LITMIR.BIZ

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and en-soi. Facticity is not the brute objectness of the en-soi, but rather one of the essentially personal dimensions of the pour-soi. Or better, it is consciousness qua object in the grammatical sense of accusative, or target of awareness, not the metaphysical sense of (mere) thing with properties. Our facticity is our third-person presence to ourselves and others – but the person in the phrase “third-person” is crucial: encountering someone, even in an objectifying way, whether in love or in hate, desire or contempt, is fundamentally unlike encountering an inanimate object. Sartre sometimes talks as if we are doomed to regard each other as either radically incommensurable, inscrutable subjects or just brute things, inert flesh. But any inclination to that kind of literal reification could only yield a bizarre caricature of interpersonal relations, for in real life we experience ourselves and others not as brute stuff, but as vulnerable, sensitive, exposed to one another’s awareness. My primitive sense of others, Sartre famously says, is an acknowledgment of them not as objects in my world, but as subjects: they see me. The so called problem of other minds can therefore never be a real epistemic problem, for my knowledge of others has always already been shaped by my apprehension of their apprehension of me. Doubt necessarily comes too late. Moreover, arguably the deepest insight in Sartre’s account of our being “for others” (le pour-autrui) is precisely that the only objectivity consciousness has, or can have, is the external surface it presents to the consciousness of another. Without other persons in my world, my own consciousness would be so transparent as to be invisible, even to myself – like Schopenhauer’s eye that does not see itself. The ethical and epistemological implications of Sartre’s phenomenology of “the look” (le regard) are profound, but the metaphysical picture framing it must be kept firmly in view: ontologically speaking, others are not and cannot be mere things (en-soi) for my gaze, nor am I or can I be a mere thing (en-soi) for theirs.

The “nothing” in Being and Nothingness thus refers to the ontological subjectivity of the pour-soi as such, but also to the practical and epistemic transparency of our transcendence toward the world. To say that consciousness is nothing is to say that it is never the kind of something that can be defined simply by its positive objective properties, but we are also each of us nothing in a more refined sense, namely, that however we might be described from a third-person point of view – whether in physical or psychological terms, as embodied agents, as creatures or persons with thoughts and feelings – all such factical attributes necessarily fall short of and at the same time presuppose the immediate relation we have to ourselves when we have the world itself directly in view, that is, when we are transparent to (and in a certain sense, absent from) ourselves. Sartre’s notion of transcendence is thus akin to G. E. Moore’s claim that sense experience is “diaphanous,” so that, for example, “when we try to introspect the sensation of blue, all we can see is the blue” (Moore 1993 [1903], 41). Gareth Evans argues that the same is true of belief: if someone asks me if I think there will be a third world war, “I must attend, in answering him, to precisely the same outward phenomena as I would attend to if I were answering the question, ‘Will there be a third world war?’” (1982, 225).

      Sartre’s notion of consciousness as a nothingness is the topic of the longest chapter in Jean-Paul Sartre, but it also figures prominently in Danto’s discussion of artistic style in The Transfiguration of the Commonplace. What makes something an artwork? Danto insists that it cannot be a peculiar kind of aesthetic property visible in the object, just as real (i.e., ordinary) qualities are visible in real (i.e., ordinary) objects. Nor can the artistic character of a work of art lie in its semantic content, that is, in what it says or means, on analogy with the meaning of a sentence. Semantic theories of art are especially implausible when we try to transfer the putative transparency of consciousness to the way in which artworks manage to have the kind of meaning they have. What Danto calls the “transparency theory” of art – a mimetic theory that figured prominently in Renaissance discourse surrounding unified linear perspective and techniques for capturing the reflection of light in metal, glass, and the human eye – is the idea that artworks aspire to the inconspicuousness of a pure medium, like a lens or a window through which we see the world. On this theory, Danto says, “the artwork is the message and the medium is nothingness, much in the way in which consciousness is held, by Sartre for instance, to be a kind of nothingness. It is not part of the world but that through which the world is given, not being given itself” (1981, 152). Like consciousness in its prereflective transcendence toward the world, such a medium of artistic representation would achieve “pure diaphaneity” (1981, 157), having no properties of its own beyond those of the objects exhibited through it.

      Danto rejects the transparency theory as inadequate to how we talk about art and to artistic practice. Even the finest achievements of geometrical perspective and optical realism, after all, are nothing like actual illusion or trompe-l’œil (1981, 158). Nor do artworks simply mirror or reproduce the qualities of the things they represent. A painter might depict a blue sky with blue paint, but she might use yellow or green. Moreover, there is an obvious distinction between beautiful images of things and images of beautiful things: consider Matthias Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece, Caravaggio’s paintings of biblical beheadings, and William Eggleston’s radiant color photographs of parking lots, lawn furniture, and abandoned gas stations.

For Danto, an artwork is not a mere representation, with a particular kind of content (1981, 168). An artwork is constituted not by its aesthetic qualities or its semantic contents, but by something like rhetorical tropes, particularly metaphor. Metaphors are philosophically interesting not just because they exceed literal language, but because they stand outside the realm of ordinary meaning altogether. It is not that they say something esoteric, but that what they say is so manifestly inadequate to, even in a kind of tension with, what they allow us to see, feel, and understand. Content, then, at least as philosophers and linguists use that term, is the wrong place to look for the essence of art. Echoing a familiar theme from traditional aesthetic theory, Danto reminds us that “it is crucial to distinguish the form of a representation from the content of the representation” (1981, 172). A statue of Napoleon wearing a toga, sandals, and a laurel wreath could be the depiction of an actual (though unlikely) episode in real life, one that might have been a rhetorical gesture on Napoleon’s part. But that statue would not be the same as Eugène Guillaume’s 1859 sculpture Napoleon Ier, législateur, which is not a depiction of a rhetorical gesture but is itself a rhetorical gesture. Indeed, the two statues would not be the same even if they were qualitatively indistinguishable. As its title hints, Guillaume’s sculpture is not the image of something metaphorical, but a metaphorical image. Metaphors, whether verbal or pictorial, do not merely say or mean something peculiar in content; they “transfigure” what they present or refer to, even when they do so by means of content they share with nonmetaphorical expressions. Though it might be the same proposition, “Juliet is the sun” said by Romeo is not “Juliet is the sun” said by someone who has mistaken her for a giant ball of gas. For Danto, “every metaphor is a little poem,” indeed “metaphors are minor works of art” (1981, 189).

      That is somewhat hyperbolic. Not all rhetoric is art. In addition to transfiguring their subjects, artworks draw attention to the way they do so; they exhibit the style in which they represent what they represent. What is style? Danto begins by drawing an analogy, in Sartrean terms, between historical periods and individual persons:

      Each has a kind of interior and an exterior, a pour soi and a pour autrui. The interior is simply the way the world is given. The exterior is simply the way the former becomes an object to a later or another consciousness. While we see the world as we do, we do not see it as a way of seeing the world: we simply see the world. Our consciousness of the world is not part of what we are conscious of (1981, 163).

      A style, historical or personal, is a kind of “global coloration,” something like what Frege calls the subjective Färbung in contrast to the objective content of a proposition. Consciousness colors reality, but in a way ordinarily invisible to consciousness itself, just as the tint of sunglasses vanishes as one acclimates to them on a sunny day.

      What is transparent to me, however, is opaque to others. What do they

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