Norman Rockwell

Norman Rockwell is an image of himself. We rarely, if ever, think of the man, but that he seems to embody the very feeling he displayed so prevalently in his work. Somewhere in our minds, Norman Rockwell is framed by a Saturday Evening Post heading, and carved into our psyche with the same sense of Arcadian Americana as the rest of his illustrations. He embodies, both in our imagination of himself and in the paintings he created, something we imagine our grandparents experienced, but never did, and something that many remember, that never happened. There is some false truth to which Rockwell points, that so many are willing to acquiesce to, not because it is factual, but because it is more perfect. It is the Prairie Home Companion, the Whit's End, the Little Annie Oakley of the collective imagined history. We love it not because it is accurate, but because it is warm. It is a truth of perspective that we can rest the oblique reality of experience against, and compare its "down-homey" ability. In Rockwell we have a shared mock nostalgia, something better to remember than what was.

The Philosophic Universe

A new semester has begun, and with it come three new classes, and thus, three new philosophical worlds to occupy. It is an interesting endeavor, sitting through sixteen weeks, being shown the world through someone else's explicit lens. Any education takes this route, but philosophy does so in explicit way, complete with subtle attitudinal differences to boot. For these four months, I have what I believe will be three wonderful places to mentally traverse.

First, I have a frenetic, excited world, filled with breathy anticipation and wild speculation. We are dealing with long contested ideas, and will do so with a nearly juvenile exultation of exploratory powers. There is no fear of not finding an answer, as no one yet has, and probably none will for quite some time, if ever. The free examination of ideas is encouraged, and expected, and hopes are high for our own progress, if not the project at large.

The next world is again an energetic one, but less youthful, and more academic. There is stridency, but without an antiseptic feel. Deep armchairs and lively conversations abound in this place, with cozy lamps and Scotch whiskey ready at hand. This is a more pedantic world, but without any pejorative, as we deal kindly with the finer minutia of the very structure of our thoughts, and the way we communicate those to others.

The last world is the most incredible of the three. It is the quietest, and the most still. It is not austere, but merely grounded with a sane grasp on reality. Ironically, it is this very idea that it challenges, yet it does so without pretense to perturbation of the day-to-day necessities of passing through doorways and the niceties of tipping a hat to a friendly stranger. Here we learn to grow up, not with fear of discipline, but out of a desire to be respectable as the leader, who is equally quiet and kind, without any kind of old man doddering, and with an intellectually mischievous streak that can power one for days.

This will be a good trip. Several new lands, all distinct, yet all positive, energizing, encouraging of the right behaviors and decimating of the wrong.

Are The Little Pieces Really That Important?

I wrote a paper last semester accommodating a theory developed by a professor of mine to an older idea of aesthetic properties. Since it's good reception by him, it has also been submitted to a conference in which it was promptly accepted. And now I'm reworking it.

The crux of the idea is that in a whole piece of art, we find properties within it that we justify by pointing to smaller pieces. "This is a really balanced work," we say, pointing out the way the figures are placed along the canvas, so as not to feel out of balance. But the figures are not a sufficient account of why the painting is balanced. They must be where they are, but also in particular relation to the whole painting. This relationship between the whole and the parts is not particularly novel, but where it leads may get to some new ground.

So there is a balancing figure somewhere in the piece. But the figure itself is just what it is, in or out of the painting. It creates a sense of balance by relating to the other parts. But does the figures own powers actually change, given the entire structure. It's hard to determine if this is the case as concerns 'balance', so let's look at a different, potentially more illuminating case.

The idea I've borrowed is a scientific concept in which the actual powers of lower level entities actually change because of the determining powers of the higher level organization. This is a bolder claim than I am making, because I am not dealing with properties and powers of the same kind when I consider aesthetic properties. But the part-whole relationship remains similar. And a better example to consider is shock.

I doubt I'll be spoiling anything for anyone (and if I am, you shouldn't be reading this, because I can't believe you haven't seen this movie yet), but the example to use is The Usual Suspects. Fast forward to the very last scene of the movie and play it in your mind, all by itself. A man (Kevin Spacey) concludes a conversation meekly and is allowed to leave what turns out to be a police station. He then walks down the street with an increasingly steadier stride and gets into a vehicle. And then it's over. Nothing is shocking. Nothing is shocking. The power of this smaller element of the whole movie is very low in the shock department. But, we see very easily, that a part of the whole movie, this becomes the most powerful piece, and incredible shocking, despite the dull particulars of the segment.

It is within this idea that the whole changes powers of the parts. That same exact scene could be injected into another plot and not have the same power to shock. Only within The Usual Suspects do we find it so. Furthermore, it is to this place in the movie that we point when we attempt to justify the shocking nature of the film. "Why was it so shocking?" "Well, have you seen the ending? Holy cow!"



Context.