17

Eye and Mind

 What I am trying to translate for you is more mysterious; it is en-

twined in the very roots of being, in the impalpable source of 
sensations.
—J. Gasquet, Cézanne 

Science manipulates things and gives up dwelling in them. It gives itself 

internal models of the things, and, operating on the basis of these indices
or variables, the transformations that are permitted by their definition,
science confronts the actual world only from greater and greater dis-
tances. It is, and always has been, that admirably active, ingenious, and
bold way of thinking, that one-sided thought that treats every being as an
“object in general,” that is, at once as if all being were nothing to us and,
however, is discovered predestined for our artifices.
But classical science held onto the feeling of the opaqueness of the
 world, and through its constructions it intended to join back up with the
 world. This is why it believed that it had to look for a transcendent or tran-
scendental foundation for its operations. There is today—not in science
but in a widely prevalent philosophy of the sciences— something entirely 
new: the constructive practice takes itself to be and gives itself off as au-
tonomous. Thought is deliberately reduced to the set of collecting and
capturing techniques that thought invents. To think is thus to try out, to
operate, to transform—the only restriction being that this activity is regu-
lated by an experimental control that admits only the most “worked-up”
phenomena, phenomena produced by our machines rather than recorded
by them. Whence all sorts of vagabond endeavors. Today more than ever,
science is sensitive to intellectual fashions. When a model has succeeded
in one order of problems, it is tried out everywhere else. Currently, our
embryology and biology are full of gradients.  Just how these differ from
 what the classical tradition called “order” or “totality” is not at all clear.

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This question, however, is not and must not be asked. The gradient is a net 
 we throw out to sea, without knowing what it will haul in. Or yet, it is the
slender branch upon which unforeseeable crystallizations will form. No
doubt this freedom of operation will serve well to overcome many a point-
less dilemma—provided only that from time to time we bring it into fo-
cus, and we ask ourselves why the apparatus works in one place and fails
in others. In short, this flowing science must understand itself. It must see
itself as a construction based on a brute or existent world and not claim
for its blind operations the constitutive value that the “concepts of nature”
 were able to have in an idealist philosophy. To say that the world is, by 
nominal definition, the object x  of our operations is to adjust the scien-
tist’s epistemic situation to the absolute, as if everything that was and is has
never existed save in order to enter the laboratory. Thinking “operation-
ally” becomes a sort of absolute artificialism, such as we see in the ideol-
ogy of cybernetics, where human creations are derived from a natural in-
formation process, but which is itself conceived on the model of human
machines. If this kind of thinking takes over humanity and history, and if,
pretending to be ignorant of what we know about humanity and history 
through contact and through location, it sets out to construct them on the
basis of a few abstract indices as a decadent psychoanalysis and cultural-
ism have done in the United States, since man truly becomes the manipu- 
landum  he thinks he is, then we enter into a cultural regimen in which
there is neither truth nor falsehood concerning humanity and history,
then we enter into a sleep or nightmare from which nothing would be able
to awaken us.
It is necessary that the thought of science—surveying thought,
thought of the object in general, be placed back in the “there is” which
precedes it, back in the site, back upon the soil of the sensible world and
the soil of the worked-upon world such as they are in our lives and for our
bodies, not that possible body which we may legitimately think of as an in-
formation machine, but this actual body I call mine, this sentinel standing
silently under my words and my acts. It is necessary that associated bodies be
awakened along with my body, “others,” who are not my congeners, as the
zoologist says, but others who haunt me and whom I haunt; “others” along
 with whom I haunt a single, present, and actual Being as no animal has
ever haunted the others of his own species, territor y, or habitat. In this pri-
mordial historicity, the agile and improvisatory thought of science will
learn to ground itself upon the things themselves and upon itself, and will
once more become philosophy. . . .
Now art and especially painting draw from this pool of brute sense,
about which activism wants to know nothing. Art and painting alone do
this in full innocence. From the writer and the philosopher, we want opin-
 

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ions and advice. We will not allow them to hold the world suspended. We
 want them to take a stand; they cannot waive the responsibilities of man
 who speaks. Music, at the other extreme, is too far on the hither side of the
 world and of the designatable to depict anything but certain sketches of 
Being—its ebb and flow, its growth, its upheavals, its turbulence. Only the
painter is entitled to gaze upon everything without being obliged to ap-
praise what he sees. For the painter, we might say, the watchwords of 
knowledge and action lose their meaning and force. Political regimes
 which denounce “degenerate” painting rarely destroy the pictures. They 
hide them, and one senses here an element of “one never knows” amount-
ing almost to an acknowledgment. The reproach of escapism is seldom
aimed at the painter; we do not hold it against Cézanne that he lived hid-
den away at L’Estaque during the Franco-Prussian War. Everyone recalls
 with respect his “Life is frightening,” although the most insignificant 
student, after Nietzsche, would flatly reject philosophy if it was said that 
philosophy does not teach us how to live life to the fullest. It is as if in the
painter’s calling there were an urgency that passed beyond every other
urgency. The painter is there, strong or frail in life, but sovereign incon-
testably in his rumination on the world, sovereign without any other
“technique” than the one that his eyes and hands are given by means of 
seeing, by means of painting; he is there relentless to pull from this world,
in which the scandals and achievements of history resound, canvases 
 which will hardly add to the angers or the hopes of humanity; and no one
mutters. What, then, is the secret science which he has or which he seeks?
That dimension by means of which Van Gogh wants to go “further”? What 
is this fundamental of painting, perhaps of all culture?

II

The painter “takes his body with him,” says Valéry. And indeed, we cannot 
see how a Mind could paint. It is by lending his body to the world that the
artist changes the world into paintings. To understand these transubstan-
tiations we must go back to the working, actual body—not the body as a
chunk of space or a bundle of functions but that body which is an inter-
twining of vision and movement.
It is enough to see something in order to know how to reach it and
deal with it, even if I do not know how that is done in the machine made
of nerves. My moving body counts in the visible world, participates in it;
that is why I can direct my body in the visible. Moreover, it is also true that 
 vision depends on movement. We see only what we gaze upon. What would
 

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 vision be without any eye movement, and how would the movement of the
eyes not blur things if movement were itself a reflex or blind, if it did not 
have its antennae, its clairvoyance, if vision were not prefigured in it? All
my changes of place figure in principle in an area of my landscape; they 
are carried over onto the map of the visible. Everything I see is in prin-
ciple within my reach, at least within the reach of my sight, and is marked
upon the map of the “I can.” Each of the two maps is complete. The vis-
ible world and the world of my motor projects are both total parts of the
same Being.
This extraordinary overlapping, which we never give enough thought 
to, forbids us to conceive of vision as an operation of thought that would
set up before the mind a picture or a representation of the world, a world
of immanence and of ideality. Immersed in the visible by his body, itself 
 visible, the seer does not appropriate what he sees; he merely approaches
it by means of the gaze, he opens onto the world. And for its part, that 
 world in which he participates is not in-itself or matter. My movement is
not a decision made by the mind, an absolute doing which would decree,
from the depths of a subjective retreat, some change of place miraculously 
executed in extended space. It is the natural sequel to and the maturation
of vision. I say of a thing that it is moved, but my body moves itself;  my 
movement unfolds itself. It is not in ignorance of itself, blind to itself; it 
radiates from a self. . . .
The enigma derives from the fact that my body is simultaneously see-
ing and visible. The one who gazes upon all things can also be gazed upon
and can recognize, in what he sees then, the “other side” of his seeing
power. He sees himself seeing; he touches himself touching; he is visible
and sensitive for himself. He is a self, not by transparency, like thought,
 which never thinks anything except by assimilating it, constituting it,
transforming it into thought—but a self by confusion, narcissism, inher-
ence of the one who sees in what he sees, of the one who touches in what 
he touches, of the sensing in the sensed—a self, therefore, that is caught 
up in things, having a front and a back, a past and a future. . . .
This initial paradox cannot but produce others. Visible and mobile,
my body is a thing among things; it is one of them. It is caught in the fab-
ric of the world, and its cohesion is that of a thing. But because it sees and
moves itself, it holds things in a circle around itself. Things are an annex
or prolongation of my body; they are incrusted in its flesh, they are part of 
its full definition; the world is made of the very stuff of the body. These re-
 versals, these antinomies, are different ways of saying that vision is caught 
or is made in the middle of things, where something visible undertakes to
see, becomes visible for itself and through the vision of all things, where
the indivision of the sensing and the sensed persists, like the original fluid
 within the crystal.
 

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This interiority does not precede the material arrangement of the

human body, and it no more results from it. If our eyes were made in such
a way as to prevent our seeing any part of our body, or if some diabolical
contraption were to let us move our hands over things while preventing us
from touching our own body—or if, like certain animals, we had lateral
eyes with no intersection of visual fields, this body, which would not reflect 
itself, would not sense itself, this nearly adamantine body, which would
not be entirely flesh, would not be a human body, and there would be no
humanity. But humanity is not produced as an effect through our articu-
lations or through the way our eyes are implanted in us (still less by the ex-
istence of mirrors, though they alone can make our entire bodies visible
to us). These contingencies and others like them, without which there
 would be no man, do not by simple summation bring it about that there
is one sole man. The body’s animation is not the assemblage or juxtaposi-
tion of its parts. Nor is it a question of a mind coming down from some-
 where else into an automaton—which would still imply that the body it-
self is without an inside and without a “self.” A human body is present 
 when, between seeing and visible, between touching and touched, be-
tween one eye and the other, between the hand and the hand a kind of 
crossover is made, when the spark of the sensing-sensible is lit, when the
fire starts to burn that will not stop burning until some accident of the
body unmakes what no accident would have sufficed to make. . . .
Now, as soon as this strange system of exchanges is given, all the
problems of painting are there. These problems illustrate the enigma of 
the body and the enigma justifies the problems. Since things and my body 
are made of the same stuff, it is necessary that my body’s vision be made
somehow in the things, or yet that their manifest visibility doubles itself in
my body with a secret visibility. “Nature is on the inside,” says Cézanne.
Quality, light, color, depth, which are over there before us, are there only 
because they awaken an echo in our bodies and because the body wel-
comes them. Why would this internal equivalence, this carnal formula of 
their presence that the things arouse in me not arouse an outline that is
again visible, in which every other gaze would find again the motifs that 
support their inspection of the world? Thus there appears a visible to the
second power, a carnal essence or icon of the first. It is not a faded copy,
a trompe l’oeil, or another thing. The animals painted on the walls of Las-
caux are not there in the same way as are the fissures and limestone for-
mations. Nor are they elsewhere. Pushed forward here, held back there, sup-
ported by the wall’s mass they use so adroitly, they radiate about the wall
 without ever breaking their elusive moorings. I would be hard-pressed to
say where the picture is that I am gazing at. For I do not gaze at it as one
gazes at a thing, I do not fix it in its place. My gaze wanders within it as in
the halos of Being. Rather than seeing it, I see according to, or with it.
 

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The word “image” is in bad repute because we have thoughtlessly be-

lieved that a drawing was a tracing, a copy, a second thing, and that the
mental image was such a drawing, belonging among our private bric-a-
brac. But if in fact it is nothing of the kind, then neither the drawing nor
the picture belongs to the in-itself any more than the image does. They 
are the inside of the outside and the outside of the inside, which the du-
plicity of sensing [le sentir ] makes possible and without which we would
never understand the quasi-presence and imminent visibility which make
up the whole problem of the imaginary. The picture, the actor’s mim-
icry—these are not extras that I borrow from the real world in order to
aim across them at prosaic things in their absence. The imaginary is much
nearer to and much farther away from the actual. It is nearer because it is
the diagram of the life of the actual in my body, its pulp and carnal ob-
 verse exposed to view for the first time. In this sense, Giacometti says en-
ergetically, “What interests me in all paintings is resemblance—that is,
 what resemblance is for me: something that makes me uncover the exter-
nal world a little.”1 And the imaginary is much further away from the ac-
tual because the picture is an analogue only according to the body; be-
cause it does not offer to the mind an occasion to rethink the constitutive
relations of things, but rather it offers to the gaze traces of the vision of 
the inside, in order that the gaze may espouse them; it offers to vision that 
 which clothes vision internally, the imaginary texture of the real.
Shall we say, then, that there is a gaze from the inside, a third eye that 
sees the pictures and even the mental images, as we used to speak of a third
ear which grasps messages from the outside through the noises they caused
inside us? But what’s the use of saying this, when the whole point is to
understand that our fleshly eyes are already much more than receptors for
beams of light, colors, and lines? They are computers of the world, which
have the gift for the visible as we say of the inspired man that he has the
gift of tongues. Of course this gift is earned by exercise; it is not in a few 
months, or in solitude, that a painter comes into full possession of his vi-
sion. That is not the question: precocious or belated, spontaneous or cul-
tivated in museums, his vision in any event learns only by seeing and learns
only from itself. The eye sees the world, and it sees what the world lacks in
order to be a painting, and what the picture lacks in order to be itself, and,
on the palette, the colors for which the picture is waiting; and it sees, once
it is done, the picture that responds to all these lacks, and it sees the paint-
ings of others, the other responses to other lacks. It is no more possible to
make a restrictive inventory of the visible than it is to catalog the possible
usages of a language or even its vocabular y and turns of phrase. The eye is
an instrument that moves itself, a means which invents its own ends; it is
that which has been moved by some impact of the world, which it then re-
 

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stores to the visible through the traces of a hand. In whatever civilization it 
is born, from whatever beliefs, motives, or thoughts, no matter what cere-
monies surround it—and even when it appears devoted to something
else—from Lascaux to our time, pure or impure, figurative or not, paint-
ing celebrates no other enigma but that of visibility.
 What we have just said amounts to a truism. The painter’s world is a
 visible world, nothing but visible: a world almost mad, because it is com-
plete though only partial. Painting awakens and carries to its highest 
power a delirium which is vision itself, since to see is to have at a distance; 
painting extends this strange possession to all aspects of Being, aspects
 which must somehow be made visible in order to enter into painting.
 When, apropos of Italian painting, the young Berenson spoke of an evo-
cation of tactile values, he could hardly have been more mistaken; paint-
ing evokes nothing, least of all the tactile. What it does is entirely differ-
ent, almost the inverse. Painting gives visible existence to what profane
 vision believes to be invisible; thanks to painting we do not need a “mus-
cular sense” in order to possess the voluminosity of the world. This vora-
cious vision, reaching beyond the “visual givens,” opens upon a texture of 
Being of which the discrete sensorial messages are only the punctuations
or the caesurae. The eye dwells in this texture as man dwells in his house.
Let us remain within the visible in the narrow and prosaic sense.
The painter, any painter, while he is painting, practices a magical theory of 
 vision. He has to admit really that the things pass into him or that, accord-
ing to Malebranche’s sarcastic dilemma, the mind goes out through the
eyes to wander among the things, since he never stops adjusting his see-
ing upon their basis. (It makes no difference if he does not paint from “na-
ture”; he paints, in any case, because he has seen, because the world has
at least once engraved in him the ciphers of the visible.) He must affirm,
as one philosopher has said, that vision is a mirror or concentration of the
universe or that, in another’s words, the idios kosmos opens by virtue of vi-
sion upon a koinos kosmos, finally that the same thing is both out there in
the heart of the world and here in the heart of vision—the same or, if you
 will, a similar thing, but according to an efficacious similarity which is the
parent, the genesis, the metamorphosis of being into his vision. It is the
mountain itself which from over there makes itself seen by the painter; it 
is the mountain that he interrogates with his gaze.
 What exactly does he ask of it? To unveil the means, which are noth-
ing but visible, by which the mountain makes itself into a mountain before
our eyes. Light, lighting, shadows, reflections, color, all these objects of 
his investigation are not altogether real beings; like ghosts, they have only 
 visual existence. In fact they exist only at the threshold of profane vision;
they are not commonly seen. The painter’s gaze asks them how they make
 

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something suddenly be there, and how they compose this talisman of a

 world, this thing, how they make us see the visible. The hand pointing
toward us in The Night Watch is truly there when its shadow on the captain’s
body presents the hand to us simultaneously in profile. The spatiality of 
the captain lies at the crossing of the two perspectives which are incom-
possible and yet together. Everyone with eyes has at some time or other
 witnessed this play of shadows, or something like it, and has been made by 
it to see things and a space. But it worked in them without them; it dis-
simulated itself in order to show the thing. In order to see the thing, it was
not necessary to see the play of shadows and light around it. The visible in
the profane sense forgets its premises; it rests upon a total visibility which
is to be re-created and which liberates the phantoms captive in profane vi-
sion. The moderns, as we know, have liberated many others; they have
added many a muted tone to the official gamut of our means of seeing.
But the interrogation of painting in any case aims at this secret and fever-
ish genesis of things in our body.
The interrogation, therefore, is not the question of someone who
knows to someone who does not know; it is not the schoolmaster’s ques-
tion. It is the question of someone who does not know to a vision that 
knows everything, a vision that we do not make but that is made in us. Max
Ernst (and surrealism) is right to say, “Just as the role of the poet since
[Rimbaud’s] famous Lettre du voyant consists in writing under the dictation
of what is being thought, of what articulates itself in him, the painter’s role
is to circumscribe and project what is making itself seen within himself.”2
The painter lives in fascination. The actions most proper to him—those
gestures, those outlines of which he alone is capable and which will be
revelations to others because they do not have the same lacks as he does—
they seem to emanate from the things themselves, like figures emanating
from constellations. Inevitably the roles between the painter and the vis-
ible switch. That is why so many painters have said that things look at 
them. As André Marchand says, following Klee: “In a forest, I have felt 
many times over that it was not I who looked at the forest. Some days I felt 
that the trees were looking at me, were speaking to me. . . . I was there, lis-
tening. . . . I think that the painter must be penetrated by the universe and
not want to penetrate it. . . . I expect to be inwardly submerged, buried.
Perhaps I paint to break out.”3 What we call “inspiration” should be taken
literally. There really is inspiration and expiration of Being, respiration in
Being, action and passion so slightly discernible that we no longer know 
 who sees and who is seen, who paints and what is painted. We say that a
human being is born the moment when something that was only virtually 
 visible within the mother’s body becomes at once visible for us and for it-
self. The painter’s vision is an ongoing birth.
 

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In the pictures themselves we could seek a figured philosophy of vi-

sion—its iconography, perhaps. It is no accident, for example, that fre-
quently in Dutch paintings (as in many others) an interior in which no one
is present is “digested” by the “round eye of the mirror.”4 This prehuman
gaze is the emblem of the painter’s gaze. More completely than lights,
shadows, and reflections, the specular image sketches, within things, the
 work of vision. Like all other technical objects, such as tools and signs, the
mirror has sprung up along the open circuit running from the seeing
body to the visible body. Every technique is a “technique of the body.” The
technique figures and amplifies the metaphysical structure of our flesh.
The mirror emerges because I am both seeing and visible, because there
is a reflexivity of the sensible; the mirror translates and reproduces that 
reflexivity. Through it, my outside becomes complete. Everything that is
most secret about me passes into that face, that flat, closed being of which
I was already dimly aware, from having seen my reflection mirrored in
 water. Schilder observes that, smoking a pipe before a mirror, I feel the
sleek, burning surface of the wood not only where my fingers are but also
in those glorious fingers, those merely visible ones inside the mirror.5 The
mirror’s phantom draws my flesh outside, and at the same time the invis-
ible of my body can invest the other bodies that I see. Hence my body can
include segments drawn from the body of others, just as my substance
passes into them; man is a mirror for man. Mirrors are instruments of a
universal magic that changes things into spectacles and spectacles into
things, me into another and another into me. Painters have often dreamed
about mirrors because beneath this “mechanical trick” they recognized, as
they did in the case of the “trick” of perspective,6 the metamorphosis of 
seeing and the visible that defines both our flesh and the painter’s voca-
tion. This also explains why they have so often loved to draw themselves
in the act of painting (they still do—witness Matisse’s drawings), adding
to what they  could see of things at that moment, what things could see of 
them—as if to attest to there being a total or absolute vision, outside of 
 which nothing remains, and which closes itself back up upon them. How 
can we name, where are we to place in the world of the understanding
these occult operations, together with the portions and idols they con-
coct? Consider, as Sartre did in Nausea, the smile of a long-dead monarch
 which keeps producing and reproducing itself on the surface of a canvas.
It is too little to say that it is there as an image or as an essence; it is there
itself, as that which was always most alive about it, the moment I gaze upon
the picture. The “world’s instant” that Cézanne wanted to paint, an instant 
long since passed away, is still hurled toward us by his canvases. His Mont.
Sainte-Victoire is made and remade differently from one end of the world
to the other but no less energetically than in the hard rock above Aix.
 

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Essence and existence, imaginary and real, visible and invisible—paint-

ing blurs all our categories, spreading out before us its oneiric universe of 
carnal essences, efficacious resemblances, muted meanings.

III

How crystal clear everything would be in our philosophy if only we would

exorcise these spectres, make illusions or objectless perceptions out of 
them, brush them to one side of an unequivocal world! Descartes’ Optics 
is an attempt to do just that. It is the breviary of a thought that wants no
longer to haunt the visible and decides to reconstruct it according to the
model of the visible that this thought has provided for itself. It is worth-
 while to remember this attempt and its failure.
Here there is no concern to cling to vision. The problem is to know 
“how it is done,” but only enough to invent, whenever the need arises, cer-
tain “artificial organs” which correct it.7  We are to reason not so much
upon the light we see as upon the light which, from the outside, enters our
eyes and regulates our vision. And for that we are to rely upon “two or
three comparisons which help us to conceive it [light]” in such a way as to
explain its known properties and deduce others.8 The question being so
formulated, it is best to think of light as an action by contact—not unlike
the action of things upon the blind man’s cane. The blind, says Descartes,
“see with their hands.”9 The Cartesian model of vision is modeled after the
sense of touch.
 At one swoop, then, Descartes eliminates action at a distance and re-
lieves us of that ubiquity which is the whole problem of vision (as well as
its peculiar virtue). Why should we henceforth puzzle over reflections and
mirrors? These unreal duplications are a class of things; they are real
effects like a ball bouncing back. If the reflection resembles the thing it-
self, it is because this reflection acts upon the eyes more or less as a thing
 would. It deceives the eye by engendering a perception which has no ob-
 ject, yet this perception does not affect our idea of the world. In the world
there is the thing itself, and outside this thing itself there is that other
thing which is only reflected light rays and which happens to have an or-
dered correspondence with the real thing; there are two individuals, then,
connected by causality from the outside. As far as the thing and its mirror
image are concerned, their resemblance is only an external denomina-
tion; the resemblance belongs to thought. The disturbing relationship of 
resemblance is a clear relationship of projection into the things. A Carte-
sian does not see himself  in the mirror; he sees a puppet, an “outside,”
 

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 which, he has every reason to believe, other people see in the very same
 way, but which is no more for himself than for others a flesh. His “image”
in the mirror is an effect of the mechanics of things. If he recognizes him-
self in it, if he thinks it “looks like him,” it is his thought that weaves this
connection. The specular image is in no sense a part of him.
There is no longer any power of icons. However vividly an etching
may “represent to us” forests, towns, men, battles, storms, it does not re-
semble them. It is only a bit of ink put down here and there on paper. A 
figure flattened down onto a plane surface scarcely retains the forms of 
things; it is a deformed figure that must  be deformed—the square be-
comes a lozenge, the circle an oval—in order to represent the object. It is
an image of the object only on the condition of “not resembling it.”10 If not 
through resemblance, how, then, does it work? It “excites our thought” to
“conceive,” as do signs and words “which in no way resemble the things
they signify.”11 The etching gives us sufficient indices, unequivocal “means”
for forming an idea of the thing that does not come from the icon itself;
rather, it arises in us, as “occasioned” by the icon. The magic of intentional
species—the old idea of efficacious resemblance so strongly suggested to
us by mirrors and paintings—loses its final argument if the entire power
of the picture is that of a text to be read, a text totally free of promiscuity 
between the seeing and the visible. We need no longer try to understand
how a painting of things in the body could make them felt in the soul—
an impossible task, since the resemblance between this painting and those
things would have to be seen in turn, since we would “have to have other
eyes in our brain with which to apperceive it,”12 and since the problem of 
 vision remains intact even after we have introduced these simulacra, wan-
dering between things and us. What the light casts upon our eyes, and
thence upon our brain, does not resemble the visible world any more than
etchings do. Nothing goes from things to the eyes, and from the eyes to vi-
sion, no more than from things to a blind man’s hands, and from his
hands to his thoughts. Vision is not the metamorphosis of the things them-
selves into the vision of them; it is not the double belonging of the things
to the big world and to a little private world. It is a thinking that strictly de-
ciphers the signs given within the body. Resemblance is the result of per-
ception, not its basis. Thus, the mental image, the visualization [la voy- 
ance ] which renders present to us what is absent, is a fortiori nothing like
a breakthrough to the heart of Being. It is still a thought relying upon bod-
ily indices—this time insufficient ones—which are made to say more than
they mean. Nothing is left of the oneiric world of analogy. . . .
 What interests us in these famous analyses is that they make us aware
of the fact that every theory of painting is a metaphysics. Descartes does
not say much about painting, and one might think it unfair on our part
 

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to make so much of a few pages on engravings. Yet the very fact that he
speaks of painting only in passing is itself significant. Painting for him is
not a central operation contributing to the definition of our access to
being; it is a mode or a variant of thinking, where thinking is canonically 
defined as intellectual possession and self-evidence. His very brevity is the
indication of a choice; a closer study of painting would draw a different 
philosophy. It is significant, too, that when he speaks of “pictures”
[tableaux ] he takes the drawing as typical. We shall see that the whole of 
painting is present in each of its modes of expression; there is a drawing,
a line that embraces all of painting’s boldness. But what Descartes likes
about engravings is that they preserve the form of objects, or at least they 
give us sufficient signs of their forms. They present the object by its out-
side, or its envelope. If he had examined that other, deeper opening upon
things given us by the secondary qualities, especially color, then—since
there is no rule-governed or projective relationship between them and
the true properties of things, and we understand their message all the
same—he would have found himself faced with the problem of a con-
ceptless universality and opening upon things. He would have been
obliged to find out how the uncertain murmur of colors can present us
 with things, forests, storms—in short the world. He would have been
obliged, perhaps, to integrate perspective, as a particular case, into a
broader ontological power. But for him it goes without saying that color is
an ornament, mere coloring, and that the entire power of painting lies in
that of drawing, and the power of drawing rests upon the ordered rela-
tionship between it and objective space established by perspectival pro-
 jection. Pascal’s famous saying that painting is frivolous because it at-
taches us to images whose originals would not move us is a Cartesian
saying. For Descartes it is self-evident that one can paint only existing
things, that their existence consists in being extended, and line drawing
makes painting possible by making possible the representation of exten-
sion. Thus painting is only an artifice that puts before our eyes a projec-
tion similar to the one things themselves would (and do, according to the
commonsense view) inscribe in them. Painting causes us to see, in ab-
sence of the true object, just as we see the true object in life; and in par-
ticular it makes us see space where there is none.13 The picture is a flat 
thing that gives to us artificially what we would see in the presence of “di-
 versely positioned” things, by offering sufficient diacritical signs, through
height and width, of the dimension that it lacks. Depth is a third dimension 
derived from the other two.
It will be worth our while to dwell for a moment upon this third di-
mension. There is, at first glance, something paradoxical about it. I see ob-
 jects that hide each other and that consequently I do not see since they are
 

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one behind the other. I see depth and yet it is not visible, since it is reck-
oned from our bodies to things, and since we are glued to our bodies.
This mystery is a false mystery. I do not truly see depth or, if I do, it 
is only another width. On the line from my eyes to the horizon, the fore-
ground forever hides all the other planes, and if on either side I think I see
things staggered at intervals, it is because they do not completely hide
each other. Thus I see each thing outside the others, according to a width
measured differently.14  We are always on the hither side of depth, or
beyond it. Never are the things one behind the other. The encroachment 
and latency of the things do not enter into their definition. They express
only my incomprehensible solidarity with one of them—my body; and by 
their positivity they are thoughts that I form and not attributes of things.
I know that at this very moment another man, situated elsewhere—or
better, God, who is everywhere—could penetrate their hiding place and
see them openly deployed. What I call depth is either nothing, or else it is
my participation in a Being without restriction, first and foremost a par-
ticipation in the being of space beyond every particular point of view.
Things encroach upon one another because they are outside one another. The
proof of this is that I can see depth by looking at a picture which everyone
agrees has none and which organizes for me an illusion of an illusion. . . .
This two-dimensional being, which makes me see a third, is a being that 
is pierced [troué ]—as people said during the Renaissance, a window. . . .
But in the final analysis the window opens only upon  partes extra partes,
upon height and width merely seen from another angle—upon the ab-
solute positivity of Being.
It is this space without hiding places which in each of its points is
only what it is, neither more nor less, this identity of Being that underlies
the analysis of engravings. Space is in itself; or rather, it is the in-itself par
excellence. Its definition is to be  in itself. Every point of space is, and is
thought as being, right where it is—one here, another there; space is the
self-evidence of the “where.” Orientation, polarity, envelopment are, in
space, derived phenomena connected to my presence. Space remains ab-
solutely in itself, everywhere equal to itself, homogeneous; its dimensions,
for example, are by definition interchangeable.
Like all classical ontologies, this one elevates certain properties of 
beings into a structure of Being, and in so doing it is both true and false.
Reversing Leibniz’s remark, we might say that it is true in what it denies
and false in what it affirms. Descartes’ space is true, when contrasted with
a thought too empirically dominated, which dares not construct. It was
necessary first to idealize space, to conceive of that being—perfect of its
kind, clear, manageable, and homogeneous—which thought surveys [la 
 pensée survole ] without a viewpoint: a being which thought transcribes in
 

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its entirety onto three right-angled axes. This had to be done so that we
could one day experience the limitations of that construction and under-
stand that space does not have three, neither more nor less, dimensions,
as an animal has either four or two legs, that dimensions are taken by dif-
ferent systems of measurement from a single dimensionality, a polymor-
phous Being, which justifies all of them without being fully expressed by 
any. Descartes was right in liberating space. His mistake was to erect it into
a positive being, beyond all points of view, all latency and depth, devoid of 
any real thickness.
He was also right in taking his inspiration from the perspectival tech-
niques of the Renaissance; they encouraged painting to produce freely ex-
periences of depth and in general presentations of Being. These tech-
niques were false only in that they claimed to close the investigation and
history of painting, in that they claimed to found once and for all an ex-
act and infallible art of painting. As Panofsky has shown concerning the
Renaissance, this enthusiasm was not without bad faith.15 The theoreti-
cians tried to forget the spherical visual field of the ancients, their angu-
lar perspective which connects the apparent size not to distance but to the
angle from which we see the object. They wanted to forget what they dis-
dainfully called perspectiva naturalis, or communis, in favor of a perspectiva 
artificialis capable in principle of founding an exact construction. To ac-
credit this myth, they went so far as to expurgate Euclid, omitting from
their translations the eighth theorem, which bothered them. But the
painters knew from experience that no technique of perspective is an ex-
act solution and that there is no projection of the existing world which re-
spects it in all aspects and which deserves to become the fundamental law 
of painting. They knew that linear perspective was far from being an ulti-
mate breakthrough; on the contrary, it opened several pathways for paint-
ing. For example, the Italians took the way of representing the object, but 
the Northern painters discovered and worked out the formal technique
of Hochraum, Nahraum, and Schrägraum. Thus plane projection does not 
always stimulate our thought to rediscover the true form of things, as
Descartes believed. Beyond a certain degree of deformation, it refers us
back, on the contrary, to our own vantage point; as for the things, they flee
into a remoteness that no thought traverses. Something about space
evades our attempts to survey it from above. The truth is that no acquired
means of expression resolves the problems of painting or transforms it 
into a technique. For no symbolic form ever functions as a stimulus. Sym-
bolic form works and acts only in conjunction with the entire context of 
the work, and not at all by means of trompe l’oeil. The Stilmoment never
dispenses with the Wermoment.16 The language of painting is never “insti-
 

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tuted by nature”; it must be made and remade. The perspective of the

Renaissance is no infallible “gimmick.” It is only one particular case, a mo-
ment in a poetic information of the world which continues after it.
 Yet Descartes would not have been Descartes if he had thought to
eliminate the enigma of vision. There is no vision without thought, but it is 
not enough to think in order to see. Vision is a conditioned thought; it is
born “as occasioned” by what happens in the body; it is “incited” to think
by the body. It does not choose either to be or not to be or to think this thing
or that. It must carry in its heart that heaviness, that dependence which
cannot come to it by some intrusion from outside. Such bodily events are
“instituted by nature” in order to bring us to see this thing or that. The
thinking that belongs to vision functions according to a program and a
law which it has not given itself. It does not possess its own premises; it is
not a thought altogether present and actual; there is in its center a myster y 
of passivity. Thus the situation is as follows. Everything we say and think of 
 vision turns vision into a thought. When, for example, we wish to under-
stand how we see the situation of objects, we have no other recourse than
to suppose the soul to be capable, knowing where the parts of its body are,
of “transferring its attention from there” to all the points of space that lie
along the prolongation of its bodily members.17 But this is still only a
“model” of the event. For how does the soul know that space of its body 
 which it extends toward things, that primary here  from which all the theres 
 will come? This space is not, like them, just another mode or specimen of 
extension; it is the place of the body that the soul calls “mine,” a place the
soul inhabits. The body it animates is not, for it, one object among objects,
and it does not deduce from its body all the rest of space as an implied
premise. The soul thinks according to the body, not according to itself,
and space, or exterior distance, is also stipulated within the natural pact 
that unites them. If, at a certain degree of accommodation and conver-
gence of the eye, the soul sees a certain distance, the thought which draws
the second relationship from the first is like an immemorial thought in-
scribed in our inner workings. “Usually this comes about without our re-
flecting upon it—just as, when we clasp a body with our hand, we conform
the hand to the size and shape of the body and thereby sense the body,
 without having need to think of those movements of the hand.”18 The
body is both the soul’s native space, and the matrix of ever y other existing
space. Thus vision is double. There is the vision upon which I reflect; I
cannot think it except as  thought, the mind’s inspection, judgment, a
reading of signs. And then there is the vision that actually occurs, an hon-
orary or instituted thought, collapsed into a body—its own body, of which
 we can have no idea except in the exercise of it, and which introduces, be-
 

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tween space and thought, the autonomous order of the composite of soul
and body. The enigma of vision is not eliminated; it is shifted from the
“thought of seeing” to vision in act.
Still, this de facto vision and the “there is” which it contains do not 
upset Descartes’ philosophy. Since it is thought united with a body, it can-
not, by definition, truly be conceived. One can practice it, exercise it, and,
so to speak, exist it; yet one can draw nothing from it which deserves to be
called true. If, like Queen Elizabeth,19 we want at all costs to think some-
thing about it, all we can do is go back to Aristotle and scholasticism, and
conceive thought as corporeal, which does not conceive itself, but which is
the only way to formulate, for the understanding, the union of soul and
body. The truth is that it is absurd to submit to pure understanding the
mixture of understanding and body. These would-be thoughts are the em-
blems of “the practice of everyday life,” the verbal blazons of the union, le-
gitimate on the condition that we do not take them to be thoughts. They 
are indices of an order of existence—of humanity and world as existing—
that we are not burdened to think. This order marks out no terra incognita
on our map of Being. It does not confine the scope of our thoughts, be-
cause the order as well as the scope of our thoughts is sustained by a Truth
 which grounds its obscurity as well as our own lights. We have to go to these
lengths to find in Descartes something like a metaphysics of depth. For we
are not present at the birth of this Truth; God’s being is for us an abyss. An
anxious trembling quickly mastered; for Descartes it is just as futile to
plumb that abyss as it is to think the space of the soul and the depth of the
 visible. Our position disqualifies us from looking into such things. That is
the secret of Cartesian equilibrium: a metaphysics which gives us definitive
reasons to do metaphysics no longer, which validates our self-evidence
 while limiting it, which opens up our thinking without rending it.
The secret has been lost, and lost for good, it seems. If we are ever
again to find an equilibrium between science and philosophy, between
our models and the obscurity of the “there is,” it must be a new equilib-
rium. Our science has rejected the justifications as well as the restrictions
 which Descartes assigned to its domain. It no longer claims to deduce its
invented models from the attributes of God. The depth of the existing
 world and that of an unfathomable God no longer double the flatness of 
“technicized” thought. Science manages without the detour into meta-
physics that Descartes had to make at least once in his life; it begins from
the point he ultimately reached. Operational thought claims for itself, in
the name of psychology, that domain of contact with oneself and with the
 world which Descartes reserved for a blind but irreducible experience.
Operational thought is fundamentally hostile to philosophy as thought in
contact, and if it rediscovers the sense of that philosophy, it will be
 

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through the very excess of its daring; it will rediscover this sense when,
having introduced all sorts of notions that Descartes would have held to
arise from confused thought—quality, scalar structures, solidarity of ob-
server and observed—it suddenly realizes that one cannot summarily 
speak of all these beings as constructa. Meanwhile, philosophy maintains
itself against such operationalist thinking, plunging itself into that di-
mension of the composite of soul and body, of the existent world, of the
abyssal Being that Descartes opened up and so quickly closed again. Our
science and our philosophy are two faithful and unfaithful offshoots of 
Cartesianism, two monsters born of its dismemberment.
Nothing is left for our philosophy but to set out to prospect the ac-
tual world. We are the compound of soul and body, and so there must be
a thought of it. It is to this knowledge by position or situation that 
Descartes owes what he himself says of it, or what he sometimes says of the
presence of the body “against the soul,” or of the exterior world “at the tip”
of our hands. Here the body is no longer the means of vision and touch,
but their depository. Our organs are not instruments; on the contrary, our
instruments are added-on organs. Space is not what it was in the Optics, a
network of relations between objects such as would be seen by a third
party witnessing my vision, or by a geometer who reconstructs my vision
and surveys it. It is, rather, a space to be reckoned starting from me as the
null point or degree zero of spatiality. I do not see it according to its exte-
rior envelope; I live it from the inside; I am immersed in it. After all, the
 world is around me, not in front of me. Light is found once more to be ac-
tion at a distance. It is no longer reduced to the action of contact or, in
other words, conceived as it might be by those who cannot see. Vision re-
assumes its fundamental power of manifestation, of showing more than it-
self. And since we are told that a bit of ink suffices to make us see forests
and storms, light must have its own power to generate its  imaginary. Its
transcendence is not delegated to a reading mind which deciphers the im-
pacts of the light qua thing upon the brain and which could do this quite
as well if it had never inhabited a body. No longer is it a matter of speak-
ing about space and light, but of making the space and the light that are
there speak. There is no end to this questioning, since the vision to which
it is addressed is itself a question. All the investigations we believed closed
have been reopened. What is depth, what is light, tiv to o[n? What are they—
not for the mind that cuts itself off from the body but for the mind
Descartes says is suffused throughout the body? And what are they, finally,
not only for the mind but for themselves, since they pass through us and
around us?
This philosophy, which is still to be made, is what animates the
painter—not when he expresses opinions about the world but in that in-
 

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stant when his vision becomes gesture, when, in Cézanne’s words, he

“thinks in painting.”20

IV

The entire history of painting in the modern period, with its efforts to de-
tach itself from illusionism and acquire its own dimensions, has a meta-
physical significance. There can be no question of demonstrating this
claim. Not because of the limits of objectivity in history and the inevitable
plurality of interpretations, which would forbid linking a philosophy and
an event, for the metaphysics we have in mind is not a separate body of 
ideas for which inductive justifications could then be sought in the expe-
riential realm—and there are, in the flesh of contingency, a structure of 
the event and a virtue peculiar to the scenario that do not prevent the plu-
rality of interpretations but in fact are the deepest reason for it. They 
make the event a durable theme of historical life, and have a right to
philosophical status. In a sense everything that may have been said and
 will be said about the French Revolution has always been and will hence-
forth be within it, in that wave arising from a roil of discrete facts, with its
froth of the past and its crest of the future. And it is always by looking
better at how it was made that we provide and will go on providing new rep-
resentations of it. As for the history of works of art, in any case, if they are
great, the sense we give to them after the fact has issued from them. It is
the work itself that has opened the field from which it appears in another
light. It metamorphoses itself and becomes  what follows; the interminable
reinterpretations to which it is legitimately susceptible change it only into
itself. And if the historian unearths beneath its manifest content a surplus
and thickness of sense, the texture which was preparing a long future,
then this active manner of being, this possibility he unveils in the work,
this monograph he finds there—all are grounds for a philosophical medi-
tation. But such a labor demands a long familiarity with history. We lack
everything for its execution, both the competence and the location. But 
since the power or the generativity of works of art exceeds every positive
causal or filial relation, it is not illegitimate for a layman, speaking from
his memory of a few pictures and books, to say how painting enters into
his reflections, and to register the feeling of a profound discordance, a
mutation in the relationship between man and Being, when he brings a
universe of classical thought into confrontation with the investigations of 
modern painting. A sort of history by contact that perhaps does not go
 

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beyond the limits of one person, though it owes everything to the fre-
quentation of others. . . .
Giacometti says, “I believe Cézanne was seeking depth all his life.”21
Robert Delaunay says, “Depth is the new inspiration.”22 Four centuries
after the “solutions” of the Renaissance and three centuries after
Descartes, depth is still new, and it insists on being sought, not “once in his
life” but all throughout a life. It is not possible that what is at issue is an in-
terval without any mystery, an interval as seen from an airplane, between
these trees nearby and those farther away. Nor is it a matter of the sleight 
of hand by means of which one thing is replaced by another, as a per-
spective drawing represents to me so vividly. These two views are very ex-
plicit and raise no question. What brings about the enigma is their con-
nection; the enigma is what is between them. I see things, each one in its
place, precisely because they eclipse one another; they are rivals before
my gaze precisely because each one is in its own place. The enigma is their
known exteriority in their envelopment and their mutual dependence in
their autonomy. Once depth is understood in this way, we can no longer
call it a third dimension. In the first place, if it were a dimension, it would
be the first one; there are forms and definite planes only if it is stipulated
how far from me their different parts are. But a first dimension and one
that contains all the others is no longer a dimension, at least in the ordi-
nary sense of a certain relationship  according to which we make measure-
ments. Depth thus understood is, rather, the experience of the reversibil-
ity of dimensions, of a global “locality” in which everything is at the same
time, a locality from which height, width, and distance are abstracted, the
experience of a voluminosity we express in a word when we say that a thing
is there. In pursuing depth, what Cézanne is seeking is this deflagration of 
Being, and it is all in the modes of space, and in the form as well. Cézanne
already knew what cubism would restate: that the external form, the en-
 velope, is secondary and derived, that it is not what makes a thing take
form, that that shell of space must be shattered—the fruit bowl must be
broken. But then what should be painted instead? Cubes, spheres, and
cones—as he said once? Pure forms having the solidity of what could be
defined by an internal law of construction, forms which taken together, as
traces or cross-sections of the thing, let it appear between them like a face
in the reeds? This would be to put Being’s solidity on one side and its va-
riety on the other. Cézanne had already made an experiment of this kind
in his middle period. He went directly to the solid, to space—and came to
find that inside this space—this box or container too large for them—the
things begin to move, color against color, they begin to modulate in the
instability.23 Thus we must seek space and its content together. The prob-
 

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lem becomes generalized; it is no longer solely that of distance, line, and

form; it is as well the problem of color.
Color is the “place where our brain and the universe meet,” he says
in that admirable idiom of the artisan of Being which Klee liked to
quote.24 It is for the sake of color that we must break up the form qua spec-
tacle. Thus the question is not of colors, “simulacra of the colors of 
nature.”25 The question, rather, concerns the dimension of color, that di-
mension which creates—from itself to itself—identities, differences, a
texture, a materiality, a something. . . . However, decidedly, there is no
recipe for the visible, and color alone is no closer to being such a recipe
than space is. The return to color has the virtue of getting somewhat 
nearer to “the heart of things,”26 but this heart is beyond the color enve-
lope just as it is beyond the space envelope. The Portrait of Vallier sets white
spaces between the colors which take on the function of giving shape to,
and setting off, a being more general than yellow-being or green-being or
blue-being. Similarly, in the watercolors of Cézanne’s last years, space
(which had been taken to be self-evidence itself and of which it was be-
lieved that the question of  where  was not to be asked) radiates around
planes that cannot be assigned to any place at all: “a superimposing of 
transparent surfaces,” “a flowing movement of planes of color which over-
lap, advance and retreat.”27
 As we can see, it is no longer a matter of adding one dimension to
the two of the canvas, of organizing an illusion or an objectless perception
 whose perfection consists in resembling as much as possible empirical vi-
sion. Pictorial depth (as well as painted height and width) comes “I know 
not whence” to germinate upon the support. The painter’s vision is no
longer a view upon an outside, a merely “physical-optical”28 relation with
the world. The world no longer stands before him through representa-
tion; rather, it is the painter who is born in the things as by the concentra-
tion and the coming-to-itself of the visible. And, ultimately, the picture re-
lates to anything at all among experienced things only on the condition
of being first of all “auto -figurative.” It is a spectacle of something only by 
being a “spectacle of nothing,”29 by breaking the “skin of things”30 to show 
how the things are made into things, how the world made world. Apolli-
naire said that in a poem there are phrases which do not appear to have
been created,  which seem to have  formed themselves.  And Henri Michaux
said that sometimes Klee’s colors seem to have been born slowly upon the
canvas, to have emanated from some primordial ground, “exhaled at the
right spot”31 like a patina or a mold. Art is not skillful construction, skill-
ful artifice, the skillful relation, from the outside, to a space and a world.
It is truly the “inarticulate cry,” as Hermes Trismegistus said, “which
seemed to be the voice of the light.” And once art is present it awakens
 

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powers that are asleep in ordinary vision, a secret of preexistence. When

through the water’s thickness I see the tiled bottom of the pool, I do not 
see it despite  the water and the reflections; I see it through them and be-
cause of them. If there were no distortions, no ripples of sunlight, if I saw,
 without this flesh, the geometry of the tiles, then I would stop seeing the
tiled bottom as it is, where it is, namely, farther away than any identical
place. I cannot say that the water itself—the aqueous power, the syrupy 
and shimmering element—is in  space; all this is not somewhere else
either, but it is not in the pool. It dwells in it, is materialized there, yet it is
not contained there; and if I lift my eyes toward the screen of cypresses
 where the web of reflections plays, I must recognize that the water visits it 
as well, or at least sends out to it its active and living essence. This inner
animation, this radiation of the visible, is what the painter seeks beneath
the names of depth, space, and color.
 Anyone who thinks about the matter finds it astonishing that very 
often a good painter can also produce good drawings or good sculpture.
Since neither the means of expression nor the creative gestures are com-
parable, this is proof that there is a system of equivalences, a Logos of 
lines, of lighting, of colors, of reliefs, of masses—a non-conceptual pre-
sentation of universal Being. The effort of modern painting has been di-
rected not so much toward choosing between line and color, or even be-
tween figurative depiction and the creation of signs, as it has been toward
multiplying the system of equivalences, toward severing their adherence
to the envelope of things. This effort may require the creation of new 
materials or new means of expression, but it may well be realized at times
by the reexamination and reuse of those already at hand. There has been,
for example, a prosaic conception of the line as a positive attribute and
property of the object in itself. Thus, it is the contour of the apple or the
border between the plowed field and the meadow, considered as present 
in the world, such that, guided by points taken from the real world, the
pencil or brush would only have to pass over them. But this line has been
contested by all modern painting, and probably by all painting, as we are
led to think by da Vinci’s comment in his Treatise on Painting: “The secret 
of the art of drawing is to discover in each object the particular way in
 which a certain flexuous line, which is, so to speak, its generating axis, is
directed through its whole extent.”32 Both Ravaisson and Bergson sensed
something important in this, without daring to decipher the oracle all the
 way. Bergson scarcely looked for the “sinuous individual [serpentement in- 
dividuel ]” anywhere else than in living beings, and he rather timidly ad-
 vanced the idea that the undulating line “could be no one of the visible
lines of the figure,” that is “no more here than there,” and yet “gives the
key to the whole.”33 He was on the threshold of that gripping discovery,
 

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already familiar to the painters, that there are no lines visible in them-
selves, that neither the contour of the apple nor the border between field
and meadow is in this place or that, that they are always on the near or the
far side of the point we look at. They are always between or behind what-
ever we fix our eyes upon; they are indicated, implicated, and even very 
imperiously demanded by the things, but they themselves are not things.
They were supposed to circumscribe the apple or the meadow, but the
apple and the meadow “form themselves” from themselves, and come into
the visible as if they had come from a pre-spatial world behind the scenes.
Now the contestation of the prosaic line does not rule out all lines in
painting, as perhaps the impressionists have believed. It is simply a matter
of freeing the line, of revivifying its constituting power; and we are not 
faced with a contradiction when we see it reappear and triumph in painters
like Klee or Matisse, who more than anyone believed in color. For hence-
forth, as Klee said, the line no longer imitates the visible, it “renders vis-
ible,” it is the sketch of a genesis of things. Perhaps no one before Klee had
“let a line dream.”34 The beginning of the line’s path establishes or installs
a certain level or mode of the linear, a certain manner for the line to be
and to make itself a line, “d’aller ligne.”35 Relative to it, every subsequent 
inflection will have a diacritical value, will be another aspect of the line’s
relationship to itself, will form an adventure, a history, a sense of the line,
insofar as the line slants more or less, more or less rapidly, more or less
subtly.
Making its way in space, it nevertheless eats away at prosaic space and
its partes extra partes; it develops a way of extending itself actively into that 
space which subtends the spatiality of a thing quite as well as that of an
apple tree or a man. It is just that, as Klee said, in order to give the gener-
ating axis of a man, the painter “would have to have a network of lines so
entangled that it could no longer be a question of a truly elementary rep-
resentation.”36 It makes little difference whether the painter decides, like
Klee, to hold rigorously to the principle of the genesis of the visible, the
principle of fundamental, indirect, or—as Klee used to say—absolute
painting, and then leave it up to the title to designate by its prosaic name
the being thus constituted, in order to leave the painting free to function
more purely as a painting; or alternatively, like Matisse in his drawings, the
painter decides to put into a single line both the prosaic, identifying char-
acteristics of the being and the hidden operation that composes in the
being the indolence or inertia and the force in order to constitute it as
nude, as  face, or as  flower. There are the two holly leaves that Klee has
painted in the most figurative way. These two holly leaves are rigorously in-
decipherable at first, and they remain to the end monstrous, unbelievable,
phantasmic, because of exactness. And Matisse’s women (let us keep in mind
 

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his contemporaries’ sarcasm) were not immediately women; they became

 women. It is Matisse who taught us to see his shapes not in a “physical-
optical” way but rather as structural filaments [des nervures ], as the axes of 
a corporeal system of activity and passivity. Whether it be figurative or not,
the line is no longer a thing or an imitation of a thing. It is a certain dis-
equilibrium contrived within the indifference of the white paper; it is a cer-
tain drilling operation practiced within the in-itself, a certain constitutive
emptiness—an emptiness which, as Moore’s statues show decisively, sus-
tains the supposed positivity of things. The line is no longer, as in classical
geometry, the appearance of a being against the emptiness of a back-
ground. It is, as in the modern geometries, the restriction, segregation, or
modulation of a pre-given spatiality.
 Just as painting has created the latent line, it has made for itself a
movement without a change of place, a movement by vibration or radia-
tion. And well it should, since, as they say, painting is an art of space, is
made upon a canvas or sheet of paper and so lacks the wherewithal to de-
 vise things that actually move. But an immobile canvas could suggest a
change of place, just as a shooting star’s track on my retina suggests to me
a transition, a motion not contained in it. The picture itself would then of-
fer to my eyes almost the same thing offered them by real movements: a
series of appropriately blurred, instantaneous views along with, if it is a
matter of a living thing, attitudes unstably suspended between a before
and an after—in short, the outsides of a change of place which the spec-
tator would read in its trace. Here Rodin’s well-known remark reveals its
full weight: instantaneous views, unstable attitudes petrify movement, as is
shown by so many photographs in which an athlete in motion is forever
frozen. We could not thaw him out by multiplying the glimpses. Marey’s
photographs, the cubists’ analyses, Duchamp’s Bride  do not move; they 
give a Zenonian reverie on movement. We see a rigid body as if it were a
piece of armor going through its motions; it is here and it is there, magi-
cally, but it does not go  from here to there. Cinema portrays movement,
but how? Is it, as we are inclined to believe, by copying more closely the
changes of place? We may presume not, since slow motion shows a body 
floating between objects like seaweed, but not moving itself. Movement is
given, says Rodin, by an image in which the arms, the legs [les jambes ], the
trunk, and the head are each taken at a different instant, an image which
therefore portrays the body in an attitude which it never at any instant 
really held and which imposes fictive linkages between the parts, as if this
mutual confrontation of incompossibles could—and alone could—make
transition and duration to well up in bronze and on canvas.37 The only suc-
cessful instantaneous views of movement are those which approach this
paradoxical arrangement—when, for example, a walking man or woman
 

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is taken at the moment when both feet are touching the ground; for then
 we almost have the temporal ubiquity of the body which brings it about 
that the person bestrides [enjambe ] space. The picture makes movement vis-
ible by its internal discordance. Each member’s position, precisely by vir-
tue of its incompatibility with that of the others (according to the body’s
logic), is dated differently, and since all of them remain visibly within the
unity of one body, it is the body which comes to bestride duration. Its
movement is something conspired between legs, trunk, arms, and head in
some virtual focal point, and it breaks forth only subsequently by change
of place. When a horse is photographed at that instant when he is com-
pletely off the ground, with his legs almost folded under him—an instant,
therefore, when he must be moving —why does he look as if he were leap-
ing in place? And why, by contrast, do Géricault’s horses run on canvas,
in a posture impossible for a real horse at a gallop? It is because the horses
in Epsom Derby  bring me to see the body’s grip upon the ground and, ac-
cording to a logic of body and of the world that I know well, these grips
upon space are also grips upon duration. Rodin said profoundly, “It is the
artist who is truthful, while the photograph lies; for, in reality, time never
stops.”38 The photograph keeps open the instant which the onrush of time
closes up forthwith; it destroys the overtaking, the overlapping, the “meta-
morphosis” of time. This is what painting, in contrast, makes visible, be-
cause the horses have in them that “leaving here, going there,”39 because
they have a foot in each instant. Painting searches not for the outside of 
the movement but for its secret ciphers. There are some still more subtle
than those of which Rodin spoke: all flesh, and even that of the world, ra-
diates beyond itself. But whether, depending on the epochs and the
“schools,” one is attached more to manifest movement or to the monu-
mental, painting is never altogether outside time, because it is always
 within the carnal.
Now perhaps we have a better sense of how much is contained in
that little word “see.” Vision is not a certain mode of thought or presence
to self; it is the means given me for being absent from myself, for being
present from the inside at the fission of Being only at the end of which do
I close up into myself.
Painters have always known this. Da Vinci invoked a “pictorial
science” which does not speak in words (and still less in numbers) but in
 works that exist in the visible just as natural things do—and which yet 
communicates itself through them “to all the generations of the uni-
 verse.”40 It is this silent science, says Rilke (apropos of Rodin), that brings
into the work the forms of things “whose seal has not yet been broken”; it 
comes from the eye and addresses itself to the eye.41 We must understand
the eye as the “window of the soul.” “The eye . . . through which the beauty 
 

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of the universe is revealed to our contemplation is of such excellence that 

 whoever should resign himself to losing it would deprive himself of the
knowledge of all the works of nature, the sight of which makes the soul live
happily in its body’s prison, thanks to the eyes which show him the infinite
 variety of creation: whoever loses them abandons his soul in a dark prison
 where all hope of once more seeing the sun, the light of the universe, must 
 vanish.” The eye accomplishes the prodigious work of opening the soul to
 what is not soul—the joyous realm of things and their god, the sun. A 
Cartesian can believe that the existing world is not visible, that the only 
light is of the mind, and that all vision takes place in God. A painter can-
not agree that our openness to the world is illusory or indirect, that what 
 we see is not the world itself, or that the mind has to do only with its
thoughts or another mind. He accepts, with all its difficulties, the myth of 
the windows of the soul; what is without place must be subjected to a
body—or, what is even more: what is without place must be initiated by 
the body to all the others and to nature. We must take literally what vision
teaches us: that through it we touch the sun and the stars, that we are
everywhere at once, and that even our powers to imagine ourselves else-
 where—“I am in Petersburg in my bed, in Paris, my eyes see the sun”42—
or freely to aim at real beings, wherever they are, borrows from vision and
employs again means we owe to it. Vision alone teaches us that beings that 
are different, “exterior,” foreign to one another, are yet absolutely together,
are “simultaneity”; which is a mystery psychologists handle the way a child
handles explosives. Robert Delaunay says succinctly, “The railroad track is
the image of succession which comes closest to the parallel: the parity of 
the rails.”43 The rails converge and do not converge; they converge in order 
to remain equidistant farther away. The world is in accordance with my 
perspective in order to be independent of me, is for me in order to be with-
out me, to be a world. The “visual quale” gives me, and is alone in doing
so, the presence of what is not me, of what is simply and fully.44 It does so
because, as a texture, it is the concretion of a universal visibility, of one
sole Space that separates and reunites, that sustains every cohesion (and
even that of past and future, since there would be no such cohesion if they 
 were not essentially parts of the same Space). Every visual something, as
individual as it is, functions also as a dimension, because it is given as the
result of a dehiscence of Being. What this ultimately means is that what de-
fines the visible is to have a lining of invisibility in the strict sense, which
it makes present as a certain absence. “In their time, our erstwhile-
opposites, the Impressionists, were perfectly right in electing domicile
among the scrub and stubble of the daily spectacle. As for us, our heart 
throbs to get closer to the depths. . . . These oddities will become . . .
realities . . . because instead of being limited to the diversely intense
 

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restoration of the visible, they also annex the occultly perceived portion
of the invisible.”45 There is that which reaches the eye head on, the frontal
properties of the visible; but there is also that which reaches it from be-
low—the deep postural latency whereby the body raises itself to see—and
that which reaches vision from above like the phenomena of flight, of 
swimming, of movement, where it participates no longer in the heaviness
of origins but in free accomplishments.46 Through vision, then, the
painter touches both extremities. In the immemorial depth of the visible,
something has moved, caught fire, which engulfs his body; everything he
paints is in answer to this incitement, and his hand is “nothing but the in-
strument of a distant will.” Vision is the encounter, as at a crossroads, of all
the aspects of Being. “A certain fire wills to live; it wakes. Working its way 
along the hand’s conductor, it reaches the canvas and invades it; then, a
leaping spark, it arcs the gap in the circle it was to trace: the return to the
eye, and beyond.”47 There is no break at all in this circuit; it is impossible
to say that here nature ends and the human being or expression begins.
It is, then, silent Being that itself comes to show forth its own sense.
Herein lies the reason why the dilemma between figurative and nonfigu-
rative art is badly posed; it is at once true and uncontradictory that no
grape was ever what it is in the most figurative painting and that no paint-
ing, no matter how abstract, can get away from Being, that even Caravag-
gio’s grape is the grape itself.48 This precession of what is upon what one
sees and makes seen, of what one sees and makes seen upon what is—this
is vision itself. And to give the ontological formula of painting we hardly 
need to force the painter’s own words, Klee’s words written at the age of 
thirty-seven and ultimately inscribed on his tomb: “I cannot be grasped in
immanence.”49

Because depth, color, form, line, movement, contour, physiognomy are all
branches of Being and because each entwines the tufts of all the rest, there
are no separated, distinct “problems” in painting, no really opposed
paths, no partial “solutions,” no cumulative progress, no options that can-
not return. There is nothing to prevent the painter from going back to
one of the emblems he has shied away from—making it, of course, speak
differently. Rouault’s contours are not those of Ingres. Light is the “old
sultana,” says Georges Limbour, “whose charms withered away at the be-
ginning of this century.”50 Expelled at first by the painters of matter, it 
reappears finally in Dubuffet as a certain texture of matter. One is never
 

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sheltered from these returns or from the least expected convergences;

there are fragments of Rodin which are statues by Germaine Richier be- 
cause they were sculptors —that is, connected back to one single, identical
network of Being. For the same reason, nothing is ever an acquisition. By 
“working over” a favorite problem, even if it is just the problem of velvet 
or wool, the true painter unknowingly upsets the givens of all the other
problems. His investigation is total even when it looks partial. At the mo-
ment when he comes to acquire a certain “savoir-faire,” he sees that he has
reopened another field where everything he has been able to express
must be said again in a different way. Thus what he has found he does not 
 yet have. It remains to be sought out; the discovery itself calls for other in-
 vestigations. The idea of universal painting, of a totalization of painting,
of painting’s being fully and definitively realized is an idea that makes no
sense. For painters, if any remain, the world will always be yet to be
painted; even if it lasts millions of years . . . it will all end without having
been completed. Panofsky shows that the “problems” of painting that 
animate its history are often solved obliquely, not in the course of investi-
gations that had first posed them, but, on the contrary, when painters,
having reached an impasse, look like they have forgotten those problems
and allow themselves to be attracted somewhere else. Then suddenly,
their attention elsewhere, they happen upon the old problems and sur-
mount the obstacle. This hidden historicity, advancing through the
labyrinth by detours, transgressions, slow encroachments and sudden
drives, does not mean that the painter does not know what he wants, but 
that what he wants is on the hither side of means and goals, commanding
from above all our useful activity.
 We are so fascinated by the classical idea of intellectual adequation
that painting’s mute “thought” sometimes leaves us with the impression of 
a vain swirl of meanings, a paralyzed or miscarried speech. And if one an-
swers that no thought ever detaches itself completely from a support; that 
the sole privilege of speaking thought is to have rendered its own support 
manipulable, that no more than those of painting, the figurations of lit-
erature and philosophy are not truly acquisitions and do not accumulate
themselves into a stable treasure, that even science learns to recognize a
zone of the “fundamental,” peopled with dense, open, rent beings of which
an exhaustive treatment is out of the question—like the cyberneticians’
“aesthetic information” or mathematico-physical “groups of operations,”
and that, finally, we are never in a position to take stock of everything ob-
 jectively or to think of progress in itself; and that the whole of human his-
tory is, in a certain sense, stationary—then the understanding says, like
[Stendhal’s] Lamiel, what, is that all there is to it? Is this the highest point of 
reason, to realize that the soil beneath our feet is shifting, to pompously 
 

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call “interrogation” what is only a persistent state of stupor, to call

“research” what is only trudging in a circle, to call “Being” that which
never fully is?
But this disappointment issues from a false imaginar y, which claims
for itself a positivity that fills in its own emptiness. It is the regret of not 
being everything, a regret that is not even entirely grounded. For if we
cannot establish a hierarchy of civilizations or speak of progress—either
in painting or even elsewhere—it is not because some fate impedes us; it 
is, rather, that in a sense the very first painting went to the furthest reach
of the future. If no painting completes painting, if no work even is itself 
absolutely completed, each creation changes, alters, clarifies, deepens,
confirms, exalts, re-creates, or creates in advance all the others. If cre-
ations are not acquisitions, it is not just that, like all things, they pass away;
it is also that they have almost their entire lives before them.