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the Latin term stilus – a pointed instrument for writing,” Danto tells us, and adds.

      It is as if, in addition to representing whatever it does represent, the instrument of representation imparts and impresses something of its own character in the act of representing it, so that in addition to knowing what it is of, the practiced eye will know how it was done.

We may thus reserve the term style for this how, as what remains of a representation when we subtract its content – an algorithm licensed by the contrast between style and substance enshrined in usage (1981, 197).

      In this same spirit, Danto cites Buffon’s observation that style is the man: “it is the way he represents the world, minus the world,” so that the style-inflected “qualities of the representation do not penetrate the content” (1981, 198). Style is also characterized by “the absence of a mediating knowledge or art,” and here Danto appeals again to the transparency of consciousness – beliefs, for example, being “transparent to the believer; he reads the world through them without reading them. … Thus the structure of my beliefs is something like the structure of consciousness itself, as viewed by the great phenomenologists,” notably Sartre (1981, 206). Style, then, is “those qualities of representations which are the man himself, seen from the outside, physiognomically,” qualities that “are not commonly given to the man whose representations they are: he views the world through them, but not them.” Moreover, “to be his style they have to expressed immediately and spontaneously” (1981, 207).

      Here I think we need to distinguish artistic style from mere innate or spontaneous character. Kierkegaard reminds us that, like style according to Danto, “character is something engraved,” the Greek χαρακτήρ meaning stamp, mark, or distinctive feature (Kierkegaard 2001 [1846], 69). It is visible primarily if not exclusively, Sartre says, from a third-person perspective, whereas my primary relation to myself is the transparent egolessness in which, strictly speaking, I do not appear to myself at all. Prereflectively, I am (literally) nothing but my transcendence toward the world; it is only in my encounter with others that I am (so to speak) robbed of my self by their gaze, which captures me in my visible aspect, in my facticity. What is crucial in this is precisely the fact that what the other sees is no mere image or shadow of my true self, but me. Or, to indulge the analogy for a moment, if my self is like an image or shadow present to others, Sartre says, it is the “hidden side of the cards” they hold, “a shadow that is projected on to some moving and unpredictable material, such that no system of cross-references could allow us to calculate the distortions resulting from these movements” (2018 [1943], 359). The analogy with images and shadows is necessarily misleading, however, for the force and significance of the other’s gaze is precisely that it penetrates me, touches me to the core: I am vulnerable to it because there is no separation between what the other sees and the self I know myself to be. As Sartre insists, “it really is a question of my being, and not my being’s image” (2018 [1943], 359).

      But this doesn’t get us very far, either toward a theory of art or toward a plausible phenomenology of interpersonal experience. Sartre and Danto agree that artistic style and expression differ essentially from mundane character and meaning. Artworks are not just immersed unreflectively in their styles the way in which, for instance, linguistic accents go unnoticed by the speakers of a common dialect. Instead, they make their own styles manifest by revealing the way in which they reveal what they reveal. It is this manifestness of style, Danto says, that the transparency theory of art fails to capture:

It is to this coloration that the attributes of style and expression attach, and it is again this coloration that the transparency theory cannot account for. It is part of the representation without being part of the reality, and the transparency theory has no positive room for that difference. … It is as if a work of art were like an externalization of the artist’s consciousness, as if we could see his way of seeing and not merely what he saw (1981, 164).

      Since Danto’s thesis is that the essence of art is to cast things under aspects that effect a kind of “metaphoric transfiguration” of their subjects (1981, 168), he cannot be suggesting that artists or artworks themselves are as blind to the styles animating them as people normally are to how they look when they walk, or how they sound when they laugh. On the contrary, he says, what is distinctive of artistic style is not its mere outward aspect, the inscribed character of unreflective habit, but rather its manifest presence in the expressive dimension of the work. What is

      interesting and essential in art is the spontaneous ability the artist has of enabling us to see his way of seeing the world – not just the world as if the painting were like a window, but the world as given by him. … The greatness of the work is the greatness of the representation the work makes material (1981, 207, emphasis added).

      What constitutes a work of art as a work of art is not style per se, then, but its explicitness, its manifestness, its expressive presence or materialization in the work. And that expressive capacity cannot just be a natural or spontaneous effect available only to observers standing at a historical or personal distance from the works, for it lies at the heart of the artistic achievement. This is why Danto locates the essence of art at “the point of intersection between style, expression, and rhetoric,” adding that “the concept of expression is the most pertinent to the concept of art” – in a word, “art is expression” (1981, 165).

      This is where the inadequacy of Sartre’s categories, both in themselves and as conceptual tools for Danto’s theory, becomes clear. By his own admission, Sartre’s favored argumentative technique was to invest heavily in sharp categorical distinctions where common sense and philosophical refinement are inclined to see complexity and ambiguity. Just as there can be no tertium quid between being and nothing, neither is there middle ground between pour-soi and en-soi, consciousness and world, transcendence and facticity, self and other, freedom and causality, poetry and prose. Such stark dichotomies, however, leave no room for the phenomenon of manifest style and artistic expression, which according to Danto constitute the essence of art. Sartre, notwithstanding his early flirtation with the dubious notion of literary and artistic works inhabiting a transcendent sphere beyond the contingency of existence, cannot make sense of an expressive manifestation of style that is neither subjective and transparent, hence invisible to itself, nor objective and opaque, hence estranged in its facticity. Artworks are, for Danto, a blend of transcendence and facticity, of expressive spontaneity and, as it were, engraved character. They are inscriptions, both act and object. But that blend, that middle or unified whole, is what Sartre’s categories are designed to suppress and exclude in phenomenological analysis.

Among the phenomenologists Danto admired, Merleau-Ponty is the one whose reflections on art come closest to his own insight that artworks express, by making materially manifest, ways of seeing the world. Merleau-Ponty did not anticipate Danto’s account of artworks inhabiting the discursive-cum-ontological space of the artworld, nor did he propose anything quite like Danto’s thesis that art involves the deployment of rhetorical tropes, in particular the transfigurative power of metaphor. But that is in part because Merleau-Ponty was not asking the Socratic question that inspired Danto (as it did Heidegger), namely, What is art? His question was instead, What is painting? It wasn’t paint itself that he was interested in, of course, but images. What makes a picture a picture, as opposed to a sign, a symbol, an idea, a thought? What Danto and Merleau-Ponty share is a concept of expression that Sartre’s categories exclude as a matter of principle.

      Like literary works, Merleau-Ponty argues, paintings can be said to have a kind of voice. Indeed, the art of painting, like all art, whether it trades in images or in words, is defined by “the phenomenon of expression” (1993 [1945, 1952], 71). Life itself, he even says, is saturated with expression, hence style. Though language can be analyzed as a system of signs, we experience it as opening us onto a world. Speaking and forming images are both ways of evoking, referring, revealing, rendering visible. The writer’s task, Merleau-Ponty says, is to apprehend and make the world manifest through language, and in this respect, “his procedure is not so different from the painter’s”

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