HISTORY: LITERARY PERIODS

The Victorian & Modernism Period

Victorian
Defining Victorian literature in any satisfactory and comprehensive manner has proven troublesome
for critics ever since the nineteenth century came to a close. The movement roughly comprises the years
from 1830 to 1900, though there is ample disagreement regarding even this simple point. The name given to
the period is borrowed from the royal matriarch of England, Queen Victoria, who sat on throne from 1837 to
1901. One has difficulty determining with any accuracy where the Romantic Movement of the early nineteenth
century leaves off and the Victorian Period begins because these traditions have so many aspects in
common. Likewise, identifying the point where Victorianism gives way completely to Modernism is no easy
task. Literary periods are never the discrete, self-contained realms which the anthologies so suggest. Rather,
a literary period more closely resembles a rope that is frayed at both ends. Many threads make up the rope
and work together to form the whole artistic and cultural milieu. The Victorian writers exhibited some well-
established habits from previous eras, while at the same time pushing arts and letters in new and interesting
directions. Indeed, some of the later Victorian novelists and poets are nearly indistinguishable from the
Modernists who followed shortly thereafter. In spite of the uncertainty of terminology, there are some concrete
statements that one can make regarding the nature of Victorian literature, and the intellectual world which
nurtured that literature.

If there is one transcending aspect to Victorian England life and society, that aspect is change – or,
more accurately, upheaval. Everything that the previous centuries had held as sacred and indisputable truth
came under assault during the middle and latter parts of the nineteenth century. Nearly every institution of
society was shaken by rapid and unpredictable change. Improvements to steam engine technology led to
increased factory production. More manufacturing required more coal to be mined from the ground. The
economies of Europe expanded and accelerated, as the foundations of a completely global economy were
laid. Huge amounts of wealth were created, and the spirit of the times discouraged the regulation of business
practices. Today, this is called laissez-faire economics. This generation of wealth was to the sole benefit of
the newly risen “middle class,” an urbane, entrepreneurial segment of society which saw itself as the natural
successor to the noble’s former position of influence. At the same time, scientific advancements were
undermining the position of the Church in daily life. Charles Darwin’s theories of evolution and natural
selection brought humanity down to the level of the animal, and seemingly reduced the meaning of life to a
bloody struggle for survival. Rather than a benign Creator, the world was dominated and steered by strength
alone. In the general population, the ever-present gap between the haves and have-nots widened
significantly during the Victorian period. The poorest of their poor found their lot in life to be worse than it had
ever been, as the new market economy favored industry over agriculture. Large numbers of dispossessed
farmers and peasants migrated from the countryside to the cities, seeking work in the factories. The effects
of that demographic shift can still be observed. Conditions in the overwhelmed, sprawling cities degenerated
as the infrastructure simply could not handle the influx of new workers. Slums and shantytowns became the
norm, and depredation was a fact of life for the majority of the working class.
 For some, the fundamental changes taking place in the world meant progress, and were a source of
hope and optimism. For the majority of writers and thinkers, however, the inequality present in Victorian
society was a kind of illness that would sooner or later come to a tipping point. Many intellectuals saw it as
their duty to speak out against the injustices of this new and frightening world. Essayists like Thomas Carlyle
railed against the systematic abuse he saw happening all around him. He saw machinery and the Industrial
Revolution as engines of destruction, stripping people of their very humanity. The level of social
consciousness and immediate relevancy one finds in much of Victorian writing was something not witnessed
before in English letters. Rather than turning inside or escaping into fantasy, essayists and novelists chose
to directly address the pressing social problems of the day. These problems ranged from atrocious labor
conditions and rampant poverty to the issue of women’s place in the world – what contemporaries referred
to as “The Woman Question.” Elizabeth Barrett-Browning’s long-form poem “The Cry of the Children”
represents an attack on mining practices in England, specifically the employment of young children to work
deep in the mines. Barrett-Browning had been outraged by a report she read detailing the practice and felt
compelled to make her voice heard on the issue. She was certainly not alone in this feeling. Novelist Charles
Dickens made a cottage industry out of addressing social ills in a light-hearted, optimistic tone. Each of his
many novels called attention to real-world problems that others might just as soon have swept under the rug.
Dickens is also noteworthy for his “rock star” status, attaining popularity that would not have been possible
in the previous generation. He wrote with a voice that was very accessible to the ordinary reader of the time,
and yet couched within his fiction were essential questions that society would sooner or later be forced to
confront. One cannot say exactly how much influence Dickens and others had on their society, but the fact
that they tried to change their world is what is important. Writers of the preceding era did not speak to a
popular audience nearly as much as the Victorians, or at least not as self-consciously. The Romantic
Movement was marked by introversion and abstraction; they were much less interested in commenting on,
much less altering the course of world events. Furthermore, the Romantics did not see leadership as a
primary objective for art. Victorians, on the other hand, tacitly agreed that encouraging society toward a higher
good was a righteous, noble occupation for any artist.

Not surprisingly, women in the Victorian world held very little power and had to fight hard for the
change they wanted in their lives. What one thinks of as feminism today had not yet taken form in the Victorian
period. The philosophy of female emancipation, however, became a rallying point for many female Victorian
writers and thinkers. Though their philosophies and methods were often quite divergent, the ultimate goal of
intellectual women in the nineteenth century was largely the same. Poets and novelists frequently had to be
coy when addressing their status in society. Christina Rossetti’s “Goblin Market” combines early feminist
imagery with many other concepts in a fairy-tale like world of imagination. Her use of religious symbolism is
especially fascinating. Though not as highly regarded, Letitia Elizabeth Landon was also an accomplished
and popular female poet. Charlotte and Emily Brontë crafted novels that have stood the test of time and taken
their place as literary classics. These women were exceptions to the rule. Patriarchy had been firmly
entrenched in Western society for so long that women writers faced an uphill climb to gain any level
recognition and acceptance. Some authors, like Mary Ann Evans, felt the need to work under a male
pseudonym in order to receive recognition. Evans published her first two novels, Adam Bede and Scenes of
Clerical Life, under the false name of George Eliot. Interestingly, even today Evans is more commonly known
by her pseudonym than her real name.

In the early years of the Victorian Period, poetry was still the most visible of literary forms. Like
everything else, poetry and poetics underwent an evolution during the nineteenth century. Both the purpose
of poetry and its basic style and tone changed drastically during the Victorian Period. In the first half of the
nineteenth century, poetry was still mired in the escapist, abstract imagery and themes of the earlier
generation. While essayists and novelists were confronting social issues head-on, poets for their part
remained ambivalent at best. This self-induced coma gradually lifted, and by mid-century most poets had
moved away from the abstractions and metaphysical tropes of the Romantics and fashioned a more down-
to-earth, realistic kind of verse. Alfred, Lord Tennyson was the master of simple, earthy lyricism to which
everyone could relate. His In Memoriam shows off this simplicity and economy of verse, while remaining an
effective and moving elegy for his deceased friend Arthur Hallam. The obsession with the natural world and
the imagination that so clearly distinguished the Romantic poets was supplanted during the Victorian Period
by a clear-headed, almost utilitarian kind of poetics. The subject matter of Victorian poetry was quite often
socially-oriented, but this was by no means set in stone. Victorian poets were nothing if not masters of variety
and inventiveness. Robert Browning’s dramatic monologues, for example, covered a wide array of subjects,
from lucid dreams to the nature of art and even the meaning of existence. Throughout his various aesthetic
experiments, Browning never failed to inject humanity into his subject matter. “The Bishop Orders His Tomb
at St. Praxed’s Church,” one of Browning’s most famous poems, demonstrates the intensity and
psychological realism he was able to portray in the space of a few hundred lines.

At some point in the Victorian era, the novel replaced the poem as the most fashionable vehicle for
the transmission of literature. This fundamental shift in popular taste has remained to the present day. Serial
publications in magazines and journals became more and more popular, and soon these pieces were being
bound and sold in their complete forms. Dickens made full use of the serial format, and his novels betray the
episodic arrangement of their original publication method. He was the first great popular novelist in England,
and was the forerunner of the artist-celebrity figure which in the twentieth century would become the norm.
The influence of Dickens was so severe that every novelist who came after him had to work under his
aesthetic shadow. Part of his appeal certainly owed to the fact that his literary style, while always entertaining,
put the ills of society under the microscope for everyone to see. His Hard Times was a condemning portrait
of society’s obsession with logic and scientific advancement at the expanse of the imagination. Until the
Victorian Period, the novel had been frowned upon as a lesser form of writing, incapable of the sublime
reaches of lyric poetry. Critics saw that the novel appealed to a popular, often female readership, and
therefore dismissed it as artless and dull. The later Victorian novelists, however, proved that the form could
attain heights of artistic achievement previously reserved only for poetry. Thomas Hardy, for example, pushed
the novel to its limits, significantly expanding the possibilities of the form. Although he thought of himself more
as a poet, his first best talent lay in constructing detailed, fatalistic plot-structures that still captivate readers.
Novels like Jude the Obscure share many qualities with Greek tragedy, of which Hardy was quite fond, but
they also contain psychologically sophisticated, realistic characterizations. His gift for characterization would
influence an entire generation of writers.
 Thomas Hardy must be regarded as a key forerunner of the Modernist Movement in literature. His
novels and poetry all display tendencies that would reach their apex in the early twentieth century. Hardy
often created desolate, hopeless worlds where life had very little meaning. He also actively questioned the
relevance of modern institutions, in particular organized religion. Sentiments like these would find
accomplished spokespersons in poets like T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. Another skilled poet who is often
considered a precursor to Modernism is Gerard Manley Hopkins. Though he never published in his lifetime,
his work was greatly received after his death. His unusual use of language set him apart from virtually every
other poet of his day. Hopkins was very much concerned with religion and the nature of Creation. However,
he still preserved a healthy quantity of skepticism. It is this existential doubt that, like Hardy, made Hopkins
a favorite among the Modernist writers who would later discover his work.

For many, the word “Victorian” conjures up images of over-dressed ladies and snooty gentlemen
gathered in parlors and reading rooms. The idea of “manners” essentially sums up the social climate of
middle-class England in the nineteenth century. Rules of personal conduct were in fact so inflexible that the
Victorians garnered a reputation for saying one thing while doing another – an attack that the next generation
of writers would take up with vigor. In the world at large, change was happening faster than many people
could comprehend. A surging global economy was orchestrated by the might of the British Empire. The
nobility, formerly at the top of the pyramid in society, found their status reduced as agriculture lost its
preeminence in the now industrial economy. Mechanization and steam power led to ruthless efficiency, while
more often than not the poor suffered under the weight of the capitalist middle class. Being impoverished in
Victorian England was unpleasant to say the least, but there were efforts underway to improve the lot of the
poor. The Reform Bills of the nineteenth century extended voting rights to men who were previously
disenfranchised – but not, of course, to women. That would require years more of struggle. For all of the
social inequalities which still persisted, the Victorians successfully undermined some of humanity’s most time-
honored institutions. Some writers greeted these changes with fear, and wanted desperately for society to
check its relentless pace. Others embraced the new world that was coming into being, thrilled at the progress
of science and society. Together, these voices comprise an important and sometimes overlooked era in
English literary history.

Modernism
The Modernist Period in English Literature occupied the years from shortly after the beginning of the
twentieth century through roughly 1965. In broad terms, the period was marked by sudden and unexpected
breaks with traditional ways of viewing and interacting with the world. Experimentation and individualism
became virtues, where in the past they were often heartily discouraged. Modernism was set in motion, in one
sense, through a series of cultural shocks. The first of these great shocks was the Great War, which ravaged
Europe from 1914 through 1918, known now as World War One. At the time, this “War to End All Wars” was
looked upon with such ghastly horror that many people simply could not imagine what the world seemed to
be plunging towards. The first hints of that particular way of thinking called Modernism stretch back into the
nineteenth century. As literary periods go, Modernism displays a relatively strong sense of cohesion and
similarity across genres and locales. Furthermore, writers who adopted the Modern point of view often did so
quite deliberately and self-consciously. Indeed, a central preoccupation of Modernism is with the inner self
and consciousness. In contrast to the Romantic world view, the Modernist cares rather little for Nature, Being,
or the overarching structures of history. Instead of progress and growth, the Modernist intelligentsia sees
decay and a growing alienation of the individual. The machinery of modern society is perceived as
impersonal, capitalist, and antagonistic to the artistic impulse. War most certainly had a great deal of influence
on such ways of approaching the world. Two World Wars in the span of a generation effectively shell-shocked
all of Western civilization.

In its genesis, the Modernist Period in English literature was first and foremost a visceral reaction
against the Victorian culture and aesthetic, which had prevailed for most of the nineteenth century. Indeed,
a break with traditions is one of the fundamental constants of the Modernist stance. Intellectuals and artists
at the turn of the twentieth century believed the previous generation’s way of doing things was a cultural dead
end. They could foresee that world events were spiraling into unknown territory. The stability and quietude of
Victorian civilization were rapidly becoming a thing of the past. The assassination of Archduke Ferdinand of
Austria was essentially the triggering event of the First World War, a conflict which swept away all
preconceived notions about the nature of so-called modern warfare.

In the world of art, generally speaking, Modernism was the beginning of the distinction between “high”
art and “low” art. The educational reforms of the Victorian Age had led to a rapid increase in literacy rates,
and therefore a greater demand for literature or all sorts. A popular press quickly developed to supply that
demand. The sophisticated literati looked upon this new popular literature with scorn. Writers who refused to
bow to the popular tastes found themselves in a state of alienation from the mainstream of society. To some
extent, this alienation fed into the stereotype of the aloof artist, producing nothing of commercial value for the
market. It’s worth mentioning that this alienation worked both ways, as the reading public by and large turned
their backs on many “elitist” artists. The academic world became something of a refuge for disaffected artists,
as they could rub elbows with fellow disenfranchised intellectuals. Still, the most effective poets and novelists
did manage to make profound statements that were absorbed by the whole of society and not just the writer’s
inner circles. In the later years of the Modernist period, a form of populism returned to the literary mainstream,
as regionalism and identity politics became significant influences on the purpose and direction of artistic
endeavor.

The nineteenth century, like the several centuries before it, was a time of privilege for wealthy
Caucasian males. Women, minorities, and the poor were marginalized to the point of utter silence and
inconsequence. The twentieth century witnessed the beginnings of a new paradigm between first the sexes,
and later between different cultural groups. Class distinction remains arguably the most difficult bridge to
cross in terms of forming a truly equitable society. Some would argue that class has become a euphemism
for race, but that’s another discussion. The point is that as the twentieth century moved forward, a greater
variety of literary voices won the struggle to be heard. What had so recently been inconceivable was steadily
becoming a reality. African-Americans took part in the Harlem Renaissance, with the likes of Langston
Hughes at the forefront of a vibrant new idiom in American poetry. Women like Hilda Doolittle and Amy Lowell
became leaders of the Imagist movement. None of this is to suggest that racism and sexism had been
completely left behind in the art world. Perhaps such blemishes can never be fully erased, but the strides that
were taken in the twentieth century were remarkable by any measure.

In Modernist literature, it was the poets who took fullest advantage of the new spirit of the times, and
stretched the possibilities of their craft to lengths not previously imagined. In general, there was a disdain for
most of the literary production of the last century. The exceptions to this disdain were the French Symbolist
poets like Charles Beaudelaire, and the work of Irishman Gerard Manley Hopkins. The French Symbolists
were admired for the sophistication of their imagery. In comparison to much of what was produced in England
and America, the French were ahead of their time. They were similarly unafraid to delve into subject matter
that had usually been taboo for such a refined art form. Hopkins, for his part, brought a fresh way to look at
rhythm and word usage. He more or less invented his own poetic rhythms, just as he coined his own words
for things which had, for him, no suitable descriptor. Hopkins had no formal training in poetry, and he never
published in his lifetime. This model – the self-taught artist-hermit who has no desire for public adulation –
would become synonymous with the poet in the modern age. This stereotype continues unrivaled to this day,
despite the fact that the most accomplished poets of the Modern period were far from recluses. Even though
alienation was a nearly universal experience for Modernist poets, it was impossible to escape some level of
engagement with the world at large. Even if this engagement was mediated through the poetry, the
relationship that poets had with their world was very real, and very much revealing of the state of things in
the early twentieth century.

Leading up to the First World War, Imagist poetry was dominating the scene, and sweeping previous
aesthetic points of view under the rug. The Imagists, among them Ezra Pound, sought to boil language down
to its absolute essence. They wanted poetry to concentrate entirely upon “the thing itself,” in the words of
critic-poet T. E. Hulme. To achieve that effect required minimalist language, a lessening of structural rules
and a kind of directness that Victorian and Romantic poetry seriously lacked. Dreaminess or Pastoral poetry
were utterly abandoned in favor of this new, cold, some might say mechanized poetics. Imagist poetry was
almost always short, unrhymed, and noticeably sparse in terms of adjectives and adverbs. At some points,
the line between poetry and natural language became blurred. This was a sharp departure from the
ornamental, verbose style of the Victorian era. Gone also were the preoccupations with beauty and nature.
Potential subjects for poetry were now limitless, and poets took full advantage of this new freedom.

No Modernist poet has garnered more praise and attention than Thomas Stearns Eliot. Born in
Missouri, T. S. Eliot would eventually settle in England, where he would produce some of the greatest poetry
and criticism of the last century. Eliot picked up where the Imagists left off, while adding some of his own
peculiar aesthetics to the mix. His principal contribution to twentieth century verse was a return to highly
intellectual, allusive poetry. He looked backwards for inspiration, but he was not nostalgic or romantic about
the past. Eliot’s productions were entirely in the modern style, even if his blueprints were seventeenth century
metaphysical poets. One of the distinguishing characteristics of Eliot’s work is the manner in which he
seamlessly moves from very high, formal verse into a more conversational and easy style. Yet even when
his poetic voice sounds very colloquial, there is a current underneath, which hides secondary meanings. It is
this layering of meanings and contrasting of styles that mark Modernist poetry in general and T. S. Eliot in
particular. It is no overstatement to say that Eliot was the pioneer of the ironic mode in poetry; that is,
deceptive appearances hiding difficult truths.

In American Literature, the group of writers and thinkers known as the Lost Generation has become
synonymous with Modernism. In the wake of the First World War, several American artists chose to live
abroad as they pursued their creative impulses. These included the intellectual Gertrude Stein, the novelists
Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and the painter Waldo Pierce, among others. The term itself
refers to the spiritual and existential hangover left by four years of unimaginably destructive warfare. The
artists of the Lost Generation struggled to find some meaning in the world in the wake of chaos. As with much
of Modernist literature, this was achieved by turning the mind’s eye inward and attempting to record the
workings of consciousness. For Hemingway, this meant the abandonment of all ornamental language. His
novels are famous for their extremely spare, blunt, simple sentences and emotions that play out right on the
surface of things. There is an irony to this bluntness, however, as his characters often have hidden agendas,
hidden sometimes even from themselves, which serve to guide their actions. The Lost Generation, like other
“High Modernists,” gave up on the idea that anything was truly knowable. All truth became relative,
conditional, and in flux. The War demonstrated that no guiding spirit rules the events of the world, and that
absolute destruction was kept in check by only the tiniest of margins.

The novel was by no means immune from the self-conscious, reflective impulses of the new century.
Modernism introduced a new kind of narration to the novel, one that would fundamentally change the entire
essence of novel writing. The “unreliable” narrator supplanted the omniscient, trustworthy narrator of
preceding centuries, and readers were forced to question even the most basic assumptions about how the
novel should operate. James Joyce’s Ulysses is the prime example of a novel whose events are really the
happenings of the mind, the goal of which is to translate as well as possible the strange pathways of human
consciousness. A whole new perspective came into being known as “stream of consciousness.” Rather than
looking out into the world, the great novelists of the early twentieth century surveyed the inner space of the
human mind. At the same time, the psychoanalytic theories of Sigmund Freud had come into mainstream
acceptance. These two forces worked together to alter people’s basic understanding of what constituted truth
and reality.

Experimentation with genre and form was yet another defining characteristic of Modernist literature.
Perhaps the most representative example of this experimental mode is T. S. Eliot’s long poem The Waste
Land. Literary critics often single out The Waste Land as the definitive sample of Modernist literature. In it,
one is confronted by biblical-sounding verse forms, quasi-conversational interludes, dense and frequent
references which frustrate even the most well-read readers, and sections that resemble prose more than
poetry. At the same time, Eliot fully displays all the conventions which one expects in Modernist literature.
There is the occupation with self and inwardness, the loss of traditional structures to buttress the ego against
shocking realities, and a fluid nature to truth and knowledge.

The cynicism and alienation of the first flowering of Modernist literature could not persist. By mid-
century, indeed by the Second World War, there was already a strong reaction against the pretentions of the
Moderns. Artists of this newer generation pursued a more democratic, pluralistic mode for poetry and the
novel. There was optimism for the first time in a long time. Commercialism, publicity, and the popular
audience were finally embraced, not shunned. Alienation became boring. True, the influence of Modernist
literature continues to be quite astonishing. The Modern poet-critics changed the way people think about
artists and creative pursuits. The Modern novelists changed the way many people perceive truth and reality.
These changes are indeed profound, and cannot easily be replaced by new schemas.

Major Modernist Writers

Bishop, Elizabeth (1911-1979)
Conrad, Joseph (1857-1924)
Doolittle, Hilda (1886-1961)
Eliot, Thomas Stearns (1888-1965)
Faulkner, William (1897-1962)
Fitzgerald, F. Scott (1896-1940)
Hemingway, Ernest (1899-1961)
Hughes, Langston (1902-1967)
James, Henry (1843-1916)
Lawrence, D. H. (1885-1930)
Lowell, Amy (1874-1925)
Pound, Ezra (1885-1972)
Shaw, George Bernard (1856-1950)
Stevens, Wallace (1879-1955)
Williams, Tennessee (1882-1941)
Woolf, Virginia (1882-1941)
Yeats, William Butler (1865-1939)

Modernism vs. Victorianism: Compare and Contrast



The Modernist period and the Victorian period. Both of these periods have had many influential
writers and scholars and my attempt in this week’s blog is to distinguish between the two and highlight their
main differences which are tradition vs. progression, nationalism vs. revisionism, and nature vs. science

First let’s look at the two periods in detail, starting with the Victorian period. The Victorian period
started in 1837 and lasted until the year 1901 during which Queen Victoria led Great Britain in the monarchy.
The ruling of Queen Victoria was distinct for its belief in tradition. According to the book “Defining the Victorian
Nation”, gender roles are discussed. In the Victorian period men and women were expected to adhere to
certain gender rules. For Example, men were expected to be the providers. A Victorian man had to be strong
and independent because it reflected the ideals of British society. Women, on the other hand, were expected
to be homemakers and to raise the family. Women for much of the Victorian era fought for suffrage but had
major shortcomings in doing so. (1) These ideals were one of the driving forces behind the Victorian Era and
was the inspiration behind one of the most famous novels written during this time; Jane Austen’s “Pride and
Prejudice”. When it comes to the Modernist era however, tradition was not thought of highly. Starting to form
in the 1890s, the cornerstone of the Modernist movement was progression. Unlike the Victorian Era, the
Modernist era consisted of trying new things and individualism was also embraced. (2) The Modernist Era
gained steam due to a change in public opinion on social issues and cultural norms. Many people were tired
of the “Same old same old” mentality that British culture had become. (3) However the biggest motivator to
the Modernist Era was the abrupt cultural changes that occurred, most notably World War I, also known as
“The war to end all wars”. This event led many writers to question all they know about humanity and life.

The second contradiction between these two eras is nationalism and questioning of authority. During
the Victorian Era, there was a great sense of nationalism. Many in Great Britain were proud of its nation due
to its status as a world power. During the 19th century, Britain had influence in India, Africa, present day
Canada and parts of South America. Queen Victoria had conveyed the message that Britain was possessing
these territories because Britain was a force for good and was out to do good in the world and was there to
help those in need, which was met with great approval form the British citizens. Another major influence that
created immense nationalism in Britain was the several defeats the country suffered in war. In 1783, Great
Britain lost a major war to its colony that later became known as the United States. In 1812, Great Britain lost
another war to the United States. Both defeats were demoralizing to Great Britain however it did bring the
nation closer together creating a sense of nationalism. During the Modernist Era, The feelings of nationalism
faded away. Many Modernist literates questioned government and authority in general. Modernists in Great
Britain believed that the government was imperialist and responsible for wrong doing across the world.

The final comparison between Victorianism and Modernism is the difference between nature and
science. During the Victorian Era, the main focus of writing was the idea of relating people to nature. A perfect
example of this is in the book “Pride and Prejudice” When Elizabeth talks about Pemberly as a beautiful
setting perfect to live in. That was one of the main points of Victorian literature, relating it to nature. The
modernist Era however had no interest in expressing literature through nature; rather Modernist preferred to
express literature through science and logic. One of the greatest scientists to come out of the Modernist era
was Sigmund Freud. Born in Austria, Freud was a psychologist who developed the theory of psychoanalysis
which represented the progression of discovery that was common in the Modernist Era.
 Contemporary Art vs. Modern Art
Defining "Now" from "Then"

In everyday language, the terms “modern” and “contemporary” are often used interchangeably. In
the context of art, however, they designate two distinct moments in art history. There are specific definitions
for both terms, and these definitions will help us to establish an understanding of the images and themes that
emerge in both styles of art.

What Is Modern Art?

“Modern art” dates from the late nineteenth through the early twentieth centuries and refers to work
that was entirely different from that which preceded it. This art broke with convention, dealt with new subject
matter, focused on conceptual concerns, and changed the position of the artist within society. Modernism
began as a trend of thought that emphasized the power of human beings to create, improve, and reshape
their environment, with the aid of scientific knowledge, technology, and practical experimentation. Thus, in
its essence it is both progressive and optimistic. The movement was initially an ideological reaction to the
dehumanizing effects of late-nineteenth-century industrialization. Other world events further inspired the
movement, including World War I (1914–1918) and World War II (1939–1945); huge improvements in
industry and technology as compared to the nineteenth century; the rise in the power and influence of
international corporations; increasing interconnectedness across the globe in the form of cultural exchanges,
transportation, and communication; the spread of popular culture from Europe and North America elsewhere;
and the “Westernization” of many formerly traditional societies.
Modern art reflects a tendency toward abstract and nonrepresentational depictions of the world.
Many styles of art developed during the modern period, including impressionism, fauvism, cubism,
expressionism, surrealism, pop art, op art, art nouveau, and art deco.

What Is Contemporary Art?

The term “contemporary art” is generally regarded as referring to workmade between 1970 and the
present. It also implies art that is made byliving artists, but essentially contemporary art is seen as something
that has never been done before. There is no unifying ideology in contemporary art, and there are no schools,
periods, or styles as are associated with modern art. However, certain trends have emerged in contemporary
works. Contemporary art emphasizes a rejection of the commercialization of the art world, but it is often
connected to the contemporary consumer-driven society. Contemporary art often reflects a strong social
consciousness, including themes such as feminism, multiculturalism, globalization, bioengineering, and AIDS
awareness. It incorporates the widespread use of a variety of technology-based media and the mixture of
both photography and language in works. Contemporary art blurs the distinctions between painting and
sculpture through the use of everyday objects and other nontraditional media in the final product. In addition,
contemporary art includes large-scale installations that emphasize the importance of an architectural context
for art.
Contemporary art often makes a connection to the future, but it parallels many developments in
contemporary society. Contemporary art works to explode our understanding and perception of art. This kind
of art challenges, defies, and excites; it crosses boundaries and asks us to question the meanings of “high”
and “low” art. Contemporary art breeds controversy and confronts the viewer with challenging questions. This
art forces a relationship to form among the art, the artist, and the viewer.
From this relationship, works of art gain new meaning. Contemporary art unites new technologies
and materials with traditional styles and processes. The study of contemporary art can help people think in
new directions by focusing on the process of looking at and analyzing art, and contemporary artists hope that
viewers can translate these skills into their everyday lives.

What Do Modern and Contemporary Art Have in Common?

Modern and contemporary art build on existing subject matter, themes that artists have incorporated
into their work for ages. However, changes in the world, new developments in art technologies, a revised
conception of art materials, and an expanding view of the definition of “art” have changed the images artists
create and the art forms artists choose to use.

Nature
“For me nature is not landscape, but the dynamism of visual forces, an event rather than an
appearance. These forces can only be tackled by treating color and form as ultimate identities, freeing them
from all descriptive or functional roles.” —Bridget Riley, visual artist
• Artists share an interest in nature.
• Artists express their personal relationship with the environment.
• Artists contrast rural and urban settings.
Portraiture
“Most painting in the European tradition was painting the mask. Modern art rejected all that. Our
subject matter was the person behind the mask.” —Robert Motherwell, visual artist
• Artists explore the personality of themselves and others.
• Artists capture the appearance and social status of the sitter.
• Artists incorporate issues of race, religion, ethnicity, and gender.

Social Commentary
“A work of art is a world in itself reflecting senses and emotions othe artist’s world.” —Hans Hoffmann,
visual artist
• Artists report social issues that they feel are important.
• Art can be communication and propaganda.
• Art can serve as a take-off point for social action.

The Commonplace
“Still lifes are always ready to pose. They don’t talk or get tired or need to eat. They possess all the
qualities of form and color that are needed to keep a painter occupied for the rest of his life.” —Robert Chunn,
visual artist
• Artists expand the range of traditional still life objects.
• Artists include subjects drawn from industrial and popular culture.
 INTRODUCTION: THE FORMS OF ART
The Nature of Art
WHAT is art? We do not know. The essential nature of that mysterious, intangible, indefinable
something that we call art baffles us. On the other hand, we do know definitely that from the earliest times
until today human beings all over the world have given expression to human experience in concrete tangible
forms which we call works of art. And we know that art is essential to mans well-being. Take away the finest

of our buildings, our pottery, pictures, music, poetry, drama, and the dance. What kind of life would result?
Thus works of art exist and always have existed, and have been essential to mans well-being. They

are human experiences translated into forms that we apprehend through our senses. We see pictures and
dances; we see and hear literature; we hear music; we feel the surfaces of a carving or a jar, and the texture
of a piece of satin or velvet. But that is not all. Our sensory impressions and our perceptions lead to emotional
reactions, and intelligence enters to rationalize. Sensation, emotion, and intelligence all enter into the process
of understanding.
How, then, shall we go about understanding? There can be no cut-and-dried formula. The very
complexity of the art object requires many approaches, no one of which has priority. Some people approach
a painting from one angle, some from another, each according to his temperament and habit of mind. All that
matters is that a person shall eventually approach it from all angles, so that his understanding of it can be full
and intelligent.
Hence in approaching a work of art, it is well to keep in mind its chief facets: that it is a form created
by some artist; that it has a cultural or time context; a content or subject matter; and usually a function or use.
Let us examine these a little more closely. Every work of art is a form, a living structure possessed
of an organic oneness that sets it apart from other objects and marks it as a work of art. Who created this
form? It was some artist. That is, a work of art is the objectification of a human experience. The artist is one
who selects and rearranges details from life experience into concrete form. (Thomas Munro) Thus his

creative activity is synthetic  that is, it consists of selecting parts and welding them into an integrated whole.

The intangible quality of this oneness  that is, whether it has an inner vitality or not  determines whether

the artist has succeeded; only that which is utterly intangible matters. (D. H. Lawrence) A work of art may

be above adverse criticism technically and at the same time be devoid of life. That statement is aptly
illustrated by the Chinese saying that to paint a tiger successfully, the artist must have within himself the
potentiality to be one.
The observer, the critic, on the other hand, approaches the work of art from the opposite direction,
the analytical. He sees the completed work of art, the integrated form, and in trying to understand it he
attempts to see how the artist put the parts together to attain the observable results. While it is impossible for
one person to relive anothers experience, the intelligent critic comes as close to that experience as is

humanly possible, and by training he is able to feel the quality of its inner intangible essence.
A work of art, then, is a form created by the artist out of human experience. At the same time it has
a cultural context. It exists in time, and its form reflects the forces of that time  social, economic, political,

and religious. From this angle the form reveals a style a mode of the time of its creation, a mode that colors

all works of art of the time so that together they express the essence of the time. Buildings, paintings,
sculpture, pottery, literature, music, drama  all the arts reflect the mode of their age. Each elucidates the

others. A mode or style, however, like time, is never static. It evolves, attains its maturity, and declines. So a
work of art may conform to the prevailing style; it may revert to a previous style; or it may be revolutionary in
that it looks forward, experiments, and embodies new elements which foretell the approach of a new style.
Again, works of art have content. Even such objects as masks, pottery, and textile designs that are
abstract or geometric and seem merely decorative may actually contain profound human meaning. This
content bears a direct relation to the time of their creation. It was not by accident that Renaissance painters
painted Madonnas, that mod- ern painters produce still life, abstract, or nonobjective paintings, and that the
Chinese developed the land- scape scroll. It was not by accident that the design on early Chinese bronzes
and on some American Indian pottery relates to clouds and rain, or that Mayan carvings so frequently repeat
the motif of the plumed serpent and the jaguar.
Another approach to a work of art is to consider its function or purpose. Probably a large majority of
works of art were created to serve a definite purpose in a definite place. This statement hardly seems valid
to one walking through a museum. A museum, how- ever, is at best an artificial, though necessary,
storehouse of objects taken away from their original place and time; but when each object is traced back to
its origin, the reasons for its creation and for its form become clearer. Paintings and statues belonged to
certain buildings, and rugs to certain palaces; Indian jars were made to hold water carried to the top of the
mesa, and the tall slender Chinese vase was used to pour the wine at the rites of ancestor worship. The
function of buildings we usually take for granted. But equally functional are many pictures, statues, and
textiles, as well as much pottery and metalwork.

The Nature of Form

O F these essential approaches to a work of art, we shall isolate for discussion the first -  that of

form and the ability to see form. Form has many meanings. Here  in fact all through this book  it is used

in its widest sense: that of a total organic structure, a synthesis of all the elements of which that structure is
constructed, and the manner in which these elements are related and united to create its distinctive character.
Organic, according to Webster, means Possessed of a complete structure comparable to that of a human

being; forming a totality, in which the relation of the parts involves relation to the whole. Structure, according

to the same authority, means Something constructed or built; the arrangement of the parts ... in a substance

or body. This is the meaning of the broadly inclusive term form. The Chinese have a saying that we see

with our ears. Chesterton once observed shrewdly, says J. B. Priestley, that there was a great difference

between an eager manwho wanted to read a book and a tired man who wanted a book to read. Reading a

book, listening to music, or seeing a picture requires concentrated activity of both the emotions and the
intelligence. Listen to a piece of music. You hear a succession of sounds, at times harmonious, at times
discordant, which may produce a certain mood, somber or gay. But so far you have penetrated the musics

minimum significance only. It is so little in relation to what is there. You may be too incapable, or perhaps too
lazy, to penetrate farther. If, on the other hand, you listen attentively enough to catch a melody, perhaps just
a few bars, to hear it again in another key and again in its original form; or if you have noticed a second
melody with which the first interweaves, and if you have dis- covered that the quality of each varies according
to the instrument on which it is played  if you have heard all this and realize that these interweavings,

repetitions, and variations cohere into a pattern of rhythmic movement, then you are on your way to
understanding music.
So with a piece of literature. A writer uses words; he combines them into phrases, phrases into
sentences, and sentences into paragraphs or verses; and by repetition, variation, and movement toward a
climax he creates a pattern which not only conveys the content but, because of its inherent capacity to arouse
emotional response, vivifies the content, gives it a dynamic quality that is not inherent in the mere meaning
of the words and the sentences. Thus music is not a mere succession of sounds, nor literature one of words
alone, but a related and integrated succession.
Try looking at a picture. If you see it only for its subject matter, as an illustration or as a historical
document, or for its associational ideas or its general mood, then you have not grasped its maximum
significance. Look again. Your curiosity might ask why it creates a certain mood, a certain reaction in you.
Now you may see that a certain color  blue for example  dominates; that it appears in a large area and

is repeated in several small areas; that it is now light in tone, now darker. You also notice areas of yellow;
and you observe that the blues and the yellows seem to play over against each other, and that each seems
to enhance the brilliance of the other. Or you may notice a brightly lighted area, perhaps triangular in shape,
and your eye moves from one part of the picture to another under the guidance of repeated triangular areas.
Each color and each light area appears and reappears in repetition and variation, like the themes in music,
so related and interwoven that together they form the same kind of coherent whole that a musical composition
does. Watch an artist who begins his picture by organizing his canvas into color areas with no visible
representational content. Then see how a light area be- comes a house; a blue spot, a figure; and a dark-
green mass, trees. But the basic color organization remains to vivify the content, to give it a life not secured
by a mere imitation of nature. That is the difference between art and nature.
In these three arts  and it is equally true in all the arts  we find a basic structure that not only

conveys and vitalizes the content, but of itself delights the eye or the ear. And if one is to understand art, he
must be able to see this structure, to see it with the artists vision . 1 In truth I have painted by opening my

eyes day and night on the perceptible world, and also by closing them from time to time that I might better
see the vision blossom and submit itself to orderly arrangement.

The Elements of Form

WHEN an artist creates a work of art, he gives substance to his concept in tangible visible material.
For this purpose the world offers him in- numerable possibilities. His choice, however, is not left to chance.
Each material has its own potentialities and limitations, and it is part of the artists creative activity to determine

whether a certain material is suitable for the expression of his concept and whether he has technical
proficiency in handling this material. The character of the material, and the processes and tools with which it
is worked, are vital determinants in the character of the form: the way in which hammer and chisel slowly
carve a figure from unyielding stone, or the fingers swiftly build a form from yielding clay. Nor are materials
interchangeable. A theme suitable for
1 From this point, because of lack of space, we shall discuss visual form only. But we suggest that
the reader apply the method outlined to the arts of music, literature, drama, and the dance.
2 A statement by Rouault quoted by Monroe Wheeler in Painters and Sculptors of Modem America,
Thomas Y. Crowell, 1942, p. viii. On he artists vision see Roger Fry, Vision anDesign, The Artists

Vision; Leo Stein, The A-B-C of /. Esthetics , Pictorial Seeing and To Make Pictures by Seeing

Them; Thomas Munro, Scientific Method in Aesthetics,  The An alysis of Form; Ralph Pearson,

Experiencing Pictures.
pigment could hardly be successful if carried out in stone. To see materials as a contributing element in the
total form is a prime prerequisite for under- standing.
Other elements or components that artists use to create forms and which one must train ones eye

to see are line, light and dark, color, texture, areas, mass and volume, space and movement. If an artist is
working in two dimensions  - width and height  and observing surface continuity, as in painting or tiles or

textiles, he will chiefly use line, light and dark color, texture, and areas. Except as an illusion, actual depth
does not occur. If he is working in three dimensions *  width, height, and depth ~~ as in building, sculpture,

pottery, or basketry, he works basically with mass, volume, and space in addition to the elements of two-
dimensional art. The fourth dimension  movement in space  so fundamental in music, literature, the

drama, and the dance, is only suggested in the visual arts, though it may actually exist in sculpture.
These components provide the artist with his means for creating forms which have coherence, unity
with variety, balance, and emphasis. Each element, however, has an inherent character with its own
potentialities and limitations; and the artist chooses for his use according to the nature of the project in hand,
his own individuality, and the controlling forces of his environment.

LINE
This is an elastic term. A line may be an edge, a meeting of areas. In a building, the edge where
planes or surfaces meet is, for practical esthetic purposes, a line. Line may be a contour, in which case it
delineates an object. It may be sculptural; that is, of such a quality that it suggests mass. Or it may be
calligraphic, an element of enrichment of surface; if it is, though it may serve also as an edge or a contour,
its main emphasis is upon itself for its own sake, for movement or pattern. The character of line is dependent
partly upon the implement with which it is made (brush, burin, chalk, silver-point) and partly upon the
personality and the skill of the artist. It may be broad or thin, sharp or blurred, firm or wavering, tight or loose,
delicate or bold, energetic or weak.
Whatever its function and character, line suggests movement in some direction: vertical, horizontal,
diagonal, or curved, each of which produces a certain emotional reaction. We all know the uplift of the vertical,
the tranquillity of the horizontal, the dynamism of the diagonal, and the suavity of the curve. It is not only the
effect of line direction of which the artist makes use, but also the relationships that he sets up among the
various lines. They may repeat or parallel one another for a harmonious effect, or oppose one another for
needed contrast; they may radiate from a certain spot or converge upon it for emphasis. A diagonal may give
the needed verve to a tranquil balance of vertical and horizontal; a succession of diagonals constituting a
zigzag may create a highly dramatic effect. Lines may be continuous or broken, and when they are broken
on may still feel the continuity of the movement even though the actual line is invisible. It is seldom that only
one kind of line is used in a design. More likely two or more interplay, with varying degrees of harmony and
contrast, like themes in a musical composition.

LIGHT AND DARK

These, known as values or by the Italian word chiaroscuro (light-dark), range from white to black,

with an infinite number of gradations between. Light may be the result of natural illumination, as in architecture
and sculpture, where projections catch the light and depressions hold shadows, which shift according to the
time of day and the weather. Artificial illumination or controlled lighting is an element of the highest importance
to the sculptor and the photographer as an organizing element. The painter or the lithographer may reproduce
natural or artificial lighting, and at the same time use it as a point of emphasis or in relation to other light
areas as a means of securing movement through his picture. Values, like lines, produce an emotional effect.
A diffused light with gradual transitions from light to dark evokes a tranquil or mysterious mood; contrasted
values suggest restlessness; highly concentrated or strongly contrasted values with abrupt transitions
engender a dramatic mood. Again, as with the use of all the elements, what matters is the relationships of
the areas, and the interplay of light and dark motifs.
COLOR
Color is probably the most emotive of the elements. It is both a scientific element and an element of
organization. Scientifically, a color is a wave of light perceived by means of the sensation which it arouses in
the eye. A ray of light consists of waves of different lengths and degrees of vibration. Send a ray of light
through a prism and it breaks up into its parts and produces the spectrum. When light strikes a surface, that
surface may reflect all the waves, or colors, equally, and the eye registers a white surface. It may absorb all
the waves except the green, which it reflects. Then the eye sees that surface as green. It may absorb all the
rays except the blue and the red. The surface is then violet. Individuals vary widely in their sensory reaction
to light, from hypersensitivity, which at times causes violent reactions, all the way to complete lack of
sensation. A person may be blind to one color alone, or he may be totally blind to all colors and consequently
see the world in terms of white, black, and the intermediate grays. Thus the nature of light and the sense of
sight are both involved in the science of color.
As an element for the artists use, a knowledge  intuitive, if not scientific  of the spectrum, its

composition, and the interrelationship of its components is essential. It is convenient to arrange the colors of
the spectrum in a wheel. Of these colors, three are in- divisible and so are known as the primaries: blue, red,
and yellow. If the primaries are mixed, they produce the secondaries or binaries: blue plus yellow equals
green; red plus yellow, orange; red plus blue, violet. Further mixture makes possible an infinite number of
colors, depending upon the pro- portion of each component.
Notice on the color wheel that red is opposite green, and orange opposite blue. Opposites are called
complements. If they are mixed, they soften each other; if mixed in equal propor- tions, they produce a gray,
a neutral which can be vibrating and elusive, as a gray compounded of black and white is not. If
complementaries are juxtaposed, each intensifies the other and produces brilliance and sharp contrast. On
the other hand, colors near each other on the wheel, called adjacents, (blue, blue-green, and green, for
example) produce a harmonious effect. However, it is not only the relationships of the colors that concern
the artist. Each color has three qualities: hue, value, and intensity. Hue is the name of the color: blue, red,
blue-green, orange-red. Value is the amount of light in a hue according to a scale range varying from white
to black: light greens, middle greens, dark greens. Intensity, also called chroma or saturation, is the color
strength or brilliance: a brilliant yellow or a dull yellow.
Another attribute of color which concerns the artist is its warmth or coolness. Orange and its
adjacents are warm; blue and its adjacents are cool; green is warm as it approaches yellow and cool as it
approaches blue. Furthermore, colors appear to advance or retreat according as they are warm or cool. Red
lettering on a poster looks as if it were in relief; the blue around Cezanne’s apples draws the eye back into
space and gives the apple depth and solidity. Thus color in itself has the capacity to express depth — a
capacity that is now being used in interior architecture to increase spaciousness and height; for example, by
the use of a retreating color on walls and ceiling.
An additional attribute is the psychic effect of colors. We recall the cheer of yellow, if not too intense;
the quieting effect of blue, the excitingness of red. Thus a dominant color alone can set the emotional quality,
the mood, of a work of art.
But, as with line and with light and dark, what matters most is the relationships among the colors. A
design composed of adjacents will have a tranquil harmonious effect; it may, in fact, seem weak unless a
certain quality of the complementary hues contributes enough contrast to give the design virility. On the other
hand, a design composed of complementaries frequently needs some areas of adjacents to soften the tension
which results from the use of complementaries alone. Thus most color schemes present major and minor
themes, which interplay, like major and minor themes of volumes, lines, and lights and darks. The color
scheme which an artist selects depends upon the idea to be expressed. For a tranquil theme he is not likely
to use a dynamic color contrast, nor for a dramatic subject, a quiet color harmony.

TEXTURE
Every material has a texture, or structural quality, that determines the character of its surface, which
is apprehended by our sense of touch. It may be hard or soft, rough or smooth, warm or cold, grained or
pebbly. But the eye too seems to share in apprehending these qualities. A fabric looks, as well as feels, rough
or smooth. A rough surface creates light and shadow; a smooth surface means the absence of shadow and
often the presence of reflected light, as in satin. Color also varies according to the texture of the surface upon
which it falls. Compare three pieces of cloth of exactly the same hue: a satin, a velvet, and a wool. The hue
will vary both in quality and in value because the different textures have different degrees of reflective power.
Thus we have a visual equivalent of the tactile sensation, and with it an enlargement of the potentiality of line
and color. A painter or an engraver may use lines or motifs to create a textural effect whose purpose is to
enrich the surface or to carry movement. Another way in which texture is used is in such imitations of actual
textures as are found in some realistic paintings. Such illusionistic reproduction of texture often serves the
same esthetic functions as the nonnaturalistic textures just mentioned. Again, the important factor is the
relationships of the areas. The builder, the sculptor, the potter, the painter, in fact all artists, make effective
use of texture in playing off contrasting smooth and rough surfaces. In interior architecture texture is a highly
essential element where several materials are combined for their textural effects as well as for their functions.

AREA, MASS, AND VOLUME

These we associate primarily with geometry. Areas are two-dimensional and in shape are most often
square, circular, elliptical, triangular, or amoeboid. At times the shapes are precise, at times only suggestive.
By means of line, light and dark, and color, the artist creates areas which serve as thematic material. For
example, he may base his design upon the interplay of triangles, or of triangles and amoeboid areas. Mass,
with its weight and solidity, exists in space. Volume is mass given definite shape, which may be solid or
hollow. Volumes are rectangular, spherical, cylindrical, conoid, or pyramidal, and serve as thematic material
for the three-dimensional arts. A building, for example, may consist basically of a group of rectangular
volumes, or a piece of pottery, of a combination of cylinders and a sphere. In using volumes the architect is
dealing with actual space — not with the illusion of space found in painting — so that space itself becomes
a primary organizing element. It may be interior space created by the surfaces of the volume; or it may be
external space — that is, how the volume is related to surrounding space, as a building to its environment. It
may be the space determined by a rectangular block of stone or by a cylindrical block of wood, each of which
will affect differently the sculptor’s organization of a sculptural figure.
 THEORIES OF ART

(Ronald W. Hepburn)

Theories of art Attempts to understand the "essence" of art in terms of a single key concept, such as
"expression" or "representation".

ART AS REPRESENTATION

By "the representational theory" is meant here a historically persistent complex of views which see
the chief, or essential, role of the arts as imitating, or displaying or setting forth aspects of reality in the widest
sense.

A typical representational account sees art as portraying the visible forms of nature, from a schematic
cave drawing of an animal to the evocation of an entire landscape in sun or storm. The particularity of
individual objects, scenes or persons may be emphasized, or the generic, the common, the essential. The
scope of representation can involve perspectives, slants on the world, ways of seeing the world--perhaps as
created and sustained by an all-good, fecund deity, or as grimly devoid of any divine presence or glory.

A representational artist may seek faithfulness to how things are. He or she may dwell selectively on
the ugly and defective, the unfulfilled; or on the ideal, the fully realized potential. The artist may see the ideal
as reached by extrapolating from the empirical, "correcting’ its deficiencies; or by contemplating the alleged
idea or form to which empirical objects approximate and aspire. As this suggests, a representational theory
may derive its account and evaluation of the arts from a metaphysic. Representational theories thus give the
arts a distinctive cognitive role. The artist opens our eyes to the world’s perceptual qualities and
configurations, to its beauties, uglinesses and horrors.

At the level of detailed philosophical analysis, what exactly it is to represent, although it may have
seemed to us an intuitively straightforward notion, is a problem of some complexity (see Wollheim, 1987, pp.
76ff.)

However we analyze it, it is very doubtful that representation possesses the explanatory power it
would need in order to yield a one-concept theory of art. Clearly, there is art that is not at all representational:
music is seldom and very inessentially representational; painting and sculpture can be abstract as well as
figurative. Although in prose a subject may often be important, in poetry its importance can be much reduced
and the poem be appreciated as an artifact in its own right rather than as a window on the non-art world. The
work of representing may seem insufficiently ambitious. As the re-presenting or imitating of what nature or
God has already created, it can at its best be technically notable, but must always be derivative and
repetitious. The beauties of art are very seldom transcriptions, into a medium, of preexisting natural beauties.

The representational theory, say its critics, must deflect attention from the work of art and its
distinctive values, to what is always other than itself. Artworks, however, call attention upon their own unique
forms, lines, colors, images, meanings, patterns of sound. What we encounter in them we have not
encountered and cannot encounter elsewhere in the world. Revelatory or not, an artwork does not become
'disposable' once we have extracted from it a message, a way of looking, a perspective.

On the other hand, however, why may we not understand music as representing the life of feeling,
the flowings and checkings of vitality? Even abstract artists have often seen their work in revelatory terms,
displaying hidden laws of nature, or metaphysical ideas. Could we not claim that art is always a mimesis (a
copying) of nature: if not of nature's visible appearances, then of its fundamental energies and their endless
transformations?

We could: but at a price. The concept of representation may be over-extended in a way that
unhelpfully conceals what would be better seen as distinct and different (even at times conflicting) aims of
art. Even with a clearly representational painting we may say. "The objects are represented in such a way as
heightens their crucial expressive qualities." Or again, we may say. "The forms of nature have no more than
stimulated the artist to create a new world." Often, too, we shall say, "The formal ordering of the artwork does
not reproduce nature's order; it has its own distinctive order--invented, not discovered."

ART AS EXPRESSION

Supposing we were to start again, this time putting expression at the center, some of our problems
would certainly be alleviated. Music expresses feelings, emotions, moods, their conflicts, triumphs, defeats,
A painted landscape may engage us as expressive of peace, melancholy or menace; so too a lyrical poem,
a semi-abstract sculpture, a scene or situation in drama. What is more, they may express highly particularized
modes of feeling, even new emotions. Romantic theorists and others down to our own day have indeed
argued for expression theories of art. In R.G, Collingwood's account, the artist struggles to clarify and
articulate his initially unfocused feeling. Coming to grasp it and to express it by way of the fashioning of an
artwork constitutes a single task.

It is not only sensations, feelings, moods and emotions that may be expressed, but also attitudes,
evaluations, atmospheric qualities, expectation, disappointment, frustration, relief. tensings and relaxings ...
: not only brief bursts of lyrical feeling evoked by specific, intensely felt events, but also the inner quality of a
whole life-world, Even when art argues a case, its real interest is always to express the felt experience of
arguing: and when it depicts or describes, its concern is with the human affective analogues of the objects
and events of the outside world that make up its ostensible subject-matter. Its real subject is always the
human subject.

But what exactly am I reporting when I say, "I find this phrase for clarinet poignantly expressive" or,
"The harmonic twist in the final cadence expresses foreboding"? Not necessarily that I am emotionally excited
--I do not need to be, in order to "read" the emotional quality — nor that I am necessarily directly sharing the
artist's emotions. I may certainly have reason to hope that my experience will be related to the artist's
intentions, if these are well realized in his work. It is the work of art itself that is the primary locus of relevant
emotional qualities, their development and transformations. The music is tender; the painting is tranquil. We
seem driven to say that, although, as works of art are not themselves sentient, we are well aware that there
must be metaphor in the claim.

A critic of the expression theory, however, will argue that, important though expression may be, there
are other factors no less essential to the creating and appreciating of art. Clive Bell, for instance (1914. p.
132), wrote, "If art expresses anything, it expresses an emotion felt for pure form": and form must be our
primary concern. Or one may argue that the expressive qualities we value are those which steer clear of
clichéd, stereotyped or trite forms of feeling: innovative qualities, perhaps exclusive to a single work of art.
But if we say that, we are showing our allegiance to a criterion of creativity or originality, and not to expression
alone.
FORMALIST THEORIES: "ORGANIC UNITY"

Art, it can be argued, is not a window upon the world: it is on the artwork itself that appreciative
attention must primarily be focused, particularly on its distinctive structure, its design, unity, form. Discrete
episodes of expressive intensity are not enough: "Does the work hang together?" is always a relevant and
surely a vital question, a question that shows the primacy of formal unity. Concepts of form and of unity
applicable to works of art have been developed over the centuries from suggestions first made by Plato and
Aristotle.

We distinguish different kinds of wholes: some, like a pile of stones, are no more than loose
aggregates; others, like a plant or animal, are tightly integrated ("organic") complexes, where each part exists
only to serve the whole. A work of art is, characteristically, a complex (of notes, instrument timbres, brush-
strokes, color patches, words, images, speech rhythms, and so on) whose elements do not impinge on us
as isolated units, but are determined in their perceived qualities by the context of all the other elements and
their relationships. The character of the whole, as a function of the individual components and their
interrelationships, in turn modifies, controls these components as we perceive them. The spectator’s
"synoptic"grasp of the unity will be quite vital: the parts are not perceived as vignettes, cameos, musical
miniatures (see Osborne, 1955; 1968).

In the unities that, on this theory, the arts seek to provide, our efforts towards synoptic perceptual
grasp are neither defeated nor gratified on the instant. The very intricacy of an artwork’s structure can
challenge and stimulate our perceptive powers, making its appreciation both a strenuous and a rewarding
activity. Not only do works of art achieve formal unity in individually different ways within a single type of art
form (such as sonata form); but these generic forms themselves are constantly open to creative revision. It
is not enough (nor indeed necessary) that the unifying principles be rationally intelligible: but they must be
perceivable in the work — audible, visible, or, in literature, discernible in the meaning and sustainable
interpretations of the actual text.

Why should we attach high value to formal unities of this kind? Basically, because of the quality of
consciousness they make possible. Where the items of a complex lend themselves to perception because of
their thematic interconnections, as do those of a successful work of art, we are enabled to synthesize a far
greater totality than in any other context. Whereas consciousness can often be attenuated, meager, sluggish,
here it is at its most active and zestful. Again, as finite beings, we are necessarily always vulnerable to the
threat of diminished personal integration, of being fragmented--as we are, finally and literally, in death. We
are seldom further from that state of lost personal unity than when we are rapt in enjoyment of a well-
integrated work of fine art. Elements of experience normally disparate and distanced are brought into a vivid
relation, and our experience is given new unity.

The temporal arts, although presenting motifs, brief melodies, rhythms, phrases of poetry which
constantly pass into silence, effect a partial transcendence of that evanescence in time, precisely on account
of their formal structuring whereby early notes (or images) are retained, remain active, ingredient in the total
experience, recalled even as a movement (or poem) comes to its close. Something parallel happens in spatial
art also, where the mutual connectedness and formal contribution of every represented object overcome the
normal mutual "indifference" of objects in space.

Can formalism, then, constitute a single all-sufficient theory of art? Defenders have not wanted to
deny that art can perform additional functions --to instruct, represent, express: but none of these is the
essence of art. Even so, there are many cases where one may justifiably question whether a work’s formal
structure is so decisively the essential thing that its other features must be given subordinate place. The
formal structure of a work of art may be valued for its controlling, its focusing, of the work's unique expressive
qualities--for which we ultimately treasure it. In other cases we may say that the expressive and the formal
properties are co-equally important. There are putative works of art --including, notably, some later twentieth-
century art--whose structure is so remote from traditional instances of "configurational unity", that the claim
that their form is their essential feature, qua artwork, becomes drastically attenuated. Other critics have
argued that the theory has most plausibility with regard to complex works of art, but has little power to
illuminate in the case of simple ones, where the concepts of synthesizing, interconnecting, mutual modifying
gain no hold. Or is simplicity always deceptive, illusory, in significant works of art?

Even more elusive is precision in defining the "formal unity" that is thought proper to works of art and
to them only. Too loose definitions may extend to the unity of a living organism, the features of a face or a
mathematical formal system; too narrow definitions will demand that in a fine work of art, nothing could be
altered but for the worse (Alberti, 1988 [1486]), or that to damage any part is to destroy the character of the
whole. In fact, some incomplete or fragmentary works testify, rather, to the resilience of their overall character.
Notoriously, there can be no once-and-for-all pinning down of necessary and sufficient conditions for the
formally satisfying or the aesthetically "right". Often, like Wittgenstein on designing a door, we can do no
more than say, "Higher, higher. . . there, thank God!" (Wittgenstein, 1966, p. 13, variant n. 3).

ART AS CREATION

Representation theorists and expression theorists do, of course, allow that art can be innovative--
reworking nature's materials in a "new" nature, or drastically modifying life experiences in the fashioning of
expressive art. The formalist or organic unity theory makes the artist’s innovative role more central: the unities
of art are nowhere paralleled in nature. But why not, then, make quite explicit the work of the artist as the
creation of the new? Creation is surely well suited to be the leading concept in a theory of art. And it has
indeed been made central by a variety of theorists and artists. To some, "Creative imagination" is that power
by which, in a display of freedom that echoes the divine prerogative of Creation ex nihilo, we summon up to
actuality possible worlds--worlds that God has not created but has, as it were, left for us to create.

Obvious implications follow for artistic practice and for criticism. Art should be freed from dependence
on appearances. The development towards abstraction in the visual arts can be proclaimed as a "purifying
away" of objective reference. Originality and individuality become criteria of high merit. We may particularly
value indications of the creative process within an artwork itself: the growth of a musical subject from
fragments in the earliest moments of a piece, the progressive incorporation of material that at first seems
alien.

So: does "creation" yield a complete theory of art? When I try to develop such a one-concept theory,
I find that my concept of creation has to undergo progressive enrichment, if I am to accommodate within it
the full freight of meaning and criteria of value it would require for this role: it must mean new and aesthetically
valuable, rewarding. Even for the God of Genesis, after the work of creation (in the narrower sense of making,
calling into being) there remained a question of evaluating what had been done: a question favorably
answered, "Behold, it was very good. For the human artist, the possibility surely exists that he make
something from (nearly) nothing, but . . . behold, it is very bad--unless we pack into the concept, from the
start, that an artifact counts as a creation only if it has artistic merit. Novelty is not enough: an object can be
original, in the sense of a perceptually distinct, unique addition to the beings already in the world, and yet be
unrewarding to contemplate, fail to sustain attention.
 Among products of high creativity we must include some scientific theories, mathematical calculi and
theorems, philosophical systems. But they are not art. However creative my daydreams, they are not art,
either: they are not worked in a medium, intersubjective, shared. Conversely, not every movement, style or
period in art sets a high evaluation on the particularized and original. We should also be cautious in accepting
that ideal of "purifying" art from all dependence on natural appearances. To purify can be to attenuate, if it
means to cut oneself off from any allusion to the world beyond the canvas. Such allusion can add immensely
to the wealth of meanings in a work of art.

Even if we reject a theology of man as co-creator with God--perhaps particularly if we reject it--the
creation theme rightly spotlights the artist's distinctive dignity. Artistic imagination continues, intensifies,
perfects and on occasion transfigures nature's own doings. It is not merely a fanciful metaphor to speak of
the artist as bringing into being "what nature has not created, and awaits creation".

DEVELOPING TRADITIONS

Emphasizing the freestanding character of works of art as created objects encourages us to see them as
autonomous, independent and self-explanatory. For countless individual works of art, that statement needs
correction, however. We shall not understand or appreciate them without at least an outline knowledge of the
tradition in which they stand, the genre to which they belong--and thus some understanding of whether they
simply continue or modify or rebel against tradition and genre as so far developed. Indeed, it is tempting for
an aesthetician, who despairs of any of the unified theories of art to fulfill their promise, to abandon all such
theorizing and urge instead that we take those ongoing developing traditions, genres and media (and the
complex actual vocabulary or criticism) as the basic data for reflection on the arts in all their diversity. Further,
we have only to consider some twentieth-century movements in art (Dada, conceptual art, ready-mades. for
instance) to realize that none of the favored unifying categories or key concepts is in the least likely to
illuminate their nature and role.

THE INSTITUTIONAL THEORY

One strategy for coping with these last-mentioned issues (and with other problems too) is that of the
"institutional theory of art". In a strong form it takes the unifying factor to be not the possession of common
perceptual ("manifest") features by artworks, but the conferral on certain objects, by representatives of the
"artworld", of the status of "candidate for appreciation"as works of art (Dickie, 1985, p. 34). The artworld is
thought of, roughly, as the set of art critics, organizers of exhibitions, owners of galleries and others with
relevant experience and authority. It may, however, provide me with little illumination, when bewildered before
an object like Duchamp's Fountain (a ready-made urinal) or Carl Andre's Equivalent VIII (a rectangle of
bricks), to be told that the artworld representatives have indeed conferred art status upon it. I cannot prevent
myself asking by what criteria, on account of what features (manifest, once more), has this status been
conferred? Either we must look for an answer that will render needless the artworld's conferral--that is, by
appeal to reasons or to criteria for their decisions, reasons which may be made open and public and applied
by all. Or, if no disclosable reasons are relevant, the artworld's decisions, in being detached from any of the
characteristics which we may look for or become aware of in contemplating a putative work of art, cannot be
defended from arbitrariness or waywardness (see Wollheim, 1987, ch. 1).

Being deemed a work of art, given space in a gallery, publication by a reputable publisher,
performance by a respected orchestra, imply judgments that the work will reward the attention solicited for it.
But, again, we have a legitimate interest in knowing the features of the work that have led to its selection and
promotion.

A later version of the institutional theory drops the notion of conferral, and claims that a work of art
is to be understood as an artifact made for presentation to an "artworld public" (Dickie, 1989). The artworld
becomes the totality of "frameworks for the presentation of a work of art by an artist to an art-world public", a
public prepared to understand such objects. But what this leaves altogether unclarified is the point and value
of these activities.

It may be said that we need a theory that can be of help with those recent putative art objects that
have not been held to have any aesthetic qualities. But objects that fail to meet any criteria for aesthetic
interest or excellence are no less a problem to an institutional theory if it accepts the challenge of explaining
why the artworld’s representatives confer art status on them, or of explaining the point of presenting these
works to an "understanding" public.
ART AS PLAY

Various other concepts have been proposed as bases on which to construct theories of art. The
concept of play is one such. That aesthetic activity is a kind of play was a seminal claim of Kant. The concept
appears in several contexts in his aesthetic writing. A judgment of taste arises in a "free play" of imagination
and understanding, where a perceptual complex is grasped and synthesized, and we are aware of order and
purposiveness, but without the application of classificatory concepts. To Kant, art can be described as play,
"i.e. an occupation. . . agreeable on its own account" (Kant, 1961 [1790], §§9, 43). Gratuitousness,
spontaneity and freedom are emphasized; the aesthetic objects are a delight to explore and rewarding to
contemplate. In Friedrich Schiller's writing on aesthetic education, a concept of play is central and highly
elaborated. In rough outline: we can locate a zone between, on the one hand, feeling and desire in their
immediacy, and, on the other, the domain of abstract, impersonal, formal reason. In that (aesthetic) zone,
the "play impulse" and its products draw upon both the sensuous and the rational, and intimately connect or
fuse them. In this way, the otherwise conflictual elements of human nature are brought into unity.

INEXHAUSTIBILITY AND DENSITY OF MEANING

"The heresy of paraphrase" is a familiar phrase expressing the fact that a significant work of literary
art cannot be reduced to a summary of its plot or "message". No more can a painting be reduced to an
inventory of the objects it represents. From a single metaphor up to a complex art work, inexhaustibility of
interpretation is a mark of authentic art. The coexistence of multiple levels or layers of meaning gives a sense
of richness and "depth". There is also a kind of aesthetic transcendence, where the expressive quality, say,
of a passage of music, far surpasses in gravity or poignancy the unconvincing human situation (say, an
operatic plot) to which it ostensibly refers, or where a deceptively commonplace still-life has a resonance
beyond the reach of analysis.

In each of the arts there occurs the fullest possible assimilation of its symbolic materials and other
constituents. In poetry the sound and the rhythm matter as well as the sense; in a painting the picture plane
and the traces of brush-strokes, as well as the represented depth. The notes of a chord are heard each as
continuing a "horizontal" line of music, as well as "vertically" as constituting a chord, with its distinctive
harmonic quality, and as moving towards or away from some moment of tension; and, again, as a composite
of the timbres of the individual instruments that are playing it. Together, such features furnish the basic
materials for yet another--and a promising--communicational theory of art.

KEY CONCEPTS AND THEIR INTERRELATIONS

Supposing that none of the germinal concepts of the theories considered above can function by itself
as sole key concept generating a complete unitary theory of art, we should not be left with an unrelated
plurality of notions. Some of the most interesting work in aesthetics lies in exploring the interconnections
among these concepts. Resisting the temptation to extend some preferred concept so as to cover the whole
field, we can remain sensitive to aesthetically important creative and appreciative tensions between them.
Representational artworks are sometimes judged to fall below, or to rise to, expressiveness: my appreciation
of sculpture may develop from the easier beauties of representation to those of three-dimensional formal
structures.

A theory must do justice to the fact that certain media and materials lend themselves to our doing
several significantly different things simultaneously in and through them. It is a happy contingency that we
can at once represent and express and construct new configurational unities in and through the skilled
handling of paints, inks or crayons, carved wood or chiseled stone. Some of our appraisals of artworks draw
explicitly on these multiple possibilities, challenges and tensions. For instance, we marvel at a composer’s
success in managing a demanding and potentially cramping form, while yet attaining a high degree of
expressiveness and inventiveness within it; or at a novelist who represents a wide range of human activity
and experience, and whose work thoroughly assimilates it, with unimpaired unity.

Some writers have seen the history of theorizing about the arts as a gradual realization that works
of art are to be properly appreciated as "objects in their own right". Other concerns--with truth to human
nature and experience outside art, with moral or political or religious impact--are to be relegated to the
inessential. If, however, representational art fashions an image of human life, it cannot be of indifference
whether in particular cases it is an adequate, defensible image or a grotesquely reduced parody. This
question can obviously be raised only where a work, or an oeuvre, does set out to characterize human
experience as such, the human life-world rather than a selected fragment. Major works of art do typically
attempt something close to this. Art can be one main source of a culture’s view of itself, its members and
their world. We cannot properly rule out a moral scrutiny and appraisal as irrelevant to such works, even
though we should be equally misguided to judge any works of art solely by their moral quality.

Furthermore, in its exploration of the widest range of human experience, art cannot fail to be
particularly concerned with the boundaries and limits of experience, where the expressible begins to yield to
the inexpressible. To attach high importance to these is not to demand of art that it labor in defense of
particular religions or particular beliefs, but only that, where some approach to a comprehensive image of the
life-world is attempted, neither the seeming bounds of that world, nor the peculiar ability of the arts to bring
them to vivid awareness in a transcending movement of the mind, be ignored.

THE STATUS OF THEORIES OF ART

Philosophy tries to be as self-conscious as possible about its own practice and aims: it is bound to
raise the question of the status of what we have been calling theories of the arts. Are these, in fact, definitions
of "art"? Or are they better seen as philosophical analyses of concepts used in discourse about art? Or are
they theories proper--systematic, explanatory accounts? Is their function descriptive, or prescriptive as well?

The multifariousness of the arts, their traditions, developing genres, idioms and media, their self-
transcending nisus, make definition an unrealistic, perhaps even undesirable, goal. To seek it obstinately
results in over simplication and distortion. But it is equally important for the writer on aesthetics not to lurch
too far in the opposite direction, stressing complexity and difference, and prematurely to give up any attempt
to see an intelligible structure of relationships among the phenomena of the arts.

A substantial amount of theorizing about the arts involves conceptual and linguistic analysis. The
analyses of the concepts of representation, expression and form are all crucial and all contested. Aesthetics
involves analyses also of the role of the artist’s intention and imagination, of the nature of metaphor,
symbolism, beauty, sublimity, and the whole range of critical discourse. Nevertheless, the philosophical study
of art is analysis not only of discourse, but (no less legitimately) of description, of phenomenology, of the
appreciative experiences which largely prompt the discourse. Although the philosopher must be respectful of
the art critic’s expertise, that does not mean that he or she must be altogether dependent on the critic to
speak or write before the philosopher may break his silence. Philosophers of art must reserve the right to find
a body of criticism, or a critical theory, incomplete or even confused. They must themselves function as critics-
-for instance, in their choices of what they see as revealing examples or counter-examples from the arts by
which to examine and test critical theories. And when an avant-garde innovator proposes some objects as
artworks--objects which, if admitted to the category, would overturn an otherwise very broadly based
theoretical understanding of the arts --it should not be taken for granted that theory should immediately and
necessarily capitulate.

The aspiration to produce a unitary theory, even if it fails to result in one, remains legitimate and
often fruitful. We may enhance our understanding of art by seeing how much work a given key concept can
do for us, and finding where it ceases to be as illuminating as some alternative concept. If we are forced
towards a theory with several fundamental concepts rather than one, the phenomena in their complexity may
well be better understood, and the interrelations and tensions within and among the key concepts may
illuminate the inner dynamics of creation.

If, in my theorizing, I am one-sidedly neglectful of some major function or feature of art, I am very
unlikely to do appreciative justice to manifestations of it in individual works of art. I may need a theoretical
reminder, even if it in turn exaggerates, that there is more to the arts than I have been allowing. A normative
role certainly cannot be denied to aesthetic theory. For example: although we are most unlikely to find a
complete and adequate theory in Clive Bell’s account of "significant form", that account helped to make
possible the shift in sensibility needed for acceptance of post-impressionist painting--a shift from excessive
concern with certain sorts of represented subject to much greater concern with plastic and painterly values
and with formal relationships in general.
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ERA TIME CHARACTERISTICS DISTINCT FEATURES

ETHNIC ART Pre-13 AD Integral to life Arts for ritual purposes or for everyday use. As local communities become
established, art starts to go beyond mere craft, i.e. stone weapons or jewelry but
starts to have decorative elements, meaning and context.
ISLAMIC ART 13AD Geometric designs Characterized by geometric designs and patterns eliciting focus from believers
SPANISH ERA 1521-1898 Faith and Catechism When the Spaniards arrived in the Philippines in 1521, the colonizers used art as a
tool to propagate the Catholic faith through beautiful images. With communication
as problem, the friars used images to explain the concepts behind Catholicism, and
to tell the stories of Christ’s life and passion.
Damian Domingo AKA Damian Gabor Domingo
• 1st Filipino to paint his face, the first self-portrait in the Philippines
• Founder of the Academia de Dibujo y Pintura, the first school of drawing in
the Philippines (1821)
• "Father of Filipino Painting" ALIAS "The First Great Filipino Painter"
 He established the Academia de Dibujo y Pintura in 1821.
AMERICAN ERA 1898-190 Secular Art Forms From one colonizer to another – after more than three centuries of Spanish
rule, the Americans came. They set out to conquer the Filipinos through education
and governance – the public school system and a system of government.
Classicism: Fabian dela Rosa (1869 – 1937) was the first painter of note for the
20th century. He was noted for his realistic portraits, genre, and landscapes in
subdued colors. He was enrolled at the Escuela de Bellas Artes y Dibujo and took
lessons from Lorenzo Guerrero.
Modernism would have its seeds planted in the 1890’s with Miguel Zaragosa’s two
pointillist works. Emilio Alvero later produced several Impressionist still life
paintings. But it would take an architect to give modernism its needed boost in the
country. Juan Arellano would be known as an architect but his Impressionist
landscapes are as impressive as his buildings.
Carlos “Botong” Francisco, (1913 – 1969), Angono-based painter, depicted
Philippine history in his “History of Manila” mural at the Manila City Hall.
JAPANESE ERA 1941-195 Orientalizing The arrival of the Japanese caused tremendous fear, hardships and suffering
among the Filipinos. The Filipino way of life was greatly affected during the
Japanese period. The Filipinos lost their freedom of speech and expression. The
development of art was also stopped. Filipinos greatly feared the "zoning". There
were Filipinos spies hired by the Japanese to point those who were suspected of
being part of the guerilla movement. The Japanese made some changes in the
1|Pag
 system of education.
Under their rule, the Japanese imposed their own music on the country. Japanese
music was heard daily in radio broadcasts. Their songs were also taught in public
schools. Students, however, never took these songs to heart.
In response to the Japanese propaganda, Filipino painters reacted by producing the
following works: “A Day Begins” by Vicente Alvarez Dizon, 1942, genre scenes that
seem neutral. Yet there were still many artists who portrayed the atrocities of war
in their collections such as “Rape and Massacre in Ermita” by Diosdado Lorenzo
MODERN ERA 196-1969 National Identity Modern era in Philippine Art began after World War 2 and the granting of
Independence. Writers and artists posed the question of national identity as the
main theme of various art forms. Modern art is characterized by the artist's intent
to portray a subject as it exists in the world, according to his or her unique
perspective and is typified by a rejection of accepted or traditional styles and
values.
CONTEMPORARY 1970 up to Social Realism Contemporary art as the work of artists who are living in the 21st century.
present Contemporary art mirrors contemporary culture and society, offering the general
audiences a rich resource through which to consider current ideas and rethink the
familiar. The work of contemporary artists is a dynamic combination of materials,
methods, concepts, and subjects that challenges traditional boundaries and defies
easy definition. Diverse and eclectic, contemporary art is distinguished by the very
lack of a uniform organizing principle, ideology, or -ism.

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








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


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



