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From Photography to Philosophy: Two Moments oF Post-Traditional Art

Arthur C. Danto
p. 33-43


The present essay represents for the author an occasion to retrace his philosophy of art, referring in particular to the themes related to contemporary art. Starting from the historical importance which the photographic experiments of Eadweard Muybridge had for painting (and not only), Arthur Danto once again comes to wonder about the famous Brillo Box of Andy Warhol, demonstrating how, in the face of different avant-guard artistic movements of the early Sixties (specially in the usa), it is indeed philosophy that questions itself, reconsidering its own concept of the eternity of art and the way in which works of art must be interpreted.

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1Not long after I began writing art criticism for The Nation, an enterprising publicist for the Brooklyn Museum sent me the catalog of an exhibition there of some little known mid- nineteenth century American painters. They belonged to the American Pre-Raphaelite movement, such as it was, and they published a journal called The New Path. The images in the catalog were of small paintings with seemingly modest ambitions – a twig from an oak tree with a few leaves and some acorns, a single flower, a nest on the forest floor with three of four bird’s eggs. I would not normally have had a lot of interest in this work had it not been for the fact that I discovered, reading the essay, that Russell Sturgis, the first art critic for my magazine was extremely enthusiastic about The New Path, and felt that the future of American art lay with the “Pre Rafs,” as they called themselves. This was in the 1860s, shortly before The Nation was founded (on July 4, 1865) – just after the American Civil War. Sturgis was a founder of professional art criticism in America, and what excited him about this movement was the fact that its members were committed to “visual truth,” and were accordingly hostile to the National Academy of Design, whose members, in their view, turned out the large academic paintings that suited the official taste of the time. The British Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood had secured the endorsement of John Ruskin, England’s leading art critic, who wrote in the London Times of 1851 that since Raphael, artists had sought to «paint fair pictures rather than stern facts», but that these artists were resolved to paint only what they see «irrespective of any conventional rules of picture making». The highest compliment the American Pre-Rafs could pay one another was that one would have thought, looking at their work, that it had been made by a camera. The camera, presumably, showed only what the eye sees and nothing more. Hence it had to be the paradigm of visual truth.

2It only struck me recently that nineteenth century painters must have believed that visual truth was defined by photography, however alien to human vision what the camera reproduced often was. A good example of this would have been Eadweard Muybridge’s photographs of horses in motion. Painters decided that Muybridge’s images showed what horses really look like when they run, and in effect copied Muybridge’s photographs in their paintings of horses, even though that is not at all the way we see horses when they run. We really don’t see animals move the way Muybridge shows them moving, or else there would have been no need for the photographs in the first place: it was because the human eye could not tell whether all four of a horse’s legs touch the ground at the same time that Muybridge hit upon his awkward but somehow authoritative experiments, that were really designed to answer such questions. Muybridge’s published images had an impact on artists like Eakins and the Futurists, and especially on Degas, who sometimes shows a horse moving stiff-legged across the turf, exactly the way it can be seen in Muybridge’s photographs, but never in life. Degas, who took up photography himself, would have argued that the photographs teach us how we must see, even if the images look quite unnatural. This confuses optical truth with visual truth. Traditional painters, like Leonardo or Lautrec, produce stereotypes that are visually convincing even if they are optically incorrect. Muybridge mocked Victorian painters, whose depictions of horses racing was visually far more convincing than his optically correct photographs.

3Consider the case of portraits. Most of what the human face shows is not so much the kinds of physiognomic expressions – grief, joy, anger – that academic artists had to master in order to show in narrative paintings how persons felt, but transitions between expressions. With asa 160 and shutter speeds of a sixtieth of a second we can capture the face appearing in ways which the eye never sees – “between expressions,” as it were. That is why we reject as not “really me” many of the images on a contact sheet, which don’t look like what we see in the mirror. The result is that faces are defamiliarized by the camera, all the more so when, as in as the typical portrait by Richard Avedon, the face is vignetted against a white background, with all context stripped away. They are not the faces we know, if we know the subject, and certainly not how the subject knows himself, composing his or her face for the mirror. What it really amounts to, with the modern camera, is that the photographer is stopping movement, hence making stills, with results that never arose with painted portraits. The stills show “optical truth” but it does not correspond to perceptual truth, namely how we see the world stereotypically. I first realized this when I saw Avedon’s photograph of the philosopher, Isaiah Berlin, who was a friend of mine. The picture in no sense captured how Isaiah looked to anyone who knew him, but instead an unrecognizable sourpuss. It is, moreover, false to say that he “sometimes” looks like this. He never looks like this to the eye. He only does so to a camera set to asa 160, f22 at a 30th of a second – which of course one does not see. Avedon’s portrait “disanimates” a usually very animated face.

4These ideas came home to me vividly when I was thinking about Manet’s painting of the execution of Maximilian, done in four versions, from 1865 to 1867. There was no photograph of the event, since that was forbidden by the Mexican authorities. Manet depended on newspaper accounts, and the details kept changing as the reports came in. At first, Manet supposed that the execution was carried out by Mexican guerillas, and he painted the firing squad wearing sombreros. Gradually, it became known that the firing squad was made up of Mexican soldiers in uniform, as the final and official version shows. It slowly occurred to me that Manet was seeking to show the event the way it would look if it had been photographed – it was, after all, news. He painted it just at the moment when the guns had been fired – there is smoke coming out of their muzzles – and one of the victims is falling down, fatally wounded. Photography was not yet capable of recording things this fast – the Leica was not to be invented until the next century. Film was too slow, exposure times were long. But certain things peculiar to the photograph appear in the way the painting is organized. Here is an astute observation by Clement Greenberg, written in 1957.

  • 1  Greenberg 1993: 190.

From Giotto to Courbet, the painter’s first task had been to hollow out an illusion of three-dimensional space. This illusion was conceived of more or less as a stage animated by visual incident, and the surface of the picture as the window through which one looked at the stage. But Manet began to pull the backdrop of the stage forward, and those who came after him […] kept pulling it forward, until today it has come smack up against the window, blocking it up and hiding the stage. All the painter has left to work with now is, so to speak, a more or less opaque windowpane1.

5Greenberg is famous for saying that the defining essence of the medium of painting is flatness, which means, in effect, the denial of the illusory space that was a necessary condition for the great creative achievement of painting “from Giotto to Courbet.” It was this observation, whatever its problems, that encouraged Greenberg to propose that modernism began with Manet. What is needed to put these two thoughts together is the recognition that photography played an operative role in the transformation of art from traditional to modern. What after all could have been more modern than the photographic camera, with its ability to fix images, which until then were ephemeral and fleeting? The camera shortened depth – «brought the background forward» – and flattened forms, largely, I think, because, the lenses of the period were often telescopic, which showed things closer together than they would look to the eye – almost on top of one another. In a way, the firing squad looks like it has physically placed the muzzles of their gun much closer to the victim’s faces than they are. We see this today in televising baseball games – the camera of necessity is at a distance requiring telescopy, which puts the pitcher and the batter on top of one another. Manet tended to suppress transitional tones, which emulates the way the frontally illuminated object in a photograph drives the shadows to the edges, inevitably flattening forms, an effect which Manet seized upon in painting his portraits. Greenberg writes that «for the sake of luminousness Manet was willing to accept this flatness» (IV, 242). A further truth is that the lenses tended to give a forward central thrust to the image, as in Manet’s Gare St Lazare, where everything is crowded into the foreground. I would wager that Manet’s painting owes a lot to Nadar’s photographs. The camera made Modernism happen.

6By a coincidence in scheduling, the Museum of Modern Art recently mounted two shows – one of Manet’s Execution, in which we can look for signs of the beginnings of modernism, and the other of Brice Marden, beginning with his gray-in-gray monochromes, which I saw as the end of modernism as a period style. They are exactly gray in gray, with shadowy markings of darker gray, that had served other painters, such as Jasper Johns or Alberto Giacometti, as backgrounds against which they painted the objects or figures which carried the primary interest of their works. Marden seems to have brought them forward to coincide with the surfaces of his paintings, making his surfaces his subjects, turning his paintings into objects. The history of modernism is the history of narrowing the space between background and foreground, just as Greenberg says – a progress in which important stages are Cezanne’s tipping the surface of his tables up toward the viewer, creating the kind of space the Cubists exploited, especially in their collages; the American trompe l’oeil paintings, in which flat objects like newspaper clippings and paper money are pinned or pasted on flat surfaces, enabling painters to eliminate shadows and thus to short-circuit depth. The Pre-Rafs, in attempting to emulate the camera, had also eliminated depth, almost the way that happens when one looks through a microscope. And, at least as I see it, when Picasso, in 1912, pastes a flat object, like the label on an aperitif bottle, into a composition, making it visually ambiguous whether one is looking at a real label or an illusionist label painted with astonishing fidelity. By narrowing the space between foreground and background to zero, one opens the possibility of narrowing the distance between art and reality to zero, at least for real objects of a certain flatness, raising the philosophical question of where the differences finally lies.


7By this point in history, the camera lost its authority, since no one, looking at Picasso, would have said «You would have thought a camera did it». After six centuries, the capture of visual appearance had lost its charm, and the art history tracked by Ernst Gombrich in Art and Illusion had come to an end. The camera did, however, play an important role in the art-reality questions that took central place in the philosophy of art in the mid-Sixties, but primarily through the medium of photographic silk screen, which was used to transfer positive images to surfaces other than photograph paper. Warhol discovered photo silk screen “by accident” in mid-to-late 1962, and that tended to inflect the way his images looked from that point forward. It was the perfect medium for the paintings of disasters and catastrophes, which became so central to his endeavors in the early years of the decade. He made stencils of the large photographs that appeared on the front page of tabloid newspapers. The mesh-work of the screen together with dots of transmitted photographs gave his images the urgency and authenticity of wire-transmitted news shots. At the same time it facilitated the kind of uncertainty and irregularity that went with a lingering Abstract Expressionist aesthetic, especially when the mesh got clogged with ink.

8It also went with what one might think of as Warhol’s personal philosophy. «I think it would be so great if more people took up silk screens so that no one would know if my picture was mine or somebody else’s», he said in 1963. Thus, according to the authors of Warhol’s catalog raisonne, «Not only did [Warhol] deflect those who would attempt to know his work or to discern his hand in it, he disputed the role of the artist as the author of a work of art». He also «challenged art connoisseurship as a way of knowing objects through their visual characteristics». Since there is no “touch” by means of which anyone can tell whether a given silk screen is his or, say, Gerard Malanga’s, the artist’s hand, like the artist’s eye, playing no role to speak of in the work of the Factory. Warhol literally stopped drawing from 1963 until 1972. The first big project of the Factory years was making the facsimiles of shipping cartons for the April, 1964 show at the Stable Gallery, which made an immense impression on me. That show would have been unthinkable without silk screen: the boxes were made with stencils from photographs of the top and four sides of the Brillo box, for example, and then pressing ink onto the sides of fabricated plywood boxes though the mesh, turning out what looked like replicae of actual shipping cartons. Gerard Malanga refers to the boxes as «three dimensional photographs». The Stable Gallery was on the first floor of a town house on East 74th Street, just off Madison Avenue. It was very patrician architecture (since incorporated as the employee entrance into the Whitney Museum). You entered the lobby, with black and white marble tiles, and an elegant stairway to the upper floors. The gallery was entered through a baronial mahogany door to your left, which opened onto what looked like the store room of a supermarket. It was genuinely a surrealistic experience. There were hundreds of neatly stacked boxes for Brillo, tomato soup, cornflakes, and canned fruit, and apple juice. Were they art – or were they real cartons? One could not avoid that question.

9My philosophical preoccupation with contemporary art began when I visited that exhibition. I more or less accepted that the boxes were art, but immediately wondered what the difference could be between them and the real Brillo cartons of the supermarket, which resembled them visually. The question was not whether one could tell the difference, which was an epistemological question, but what made them different, which is what philosophers call an ontological question, calling for a definition of art. Actually, I saw this initially as an almost political question – how did these get enfranchised as works of art when boxes that closely resembled them were excluded from that status? Works of art had rights and privileges. They were treated with respect and even awe – Brillo boxes were exhibited on pedestals early on, for example, though in the Stable Gallery they were placed on the floor. They belonged to the history of sculpture, a status they shared with Michelangelo’s statuary, or Rodin’s. The ordinary Brillo box was merely a “tool” used for holding packages of Brillo together when they were shipped from the factory to the market. They were like slaves. 1964 was the Summer of Freedom in the United States. African Americans were claiming their civil rights. There was, one might say, no ontological basis for the discrimination against them. Why were Andy’s boxes sculpture when the ordinary cartons were just containers, when one could use the wooden boxes to ship Brillo in, as one does with bottles of wine.

10I took these questions up in “The Artworld” of 1964, at a time when, as a philosopher, I was thinking about perhaps five different subjects all at once, and all in the same way: the philosophy of history, the philosophy of knowledge, the philosophy of action, and the philosophy of mind, as well as the philosophy of art. I was terribly lucky that the art world took the turn it took in 1964, or I would not have been able to write philosophically on art at all. It was to the history of the art world rather than of the aesthetics world of the time that that essay – and ultimately my book, The Transfiguration of the Commonplace, published in 1981, really belongs, which is part of the reason I thought of what was happening in the art world as closer to the kind of philosophy I was doing than to anything then happening in philosophical aesthetics. I was interested in ontology, in the question of what it is to be a work of art. The great thing about the Sixties was the dawning recognition that anything could be a work of art, which was something evident in all the main movements of the time – in Pop, Minimalism, Fluxus, Conceptual art, and so on. What accounted for the difference?

11I have increasingly come to recognize that my concern was with enfranchisement, viz, what makes a human being a citizen, which was like: what makes an object an art work – or what makes a bodily movement an action or what makes what is present to mind a piece of knowledge, and so on, for each of the subjects I was struggling to understand. The big mantra in the art world was Frank Stella’s sullen «What you see is what you see». But there was not a lot of difference between what you see when you see a Brillo Box by Warhol and the Brillo Boxes (designed by) James Harvey for the Brillo people to move their products about in. So: why weren’t they art works if Andy’s Factory-produced boxes were? Stella’s paintings looked like big swatches of material for men’s suits – so why weren’t swatches miniature works of art if Stella’s paintings were? I deeply believed that all philosophical questions had to be answered at the same time, and in the same kind of way. My procedural model at the time was Wittgenstein’s dazzling question – What remains over when you subtract from the fact that you raised your arm the fact that your arm went up? What remains over when you subtract from the fact that something is an art object the fact that it is an object? That led to a search for the necessary conditions for acthood, or arthood, or whatever.

12Ontology is the pursuit of necessary conditions. My strategy was to avoid asking directly “What is an art work?” but rather asking “Given two perceptually indiscernible objects, one an art work, the other not, what accounts for the difference?” That question was the gift to philosophy of the art of the Sixties. Apart from the change of question, there is a change of answer to the question, since nothing the two perceptually similar objects have in common can be part of what makes only one of them a work of art. So the differences cannot be perceptual, cannot be something that is discerned, to use the title of Caroline Jones’ recent study of Clement Greenberg, “By Eyesight Alone.” The differences are all invisible. That by itself explains why ontology isn’t science.

13A lot of people were interested in the art of the Sixties, for a lot of different reasons. But I was the only one interested in it who was also interested in the ontological dimension of the philosophy of history, of knowledge of action, of mind, and of religion at the same time, and where anything not bearing on this was of interest to be sure, but not of great interest ontologically speaking. To do ontology means to seek a philosophical definition, consisting only of conditions necessary to something being art. In The Transfiguration I arrived at part of a definition, consisting of two necessary conditions – meaning and embodiment – which led to the doubtless premature definition that something is an artwork only if it embodies its meaning. It is easy to see how much of the concept of art as it grew by accrual over the millennia is in the end not part of the definition, since something lacking it can still be an art work according to the two criteria I felt resisted counter-exemplification.

14These conditions I believed were universal, true of works of art at any moment in history, and everywhere in the world. Naturally, they left out a great deal that belongs to art, but that is how it is with necessary conditions. As a definition, mine could have been thought of at any time. But mostly, philosophers who thought about art at all thought about what made art important to people – its beauty, its expressiveness, its ability to make people laugh or cry. All of these qualities are important. But they didn’t have much to do with the art that engaged me in the Sixties. As a philosopher, I was concerned to find something that these minimal uninflected works had in common with the humanly far more engaging things that people had responded to as art in earlier periods – comedies, tragedies, novels, symphonies, opera, ballets, frescoes, sculptures of heroes and gods. I felt that as a philosopher, I was fortunate to have lived when I did and where I did, at a moment when almost nothing about the art being made was interesting except for the question of why it was art at all.

15If I could travel backward in time, I could imagine discussing my definition of art with philosophers and artists in ancient Greece or, for the matter, in ancient China. They could easily grasp my definition of art. They would say yes – an artwork has and embodies a meaning – but really there are properties far more interesting to discuss than those. Think of the qualities that makes a Sung ink painting a Sung ink painting! Or the Greeks might say of course, The Trojan Women has and embodies a meaning. But what interest can that have alongside the questions that makes it moving as a tragedy, or why viewers feel purged after sitting through a performance of it? Those philosophers would be unanimous in saying that I had left out everything interesting. But I would explain that since catharsis belongs to some art forms and not others, it cannot be universal – and that I was only interested in properties without which things are not art. No one in the history of the philosophy of art, whether artists or thinkers, could have imagined the art world I experienced in the Sixties or the Seventies. How could they understand the problem I found in Warhol, or, for the matter, in Marcel Duchamp’s ready-mades? Suppose I could carry a snow shovel back in time with me. I could explain how useful it was for removing snow, and that would have been readily understood. But if I brought back two snow shovels – one a readymade, the other just a shovel – they would find it hard to see what the difference between them could be. It certainly would not be a noticeable difference – like one having a painted handle and the other just a bare wood handle. People would have a hard time seeing that a snow shovel could be a work of art – but if it was one, then it was hard to see why another snow shovel, like it in all visible respects, was not one. The difficulty would be that my historical predecessors simply could not imagine the art history of the future – could not imagine the kind of history I and others had lived through in the Sixties and the immediately following decades. But that implies a paradox in its own right. How could a definition of art at once be universal and timeless, and at the same time depend upon historical experience to be understood?

16The Sixties saw a number of artistic movements emerge – Pop Art, Minimalism, and Conceptual Art, for example. Each of these made possible works that were, to say the least, philosophically puzzling. Pop consisted of works that looked very like images that occurred in popular culture. Minimalism consisted of work that looked often looked like industrial objects – florescent bulbs, bricks, sections of prefabricated buildings, metal plates. A hole in the ground could be a work of conceptual art. In truth, it began to seem that anything could be a work of art, as long as some theory could be invoked under which its status as art were explained, so that one could not tell by looking at something, whether it was a work of art or not. Meanings, after all, are invisible. One could not tell, by looking, if something had a meaning or what meaning it had. The German artist Joseph Beuys made art out of fat and felt, of old printing presses, of trees. A pile of coal, a tableful of books, a stack of newspapers, a piece of plumbing, a woman’s dress, could all be works of art. A crude video, showing a man doing nothing could be a work of art. Works of art no longer required much skill to make. They really no longer needed artists – anyone could “do” them. Painting and sculpture, as traditionally understood, became less and less central. It was as if art had entered not just a new period, but a new kind of period, in which anything was possible. In the early Eighties there was a sudden flourishing of what was called Neo-Expressionist painting, but by the middle of the decade, that subsided. All at once movements no longer seemed to occur. The early part of the twentieth century had seen hundreds of movements – Cubism, Fauvism, Constructivism, Suprematism, Futurism, Dada, Surrealism, Expressionism, Abstraction – each with its own manifesto. All this had vanished. The history of art no longer seemed driven by some inner necessity. One lost the sense of any narrative direction.

17In 1984, I published an essay called “The End of Art.” It was as if in the art world at least, something like the vision Marx and Engels had of the “end of history” was becoming actual. Artists could really do anything, and it seemed as if anyone could be an artist. At first, this rather depressed me. I thought nostalgically of how exciting history had been, when one looked forward to each new season for fresh revelations. For a time, one and only one sort of art seem historically correct. In America there was Abstract Expressionism. One thought that was going to last as long as the Renaissance had lasted, but by 1962 it was over with. Some critics believed it would be replaced by Color Field painting. But, as I have already noted, some deep change had begun in the art world with Pop, Minimalism, and Conceptual art. And it now seemed as if the time for deep changes was definitively over. When one can do anything, there does not seem any longer to be much reason to do one thing rather than another. We had really entered a period of pluralism. There was no one correct way to make art.

18As I say, I found this situation dispiriting at first. I wrote: «It has been an immense privilege to live in history». But bit by bit I began to feel that it was intoxicating to be free of the tyranny of art history. That, again to paraphrase Marx, we no longer are what we are because of history, but history instead is made by us. There is no internally determined end state toward which history is moving – we have already reached and passed beyond any end state. When I began to lecture on the end of art, my audiences, often made up of artists, were initially hostile, but quickly sensed the feeling of liberation I had begun to have. There was no longer the interminable disputes over which is the correct way to make art. The kinds of arguments that took place at the Cedar Bar in New York in the Forties, or at the Artists’ club on Tenth Street in the Fifties, belonged to a stage of things that art had gone beyond. When I was invited to deliver the Andrew W. Mellon Lectures at the National Gallery in Washington in 1995, I decided to devote them to this new philosophy of art history. After the End of Art was the result of those lectures.

19The institutions of the art world began to change radically in response to the radical pluralism that overtook it in what I spoke of in the “Post Historical” period we had entered. In many art schools, for example, skills were no longer taught. The student was treated from the beginning as an artist, and the faculty existed to help the students realize their ideas. The attitude was that the student would learn whatever he or she needed, in order to make what he or she wanted. Everyone used everything and anything – audio, video, photography, performances, installation, embroidery, taxidermy. Students could be painters or sculptors if they liked. But the main thing was to find the means to embody the meanings they were interested in conveying. The atmosphere of the artschool was no longer a group of students, standing in front of their easels painting a model or a still life, with the “master” going from canvas to canvas, making suggestions. In the advanced art school, students had their own studios, and the professors – artists themselves – made periodic visits, to see what was happening, and to give advice.

20Art became something that in a way belonged to everyone. Thousands of new museums were built, but instead of showing treasures, that had «passed the test of time», they showed what was happening now. Audiences were interested in the art of their time, rather than in learning to appreciate the masterpieces of the past. And this was taking place not just in America and Europe, but everywhere. Artists traveled. They became internationalized. As of today, I have been told, there are 200 international art events every month – biennials, triennials, art fairs. The art world itself has no center. The center, one might say, is everywhere. And everywhere the institutions are changing to meet the new demands.

21As a philosopher, however, I am gratified by how much of what has been happening fits the surprisingly tensile set of necessary conditions that my book, The Transfiguration of the Commonplace laid down twenty five years ago. At least the definition of art looks like it may be settled, even if everything else is forever up for grabs.

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Danto, A.C.

– 1964, The Artworld, “The Journal of Philosophy”, LXI, 19, October 15, pp. 571-584

– 1981, The Transfiguration of the Commonplace: A Philosophy of Art, Cambridge (Mass.), Harvard University Press (tr. it. La trasfigurazione del banale. Una filosofia dell’arte, Roma-Bari, Laterza, 2008)

– 1984, The End of Art, in L. Berel (ed.), The Death of Art, New York, Haven.

– 1995, After the End of Art: Contemporary Art and the Pale of History, Princeton (NJ), Princeton University Press (tr. it. Dopo la fine dell’arte. L’arte contemporanea e il confine della storia, Milano, Mondadori, 2008)

Gombrich, E.

– 1960, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychologyof pictorial Representation, New York, Pantheon Books.

Greenberg, C.

– 1993, Abstract and Representational, in The Collected Essays and Criticism, edited by John O’Brian, Chicago-London, The University of Chicago Press, pp. 186-193

Malanga, G.

– 2002, Archiving Warhol: Writings & Photogtaphy, London, Creation Books

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1  Greenberg 1993: 190.

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Per citare questo articolo

Notizia bibliografica

Arthur C. Danto, « From Photography to Philosophy: Two Moments oF Post-Traditional Art », Rivista di estetica, 46 | 2011, 33-43.

Notizia bibliografica digitale

Arthur C. Danto, « From Photography to Philosophy: Two Moments oF Post-Traditional Art », Rivista di estetica [Online], 46 | 2011, online dal 30 novembre 2015, consultato il 27 luglio 2017. URL : ; DOI : 10.4000/estetica.1636

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