitute, based the symbolism in the painting (the orchid in her hair, for instance).

In terms of feminine subjectivity, there is mixed symbolism. The emergence of the reclining nude indicates a "relaxation" of sentiment toward female sexuality, but the prevalence of the hand, in place of the fig leaf, as the enforcing symbol of the aesthetic seal, implies an enduring discomfort with feminine sexuality. However, from Giorgione's Venus, to Titian's, to Manet's we can see a strengthening of the female gaze in response to the male viewer's gaze. The aesthetic seal remains, but the opening of the eyes - from sleep, to seduction, to confrontation, perhaps even daring - the returning of the gaze, is indicative of emerging feminine subjectivity.

Bathing Beauties: Naturalism and the Female Forms

 The reclining nude represents a growing acceptance of the female body; the viewer, the artist, and the connoisseur, however, remain almost exclusively male. Nevertheless, the gradual opening of the eyes of Venus is important in the evolution of the values that surround our aesthetic tastes. Manet's Olympia, in fact, was quite controversial, in part because of the confidence exhibited by the nude female subject, enforced particularly by her gaze.

A parallel tradition during the period under focus here, is the emphasis on more naturalistic bodies. Rubens and Pierre-Auguste Renoir are excellent examples here. The term "Rubenesque" has come to denote a shapely or plump female physique. Rubenesque has positive connotations, as such. Rubens is renowned for his depictions of voluptuous, naturalistic women. Take, for example, The Three Graces. The women in this painting display a shapeliness that is absent from previous works; none of the Venuses have bodies like these. The larger posteriors and slight puckering are more realistic than, say Olympia's manicured body, although the Graces do retain fair skin of Venuses.

There is no ideal proportion to the bodies of the Graces, but this is what makes their bodies more natural; very few women have the classical proportions of the Athena of Knidos. Their bodies, however, are not purposely distended in the way of the Gothic nude. There is a great sense of ease or comfort in the subjects of the painting; the woman are unashamedly naked, ostensibly conversing, there is also considerable physical contact between the three women.

Importantly, there is no obvious attempt to obscure the vulva; "obvious," that is, in terms of a clear symbolic "aesthetic seal." There is no fig leaf, and the hands of the women are occupied in contact with arms and shoulders of each other. While there is no clear sign of the labia majora, as in the Venus of Willendorf. the mons pubis, at least of the Grace on the left, is not totally obscured. The woman are comfortable in the nudity, and the gaze of the male is less uncomfortable with seeing it; there is no expectation of mathematics or morality in the scene.

Rubens' Angelica and the Hermit, presents a voluptuous nude in repose, with a beseeching male - the hermit - at her side. Angelica is voluptuous and looking rather comfortable. To be sure, she is still the object of the male gaze, the viewers' and the hermit's. Her voluptuous form is in stark contrast to the bodies of the Venuses, and especially Olympia. Her skin, however, remains white, in stark contrast to the dark, earthy colours that surround her.

The aesthetic seal also remains. A sliver of drapery conceals Angelica's vulva; the Hermit, however, appears to be slowly pulling it away. Angelica is asleep, and appears to be neither consenting nor resisting the act of the Hermit. There is certainly something symbolic about the scene: a clothed male, eyes wide-open, slowly unveiling the naked body of a female, eyes closed and unresponsive, neither inviting nor rejecting the actions of the male. His gaze is neither aggressive, nor "sleazy"; perhaps a symbol of (wishful) self-reflection on the part of the true audience: the male connoisseur. Angelica is unconscious, and any desire she has is equally unconscious - hence innocent, at least insofar as connoisseur is concerned. The imploring look of the hermit is somewhat belied by the actions of his hands, and this dichotomy, against the background of the unconscious sexuality of Angelica, is arguably emblematic of the way the male connoisseur interprets his own gaze.

Before moving on, I must confess: Pierre-Auguste Renoir is perhaps my favourite artist. As fond as I am of Titian and Rubens, Renoir outstrips them both in my opinion. With this intrusion of disclosure complete, we can quickly move on. Renoir's bathers are exquisite, capturing the sense of voluptuous naturalism that is often characterized by the term "Rubenesque." The Large Bathers is a scene of women with women, being women. There is a sense of voyeurism in this painting, and many of Renoir's other bathing scenes; having said that, however, this voyeurism offers an insight into the feminine subject that is otherwise denied in most previous representations.

These women, while obviously posed for the purposes of representation, are not constrained by their pose; they are conversing while they engage in their ablutions. There is a relaxed demeanour about the women. The dark-haired woman, leaning back on one hand, the other held up, one leg partially raised, a supple contortion in her body accentuated by the folds of skin on her flank beneath her right breast. This is not the usual nude in repose, although her vulva and vagina are still obscured; the problem of her awkward pose and what it might otherwise reveal is unsubtly solved by the dress draped between her thighs. Her bolder companion, arguably the focal point of the scene, is unabashed in revealing her breasts in the act of toweling herself off, implying that there are no men about, that this is purely a woman's space. The third companion reveals only her back and buttocks as she is still in the act of bathing, or is simply reveling in the water; she does not seem too urgent to act, as her right hand spoons the water, perhaps absentmindedly while she enjoys the conversation.

The scene is filled with dynamic action, women in different stages of bathing; women, amongst other women at least, are not static forms. While certain hallmarks of the male gaze and the aesthetic seal remain, scenes such as these, and there are others of equal quality, open a window onto the subjectivity of women. There is a sense of joy in the naked conversation, with three different personalities on display.

The women here are not merely naked or nude, but socially nude; the male gaze is ostensibly invited into a private scene, as a voyeur, but is subverted by the distance established by the fact the women are not gazing back; their gaze is not seductive; their gaze is not stern; their gaze is not passive. Their gaze is simply not returned to the voyeur. Their gaze belongs to each other, dynamically in social intercourse. While the male gaze is still privileged, it is passive; the male viewer is merely an observer.

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In the next blog, I will move in the 20th century, and in particular the advent of photography. Photography has changed the way we view and represent the human body, the female body especially. Verisimilitude is now not only possible but instantaneous; ultimately photography will proliferate in the 20th century. The photograph, and eventually the Internet, will change the relationship between female body and the viewers' (still mostly male) gaze. While the photograph allowed for greater flexibility in the representation of the female body, as well as empowering women in viewing and disseminating their own images, it also has a darker side. This darker side will come into greater focus with the Internet, but this will be the topic of a subsequent blog. 

The Physiology of Poetry

The first thing you must know about reading poetry is that it is unlike reading any other kind of text; not an essay; not a novel; not a newspaper article. Poetry is read as if it were read aloud. When it is read aloud - recited - it is, in essence, performed. The sound of the spoken word is as important as the content. Poetry resides at the primitive intersection of expression and meaning, vocalisation and intention. Language emerges from the body's capacity to produce sounds and to gesticulate (with hand gestures, body language, and facial expressions). When language takes the written form, we often neglect this essential embodied foundation. When reading poetry it is important to remember that it is grounded in the body: the lungs; the heart; the throat; the tongue; the lips; even the neck and back muscles. Posture matters in the recital of poetry - both real and silent - and the understanding that follows from this embodying of the poem.

The act of reciting silently to oneself I call "self-recital." The name, however, implies more than just reciting to oneself; it entails a recital of oneself. In reciting a poem, the reader is imitating or mimicking the poem and the creative processes that constitutes the making of the poem. Following this line of thinking, one might more appropriately say the reader recites the "self" of the poem through this imitation. I must stop here on this point, however, before it gets too abstract. Two things have been asserted thus far that need reiterating: first, reading poetry entails an act of recital; second, and related to the first, reading a poem entails imitation, or mimesis. When we read or recite the poem, out loud or to ourselves, we mimic it. 

So far, this won't help your understanding of poetry; what I have said is very abstract. Persevere: it will make sense shortly. What i have posited doesn't answer the most common complaints about poetry from novices. "I don't get it!" "I don't understand poetic metre." "Why does poetry rhyme?" "Why doesn't this poem rhyme!?" There are different issues at play here, but all these issues revolve around how poetry makes the meaning that it expresses. As I said above, poetry derives from a primal site of human meaning-making: the body. This is why poetry is performed, or acted out, even in self-recital. 

Rhyme and metre are merely devices that help the poet to shape and contort the language (meaning and expression) he or she uses. To the reader, these devices, if and when they are used, are like stage directions; the reader shapes and contorts himself as he or she tries to mimic the poem. By contortion, I am making a physiognomic connection: the mouth, the face, the tongue, the lungs, the eyes, even the neck and back muscles of the reader take a different shape to mirror or mimic the poem in order to reproduce the meaning-making process of the poem. These contortions in the act of self-recital are not obvious, of course. Nobody twists their features so dramatically in a way we would recognise as physical "contortions." The contortions I mean are neurophysiological. The imitation of poetry is subtle and internal. 

The devices that are used to contort and compress the words and sounds of the poem are often misunderstood, and because they are misunderstood the reader's mimetic relationship with poetry is greatly diminished. Here, I will address rhyme and metre, arguably the two most commonly misunderstood elements of poetry. Rhyme, in particular, has an insidious effect on our experience and understanding of poetry. Rhyme is often seen as a basic poetic device, when nothing is further from the truth. Rhyme misused destroys poetry and our understanding of it. 

End-rhyme, for instance, can give the impression that poetry must be read "to the end of the line"; that is, poetry should be read to "hit" the rhyme so that the rhyme is emphasised. This is not the case, certainly not with blank verse or free verse, not even with all rhyming poems. Poems do not have to rhyme, but plenty of good poems do. "Reading to the end of the line" is entirely the wrong message to take from the effect of end-rhyme. Metre, for example blank verse, is used, in part, to subvert acquired reading habits. More specifically, however, metre is used to compress the speech pattern of the poem in order to achieve rhythm. Importantly, rhythm is established so that it, too, can be subverted, changed, altered. A rhythm that does not change is monotonous, and poetry written as such doggerel.

Rhythm from line to line tends to remain consistent, albeit with variations, called hypermetric features. Simply because the rhythm is largely consistent doesn't mean you stop at the end of the line and start again at the beginning of the next. The rhythm wraps around from one line to the next based on the sentence structure. As such, you don't read to the end of the line, you read to the end of the sentence. The compression caused by the metre emphasises the rhythm of reading, but you still read for the logical unit of thought: the sentence. This raises the further question of grammar - while we have considerable flexibility with grammar in poetry, we cannot wholly ignore it (although some have tried). Punctuation, for example, plays an important role in signifying rhythm. In primary school, we are often taught that the comma signifies a "short" pause or breath, while a full stop signifies a "long" breath. This description, while questionable in the teaching of technical grammar, is useful for reading poetry. 

Where the metre provides the tension and compression required to produce a consistent rhythm, and rhyme can help to enforce that rhythm, punctuation and grammar help to structure and signify, or flag, the rhythm to the reader. When reading a poem, imitating it in the act of self-recital, we read in "parcels" of two to three words. The metre, specifically the basic unit of metre the foot (2-3 syllables), at a fundamental level, and punctuation and grammar at a level higher (and rhyme at a level higher still) all contribute to the way we perceive and subsequently comprehend the poem. The poem is a dynamic of these (and other) elements. Reducing the poetic experience to any one element is counterproductive. 

There are a few points to take out of this discussion:

1) Reading poetry is a form of performance, a recital or self-recital, which is predicated on an act of imitation. 

2) This act of imitation is an embodied act. Poetry acts upon the body in subtle but significant ways. 

3) Poetry employs a number of devices, including metre, rhyme, and grammar and punctuation, to compress and contort language for effect.

4) The reader mimics these contortions in order reproduce the meaning-making process of the poem. 

5) In imitating the poem, the reader must take a couple of things into account:

5i) Not all poems will feature all the possible elements of poetry. Not all poems rhyme for example.

5ii) In order to experience the rhythm of the poem, we don't read to the end of the line, but to the end of the sentence.

5iii) Punctuation and grammar helps to provide "stage directions": a comma indicates a short breath, a full stop a long breath, semicolons and colons somewhere in between. When they are used, question and exclamation marks indicate the appropriate inflection. 

One last point is worth reiterating, and it relates to the process of reading itself. There is a disparity between the way we perceive words on the page and the way we speak them. When we read, our eyes dart rapidly from side to side, movements called saccades. Because of this, we don't actually read word by word, we read in parcels of words, two or three at a time. When we speak, however, we speak in syllabic progression; to be understood, we have to enunciate our words clearly (speed of enunciation differs with familiar, mature native speakers). 

Poetry, as an act of imitation and recital, requires that we read at a pace that allows us to enunciate the words in syllabic progression; but because of our faster reading habit (saccadic rhythms are the reason we can skim read) we have to resist the urge to skim or scan quickly. If this happens, the effect of the poem is lost. This is one aspect of poetry's subversion of acquired language habits. Importantly, the saccadic rhythm of eye movements helps us find the beat of the poem. A metrical foot is 2-3 syllables long. We can, in fact, perceive the metre of half a line quite easily, with a little practice. The punctuation on the page helps to slow us down even further, because a foot usually does not cross punctuation marks. 

Hopefully, I have conveyed the complexity of the poetic experience, but I have not overwhelmed you with it. There are simple things to keep in mind in order to come to grips with poetry. It is only through accumulating an admittedly imperfect arsenal of hints, tips, and rules of thumb over time, as well as plenty of practice, that you will reconstruct the poetic experience for yourself and come to understand poetry at its most fundamental level. 

The Defence of Poetry in the Modern World: A Proposal

It has largely become a cliché in the discussion of poetry, of its moral and social merits, to address the great Platonic rejection of the art from any ideal state of being. Poets were kicked out of the Republic, and for millennia they have held a grudge. Poets “know” intuitively the social and moral importance of their art, the odd outlandish remark punctuating the point: “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” Shelley announces. The emphasis, one suspects, is on unacknowledged with a touch of agitation. As a result of Plato’s rough treatment, there has grown the tradition of the “defence” of poetry, but it seems no acknowledgement of poetry’s importance is yet forthcoming.

But can poetry’s modern obscurity and disfavour really be attributed to an ancient philosopher? The problem that poetry faces today is not philosophical, but perhaps rather economical. Poetry has always suffered from a lack of money and popular appeal; as Robert Frost says, “there is no money in poetry and no poetry in money.” Poetry is forever on the defence because it has a limited audience; it seems it has always had a limited audience, with few exceptions. We try to teach it in school, and perhaps this is where the problem lies. Equally as problematic, in the contemporary context, poetry cannot contend with the hyperstimulation of modern technology and entertainment.

Poetry has remained largely unchanged; the biggest change it has ever endured is the great leap from the oral to written form. The latter, of course, retains a connection with the former. Modern technology, however, has accelerated at such pace that our lives and or experiences are unimaginably different to what to what they were two or three generations ago. Poetry, to be sure, is an ancient art, if not the most ancient, and this is perhaps why we so often return to that first great rejection. We must not overlook the possibility, however, that society may have just past us by. This is the existential threat that poetry faces, and it is up to poets not only to resist this nihilism, but to assert its positive presence in society. More than just poets, it is up to thinkers and theorists and poetry’s small but loyal coterie of sympathisers to defend poetry.

But, does poetry actually need “defending”? Surely, there will always be readers of poetry. The internet has opened up the lines of communication between human beings across great distances more than any other invention; it has taken the inventions of language and the written word into a new dimension. There are numerous online poetry publications, as well as online communities of poets where their art can be shared and discussed. While there is still little money in poetry, it doesn’t seem to be any worse off in Information Age.

Poets still practice their art freely; readers still read, and theorists still theorise. Students still hate poetry, and teachers still don’t help. The question “what is poetry?” however, also remains unanswered. Poetry, for many, still remains a mystery; the mysteries of rhyme, metre, free verse, even the social and moral purpose of poetry, are vexatious for many. Or, perhaps, poetry slows life and the mind down to a pace at which it must consider things at depth, and this is frustrating in the flittering age of the internet. Does anybody really want to think anymore when knowledge is just a Google search away? Importantly, does anybody need to think the way in which poetry compels us anymore?

Poetry must always find and assert its relevance in any given time period; it is no different today. Poets have an obligation to their craft not only to find its contemporary niche, but to expand that niche and seek acknowledgement. This is achieved as much through the practice of poetry as through imparting the practice to others, creatively and pedagogically. Understanding what poetry is requires a sustained engagement by practitioners and theorists alike in order to uncover and convey the mysteries of poetry to those both inside and outside the coterie of poetry.

Understanding poetry is not the same as understanding other arts. Poetry is itself about understanding, about metaphor and meaning-making. Poetry can make us think deeply, and challenge our cognitive capacity; a good poem will always punish a lazy reader, but reward an attentive one. Understanding poetry, answering the question “what is poetry?” is a complex matter that has wracked the minds of poets, theorists, critics, and philosophers since Plato. It may, then, have been a fundamental misunderstanding of poetry that led to Plato’s rash decision. But we can only assume.

How then is poetry to be explained? Perhaps more importantly, how is poetry to be explained so as to attract more readers? Poetry, after all, relates to a fundamental process of thinking; indeed, poetry turns us back towards that process of meaning-making like no other art. To understand poetry, then, is to understand meaning-making at its most fundamental level. The challenge for poets and poetic thinkers alike is to demonstrate this vital dimension of poetry. This is a theoretical problem as much as a practical problem; as much as a pedagogical problem as it is a critical problem.

*

The relationship between poetic practice and theory is an important intersection that can shed light on our understanding of poetry, but that relationship is also problematic. There is no comprehensive theory of poetry, but countless parochial ones. Every poet has a few theories that might explain their use of a favourite metaphor or trope; every theorist has a theory by which to explain why their favourite poet is particularly special. There may be a danger, then, that theory is just a side industry or a curiosity, so much self-justificatory or self-congratulatory “padding.” What, then, is the relationship between practice and theory? Does poetic practice even need theory? What purposed does the latter serve to the former?

It is, perhaps, too glib to suggest that the theory of poets is self-serving, equally so with theorists and critics. The attempt to understand poetry is an ongoing effort to which every poet and theorist adds his or her voice and ideas. The question, however, must be asked, what value does theory have in relation to the practice of poetry. Can theory ever explain poetry? Can practice ever be used to prove theory? Do poets write to a theory, or does theory come ex post facto?

Poets, like Wordsworth, Shelley, Eliot, and Brodsky, have contributed just as significantly to poetic theory as much as practice. But we must ask what the relationship between their theory and practice is. In what way, for instance, is Eliot’s notion of the “objective correlative” at work in The Waste Land? Equally importantly, we must also ask what the relationship between the theoretical insights of poets is. And further, can we apply the insights of one poet to the works of another? Can Philip Larkin’s notion of the “emotional concept” be applied Robert Frost’s “Death of the Hired Man”? Is there any value in such comparative analysis? Will this get us any closer to understanding what poetry is?

We have been trying to understand poetry – to answer the question “what is poetry?” – since at least Aristotle; since Plato, we have been “defending” it against misunderstanding. There is a long tradition of theoretical defences and explications of poetry, which can be mined for convergent insights. “Delight,” for instance, or “wisdom” (or “knowledge,” or “learning”) are recurrent concepts in the defence of poetry. The goal of poetry, as Sidney succinctly puts it, is “to teach and delight.” “A poem” Frost says concurring, “begins in delight and ends in wisdom.” For Aristotle, the delight, or pleasure, originates in mimesis; for Plato, the sin of poetry consists in the wrong kind of teaching it imparts through mimesis. Is it possible to explain the delight and teaching of poetry in defence against Plato’s accusations?

Our understanding of the human body and brain is of such an advanced nature that we may someday soon map human thought with high fidelity. Soon, we may be able to map the poetic experience inside the brain and see poetic delight; we might be able to see the benefits of poetry. This might be considered a threat, the unravelling of yet another rainbow. What are the implications of our growing cognitive and neurological understanding of human thought and experience for poetic theory and practice? To what extent should poets embrace technology? And how might our understanding of the human body and brain be incorporated into our understanding of poetry?

Perhaps a new “defence of poetry” would be characterised by the re-evaluation of poetry in light of new scientific knowledge. As knowledge and technology evolves, society changes; as society changes, so does its relationship to its artists, including its poets. The poet’s niche must be carved anew. The rise of technology and scientific knowledge can be seen to throw into stark relief the relationship between poetic practice and theory, in part because science and technology have changed how we relate to each other. Poetry, the “most ancient” of arts, connects us to our history and our origins; how we reconcile it with our technology-driven future may be the most important question of all.  

The Philosophy of Poetry (Pt. 3): Larkin and Brodsky, The Face of the Poem

The Philosophy of Poetry (Pt. 1): Eliot, Theory and Criticism

The Philosophy of Poetry (Pt. 2): Eliot and Brodsky, the Experience of Poems

Note: this thread has taken on a life of its own. The original intention of this thread was to develop a seminar paper on the Philosophy of Poetry that I would deliver in July; however, it has become apparent that this series of blogs is far more in-depth than a seminar paper. I will continue to explore the notion of a philosophy of poetry here, and hopefully generate further insight into my overall research. As such, this will be an ongoing enterprise. The format will remain the same as a continuous text. Each individual post is not a discrete unity.

 

The Philosophy of Poetry (Pt. 3): Larkin and Brodsky, The Face of the Poem

The conversation, then, in Brodsky’s estimation, is between the reader and the poem; “a poem,” it must be remembered, “addresses a man tete-a-tete, entering with him into direct [...] relations.” The poem catalyses in the reader’s mind so that the reader can, indeed, “be like” the poem. Where Eliot refers to this process of getting inside the reader’s head as a catalytic process, Brodsky refers to it as “linguistic osmosis.”

Both poets are referring to the way in which the poet conveys the experience of the meaning-making process to the reader. This is process entails emotion. The British poet, Philip Larkin puts the point directly: “poetry should begin with emotion in the poet, and end with the same emotion in the reader. The poem is simply the instrument of transference.” Elsewhere he explains the process of transference in three stages:

The first [stage] is when a man becomes obsessed with an emotional concept to such a degree that he is compelled to do something about it. What he does is the second stage, namely, construct a verbal device that will reproduce this emotional concept in anyone who cares to read it, anywhere, any time. The third stage is the recurrent situation of people in different times and places setting off the device and re-creating in themselves what the poet felt when he wrote.

The “transference” of the “emotional concept” through the “verbal device” of the poem from poet to reader – not just a single reader but all readers – resonates with Brodsky’s “linguistic osmosis,” but it also resonates with the catalytic metaphor Eliot uses to explain his “Impersonal theory” of the poetic process.

            Brodsky argues that the poetic experience is intensely private, throwing into stark relief “the privateness of the human condition.” It nevertheless is a conversation with the poet, at least through the medium of the poem; for Eliot, the poet is merely a conduit, and it is the poem that stands in his place, conveying emotion through the “objective correlative,” the objects or series of events that encapsulate what Larkin calls the “emotional concept.” The mechanics of the poetic experience, for Larkin, is best facilitated “in silence”:

the reader’s first encounter with the poem must be a silent, active one, an absorption of spelling and stanza arrangement as much as paraphraseable meaning and corrective historical knowledge.

Larkin is making a comparison between reading poetry and hearing it read; he says elsewhere:

Hearing a poem, as opposed to reading it on the page, means you miss so much – the shape, the punctuation, the italics, even knowing how far you are from the end. Reading it on the page means you can go at your own pace, taking it in properly; hearing it means you’re dragged along at the speaker’s own rate, missing things, not taking it in, confusing “there” and “their” and things like that. And the speaker may interpose his personality between you and the poem, for better or worse.

The reader can only be like the poem if the responsibility of re-enacting the meaning-making process is his. We may become curious, Larkin admits, of what the author sounds like:

there comes a moment with any poem that we have really taken to ourselves when we want to hear its author read it. We want to confirm our conviction that he would quicken the pace here, throw away an irony there, or perhaps our curiosity is just for what his voice can add.

This curiosity about the poet’s voice is a natural outcome of what I previously called poetic mimesis; Eliot’s theory of depersonalisation and Brodsky’s linguistic osmosis represent different, but related, facets of poetic mimesis.

            For Brodsky, the curiosity engendered in the reader goes beyond the voice of the poet; it is, for Brodsky, the face of the poet that we become curious about:

In theory, authors’ looks should be of no consequence to their readers: reading is not a narcissistic activity, neither is writing, yet the moment one likes a sufficient amount of a poet’s verse one starts to wonder about the appearance of the writer. This, presumably, has to do with one’s suspicion that to like a work of art is to recognise the truth, or the degree of it, that art expresses. Insecure by nature, we want to see the artist, whom we identify with his work, so that the next time around we might know what truth looks like in reality.

Both Brodsky and Larkin touch upon an essential mimetic component of the poetic experience. However “depersonalised” the poet becomes in the act of poetic meaning-making, the mimetic instinct compels the reader towards this curiosity; the poet is the natural proxy in this experience. It is not the face of the poet, per se, that the reader is curious about, but the face of the poem, the face of meaning-making in general, the human face.

"Can Beauty Ever be Considered a Moral Trait?" Part One: From Venus to Eve



Introduction

 

In this series of blogs I will trace the evolution of the tastes and values surrounding the female nude, from the Venus of Willendorf to Barbie. The purpose of this series of blogs is to show the transformation of tastes and values, and ultimately the politics, that has followed the perception, appreciation, and treatment of the female form. The cultural and aesthetic treatment of the female body has changed over time, and is now a more contest site of meaning than ever before. This, we might call the democratisation of the female body.

 

At no time in history have woman had as much political and aesthetic control over their bodies, although by no means at a level of parity with men. In order to understand this democratisation we need to understand that the tastes and values surrounding the female form are not fixed, that there is a range of influences that contribute to the prevailing tastes and values of a given era that change over time. Unlike during any other era, women are subjective agents (as opposed to objects of discussion) who contribute to the tastes and values surrounding their own form.

 

 

"Can Beauty ever be Considered a Moral Trait?"

 

This was the question posed to my first-year class at university this year for a writing task. It's a decidedly big question, but it's also a very important question outside the abstract domain of the classroom. It is a question that resides at the crossroad of aesthetics and ethics, always a contentious intersection. Contentious because it overlaps with certain areas of interest with gender studies and sexual politics more broadly; in particular, the notion of beauty of a highly contested concept. A woman's beauty, more specifically, can be highly ideological terrain. Nevertheless, I do believe that beauty can be a moral trait, and I will seek to frame this answer to the question here. It is, however, more complicated than a yes/no answer.

 

To try to explain simply, beauty is a moral trait, not in an objective or subjective sense but in an intersubjective sense. Beauty is a moral trait of all the participants involved or complicit in the process whereby beauty is constructed or perceived. That is, beauty is a moral trait not only for those who are considered beautiful but also those who consider them beautiful, the perceiver as well as the perceived; importantly, both can be the same person. I will attempt to explain the nuance of this point.

 

To call beauty, particularly physical beauty, a moral trait raises questions of value and taste. By "taste" I mean the prevailing preferences of a society at any given time; in the context, this refers to the preferred shapes and variations of the female form. Value is construed more broadly: it refers to what is considered important to that society at any given time. I say "at any given time" because tastes and values do change; understanding the process of change is critical to understanding how beauty can be considered a moral trait.

 

What I will focus on here is how the representation of the female form has changed. In particular, I will focus on a few key representations of the female nude. The female nude has historically been laden with meaning, indicative of the values of the era. That is, the aesthetic tastes that surrounds the female nude at any given time are representative of a set of prevailing values of the era. Importantly, those values change from era to era, and are not always related to the same material facts. Let me foreshadow a little to explain: the Gothic nude, the nude of the middle ages, an era of extreme religiosity, depicts the female form in a decidedly non-sexual way, while the nude of Ancient Greece depicts an ideal, almost mathematical form. The pre-historic Venus of Willendorf embodies a different set of values, while modern images of the nude a different set of values again.

 

I will address the different representations as embodying a certain set of historical values; the importance of this point is that the tastes and values surrounding the female body have changed, and that there is no fixed value, as such. The value of the female body is historically situated and not absolute. What is, therefore, moral about beauty pertains to its relative state, meaning the social, economic, and political situation in which the female body exists.

 

 

Prehistory: The Venus of Willendorf

 

It can be argued that the changes in historical tastes and values of the female body constitute an evolution towards the democratisation of the female body, but this is not my goal at present. It is, nevertheless, importantly to keep in mind that the body is never just an image, even in its prehistoric form; it is always a site of political and social significance.

 

The Venus of Willendorf is one of the oldest representations of the human form.

 

 

 

 

 

What you first notice about the Venus are breasts and stomach. On closer inspection you notice that the figure has no discernible face and no arms. It is also noticeable that the Venus has a large posterior. Certain features of the Venus are exaggerated while other features are diminished. The question, of course, must be "why?" One theory, promoted by neuroscientists like V. S. Ramachandran, suggests that the exaggeration of certain features and not others relates to a biological predisposition toward those certain features and not others. This is an evolutionary argument.

 

The exaggeration of the breasts and the stomach, which are pertinent to child-raising, has some resonance. The Venus's physique is not an oddity, the same sorts of exaggerations and minimisations occur in other "Venuses" of the time period, 20,000-25,000 years ago. The traditional interpretation is that the Venus is a fertility symbol, which is a reasonable analysis. Other interpretations, which can be seen as sympathetic to the fertility interpretation, argue that there is a biological imperative that leads to the brain emphasising certain features and not others. This is a evolutionary and neurological interpretation.

 

A proper interpretation must take account of all the features, including the minimised ones; in the case of the Venus of Willendorf, the absence of arms and the minimisation of facial features, which again is common in other Venus figurines. If the brain is, for lack of a better word, programmed to focus on certain features and not others, then there is an argument to be made about the exaggerated features in the Venus. The values expressed in these earliest artistic expressions are neuro-biological, if not evolutionary.  

Antiquity: The Aphrodite of Knidos

The Venus of Willendorf signifies the emergence of art and human culture - the shift from prehistory to history. The female body has not changed in 30,000-odd years; what has changed is the art and culture of the human race. The influence of art and culture on the tastes and values of society, at least in terms of Western art and culture, surrounding the female nude is best illustrated by the Classical - Greco-Roman - treatment of the naked female form. The Greeks were fascinated by mathematics, and mathematical proportions would come to influence even their appreciation of the human body.

 

Importantly, the male nude was held equal to, if not greater than, the female nude in cultural and aesthetic esteem in Greek society. This is an interesting point of different to every other period of Western history, but my focus here is the female form. There is, arguably, an obsession with the male form now, but whether it is comparable to the Greeks' is another question for another time.

 

The female nude is represented through a very particular formula: the distance between the breasts, the distance from the breasts to the navel, and the distance from the navel to the partition of the legs. That is to say, the distance from the breasts to the partition is twice that of the distance between the breasts. This is a mathematical formula that, as Kenneth Clark says, is repeated throughout the classical period. The Aphrodite of Knidos (or Cnidos), attributed to Praxiteles, exemplifies this formula:

 

 

 

The Aphrodite differs markedly from the Venus; the craft of sculpting had obviously greatly improved in 20,000-odd years! That aside, what we notice is, at first glance, is an emphasis on verisimilitude, quite distinct from the exaggerations of the breasts, buttocks, and stomach in the Venus. I say "at first glance" because the proportions are, as I have mentioned, governed by a mathematical ideal, and this is not universally applicable; very few women actually meet the "Classical ideal."

 

The Greek obsession with mathematics goes beyond sculpture and the representation of the human form. There was a mysticism that was attached to mathematics, perhaps best exemplified in the cult of Pythagoras. Mathematics was a lens through which the world could be seen and understood; it must be remembered that Ancient Greece, Classical civilisation, is where many of our most enduring questions about humanity and the universe were first asked.

 

Mathematics represents order and causal structures of meaning. While women were considered second-class citizens (there is no real difference in their political status in Antiquity to the later Gothic, or medieval era), the "idealisation" of form is not misogynistic; both male and female forms had mathematical ideals. The set of value this particular taste represents revolves around proportion and structure. Greek society (I have Athenian society in mind here) was highly structured, socially and politically.

 

Perhaps a more enduring expression of the Greek ideals of structure and organisation than mathematical ideals and mysticism that emerges from Ancient Greece is the form of political organisation known as democracy, which flickered for a brief moment in the 4th century BC, and which would be seen again for millennia. Greek democracy was a complicated system with what Americans would call "checks and balances" programmed into its institutional structure. Although, women were not granted a vote, and, obviously, neither were slaves. Politically and culturally speaking, in ancient Greece there was certain prevailing attitudes towards women and certain minorities that still echo today.

 

 

Medieval Era: Adam and Eve

 

The Greeks revelled in mathematical proportions; they had stumbled upon the fact that everything in the universe could be represented mathematically, though they may have extended the metaphor too far with prescriptive measurements. In the medieval period, representations of the female body took on a different shape. The ideal form of the Greeks, perhaps an exaggeration of proportionality, gives way to a different kind of exaggeration in the Gothic or Medieval period.

 

There are two parts to the Gothic era, early and late. The female (as well as the male) body is noticeably different, although they share the same desexualised essence. The early Gothic body is remarkable in its unremarkable shape with no physiological emphasis of any sort; the "ideal proportion" of the early-Gothic is one of severe under-statement. The early-Gothic period, it must be remembered, is one dominated by the Christian mythology and a pervasive asceticism. The body, in this period, is something to be shunned, not glorified; it is almost always in a state of mortification. The Adam and Eve at Bamberg is a good example of the entirely desexualised nature of the early-Gothic nude.

 

 

 

Adam and Eve are almost caricatures. The body is something to be transcended in this time period. The natural shape of the female form (as well as the male form) is caricatured into near formlessness. Save for two small breasts, the difference between Adam and Eve is negligible.

 

The late-Gothic representation of the female body, on the other hand, is a little more stylised; as such, it is a little more interesting. The late-Gothic nude has two key features: an emphasising of the stomach, and a de-emphasising of the breasts. The exaggeration of the stomach and reduction of the breasts represent a de-sexualisation of the female form and an emphasis on the woman's role as life-giver. The distended stomach always resembles the swollen belly inextricably associated with pregnancy. The swollen breasts that are also often associated with pregnancy are not represented, however.

 

Hugo van der Goes' depiction of Adam and Eve is emblematic of the late-Gothic nude. Kenneth Clark refers to the female nude of this period as "bulb-like," while the men are root-like in form.

 

 

 

 

 The distended stomachs of the Gothic female nude are peculiar from a modern perspective, but it must be remembered that the predominant shape is indicative of the morality of the time. "Eve" is decidedly un-sexual; her body is purely functional. However, it should also be remembered what women represented for the 1500 since the emergence of Christianity: the Fall of Man, as represented in van der Goes' picture. Eve is plucking the apple from the Tree of Knowledge at the insistence of the anthropomorphic snake. It is, perhaps, ironic that the gender that is held responsible for the Fall of Man for her temptation is represented so un-temptingly.

 

*

 

In the next blog, I will focus on representations of the female body from the Renaissance to the 20th Century. In particular, I will look at the works of Giorgione, Titian, Rubens and Renoir, among others. Artists such as these over this period since the 15th century capture broader-ranging and more naturalistic images of the female nude, with an increasing sense of feminine subjectivity and diversity in the subject-matter. As this period progresses, depictions of the female nude are bound less and less by an over-arching moral structure or ideal; depictions of the female nude over this period become more subjective, both in relation to the artist and the female subject herself. This diversification and subjectivisation is an important precursor - empowering as well as problematic - to the realisation of beauty as a moral trait in the modern era.

The Philosophy of Poetry (Pt. 1): Eliot, Theory and Criticism

In this blog, and in subsequent blogs, I will be posting portions of a forthcoming seminar in which I will discuss the relevance of a philosophy of poetry. In this blog I discuss the critical work of T. S. Eliot, which dominated much of the 20th century thought on poetry. Eliot's criticism helps to set the groundwork for a philosophy of poetry, in spite of the fact that he shows an aversion for explicit philosophising on the subject, particularly by poets.

Eliot, Theory and Criticism

I wish to put a general proposition to you: poetry is a philosophical activity. I wish also to put another, related, proposition to you: there exists a discipline of the philosophy of poetry. The veracity of the latter follows from the inherency of the former. “Poetry is a philosophical activity,” however, is quite vague; do I mean writing poetry? Or do I mean reading poetry? I mean both; and I mean all that poetry entails, including poetic criticism and theory. Poetry is a philosophical activity because it is an investigation into what is meaningful, and why. Poetry is also the creation of meaning. The philosophy of poetry, as I envision it, then, entails an attempt at understanding this dual dynamic of poetic investigation and creation.

In this seminar, I will explore the possibility of a philosophy of poetry through a synthesis of different theoretical perspectives on poetry. In particular, I will discuss and analyse the critical and theoretical work of a number of prominent 20^th century poets, as well as a number of 20^th century philosophers who address the question of poetry. The question of poetry can be understood simply as “what is poetry?” The philosophy of poetry, then, can be understood as an attempt to answer this question.

T. S. Eliot addresses the question “what is poetry?” in the "Introduction" to his The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism. Eliot argues that poetry and criticism both seek to address this question; that poetry and criticism are, in effect, different aspects of the same activity. "The question 'what is poetry?'" he says, "issues quite naturally from our experience of poems." "To ask the question 'what is poetry?'" he says shortly after, "is to posit the critical function," by which he means the act of criticism. Eliot is justifying the importance of criticism to the understanding of art, in this case poetry. He says, in fact, that criticism is "inevitable and requires no justification" (emphasis mine).

My interest in Eliot's apology revolves around a seemingly innocuous parenthetical phrase. It occurs amidst the quotes already cited. I will cite the extended quote:

At any rate, the question 'what is poetry?' issues quite naturally from our experience of poems. Even, therefore, although we may admit that few forms of intellectual activity seem to have less to show for themselves, in the course of history, in the way of books worth reading, than does criticism, it would appear that criticism, like any philosophical activity, is inevitable and requires no justification. To ask 'what is poetry?' is to posit the critical function. (emphasis mine)

"Like any philosophical activity" implies that criticism is a philosophical activity. At the very least, Eliot means that criticism is comparable to philosophical activities. This proximate relationship of criticism and philosophical activity is important in light of the causal relationship between poetry and criticism with regard to the question "what is poetry?"

If "the experience of poems" leads "naturally" to the question "what is poetry?" and if "to ask 'what is poetry?' is to posit the critical function," and if criticism, which is "inevitable," is "like any philosophical activity," then there is a philosophical dimension to poetry.  The question "what is poetry?" then, is a question with philosophical implications, a philosophical question. I will address the conceptual importance of this point shortly. There are two further points I need to address first.

Eliot does not deny the connection between philosophy and poetry, but he does obfuscate the relationship. There are two quotes that illustrate this point. In his lecture on "Shelley and Keats," Eliot opines, "I believe that for a poet to be also a philosopher he would have to be virtually two men." He goes on to say that

A poet may borrow a philosophy or he may do without one. It is when he philosophises upon his own poetic insight that he is apt to go all wrong.

He says elsewhere, however, that "the extreme of theorising about the nature of poetry, the essence of poetry if there is any, belongs to the study of aesthetics." We can glean from these two quotes that poetry can, indeed, be understood philosophically, but that poets themselves are "apt to go all wrong" when they try to engage in that philosophising.

The division Eliot erects between philosophers and poets, however, is arbitrary, and it may have more to do with Eliot's dislike of Shelley and the Romanticism more broadly, which he called a "literary disease." There is nothing to say that a poet cannot philosophise or theorise on poetry; Eliot himself does it. Like many poets, Eliot smuggles his own theorising into his criticism of the poetry or literary works of others. For instance, Eliot postulates his theory of the "auditory imagination" in his criticism of Mathew Arnold, while he develops his "Impersonal theory" of poetry in his critique of Hamlet. Criticism is a philosophical activity.

Sex, Sexuality, and the Emancipation of the Imagination

I’m a heterosexual man; I find women attractive. I could explain why, but seeing how I’m a heterosexual man you probably already know why. You probably find women attractive, too. Or men. Or both. The options are limited. Again, you probably know why. There’s nothing wrong with sex, or sexual attraction. We’re supposed to be attracted to each other, to varying degrees. Sexuality is the basis of much - in some cases most - of our social interaction; propagation of the species is the goal of sexuality and social bonding. That isn’t our decision; rather, it’s the goal of our genes. Their purpose is to reproduce themselves and we are their vehicles. To quote Daniel Dennett, we are “gene machines.” But that doesn’t mean we are robots, or that genetics is a licence to pursue our biological imperative with amoral abandon.

We are our genes and our organs and our nervous systems and the instincts that drive us toward certain acts (over and over and over again); but we are also our cultivated minds, our emotions, our social and familial relations. There is, of course, continuity between our genes and our higher mental and emotional faculties; they are all constituted in the same organism: us! And this continuity, in evolutionary terms, is important. However far we travel, socially and technologically speaking, we are never too far from our biological roots – we are our biological roots. But we are more than our biology; this is the beauty of our humanity. We can transcend our instincts (I have reservations about the word “transcend” but it suits the purpose here).

We transcend our instincts through art and the aesthetic perception of nature and ourselves. But the aesthetic perception of the human body is grounded in our biology. The aesthetic perception of the human body is grounded in its sexual associations; what is beautiful about the human body always seems to revolve around the sexual organs. Perhaps not always, but often enough to produce a trend. And that’s OK. I like breasts, because I’m a heterosexual man. But the female face is also attractive to me; the face has no sexual function – no reproductive function – but the face is the seat of emotional and linguistic communication. We kiss, which entails the use of the mouth, the same orifice that speaks and moans and cries and frowns and smiles; the face is the locus of expression and the most immediate and attractive part of any human being. It isn’t all about sex, it’s also about communication, interaction, intersubjectivity.

Sexuality is a form of communication. The sexual act itself, however, is only one part of sexuality; to conflate the two is a dangerous error. Sexuality is the extension of the basic sexual facts into the realm of the imagination. That is to say, human sexuality has metaphoric dimensions above those of our basic sexual behaviours. No other animal has this projective capacity; other animals can plan ahead, anticipate, or calculate, but none can occupy that projective space in the same way that we can. That space is the imagination, and we do a lot of wonderful things with it. Language is an important component of our imagination, so is the ability to produce pictorial representations. Literature, poetry, painting, and photography are the products of those components of our imagination, and they have fashioned our social existence for our entire history. In fact, human history begins when art begins.

Sexuality and the human body, for the same length of time - that is, for all of time - have been the object of our imagination, and this pervasive and persistent attention has changed our bodies, as well as our sexuality. To be sure, we've had a turbulent relationship with our imagination and its treatment of sexuality and the body; what is more, repressive sexual politics haunts us to this day. But this repressive politics is borne out of a base human instinct: the instinct to control. It is a different kind of projection; it is imposition, and I have discussed this previously.

It is entirely common, and most acute in the realm of sex and sexuality, to see the imposition of "values," which have the same conceptual basis as that which their imposers are trying to repress. The world of sexual politics is replete with hypocrites because this irrepressible intersection. The same mind that seeks to impose its preferred sexual narrative is the same mind that imagines the perversions it's so offended by. There is no shortage of tales of, usually conservative, politicians and social leaders falling foul of their sexual desires at the cost of their political careers. The U.S. is particularly rich with such tales.

I should explain more explicitly what I mean when I say "sexuality is a form of communication." By definition, as a form of communication sexuality is reciprocal. It is both projection and reception, predicated on the existence of similarly-constituted others. There is no sexuality without others - sexuality is not simply private (although it is certainly that in some respects), it is a public and collective mode of communication because it is predicated on the existence of others. Because it is a public and collective mode of communication it is also contested, sometimes by the aforementioned politicians who seek to take advantage of divisive positions (no pun intended). We share our sexuality in various expressive forms, from the conventional to the radical.

We don't just produce representations of the body, we use the body itself as a canvas for representation. No other aesthetic object is so thoroughly employed. We can communicate sexual availability, preference, and defiance all at once; we can even transform the very notions of sex and sexuality. We can do this because we have an imagination. What is more, we can do this because we all have the same imagination, the same capacity to imagine. But, and it's a very important but, imagination, like biology, is no licence to indulge with amoral abandon. This is no morality I am preaching, but a subtle and fundamental truth. Sexuality is predicated on the existence of similarly-constituted others, and that includes the metaphoric capacity of imagination.

The central claim of feminist politics, and sexual and gender politics more generally, is grounded in the subtle fact that we occupy the same metaphoric space of imagination through which we communicate and shape our perception of the world, including and especially with regard to sexuality and social interaction more broadly. The demand for gender or sexual equality is a demand for an equal share of the collective imagination, by which we generate the value-systems that govern our behaviour, and which are sometimes legislated to very dangerous ends (think of the punitive divorce laws and sodomy laws that have at one time existed in Western countries, and still exist in many non-Western countries).

The sexual act is not the determinant factor for human sexuality because the act itself is surpassed by the metaphoric projections of our imagination, and it is in that space, not strictly speaking the biological space that we now operate. To be sure, biology dictates certain outcomes. Reproduction and orgasm are the two most important forces to a sexual body (though not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily both). What is important, however, is that the imagination is emancipated from the demands of either. As strange as it might seem, reproduction or orgasm are not required outcomes for human sexuality. A woman doesn't have to have baby just because she is sexually active, and a man doesn't have to ejaculate just because he is aroused by the sight of a woman, or a man for that matter.

This is an aesthetic emancipation and it is the true source of human sexuality. Perhaps perversely, this emancipation is also a site of manipulation and coercion. Again, the drive to impose upon others is always present. Not only are there repressive forces contesting the ground of the collective imagination, there are exploitative forces as well. True emancipation only comes through a collective broadening of the aesthetic boundaries of sexuality. In a sense, it requires an emancipation of sexuality as a form of communication from the sexual act itself. Reproduction and ejaculation aren't a mandate dictating to, or stemming from, sexuality as a form of communication.

The history of the representation of the human body provides a fascinating case-study in how the collective imagination has changed, from the prehistoric Venus of Willendorf to the Greeks' obsession with the naked male form, to the medieval fascination with small breasts, to modern representations of the human body. The emancipation of sexuality would require at least a cursory understand of human representations of the human body have changed throughout our history. But this is a topic for another blog!