Сергей Форкош
Ukrainian Thinker, Doctor of Philosophy, translator

MEDITATION IN THE MUSEUM OF FINE ARTS

MEDITATION IN THE MUSEUM OF FINE ARTS
Photo provided by the author

 

Images greet us everywhere, but they reveal their mysterious stillness only in the museum. Transitioning from the space of everyday life into the atmosphere of the museum, we are taken by surprise. But how do we approach the embodied images in the paintings without bringing something inert from our daily perception? We may need to return to the origin, to the way our gaze is structured, and how seeing itself is possible. Only after such practice can we reclaim a pure view of the visible world of the museum.

 

TRANSITION…
 
First and foremost, it is essential to recognize that a museum harbors not only a unique space but (and this is crucial) a rhythm of time that is distinct from our everyday experience.

Crossing the boundary between the space of everyday life and the space of the museum, we must first respond to how the museum space retains the inertia of the ongoing, how this space, still formal and unrecognized in its reality, contrasts in our experience of ourselves, liberating us from our (always somehow) embeddedness in the situation.

This is not merely about slowing down but about the essential act of removing the familiar, the habitual, which is necessary to appreciate the art in its true essence.

This removal must be primarily directed at the way of seeing itself, at that realized act in which perceptions and images are already covered with the dead skin of obsessive and relentless repetitions.

In the museum, we must return to a state, a positioning in the world where the world as the ultimate horizon of experience is not yet defined. Here, the rules and methods of forming images have not yet emerged, have not yet become accessible, let alone that in this state, we must generally exclude the knowledge of images; here, we must find ourselves before the possibility of forming an image, organizing the manifold, in this pure naivety of the primary, original gazing at what is in front of us, at what is opposite us, thus pointing to the line, to the first stroke on the open and still unrecognized canvas of our presence in the world.

Entering the museum, we must recognize the boundaries of the visible as a knowing gaze. We must go beyond these boundaries to make the application of the image on the canvas of our soul possible. After all, every genuine painting is an effort that begins with something «without» a photo or «before» an image, which means that on the painting, each time, not only a particular image is created, but the very nature of imagery itself.

Therefore, it is essential to understand that the museum is a place for the practice of image formation, a place where the possibility to renew the original image of the already accepted world, which is hidden and emerges only in moments of «borderline» situations, where the edges of our presence in it are sharpened. But how do we achieve this? How do we free ourselves from the obsessiveness of dominant images? First of all, we must meet the image.

 

Пауль Клее. Древний звук, 1925
Paul Klee. Ancient sound, 1925 / arthive.com

 

THE PAINTING (THE EMERGED IMAGE)

 

Not everything imaginal is visual, but everything visual is imaginal. Consequently, it can be said that «seeing» is not only visual but also auditory and tactile; it can arise through smell and taste. Seeing here is a direct relation to the imaginal.

The imaginal is seen before it is recognized as sensory. Sensory is an abstraction. We distinguish the sensory only in the context of the imaginal, but not vice versa; we do not collect the imaginal from the sensory given. The sensory can only vary the imaginal.

Now, let’s turn directly to the essence of the painting. Paintings depict images. A painting is primarily an embodied image, an objectified image. But a painting is also an image on a plane. A painting is a presentation of an image because it clearly shows the image as something fundamentally distinct. A painting shows something that it is not.

A painting is, therefore, unique. It realizes a fundamentally new gesture in which the image emerges on its own. Thus, our familiar reality, in which each object relates only to itself, is divided. For example, when looking at a tree, we feel that it holds us within itself; our gaze remains with it.

The image of the tree and the tree itself, when we look at it, are indistinguishable; they are identical. Whether the image of the tree is already contained in the perception of the tree and how this is possible, we will leave it aside for now. But even if we recall a tree we have seen before, the image that arises will relate to that reality in which the tree did not refer to anything else but maintained its identity. In a painting, however, we see an image that relates to something that it is not.

 

THE FRAME (THE BOUNDARY)

 

When talking about a painting, we can first note that one of its most remarkable features is its boundary. The boundary of a painting (more accurately referred to as a «meja» because it has width, unlike a mere border) is also adorned and is called a frame. The frame of a painting is genuinely something wondrous.

A frame is meant to be itself but also not be itself, as it serves only the image enclosed within it. A frame always has its pattern, sometimes lavish and intricate, sometimes very restrained and hidden, but in any case, a frame encompasses. Thus, a frame is a pure sign of the image.

It is enough to limit something, and we immediately discover an image. In this case, an image is what moves outward from itself, attempting to free itself, but encounters itself at its boundary, framed by the «meja».

That is, an image is an encounter, an event of encounter. More precisely, if one continuously folds a straight line, at the moment the line meets itself, we obtain not just the exterior, the form, but also the interior as a bounded space.

Therefore, a frame separates the background of the painting from its internal organization. In a museum, we see paintings hanging on the wall. While examining a painting, one can pay attention to the wall and the background, as the background also plays a vital role in organizing the painting’s space.

In this context, we can observe and trace the frame’s interaction with the background and the canvas’s content. Although the frame is something «in-between», something we necessarily (over)look at, it always operates in two directions—towards containment and expansion.

If we are inside the painting, the frame expands, providing space for action. If we are outside the painting, it contains the inner space against external pressure. However, we can also consider the case of a painting without a frame.

In such a scenario, the significance of the background becomes more important, and the need for color contrast becomes more pressing. Frameless canvases clearly demonstrate what a border (not a «meja») of a painting is and how much it belongs to the image.

Thus, the frame is both a literal and metaphorical boundary that shapes our perception of the painting’s space, influencing how we interact with and interpret the artwork.

 

Пауль Клее. Город мечты, 1921
Paul Klee. City of dreams, 1921 / arthive.com

 

SIZE (RELATION)

 

The next step is to understand the size of the painting clearly. The size determines the viewing distance, although this rule is sometimes broken. The distance between the image and the gaze is already implied.

We are already in a relationship with the image, which means it is assumed that we are separated from it. For example, when recalling an image, I can only distinguish that I am not the image and that the image is merely a memory, not something real — this creates a distance between me and the remembered image. So, distance here is something I achieve within myself through differentiation.

When perceiving a painting, my body, its proportions, and its way of engaging with the world are fundamental. Ultimately, it is about the distance between two bodies — the canvas with paints and the pulsating body. My body is always experienced in some way (my flesh), but the main feature of such experience is the impossibility of pointing out the difference between external and internal experiences.

For example, my skin is both internal and external, and a clear boundary cannot be grasped here, but the form of the body can be indicated. We still need to fully understand the significance of morphology when trying to comprehend perception and boundaries).

The form of the body belongs to the external, but the body is always mine, which means it is always internal. Thus, my body is a paradox, a transcendent immanence. When thinking about my body, we encounter something fundamentally indefinite. Therefore, a grand theme arises here, namely the image of the body and its boundary.

So, we (our bodies) are positioned in front of the painting. Our organizing gaze, which immediately sees the imaginal, possesses the unique quality of not being something internal that somehow relates to the external (the painting); no, the gaze itself is realized beyond the external and internal.

Looking at the painting, we are in the context of our body and the context of the background from which the painting has already emerged. But as soon as the imaginal is recognized or even merely touched, we fall into the context of the history of images.

As N. Hartmann noted, we primarily see the invisible. For example, in a painting, we see anger, fear, poverty, joy — we know the whole, that which is not sensibly given.

 

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STEPS (CLEANSING)

 

To learn something about an image, it makes sense to immerse oneself in the life of images immediately. This approach provides the necessary initial material for description and allows one to experience the image directly, renewing one’s immediate contact with it.

One can find images already living within oneself. Images that are usually given to us inertly should be paused, and the most significant elements should be highlighted. For instance, one can recall a recent memory. To remember a memory means not only restoring the image that was in the memory but also recognizing that it is precisely an «image» and that it is given «as» an image.

After capturing the image as an image, it is advisable to make an effort to «remove» this image. This implies finding the boundaries of the image. This can be done as follows. Do not hide or push the image away; instead, direct your inner gaze into the essence of the image itself and understand its internal organization.

The image we found as an image from memory should be dissolved and mentally divided into parts, and this division should continue until the image can no longer be reassembled. However, it is essential to fragment the image itself rather than just separating whole parts of it.

Thus, we will get abstract parts, which themselves are just a specific diversity that cannot be «seen» (recognized) anymore, as each part will no longer have a distinctive feature and will not refer to a whole that it would strive toward.

Naturally, since our synthetic activity remains intact, a spot of many points or fragments will arise in our imagination. Clearly, this spot will also be an image, as we will be able to distinguish this collection from the background on which and from which it is highlighted.

To avoid this difficulty, the diversity should be extended to the background. This can be achieved by either approaching the spot of disjointed fragments so closely that its contours become inaccessible to the eye or by transferring the now indifferent fragments to new fields of the background.

It is important to note that this is not about defocusing or dispersing but rather about active (destructive) work within the image. Clearly, this process implies some movement (dynamics) between the multiple fragments and the background on which they are displayed.

By practicing this with an image in our imagination, we will quickly realize that despite our efforts, we continue to be under the power of seeing, which means we necessarily remain those who perform the organizing gaze, and this means that «something» seen will stay with us. Therefore, we must radicalize our efforts and find within ourselves the ability to see without the seen.

This can only be achieved through a non-seeing gaze, a gaze that is directed but not stopped by anything. In other words, we must look without seeing. We must learn to «just» look. Try to focus on merely sending out the gaze without expecting anything to be seen.

 

Paul Klee. Open book, 1930 / arthive.com

 

The next step is to «turn the gaze» not towards the image in its imagery, but rather to learn not just to «just look», but to look at the very act of looking, at the seeing vision itself. This is a radical shift. Seeing the act of perception means stepping out of the field of visibility. But what do we encounter here? How do the vision of a perceived object, the eye of an imagined image, and the «vision» of the very act of seeing differ?

Seeing the act of seeing means realizing a gaze that simultaneously exists in two dimensions—in the dimension where the gaze has already seen and has been realized, and in the dimension where the gaze appears as a possibility of its realization.

Alternatively, this gaze is realized «simultaneously» in two dimensions — in the dimension that perceives the image itself and in the dimension that understands the act of grasping the imaginal, where the imaginal is understood precisely as imaginal.

Here, a new danger arises, namely, the mixing of seeing and understanding. What, after all, distinguishes seeing from understanding? Provisionally, we can answer this. The visible is responsible for the very possibility of givenness, for appearance in general, while experience is primarily responsible for the possibility of differentiating the seen.

Of course, seeing and understanding coexist inseparably and simultaneously. This means that our seeing is a comprehending seeing, and understanding is a seeing understanding. The only difference is that in seeing, we are absorbed by the visible, not noticing the work of understanding. In contrast, in learning, we are engaged in differentiation (definition), missing the possibility of its being connected with the seen.

At such a metaphysical level, the very act of seeing no longer sees the visible, losing its immediate actuality; at this level, it has not yet realized itself. On the other hand, we are still in thought, not in the conceptual field where events are differentiated, but at the level of the transcendental happening, in the very possibility of seeing. Here, we are situated as if between two worlds — between the world of perception and the world of thought.

With this achievement, our meditation is complete. We have reached not only the initial level of image formation but also discovered something essential about the living experience of our presence in the world. The museum space is now open and accessible, allowing the eternal images of culture to become lived events for us rather than mere accidental reflections in the inertia of everyday life.

 


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