This article uses Hegel’s analysis of the Romantic form to elucidate the relationship between aesthetic space and subjectivity in modernist painting (Paul Klee) and cinema (Sergei Eisenstein). The movement that brings art to realization in Hegel thus includes genres and modalities of art that did not exist in his time: in cinema and modernist painting, the Idea or truth of art evolves and brings itself to completion. Plasticity, the movement of aesthetic form toward self-expression, abandons the rigid substantiality it achieves in the Classical era and acquires unprecedented range, depth and resilience. In the Romantic form, the dynamism of the concept surfaces in full force and aesthetic boundaries expand. The emergence here of a new type of visual space is determined by a subjectivity that abandons the concrete, corporeal individuality associated with sculpture (most explicitly in Classical art) and imparts on sensuous form the fluidity of inner life. Music and poetry converge in the visual object which now assumes cinematic modality, a modality that also finds expression in modernist painting.
aesthetic space, cinema, Sergei Eisenstein, G.W.F. Hegel, Paul Klee, modernist, plasticity, Romantic
Tsakiridou, C.A. “Art’s Self-Disclosure: Hegelian Insights into Cinematic and Modernist Space.” Evental Aesthetics 2, no. 1 (2013): 44-72.
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Art’s Self-Disclosure: Hegelian Insights into Cinematic and Modernist Space
The movement that brings art to realization in Hegel includes genres and modalities of art that did not exist in his time. These are present in latent configurations that take concrete form as the Idea or truth of art evolves and brings itself to completion. Plasticity, the movement of aesthetic form toward self-expression, abandons the rigid substantiality of the Classical arts, and opens the art object to new forms and modalities of existence. This is especially evident in the third and final form of art described in Hegel’s aesthetics, the Romantic form, where the dynamism of the concept surfaces in full force and aesthetic boundaries expand. Implicit in the Romantic form is the emergence of a new type of visual space determined by a subjectivity that abandons the concrete, corporeal individuality associated with sculpture – which for Hegel exemplifies Classical art, the form that precedes the Romantic – and imparts on sensuous form the fluidity of inner life. It is in this break or
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release that we can identify the origin of the cinematic moment, a moment that also finds expression in modernist painting.
In Romantic art, aesthetic form moves freely between painting (“outward appearance of extension on a surface…a pure appearance of the inner spirit”), music (“in place of spatial figuration, figurations of notes in their temporal rising and falling of sound”), and poetry (being “exempt from painting’s restriction to a specific space” and music’s “abstract inner life of feeling”). Painting loses its enframed, closed subsistence, as the equilibrium and surface clarity (klar ) that characterize the image in Classical art dissolve. Representation as such, the reference of the art object to something other than itself, unravels. Art internalizes all references and posits them anew, not from the realm of nature or external reality but from that of consciousness and that of art itself.
Paul de Man contends that in Hegelian aesthetics, “the paradigm for art is thought rather than perception.” When Hegel writes that “romantic art is the self-transcendence of art but within its own sphere and in the form of art itself ” (doch innerhalb ihres eigenen Gebiets und in Form der Kunst selber ), he expressly recognizes an inherent resilience and fecundity in the aesthetic which accommodates the complete internalization of sensuous form. The outcome of this process is not the conversion of the art object to a sign, as de Man suggests, but the emergence of a self-conscious aestheticity in the work of art. Because representation becomes an affair of the subject through and through, the range of sensuousness expands, and the materials that sustain it multiply indefinitely. The art object’s “outer existence” (äußeren Daseins), its plastic countenance so to speak, is expressively configured as such and is thus subjected, as Hegel puts it, to the “contingency” and “caprice” of the imagination which “can mirror what is present to it exactly as it is, just as readily as it can jumble the shapes of the external world and distort them grotesquely.”
Cinema is where this development takes concrete form, as it both encompasses and disorientates the painterly, the musical and the poetic. In cinema, externality takes the form of consciousness in which a subject or subjects are always posited. This is why the cinematic image cannot be confined to an onscreen sequence of shots that reproduce the real (as photography in motion), but must constantly return to itself from a periphery that always eludes it, from an invisible (e.g., offscreen) and discursive space (e.g., in montage). Moreover, the material basis of cinema, considered, like that of photography, as a technological construct,
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suggests a similar disorientation — a condition that, as we shall see, we first encounter in the earliest art form, Symbolic art.
There is no pristine, pure physicality in the Romantic work of art. Everything in it is open to subjective mediation. The medium itself becomes aestheticized — it is itself encountered as “art”: think of the material quality of color and the chromatic subsistence of pigment in Van Gogh. This transformation affects the work in its entirety. It saturates it with energy. But it also opens it to dispersion and dissolution by simulating mental space and its objects and the quickness of the inner, psychic and intellective movements in which the body of the work is now assimilated. It is this body that technology reconstitutes (e.g., digitalizes). Compared to the photograph, in which visual rhythm takes an almost architectonic, still expression, the cinematic image is inherently fluid and musical. Rather than construct and constrain (enframe), as does the photographic image, it dissolves and expands. And unlike the silence of the photographic image, the cinema must speak.
My objective in this paper is twofold. First, I will use Hegel’s analysis of the Romantic form in order to elucidate the relationship between aesthetic space and subjectivity in cinema and modernist painting. Second, I will use this cinematic and modernist spatiality, with its incorporation of aural and visceral realities, to disengage Romantic art from its superficial entrapment in linear time and expose the dynamic aesthetic logic that constitutes it. Rather than envision these arts in their own individuated domains, we will see them unfold synchronically in clusters of relationships configured as painting, music, and poetry (image, sound, speech).
Thus the Romantic is not only a form that arises in a given historical period. It is also the realization of art’s concept in which all its histories are contained, an open field — the domain of a now free or self-ordained aestheticity — where all the arts accumulated in that movement can co-exist and co-inhere by expanding and contracting their identities. Culmination and origination here converge as the ground of art surfaces and exposes itself in the plastic object. Free to saturate its objectivities with its presence, the self-reflecting subject now takes possession of all forms and posits art from the standpoint of the Idea. Having brought itself to concreteness, the realized concept is on its subjective side pure expressiveness, while on its objective side it becomes pure aestheticity. Despite its continual dissolution and dispersion (a movement that actually
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takes place in it), the aesthetic object persists and becomes the ground where multiple expressivities can be staged.
In what follows, I use modernist painting and the cinema to outline the Romantic space (Räum) where art finally reaches its own Idea. I approach painting, music and poetry as fluid and open forms, since the idea of insular and distinctive arts is abandoned right where the Romantic begins, never to be reinstated in its original integrity. Cinema is implicit in this movement in which music and poetry come to constitute and unravel (absorb and disorientate) the visual object. I chose Paul Klee (1879-1940) as my representative of modernism because his paintings have a kinetic and musical plasticity similar to that of the cinematic image. And I chose Sergei Eisenstein (1898-1948) because in his films the express realism of the cinematic image is posited from the standpoint of a constructivist subjectivity which operates both inside and outside the frame — composing it as it goes. Through montage, the shot is set in an elliptical modality, similar to that of the haiku, which imparts on it an inner motion that is inextricably plastic and psychological (e.g., in the famous Odessa Steps sequence). This motion is accelerated when the aesthetic elements active within the frame are set in oppositional relationships (light and dark, static and dynamic, heavy and light etc.) thus “shattering…the quadrilateral cage of the shot.” As in Klee, the picture plane is simultaneously dissolved and posited from within.
In Hegel’s aesthetics, the self-determination of art has three moments, the Symbolic, the Classical and the Romantic. These exist logically in the concept of art, and materially in its historical expressions, until the latter collapse into the fully objectified concept, giving art its true being and initiating new self-expressive modalities. A brief look into how this movement works is necessary before we proceed.
At the very opening of the Symbolic moment, art exists in a state of dormancy manifested as an exterior unity, an immanence unmediated by questions of meaning and form, that implies for consciousness a literal encounter with the divine — i.e. with the “immediate divine existents” (unmittelbare göttliche Existenzen) — posited as being rather than as art.
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This actuality, which is shared alike by the divinized bull (der Stier) of the pagan ritual and the Eucharistic blood (das wirkliche Blut Gottes) of the Christian liturgy, seems impenetrable: an object which consciousness cannot rupture. But since it is in the nature of consciousness to enter and reconstitute its objects, the idol must give way to something far more malleable and familiar. This giving way is the gradual transition from cult to art.
The germination of art in the Symbolic begins with the appearance of the idol as a consummate, impenetrable particular. Here the power (die Kraft) of the supernatural being that stares one in the eye or simply stands its sacred and absolute ground unperturbed, in front of a petrified consciousness, recalls what modernism found in the primitive: the figure that though small in size appears colossal in its power of presence. This tension is resolved within the Romantic sphere, wherein art is freed from the burden of representation — exactly as some modernists advocated — and therefore from the shallow interiority of the mimetic image. In this sense, the Romantic is present wherever a work of art assumes the total being of a subject (or as I have argued elsewhere, a person).
In the Symbolic, consciousness awakens to the transformation of matter and to its own expressive nature. Resistance and at the same time submission to the splicing power of subjectivity marks the emergence of the art object from the idol, and the onset of the aesthetic or consciously shaped object, in the final stage of the Symbolic. This movement develops in three stages: first as idol, then as the visualized or fantasized apparitional image, and lastly as the aesthetic object. When the work is perceived as the thing through which a subject speaks or makes itself known, it assumes for the first time the ambiguous distance from nature that marks the being of art. In contrast to the idol that remains mute and the apparitional image that articulates by means of sheer repetition (spatial projection), this proto-aesthetic object posits a question as to its meaning that it cannot entirely answer.
We must pay attention to the middle point, the apparitional image, because it shows how active subjectivity is in the work of art. In this stage, all subjective content, any trace of consciousness expressed in sensuous form, will appear “abstract and superficial.” Hegel cites Indian art whose ubiquitous gods never reach the degree of self-contained personification achieved in Classical sculpture. This condition, where form expands into all kinds of extravagances, can be seen in Bodhisattva figures with multiple arms and legs in Himalayan art. Here neither aesthetic form
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nor consciousness can restrict themselves. This fluidity recurs in the Romantic, but from the standpoint of the total possession of the art object by consciousness. An example is Klee’s Fugue in Red, 1921 where chromatic progressions impart on visual space not only a sonorous quality but also a sense of presence in an interior, unspecified space, where the image is being composed. The difference here from the Symbolic is that the aesthetic object is solidly established and can sustain all these reverberations.
What accounts for this resilience is the fact that the Romantic form presupposes and entails the Classical. As the Symbolic transitions to the Classical, the image begins to control and limit its own space, to gather all aspects of what it shows into one form. Hence the self-possessed figures of Archaic sculpture (e.g., the kouroi ) where the rigid solidity of physical form is countered by the enigmatic smile — clear evidence that subjectivity is at work in the art object.
In the Classical, the “enigmatic” unity achieved in the Symbolic loses this “deeper meaning” — the intimation of a potent but superficial subjectivity — and becomes a sensuous appearance that is thoroughly saturated with meaning (“in itself and throughout distinct and clear,” in sich selber durchweg deutlich und klar zu sein) and thus inherently plastic, i.e., in charge of its own form. This new dynamism in the art object, the fact that it sets itself forth as a self-determining subject — what Hegel calls “substantial subjectivity” (die substantielle Subjektivität) — remains within the domain of art as one of its two formative moments. The other moment is the thorough saturation of the aesthetic object by subjectivity which thus posits the “worthlessness of the sensuous” (das sinnlich Erscheinende dur Wertlosigkeit herniedersinkt). Here the art object loses its autonomy and is tied to a signifying subject: the sign in de Man.
Together, these two moments, the modality of substance (resilience, autonomy) and the modality of the sign (expression, communication), define the aesthetic. In the Romantic, the work of art can function simultaneously in both modalities, shifting from the one to the other within its own space. What makes modernism so suitable to Hegelian reflection is that it thematizes this duality and the ambiguity it imparts on the work of art.
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In Romantic art, subjectivity expresses itself aesthetically and the work of art begins to lose the independent existence it had in the Classical stage. The Romantic signals the elusive presence of the subject on the surface and at the interior of the art object and the onset of a dynamism in the picture space that was absent from Classical art. The image now has an inner life that does not entirely belong to it. Hegel speaks of the “principle of subjectivity…breaking into (hineinbrechende hervor) the subject matter and the artistic mode of its portrayal (Dastellungweise).” Form is infused with feeling and thought. Attention shifts away from representation (i.e., from what the picture depicts) and toward the aesthetic object itself (i.e., what actually does the depicting): “the spirit becomes a center essentially shining out as the inner life transcending its fusion with what is objective and external.” A depth opens in the two-dimensional image that seems to undermine its placid unity.
The art object that in the Classical form put forth a “self-enclosed space” (in sich abgeschlossene) as its own self-sufficient and self-contained world, is no more. In the Romantic, the work of art is neither idol (Symbolic) nor ideal (Classical). It is now Idea. Inside it surge energies that cannot be expressed by its previous forms. The “shining-through of the spiritual” (Widerschein des Geistigen) may rest temporarily in the Classical totality, and make the Greek temple vibrate with music (der Musik ihrer Verhaltnisse). But even when at rest, this seemingly self-sufficient totality is in motion. It works to open art to its concept and liberate it from artificial boundaries.
The picture space in the Romantic is an aestheticized space in and through which subjectivity projects (its) art. We may think of it as art emptying and unfolding its being and becoming a stage, where consciousness maps itself. Thus whatever appears internally and exists noetically — for example, feelings, impressions, or vivid images — is transferred to a surface where it assumes the full semblance of the physical realities out of which painting crafts its object. Things painted still look like what they are in the world. But the aesthetic form they assume does not belong only to them: “in the manner of their artistic realization they make visible the liveliness (Lebendigkeit) of their treatment, the participation of the spirit, the mind’s very indwelling in this
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uttermost extreme of externality (Extrem der Äußerlichkeit), and therefore an inner and ideal life.”
It is important not to overlook the connection between “liveliness” and “extreme externality,” since, as we shall see later, this is the distinctive feature of the image in Klee and in the work of other modernists like Joan Miró: the sense that the objects we see are lively and playful because they have no inner center to hold them and they thus exist in a state of perpetual motion despite the fact that their plastic being commits them to the tentative stillness of objects (things). The surging of the image out of the picture plane that contains it, and its tendency to dissolution and dispersion, are characteristic, as we shall show below, of the cinematic image and are already foreshadowed in photography. So is the discarnating effect of the liveliness that is visible in the picture space in Romantic painting: it spiritualizes what it gets hold of, intimating an oneiric and fantastic sensuousness.
This precarious subsistence belongs to art in all its stages, but becomes explicit in the Romantic. We see the “body posited as a negative” (negativ zu setzen), a negativity that, once released, returns to the work as discourse, ideology, sign, bringing about the further dissolution of the work. This may very well be a postmodern moment. The negative returns as corporealized speech, as theatre and performance, or some other specular act in order to take over, displace and mock art and its plastic media, for example film and painting, from within their own spaces — to paint painting’s untruth and thus make it lie to itself. Certainly art can dissolve here if the aesthetic object fails to simultaneously affirm and deny its sensuousness, if it ceases to exist as a signifying plastic being and becomes only a sign.
In the Romantic, painting cannot contain the inner life that informs it. What appears on the surface of a canvas or a panel is indeed, as we pointed out earlier, an interiorized object — a thing imagined, seen, contemplated etc. The destiny of the painted image is thus “the outward appearance of the self-concentrated inner life” (das Hervorscheinen des in sich konzentrierten Inneren). If we spatialize the concepts involved here, we will see the imbalance. All the energy is in the dense interior which the image imperfectly conceals and to which it is ready to yield at any moment — such is its precariousness. “The spatial external form” (die raumliche Außengestalt) that painting assumes is, qua “external,” already an artifice, a projection from a depth that the image does not, cannot master, and therefore a movement that opens the image to irony. Hegel sees on the
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other side of this concealment, right where the image forms, a “free play” (freien Spielraum) or clearance, the opening of a space where the sensuous breaks down into aesthetic variety and multiplicity (Mannigfaltigkeit). This is exactly where irony (toward realism or naturalism) proliferates and where the Romantic outlines the aesthetic experiments undertaken in modernism.
These developments are clearly articulated in the second movement of Hegel’s analysis of painting, “The Sensuous Material of Painting,” which defines the art by its failure to reify the third dimension, a failure that is essential to painting’s being. This failure is exactly where subjectivity makes its entrance and comes to dominate aesthetic space. In the course of the Romantic moment, which, like the Symbolic, has three phases, subjectivity gradually internalizes and reconfigures space, first as image, then as sign (musical note), and eventually as word (poetic image). “As retiring into itself out of it” (als aus demselben in sich hineingehend ) is thus the modality of the painted image that carries subjective ideas as its locus mysticus, a locus which it strives to but cannot possess or express fully and to which it owes its distinctive plasticity.
So radical is this intrusion that the spectator, the subject on the other side of the image, is actually in it already, has already placed herself inside the work. A position thus opens in the painted image, even before anything is painted, for painting to present not itself or the world but rather the subject whose construct and spectacle the world is and whose modalities it now posits. “The spectator (der Zuschauer ) is as it were in it from the beginning (von Anfang), is counted in with it, and the work exists only for this fixed point, i.e., for the individual (diese festen Punkt des Subjekts) apprehending it.” This “festen Punkt des Subjekts ” is thus a locus within painting where all the mechanisms of subjectivity converge and from where they are deployed as the Romantic unfolds. It is for this reason the point from where painting may unravel and from where it may also be recovered and reconstituted — something that from this point on, art is free to do. We could even clear this ground and place this subject outside it, expel it, in order to create once again, in the “primitive” manner of the Symbolic, the totemic object.
We have reason to suggest, then, that at some point this precariousness will become evident in the work of art. Painting will explicitly stand between the inner and the outer, manifesting this duality in all its aspects. As “painting” is thus dissolved from inside, images will arise which have an unprecedented degree of transparency and are
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simultaneously mental and plastic objects. We see this in Klee but also in Wassily Kandinsky and Kasimir Malevich.
In Klee, the divisive-unitive rhythm of discarnation that subjectivity imposes on things brings to the image a temporal dimension: it is in color and light that what we see forms, endures and dissolves. Hammamet with the Mosque (1914), is an image dominated by pale washes of red, blue, green, yellow and gray laid out along a diagonal line on the upper side of which, against the horizon, are outlined the shapes of walls, windows and towers. Buildings, fields, sky, and vegetation belong most visibly and integrally to an architectonic of converging color zones which is synthesized on the spot. Sky passes into tower, wall into cloud. The explicit geometry of the emerging landscape makes an atmospheric, impressionistic impact unlikely. We do not know from what position the image is painted — whereas the impressionist paints explicitly from outside.
Klee, who said that he discovered color (and painting) while in Tunis, first painted this picture on location, but that same year he re-arranged its fluid, transitioning zones in a more programmatic and rigid structure in Motif from Hammamet (1914). In Motif, as in many other examples from modernist art, we can speak of discarnate realities and transparencies because what we see has the consistency of things deflected through a window, glass or prism — perhaps the influence of Robert Delaunay whose work Klee admired. At the same time, because of its incremental structure and chromatic dissolutions, the image here extends beyond the frame — as in cinema.
It is only by convention that what we have in front of us is a “picture,” in the sense of something set permanently, irreversibly in a frame. In reality, if we push the convention aside, the image is nothing more than the interruption of a movement. It recalls what happens when the photographic camera cuts a slice out of the continuum of consciousness and world and lets it stand for itself, or when the freeze-frame in cinema presents us with the isolated, dislocated image as if it were a photograph.
Hegel characterizes painting as “a self-enclosed whole” (ein in sich beschlossenes Ganzes) whose unity can be established thematically (der Sache). But this thematic unity is tenuous because the image cannot be assembled on that basis except from the position of the one who thematizes it, a position that lies beyond it and which painting itself cannot render. Thus it makes sense for painting to move into abstraction. Think
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of how abstract painting, the non-representational, non-narrative image, in most instances thematizes this absence and how this thematization works ironically to turn the image into an expressly authored object (for example in the work of Jackson Pollock, but arguably not in the work of Mark Rothko). But authorship inserts the work in a literary space, making it the surrogate of discourses which the subject may or may not possess. “Painting” may go on in that respect for as long as we wish to keep this type of rhetorical operation active.
Variations on painting’s tenuous unities are possible which Hegel could not have anticipated. In Hammamet we may speak of a contained multiplicity whose point of issuance is neither inside the image nor, as far as we can see, outside it. We can thus imagine or speculate the existence of some programmatic movement, some matrix in which the image is integrated and in relationship to which it is virtually, as Hegel said, a clearance (Spielraum) where painting now plays. Even the notion of the subject-as-artist seems to have no place in this dynamic, and we may in fact consider that there is only one certain position for subjectivity given to us here: that of the spectator (der Zuschauer). The transposition of the creative subject outside the image, as one who encounters rather than projects, is part of the opening of the Romantic to the subject as transcendent (dislocated) rather than as an immanent (localized). The artist is subject to this splicing effect that takes place “inside” the picture (which, as we have pointed out, has no inside anymore and thus no outside either).
Hammamet helps us outline the Romantic and at the same time position ourselves concretely, through the actual painting, in the frequencies that constitute it. “Frequencies” are generated whenever a subject is intimated that lies concealed somewhere between artist and spectator and even beyond that. Or, alternatively, we may think in terms of “frequencies” when meaning is structured independently of a subject but in modalities that are consonant with it (e.g., progressions, architectonics, permutations). We can imagine that the subject of Hammamet is nothing more than color that is transposed directly from the actual landscape to the canvas and to what makes its appearance there — or simply an appearance.
Thus, as painting reaches this state, what is left of the Romantic in it is not the subject in which the image originates and withdraws but the actual movement (modality) of this withdrawal, the “retiring into itself out of it.” In other words, it is in the nature of subjectivity to actually abstract
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from its own presence and leave behind, as residue, a movement or logical intonation (or traced paths). Here, according to Hegel, we are already in the sphere of music which for Klee, an accomplished violinist, is painting’s perennial muse — perhaps the Platonic mousike.
Interlude: Music and Poetry
The chromatic intonations present in so many Klee works suggest that the musical can subsist in painting as one of its integral dimensions. There is in this instance no necessary annulment or dissolution of painting’s spatiality. What we have instead is the retention of the two moments in a singular form that is dynamically musical and plastic. Consonant with the opening of the plastic to temporality and sound, the image shifts constantly between the two directions, putting on display multiple internal inversions. Since subjectivity is now freely synthesizing its objects from any point within its own objectified (scripted) frequencies, the space posited by painting lacks finality or circumscription. Things arise in it but they do not belong there in any resolute way. What is enframed is defined by internal shifts and inversions that multiply and dissipate, as if nothing external constrains them. It is these movements that in effect constitute space as a self-plasticizing field that is active in its own painting and animation.
Fugue in Red (1921) is one of many Klee paintings from this period that have “harmony,” “rhythm,” “fugue,” “nocturne,” “pastoral,” “polyphony” etc. in their titles. In Fugue, sequences of disconnected, overlapping, floating shapes in shades of gray and red expand on a dark plane from left to right and in certain instances toward the picture plane itself. The gradual transition from gray to red imparts stillness, intensity and the sense of a surfacing, vibrating movement that brings the emerging shades to life and conspicuous form. It is as though music is inscribing (performing) itself inside the image and in so doing extends the limits of the frame in ways that recall photography and cinema.
Color is here fluid but it is also holding itself in place, as if to resist dissolution or the total and irreversible conversion of the shapes it engenders. In his significant study of the role of music in Klee’s painting, Hajo Düchting wrote:
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by concentrating on individual accents and color sequences, subtle relationships and arrangements of color are revealed in rows of rectangles which become lighter and darker or warmer and cooler. The different shades of color combine like musical chords into a harmonic whole in which the mood communicated by the colors is analogous to that of major and minor keys. The rich orchestration of the color tones appears as a unified whole, even though the eye can still detect individual melodic phrases and differentiated structural rhythms.
In Fugue, fluidity suggests the unrestrained quality of sound while the persistence of the individual triangles, rectangles, ovals and other floating shapes is consistent with the musical form (fugue) that gives the painting its name: the construction of harmony out of linearly singular moments. Hegel explains that the “figurations of notes in their temporal rising and falling” (die Figurationen des Tons in seinem zeitlichen Klingen und Verklingen) is the movement that defines musical space. As we can see, it can also define pictorial space. In fact, the temporal “fading away” that Verklingen suggests in this context, is here inside the painting itself as a constantly unifying and expanding rhythm in relation to which the frame appears tenuous and open. Thus the image is arranged in sequences which it also interrupts by having its moments vanish and come together while keeping them in sight. It is, in this respect, already cinematized.
For Hegel, the musical is externalized “feeling” or sensate emotion (Empfindung). The “inner movement of the heart and mind” (der inneren Bewegung des Herzens und Gemütes) is “analogically present” (entspricht) in note figurations (die Figurationen des Tons). As they settle into fluid arrangements, clusters of color sensations now resonate as “tone movements” (der Bewegung der Töne) which traverse space and occupy only tentative positions until they expire and disappear in silence. What Klee shows is that painting can actually arrest this movement without suspending it entirely, as one might expect. In Hammamet and Fugue, the image internalizes the very motion that seems set to unravel it.
With the onset of “music” in the second moment of the Romantic, subjectivity takes over and “obliterates” (Tilgen) the “total space” (der totale Raümlichkeit) that painting had posited. But painting can adjust to this development. Like the photograph, which has its own way of recording motion (e.g. blurring), a picture can encompass “material which for our apprehension is without stability (haltlos) and even as it arises (Entstehen) and exists (Dasein) vanishes once more.” Hegel reserves
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this characteristic for music, but it is also present in Klee’s Fugue, where the progression of chromatic tones resembles a musical composition.
Kandinsky, Delaunay, Malevich and others saw painting as a musical composition and color as an analog for psychic and aural vibrations and even, in Kandinsky’s case, assigned to it a spiritual, immaterial energy that reveals transcendent realities. Still they understood that form, which brings a temporary constancy to what it circumscribes, was what kept color from dissolving the image. Hegel’s distinction between pictorial and musical form does not recognize this tension but does not exclude it either. In music, even as form arises (Äußerung), it cannot, he explains, persist as such but is immediately withdrawn. This movement thus “cancels [form] as objective and does not allow the external to assume in our eyes a fixed existence as something external.”
The instability (haltlos) that characterizes the musical configuration is already visible in Hammamet and even more pronounced in Fugue in Red. What is happening in Fugue at one level is exactly what Hegel is describing above: the total loss of the image as “free and independent” and capable of reaching “for itself” (für sich) “an existence self-reposing and persistent” (in sich ruhig bestehenden Existenz). Yet, despite Hegel’s claim that where this movement happens, space is entirely “obliterated” (Tilgen…der totalen Räumlichkeit überhaupt) — and thus painting gives way to music — the visual object persists. This is not the self-contained existence associated with the Classical, where the image grounds its own being, but one that is saturated with the plastic energies of subjectivity. Here the aesthetic object leads the precarious and yet buoyant existence of a sonorous visible. Standing on the verge of suspending its own logic, painting displays its inherent versatility, one that it owes to music and to itself.
Moreover, this versatility is the result of discarnation — what Hegel, in making the transition to poetry, calls a gradual “degradation” (heruntersetzen) of the sensuous (das sinnliche Material ). The chromatic orchestration of the image brings it to a point of dissolution — She Bellows, We play (1928) is composed only of bands of color. But as we have seen, this is something that painting can sustain not only in a passive, receptive way but also dynamically, by appropriating the non-objectivity of sound and diffusing it (sonorizing it) in its own forms. In fact, it may seem that where the image is composed only of bands or dots, it acquires a simultaneity that is comparable to that of an “open
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soundscape” where a multiplicity of sounds can be heard at the same time.
We may assume then that the different arts are mutually informed so that painting, for instance, can be reconstituted from a musical standpoint just as music can evoke plastic realities by reconstituting sounds associated with certain substances. Thus we might “see” the color blue, rising waves, and enveloping mists, in the presence of sounds that evoke a storm at sea. This is also evident in the poetic, which brings with it a new visuality and spatiality in order to complete what Hegel calls the “one-sidedness” (Einseitigkeit) of music. The need for a structured voice or text (einen Text) is necessitated by a lacuna that opens right where music encounters the concreteness of sculpture and architecture. Both arts exist latently in music which, echoing their forms, has its own architectonic. Hegel describes the union of music and text as a “firm conjoining” (festeren Anschluß) with a subject matter. In actuality it is an annexation of aural space by subjectivity. Text gives to music the semblance of a totality and concreteness that belonged originally to sculpture — opera aspires to be the total art. This concreteness, alluding to the Classical, continues to haunt art with its ideality.
But textuality is too concrete on the subjective side, too rich, Hegel tells us, in content and specificity, to project itself fully in “the abstract inwardness” (der abstrakteren Innerlichkeit) of music, and thus this façade too must be abandoned. The poetic now projects its own musicality and visuality in a final “totality” (die Totalitat) which is nothing else but subjectivity’s inner life, and where painting and music now appear as poeticized, i.e., textualized, verbalized, discursive modalities.
By positing an “objective world” (objektiven Welt) from within, poetry “does not altogether lose the determinate character of sculpture and painting” because it grasps conceptually and renders verbally everything that painting grasps and renders sensuously. In fact, it can do so in far more detail and vivacity since it works without mediation, directly from its “imaginative and artistic conceptions but without setting these out visibly and bodily (leiblich) for contemplation.” This total plasticity is viscerally and noetically executed with all kinds of virtually corporeal realities arising and dissipating inside cognitive space, in trajectories that are underwritten by emotion and, as in music, open up to all kinds of tonalities.
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Thus poetry cannot stand still, as painting does, because its tense is “succession” (Sukzession): the tempo of consciousness, the generation of articulated rather than abiding forms, speech acts rather than entities. But even in this interior, esoteric space must be multiplied and proliferated “in the breadth of its temporal development” (in der Breite seiner zeitlichen Entfaltung); it must be deployed. At the same time, set in the opposite direction, perhaps as a contraction that allows subjectivity to re-assert itself, is the “total inward depth” (ganzen innerlichen Tiefe) of its contents, a depth that painting in its circumscribed, enframed space (bestimmten Raum) cannot reach. Poetry then arises from the voice or voices which remain hidden inside and beyond the sequences of utterances that proliferate and take over cognitive and actual space in the written poem. In a sense, even when the poem ends, the voice inside it goes on speaking inaudibly.
Poetry’s difference from painting and music lies in this uninterrupted continuity, which is made visible in the most compelling way in an art that Hegel did not know: cinema. In Hegelian terms, what happens in cinema is the projection of poetic space outside consciousness, a projection in which not only the subsumed modalities of painting and music — “whose characters it [poetry] combines” — converge but also poetry itself. Thus cinema’s fluid and perpetual visuality encompasses poetry and converts it into what at first appears to be just a moving image. But this is on the surface alone. Uttered in frames and shots, in words and phrases, in musical notes and voices, the cinema paints, resounds and speaks the objects of the world and is spoken by them. In Pablo Neruda’s poem Poesia, poetry does not come from words but from a world that is so saturated with voice that it exists as a poeticized reality, at once palpable and elusive. In the cinema, the visual acquires the same ontopoetic power. It is the image of the world presenting itself as discursively composed, musically intoned and visually animated. In the cinematograph, as in poetry, the voice of the subject and that of its world are indistinguishable, except that in the cinema the latter acquires an evidentiary, objective force (realism) that is absent from poetry.
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Cinema is the visual art of “poetic subjectivity” (dichtende Subjektivität ). It is where subjectivity puts on display its expressive virtuosity and mastery of objects and their forms. Cinema is made possible by an expressive subject that has brought out of itself and positioned in the world a plethora of forms, thus expanding its creative and self-reflective space. Having entertained these forms, it is now free to re-integrate them in its expressive acts and explore the converging plasticities of self and world.
This last point needs elucidation because in the Classical, animation or expressivity must appear to originate in the art object and to be made evident in its external appearance (Außengestalt) or form. In the Romantic, by contrast, the origin of animation lies directly in the subject, which brings to word and world the dynamism of consciousness. Thus poems make present (zur Darstellung bringt) beings that are permeated and saturated by consciousness and consciousness that is fully inhabited and energized by beings. For Hegel, the poetic word (das Wort) has its own subtle corporeality (leiblichen form) and in that sense the poem is a perspicuous (herausscheinen) body set in language, a being in which “the full breadth of the world and its phenomena” (die Breite der Welt und ihrer Erscheinungen) become visible.
But this visibility is tenuous. The poetic image has no standing of its own. The moment it arises, it withdraws to verbal space and then to non-visibility. In this liminal modality, boundaries begin to dissolve, and we now hear the image spoken and see the word heard from an interior space to which they continuously refer their origin and significations. The poem inadvertently recedes in an invisible, interior space. Its point of origin is never fully brought to view. The poetic voice is perpetually revealed and hidden by the poem that speaks it. Unfolding internally “in a temporal succession as a history” (in einer zeitlichen Folge al seine Geschichte), the poem has its own time. But when internalized in the voices that read it and speak it, as poets have said from the time of Sappho, it assumes their histories, echoes their voices and embodies their cadences.
We find a similar movement in the cinema. The image that forms onscreen disappears into the off-screen space where it seems to carry out an existence that the cinema (seen as representation or a two-dimensional
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image) cannot convey. We are led there by the character’s gaze out of the frame, or by the facets of things that a shot leaves out. It is in the nature of the cinematic image to be elliptical. What Jacques Aumont and Alain Bergala call the “scenographic space” is an indefinite extension of the actual image beyond the frame and screen into a negative space that is both external (projected in the periphery of the screen) and internal (taking place inside the viewer’s mind or inside the mental space of a collective imagination).
In fact, the cinematic image seems to originate from one’s mind and to be projected straight into it — which is why the screen becomes invisible, immaterial to the act of seeing. It is therefore in cinema that the continuity between objectivity and interiority, actuality and dream can be more convincingly demonstrated. In Andrei Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev (1966), for example, mental, spiritual and physical realities exist on the same plane — e.g., in the encounters between Rublev and Theophanes the Greek (c.1340-1410).
Imagine this. On the opposite side of the projector that gives us the cinematic image, there exists a projecting subject, the viewer. Sitting in the dark, she is fully immersed in her imaginal life and memory, an immersion triggered by the film unfolding in front of her on the screen and in her own mind. In the Romantic, the plasticity of a work of art is constituted not only by the work of art itself but also by consciousness. Thus, the objects that appear inside the work’s space posit their being at once inside and outside the work, well beyond the visible. In poetry, for example, world forms and configurations are infused with feeling (durchfühlt), deepened (vertieft) and transfigured (verklärt). Poetry’s echo and alter voice, as Neruda knew, is the world. Thus a poem exists where this duality is annulled and at the same time affirmed. Cinema is an exemplary Romantic art because plasticity now forms from two directions: that of a world imbued with the imagery of consciousness and that of a consciousness that has internalized the imagery of the world. The director, or auteur, can work from either position or from both. In the position of consciousness, the modality is that of expressiveness; in that of the world, the modality is that of aestheticity.
Eisenstein takes the position of consciousness and crafts his films from there. Images are gathered from the world and subjected to selection and re-composition as montage. They are condensed for time and space. Ordinary distances between objects become shorter, the actions in which they and human characters are engaged become faster.
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Eisenstein finds the roots of montage in poetry, painting, and literature. An example is how the distortion of a line can give to a standing body the illusion of movement (e.g., in Toulouse-Lautrec’s lithograph Miss Cissy Loftus), or how the elliptical phrases of the Japanese haiku poem create realities not contained by its words. In the process, he argues, “imagist thinking” is transformed into “conceptual thinking,” exactly as in montage.
In montage, deliberate juxtapositions and collisions push the short, rapidly shifting visual elements (shots) beyond their fixed boundaries and normative perimeters. In Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin (1925), eye glasses are interjected in scenes of chaos and disruption, at times for the sake of their form, as surrogates for cinematic and revolutionary vision, or for the psychological effect of shattered glass impacting the human face. The objective is to re-create in the viewer’s visual and visceral space the dialectical process, the tensions, collisions, and transformations that the director discerns in all natural and social phenomena. Thus the “cellular” and “organic” patterns that define this process must be inscribed, as montage, in the film’s individual units and overall structure, to create objectively the logic of the Marxist “pathos” to which, Eisenstein implied, all natural and social phenomena are ordained. It is not only the suffering of the characters and their world that must impress the viewer but also the logic that dictates that suffering. Once saturated with this logic, the shot will then impress itself on the viewer’s psychic space: an act of unmediated transference from one mind to another — a sort of miraculous impression.
Suspended between the frames of Part IV (“The Odessa Staircase”) in Battleship Potemkin, are images that we never get to see because Eisenstein has removed them. There is the middle-aged woman with the hat, white scarf, pince-nez and anguished face, who appears numerous times urging the crowd to plead for mercy. As a baby carriage rolls down the stairs, we see her face in close-up. When a Cossack raises his arm in a blurred frame, she appears again, with a gaping mouth, a silent scream, and the right side of her face streaming with blood. The missing, invisible frame is the one that would have shown the blade slashing her eye.
At work here is a logical impressionism, a cinema of visual inferences where what occurs on the screen is only one portion of what the viewer is allowed to see. Why these flashes of blindness? Because the viewer must be uniformly struck, shocked and implicated in the shot by a visual object that is made to be inserted and released in psychic and
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mental space. The director notes: “An illustration of instantaneous action. Woman with pince-nez. Followed immediately — without transition — by the same woman with shattered pince-nez and bleeding eye: impression of a shot hitting the eye.”
Another example is the dramatic sequence of the mother and son separated in the panic of the escape. The time that transpires between the shooting of the boy, as he is running down the steps to reach his mother, and the close-up of her horrified face, as she realizes that he is left behind and begins her agonizing ascent toward him, is measured by the feet that trample on his dying body. Multiple shots of the crowd either stepping on his wrist and legs, or trying to avoid him, bombard the viewer. Even though they are shot too low for the mother to actually see what the viewer witnesses, the impression is created that she is seeing every single one of them. They become visible in her frantic mind, where the boy is dying alone, without her.
So transparent should the cinematic image become to psychic realities that Eisenstein planned to use the sound film to map mental activity, as had James Joyce’s Ulysses. “When Joyce and I met in Paris,” Eisenstein wrote, “he was intensely interested in my plans for the inner film-monologue, with a far broader scope than is afforded by literature.” Sound helps film to break out of its visuality and enunciate its meanings simultaneously inside and beyond the image, which now carries the echoes of voices that it cannot entirely posses or articulate — cinema too has its “spiritual” invisibles. Here, as in Klee, tonality is both visual and aural. When glass is shattered in silent film, we somehow hear it but it remains contained in the image and in our minds. When sound is added, visual space becomes acoustical and we hear outside the mental space what also echoes inside. Eisenstein envisions orders of “polyphonic sounds” and “polyphonic images” which occur separately or “at once,” “a rushing imaging visuality,” “disconnected speech,” clusters of nouns and verbs interrupted by sounds, action and silence, transitions from form to formlessness.
Cinematography may even be a form of ideography. Eisenstein was impressed by how, in Japanese and Chinese writing, characters that depict concrete objects combine to create an abstract concept: e.g., together, the character for “mouth” and the character for “child” form the ideogram for “scream.” The juxtaposition of two visual elements creates the picture of a thought. The more “laconic” these elements are, Eisenstein writes, and the more “depictive” and “single in meaning,” the
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more abstract and discursive the configurations they generate: “It is exactly what we do in the cinema, combining shots that are depictive, single in meaning, neutral in content — into intellectual contexts and series.”
Roland Barthes describes Eisenstein’s use of montage as a “hammering” of visual meaning onto consciousness. Ambiguity becomes a tool for inserting a certain conceptual content into the shot, as we have seen in the two examples from the “Odessa Staircase,” where the missing frames only exaggerate the ferocity of the Cossacks and the pain of the people they brutalize. This use of aesthetic elements as a means of signification is characteristic of propaganda. In Battleship Potemkin, the saturation of the viewer’s mind is masterful. Exposed to a continuous flux of images that seem to be coming from all directions, the mind is rendered a-visual so that the viewer may see through the director’s Marxist vision. A comparison with haiku helps to clarify this point.
Eisenstein calls the haiku “a concentrated impressionist sketch,” for example Basho’s “A lonely crow / On leafless bough / One autumn eve.”  He points out that its elliptical form invites the reader to participate in the realities it conjures and thus, like one who sees the whole moon in one of its phases, bring them to perfection. Indeed, in the haiku, as in the sumiye painting, the viewing/hearing consciousness rises to the surface of the image/poem where the present moment expands to eternity. The voice that speaks the poem, the eye that brings forth the image is there and nowhere else. In the haiku, the poet speaks from the midst of word-things, in a self-effacing voice that leaves room for the reader to enter and hear what the poem shows.
In Potemkin, by contrast, the voice speaks from behind the space where images congregate and the world appears. The image space is visibly possessed, incessantly vocalizing, and cluttered with objects of an internalized world. There is no room for the viewer to enter and see for herself, to bring to the image the rhythm and pace of her own vision. The haiku happens; Potemkin is made to happen, urgently. It gives no intimation of rest, no integral horizon from which its frames arise. What is seen in it is not things in their emerging essence — as we see in bamboo or plum or a journey captured alive in haiku verse — but a barrage of images produced by a mind for which the world is a spectacle. Images proliferate until a subtitle or a lyrical interlude (e.g. dusk in the Odessa harbor) forces a slower pace or a moment of rest before another barrage of images begins. Other times, as with the baby carriage making its way down the
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Odessa steps, the unity achieved by a movement is disrupted by a solitary object in close-up (e.g. the silver-buckled, bloody belt of the baby’s mother or her white gloves). Interruptions of this kind serve to intensify the dialectical movement that permeates the film.
The viewer who is immobilized as Eisenstein’s peculiar spectacle enters her mind, like one who enters another’s dream or nightmare, is stigmatized by the traces it leaves behind. Like a weeping icon, the image of the woman’s bleeding face, the Cossack’s ghostly face and arm, haunts through its martyric, intangible efficacy.
Eisenstein’s films belong to the Romantic but they also revert to the Classical when they attempt to craft an ideographic object, a super organism which “enters the circle of natural and social phenomena” as a phenomenon in its own right. This movement between the two Hegelian categories explains how a work of art, which has achieved the plastic form that characterizes the Romantic arts, can carry ideological content and a rigid structure and still be an autonomous aesthetic object that defies ideological construction. The Romantic is open. It suspends identities, redefines genres, and liberates art from linear time. No poem in this sense is “archaic.” No film is “modern.” For example, the art of Oceania or Africa that so impressed many modernists is simultaneously “primitive” and “avant-garde” and yet free to be itself. Imputed boundaries cease to exist and plasticity expands — even to the point of self-negation. The Marxist is here free to delight in form while aspiring to master it.
We can see Potemkin for what it is and for what Eisenstein intended it to be. Or, we can hear it. Like musical notes, frames become the raw material for carefully orchestrated expressive acts, recalling Klee’s musical phrases. We may fixate on the artist, resolve to forget him or replace him with a collective subject. Eisenstein acknowledges the “Hegelian a-priority” or the “idea-satiation of the author.” But he then points out that “the artist’s idea itself is in no way spontaneous or self-engendered, but is a socially reflected mirror-image, a reflection of social reality.” “Sensual and imagist thought processes” play a formative role in the creation of art, but it is “the clear-cut laws and structure peculiarities”
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that govern these processes, the “laws for the construction of form, the study and analysis of which have immense importance in the task of mastering the ‘mysteries’ of the technique of form.”
Listening to Eisenstein, one would expect that the sensuous forms in which consciousness entertains its concepts progressively lose their density and reveal thought in its pure, mental configurations. But what we see in the cinema, despite the transparency and the radiance of its imagery, is not a de-densification. Instead, what unfolds before us is the confluence of multiple visualities, auralities and textualities: a visual object (if the singular be allowed here) that is at once transparent and opaque, simple and complex, shallow and deep. Certainly we can identify in this space, as we can in that of painting, visual languages or codes that point to its social or political construction. Hegel’s forms show how these arise from the very concept and being of art. Thus, persistent efforts by art historians and others to outline movements, schools etc., are both prompted and undermined by art itself.
The theoretician is free to theorize. “We must proceed,” Eisenstein cautioned, “not by the path of mechanical simplification of the task, but by the path of planned analytical ascertaining of the secret of the very nature of affective form.” Such forms, as in the Symbolic, are deposited in ciphered narratives and objects to be unearthed and utilized by the modernist subject. The Bushmen who use a “long series of descriptive single images, almost asyntactic series” to suggest a unified experience (e.g., colonialist exploitation), are primitive cinematographers. For Eisenstein, approaching cinema as a kind of proto-language ensures not only its universality but also its efficacy in demonstrating the veracity of Marxist metaphysics: “We must travel toward the ultimate-expressive and ultimate-affective form and use the limit of simple and economic form that expresses what we need.”
Yet, to accept this narrowing of the cinematic function is to also accept the opposite movement. The hammering notes and gestures, that try to impress dialectical materialism on the viewer, are actually open-ended. Their proliferation on the screen makes any kind of final recollection or categorization under a narrative or concept (e.g., of revolution) untenable — except, perhaps, for the ideologue who opts to close her eyes and pretend otherwise. To be sure, Potemkin has a Classical (superficial) plasticity as long as it remains part of a conceptual (Marxist) framework. It does function as the organism that Eisenstein describes. But the viewer can also take that prescribed “body” and
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experience it from a primitivist, constructivist or expressionist standpoint or from no standpoint at all. Thus despite its polymorphy, polyphony and polysemy, and because of them, the Romantic is where art brings its own “absolute” into view and where it freely unfolds its being.
For Professor Wilfried Ver Eecke.
I am grateful to the anonymous reviewers for their comments and suggestions and to Dr. Mandy-Suzanne Wong for her incisive editing of the text.
 G.W.F. Hegel, Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art, volume 2, T.M. Knox trans., (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975), 795, 800-801, 961, 960.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 1, 309. G.W.F. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Aesthetik, Dritter Band, Sämtliche Werke, 3 vols., (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Friedrich Frommann Verlag, 1964), 415 (Page references to this edition appear henceforth in parentheses, following the English text, unless otherwise indicated).
 Andrzej Warminski ed., Paul de Man: Aesthetic Ideology, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 103.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 1, 80 (120), emphasis added.
 Ibid. (121).
 On the relationship between offscreen and onscreen space, see Jacques Aumont, Alain Bergala eds., Aesthetics of Film, Richard Neupert trans., (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1992), 9-18.
 C.A. Tsakiridou, Icons in Time, Persons in Eternity: Orthodox Theology and the Aesthetics of the Christian Image (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), 271-273.
 For fluidity in Hegel, see Mandy-Suzanne Wong, “Hegel’s Being-Fluid in Corregidora, Blues, and (Post-) Black Aesthetics,” Evental Aesthetics 1, no. 1 (2012): 85-120.
 Sergei Eisenstein, Sergei Eisenstein Film Form: Essays in Film Theory, Jay Leyda ed. and trans. (New York: Harcourt, 1977), 32, 38.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 1, 324 (435).
 Ibid. For those who understand the Eucharist as a symbolic act.
 Ibid. As observed by the American painter and critic Max Weber. Gail Levin, “American Art,” in William Rubin ed., “Primitivism” in 20th Century Art, vol. 2 (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1984), 458-473.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol.1, 319.
 Tsakiridou, Icons in Time, 66-68, 251-268.
Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 1, 319.
 Ibid., 341 (456).
 Ibid., 309 (315).
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 Ibid., 80-81 (121).
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 795 (7).
 Ibid., 792 (3). For a discussion of the exemplary role of Darstellung in Hegel’s aesthetics and philosophy, see C.A. Tsakiridou, “Darstellung: Reflections on Art, Logic and System in Hegel.” The Owl of Minerva, 23, no.1 (fall 1991): 15-28, emphasis added.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 794 (6).
 Catherine Malabou, The Future of Hegel: Plasticity, Temporality and Dialectic (London: Routledge, 2005), 72. Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 1, 426 (3).
 G.W.F. Hegel, Hegel’s Introduction to the Lectures on the History of Philosophy, T.M. Knox and A.V. Miller trans., (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 71, 82.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 660 (303).
 Ibid., 794 (6).
 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, Richard Howard trans., (New York: Noonday, 1981), 96, 115-117. See also C.A. Tsakiridou, “Roland Barthes Explores Photography ‘as a wound’,” Paragraph, 18.3, (1995): 273–85, reprinted in Neil Badmington ed., Roland Barthes: Critical Evaluations in Cultural Theory, vol. 3 (London: Routledge, 2009).
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 794 (6).
 Ibid., 795.
 Ibid., (7).
 Ibid., 794 (6).
 Ibid., 805 (20).
 Ibid., 806, (21).
 Ibid., 811 (27).
 Hajo Düchting, Painting Music, Penelope Crowe trans. (New York: Prestel, 1997), 28-63 (illustration of Harmony, 28).
 Ibid., 57.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 795 (7).
 Ibid., 889 (127).
 The French art critic Charles Blanc (1813-1881) compared the intensity of colors with the vibrations of sounds and the musical scale with the color scale. Tsakiridou, Icons in Time, 276-280.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 889-890 (127).
 Ibid., 889 (127).
 Ibid., 796 (8).
 Düchting, Painting Music, 46, 76-78.
 Roger Scruton, The Aesthetics of Music, (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 13.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 960 (221).
 Ibid., 960 (221).
 Ibid., 960 (221-222).
 Ibid., 961 (223).
 Ibid., 960 (222).
 Ibid., 961 (222).
 Ibid., 961 (223).
 Ibid., 961-962 (224).
 Ibid., 961 (223).
 “And it was at that age…Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
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I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of the night…”
Pablo Neruda, Pablo Neruda: Selected Poems, Nathaniel Tarn ed., Anthony Kerrigan, W.S. Merwin, Alastair Reid and Nathaniel Tarn trans. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin/Seymour Lawrence, 1970), 256-259. On poetry and cinema and on the relationship between poetry and montage in Eisenstein, see Jean Mitry, The Aesthetics and Psychology of Cinema, Christopher King trans., (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997), 23-28, 143-144.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 996 (270).
 Ibid., 998 (272).
 Ibid., 996 (270). See also Tsakiridou, “Darstellung,” 18-25.
 Ibid., 997-998 (271-272).
 The movement is reminiscent of the “vathu logon” (abyssal account) of the Heraclitean soul (fr. 62). Daniel W. Graham ed., The Texts of the Early Presocratics: The Complete Fragments and Selected Testimonies of the Major Presocratics, Part I, Daniel W. Graham trans., (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 166-167.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 962 (224).
 C.A. Tsakiridou. “Her Voiceless Voice: Reviewing Sappho’s Poetics,” Angelaki: Journal of the Theoretical Humanities, 8, no.3 (Dec. 2003): 95-107.
 Aumont, Jacques and Bergala Alain. Aesthetics of Film. Richard Neupert trans. (Austin: University of Texas, 1992), 14.
 Hegel, Aesthetics, vol. 2, 998 (272).
 Sergei Eisenstien. Film Form: Essays in Film Theory, Jay Leyda ed. and trans., (New York: Harcourt, 1977), 50, 31.
 Ibid., 49, 159-162, 173.
 Ibid., 55-56.
 Ibid., 104.
 Ibid., 104.
 Ibid., 105.
 Ibid., 29-30.
 Ibid., 30.
 Ibid. Emphasis original.
 Roland Barthes, Image, Music, Text, Stephen Heath trans. (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 56.
 Eisenstein, 31.
 Ibid., 172-173.
 This is a Russian Modernist theme. For the proletarian martyr and his iconography according to Kasimir Malevich, see Troels Andersen ed., K.S. Malevich, Essays on Art 1915-1933, vol. 2, Xenia Glowacki-Prus and Anronld McMillin trans., (London: Rapp and Whiting, 1968), 204-205. For the Russian modernist approach to the Byzantince icon, see Tsakiridou, Icons in Time, 75-98.
 Eisenstein, 174.
 Ibid., 126-127.
 Ibid., 127.
 Ibid., 130.
 Kirk Varnedoe, A Fine Disregard: What Makes Modern Art Modern (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1990), 17-23.
 Eisenstein, 146.
 Ibid., 138.
 Ibid., 146.
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Andersen, Troels ed. K.S. Malevich, Essays on Art 1915-1933 Vol. II. Xenia Glowacki-Prus and Anronld McMillin trans. London: Rapp and Whiting, 1968.
Aumont, Jacques and Bergala Alain eds. Aesthetics of Film, Richard Neupert trans. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1992.
Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. Richard Howard trans. New York: The Noonday Press, 1981.
———. Image, Music, Text. Stephen Heath trans. New York: Hill and Wang, 1977.
Düchting, Hajo. Painting Music. Penelope Crowe trans. New York: Prestel, 1997.
Eisenstein, Sergei. Film Form: Essays in Film Theory. Jay Leyda ed. and trans. New York: Harcourt, Inc., 1977.
Friedewald, Boris. Paul Klee: Life and Work. Stephan von Pohl trans. New York: Prestel,2011.
Graham, Daniel W. ed. The Texts of the Early Presocratics: The Complete Fragments and Selected Testimonies of the Major Presocratics, Part I, Daniel W. Graham trans. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010.
Hegel, G.W.F. Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art. 2 vols., T.M. Knox trans. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975.
———. Hegel’s Introduction to the Lectures on the History of Philosophy. T.M. Knox and A.V. Miller trans. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985.
———. Hegel’s Logic: Being Part One of the Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences. J.N. Findlay ed., William Wallace trans. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975).
———. Vorlesungen über die Aesthetik, Dritter Band, Sämtliche Werke, 3 vols. Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Friedrich Frommann Verlag, 1964.
Levin, Gail. “American Art,” in Primitivism” in 20th Century Art, vol. 2, William Rubin, ed., 458-473. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1984.
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Malabou, Catherine. The Future of Hegel, Plasticity, Temporality and Dialectic, Lisabeth During trans. London: Routledge, 2005.
Mitry, Jean. The Aesthetics and Psychology of Cinema. Christopher King trans. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997.
Neruda, Pablo. Pablo Neruda: Selected Poems, Nathaniel Tarn ed. Anthony Kerrigan, Merwin, W.S, Alastair Reid, and Nathaniel Tarn trans. Boston: Houghton Mifflin/Seymour Lawrence, 1970.
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