Short introduction to the V2 publication of "The War of Appearances: Transparency, Opacity, Radiance" (2016). An anthology with Matteo Pasquinelli, Luciana Parisi, Graham Harman, Tomas Saraceno, René ten Bos, Tim Morton, and many others

Brouwer, Joke

Lars, Spuybroek

van Tuinen, Sjoerd

English

PhilPapers

Introduction to: J. Brouwer, L. Spuybroek, S. van Tuinen (eds.), The War of Appearances: Transparency, Opacity, Radiance (Rotterdam: V2_Publishing, 2016).  	In	the	Thick	of	Things				There	are	many	interpretations	of	Heraclitus’	statement	“Nature	loves	to	hide,”	and	probably	this	one	–	the	accepted	English	translation	–	is	the	least	correct.		In	The	Veil	of	Isis,	Pierre	Hadot	offers	at	least	five	different	interpretations	of	the	original	Greek,	some	of	which	mean	the	exact	opposite	of	others.1	In	the	end,	Hadot	opts	 for	a	 typically	Heraclitean,	antithetical	 translation	along	 the	 lines	of	 “the	way	things	appear	 is	 the	same	way	as	 they	disappear,”	similar	 to	 “the	way	up	and	the	way	down	are	one	and	the	same,”	another	famous	fragment	of	the	pre-Socratic	philosopher’s	 writing.	Whatever	 its	 original	meaning	may	 have	 been,	 the	 statement	 quickly	came	 to	 signify	 the	 idea	 that	 nature	 has	 secrets,	 or	 that	 it	 is	 in	 the	 nature	 of	 things	 to	 have	secrets.	 And	 while	 it	 remains	 questionable	 to	 speak	 of	 secrets,	 there	 undeniably	 exists	 a	specific	thickness	to	things	that	prohibits	us	from	seeing	every	feature	of	them	simultaneously,	making	us	speculate	on	the	relationship	between	what	is	hidden	and	what	is	shown.		 The	first	form	of	thickness	is	that	of	form	itself:	things	tend	to	be	volumetric;	what	we	see	on	the	surface	“hides”	a	thing’s	internal	configuration,	be	it	an	invisible	structure	or	simply	parts	so	tiny	that	the	human	eye	cannot	perceive	them	(what	Lucretius	called	the	“spectacle	of	atoms”).	A	 second	 form	of	hiding	 is	not	 so	much	a	 spatial	 condition	but	 lies	 in	 the	 temporal	realm,	 such	 as	 the	 origins	 or	 causes	 of	 things.	 While	 all	 things	 have	 a	 history,	 it	 does	 not	become	unambiguously	visible	on	their	outer	surfaces,	and	even	if	it	did	show	on	the	outside,	we	would	 find	 that	 history	 itself	 is	 ambiguous.	 The	 third	 and	 last	 form	of	 hiding	 is	 also	 the	most	complex,	namely	that	things	arrive	in	the	world	split	 in	two.	All	things	are	organized	as	well	 as	 structured;	 the	 distinction	 is	 similar	 to	 those	 between	 abstract	 and	 concrete,	 virtual	and	actual,	or	essence	and	existence,	although	seething	disagreements	continue	about	which	division	 is	 the	more	 convincing.	 In	 themselves,	 the	 three	 categories	of	 volumetric	 extension,	generative	 causality	 and	 internal	 depth	 do	 not	 interest	 us	 very	much	 in	 this	 book,	 nor	 does	even	the	logical	conclusion	that	strong	connections	must	exist	between	them.	What	matters	to	us	at	 this	point	 is	 that	 things	simply	have	a	 thickness.	The	mere	 fact	 that	we	speak	of	 things	implies	 it.	 What	 interests	 us	 above	 all	 is	 that,	 as	 Heraclitus	 frequently	 suggests	 in	 the	Fragments,	this	thickness	means	war,	conflict,	strife	and	battle:	we	live	in	the	thick	of	things.		 Perhaps	we	will	understand	that	conflict	better	if	for	a	moment	we	reverse	Heraclitus’	statement	into	“Nature	loves	to	show	itself,”	since	the	notion	of	hiding	is	dependent	on	the	fact	that	 things	 are	 shown.	 From	 the	 day	 we	 open	 our	 eyes,	 we	 are	 drenched	 in	 the	 visible;	moreover,	 each	 individual	 thing	 has	 so	many	 sides	 to	 show	 that	 it	 cannot	 stop	 varying	 and	changing	 its	 appearance.	 The	 thick	 of	 things	 means,	 firstly,	 that	 things	 act	 as	 if	 they	 have	something	to	hide,	dancing	before	our	eyes	like	whirling	dervishes.	The	uncertainty	is	enough	to	start	the	war	of	appearances;	the	conflict	within	things	plays	out	as	an	external	conflict	–	a	continuous	strife	we	call	the	present.	Thickness,	depth,	conflict,	uncertainty,	ambiguity:	these	are	 expressions	 that	 allow	 things	 to	 be	 different	 from	each	 other	 because	 they	 are	 different	from	themselves.	If	such	difference	were	to	dissipate,	all	actuality	would	immediately	come	to	a	stop,	giving	way	to	an	omnipresent,	darkened	state	we	know	better	as	entropy.	The	thick	of	things,	 then,	 requires	 strategies	 for	 dealing	 with	 that	 thickness,	 since	 it	 implies	 war	 and	conflict.		 The	 three	strategies	we	have	 identified	are	 transparency,	opacity,	and	radiance.	Each	has	 its	 own	 advantages	 and	 its	 own	 supporting	 disciplines,	 and	none	 of	 the	 three	 can	 claim	prominence	over	the	others.	Since	they	are	situated	in	the	thick	of	things,	all	three	occur	in	the	highest	regions	of	doctrines	as	well	as	in	everyday	behaviorial	plans	and	individual	willpower.	That	means	we	leave	it	to	the	reader	to	decide	whether	the	strategies	originate	in	things	or	in	thought;	we	are	only	interested	in	the	fact	that	one	implies	the	other,	that	internal	conditions	directly	affect	external	conditions	and	vice	versa.		 In	this	sense,	it	is	immediately	clear	that	the	notion	of	transparency	involves	a	view	of	things	that	understands	them	as	potentially	transparent	and	that	the	light	that	pervades	them	is	 subsequently	 the	 light	of	 the	mind.	 It	 is	 the	 rational	 light	of	Enlightenment,	of	Aufklärung.	There	 are	 no	 secrets,	 only	 gradations	 of	 transparency,	 turning	 the	 diaphanous	 structure	 of	light	into	what	Pierre	Hadot	calls	a	“Promethean”	strategy	of	wresting	secrets	from	nature.	In	short,	enlightened	thinking	is	not	simply	a	matter	of	a	switch	from	philosophy	to	science	but,	moreover,	one	that	is	fundamentally	technological.	Exposing	the	inner	workings	of	things	is	a	purely	technological	act.	Appearances	are	viewed	as	porous,	as	mediators	between	inner	and	outer	workings.	There	is	nothing	innocent	about	this	view;	the	connection	between	truth	and	torture	has	been	extensively	studied	by	Page	duBois,	and	the	notion	of	porosity	requires	actual	technologies	 of	 penetration	 and	 perforation.2	 Between	 the	 schematism	 of	 things	 and	 their	physical	 appearances,	 between	 the	 most	 abstract	 mathematical	 patterns	 and	 concrete	materializations,	lies	no	obstacle	that	cannot	be	solved.	And	“solved”	is	not	an	innocent	word,	either,	 especially	 if	we	 understand	 it	 in	 the	 context	 of	 strategies	 and	war.	 Solving	 problems	means	dissolving	appearances,	shifting	a	world	of	appearances	to	one	of	blind	workings.	It	is,	of	course,	technology	that	loves	to	hide,	not	nature.			 Today,	 we	 encounter	 this	 passion	 in	 two	 technical	 phenomena:	 automation	 and	leaking.	The	first,	which	sides	with	the	schematism	of	workings,	is	one	that	not	only	automates	human	labor	and	behavior	but	robotizes	our	environment,	showing	us	the	nearest	traffic	jams,	warning	us	of	bad	weather,	calculating	our	chances	at	romance,	ordering	our	pizza,	heating	the	bathwater	 to	 the	preferred	 temperature;	 in	 short,	 living	 at	 least	 half	 of	 our	 lives	 for	 us,	 and	mapping	them	out	in	a	way	that	urges	our	personal	technology	to	constantly	advise	us	on	new	movies,	books,	restaurants	and	whatever	else.	Automation,	as	it	operates	on	algorithms,	solves	our	 lives	 as	 if	 we	 were	 the	 only	 obstacle	 between	 it	 and	 its	 full	 realization.	 The	 second	phenomenon,	leaking	–	a	term	from	the	same	liquid	order	as	“solving”	–	has	nothing	to	do	with	truth	 but	 is	 a	 purely	 technical	 construct.	 Leaking	 only	 exists	 in	 the	 light	 of	 the	 media.	 As	Baudrillard	said	more	than	once,	it	is	here	that	the	media	turn	against	themselves.	Leaking	is	literally	troubling.	It	increases	the	opacity	of	things	because,	while	penetrating	and	perforating	appearances,	 it	 encounters…	more	appearances.	The	project	of	 transparency	 fails	by	default:	truth	simply	unveils	more	veils,	 revealing	more	 images	behind	 images.	 Indeed,	 the	 revealing	itself	becomes	the	spectacle.	What	at	first	seemed	to	be	proper	causes	immediately	take	on	the	form	of	new	 images.	Aufklärung	 is	 the	powered	opening	up	of	 things,	 and	by	 consequence	a	technical	construct.	The	collapse	of	the	project	of	Enlightenment	has	now	gone	beyond	its	final,	postmodern	stage	of	irony	and	leaves	us	only	two	other	options:	opacity	and	radiance.		 The	medieval	advocates	of	the	all-pervading	light	of	God,	such	as	Pseudo-Dionysius	and	later	St.	 John	of	the	Cross,	quickly	encountered	the	same	problem	in	theology	and	posited	an	opacity	that	was	absolute.	The	former	theorized	it	as	the	Divine	Darkness,	and	St.	John	as	the	Dark	Night	of	the	Soul	–	the	title	of	his	book	in	which	God	as	presence	is	 fused	with	absence,	and	 in	 which	 that	 absence	 of	 light	 enables	 the	 fire	 of	 the	 heart	 to	 guide	 the	 saint	 through	darkness.3	 The	 dark	 night	 is	 primarily	 one	 of	 thought:	 that	 is,	 of	 resisting	 images	 and	 the	pursuit	of	detachment	–	a	 thought	 that	goes	beyond	 theory,	 since	 the	Greek	 theoria	 signifies	seeing.	 Such	 spiritual	 exercises	 were	 perfected	 by	 Meister	 Eckhart,	 the	 German	 mystical	theologian	who	reconfigured	detachment	from	a	religious	experience	into	a	worldly	attitude:	Gelassenheit.	Usually	translated	as	“releasement,”	it	more	precisely	signifies	a	letting	or	even	a	leaving.	Detachment	means	to	leave	things,	not	as	an	act	of	abandonment,	as	in	leaving	behind,	but	as	a	nonact	of	leaving	things	be.	It	is	a	form	of	serenity,	i.e.,	peacefulness,	and	therefore	a	form	of	resisting	the	present	as	the	realm	of	conflict,	what	we	call	the	war	of	appearances.	The	willpower	that	drives	transparency	is	now	fully	reversed	into	its	absence.		 Heidegger’s	 notion	 of	 Gelassenheit,	 developed	 in	 his	 famous	 “Memorial	 Address”	 of	October	1955,	is	directly	derived	from	Meister	Eckhart’s	example.4	It	claims	to	be	a	meditative	way	of	 thinking,	 a	nonpenetrative	 and,	 again,	 nontheoretical	 form	of	 thought	 that	Heidegger	paradoxically	qualifies	as	“open	to	the	mystery.”	In	the	end,	nontheoretical	thought	is	probably	the	 best	 definition	 of	 speculative	 or	 reflective	 thinking.	Heidegger	 directly	 posits	meditative	thinking	against	what	he	calls	 the	calculative	 thought	of	 science	and	actuality.	The	nonact	of	awaiting	should	consequently	be	understood	as	an	act	against	transparency.	While	seemingly	impassive	 in	 an	 attitude	of	waiting	 and	pausing,	 it	 turns	out	 to	be	as	 strategic	as	 calculative	thinking.	After	all,	Heidegger	asserts	such	thought	 in	a	context	of	rootedness	and	settlement.	While	meditating,	we	house	ourselves,	firmly	founded	in	the	ground,	properly	walled	off,	with	windows	 looking	 out.	 In	 this	 sense,	 meditation	 adopts	 a	 false	 form	 of	 detachment:	 false	because	it	cannot	stop	time	and	only	acts	as	if	it	does.	Like	transparency,	it	relies	on	construct,	stratagem	 and	 strategy.	 We	 cannot	 one-sidedly	 claim	 indifference	 or	 entropy	 –	 the	 world	simply	 disagrees.	While	we	 are	 being	 detached	 and	 grasping	 at	 suspense	 and	 standstill,	 the	world	 moves	 ahead	 through	 conflict	 and	 calculates	 itself	 at	 every	 moment	 of	 the	 present.	Heidegger’s	Gelassenheit	 is	 the	 denial	 of	 technology’s	 existence	 at	 the	 heart	 of	 nature.	 Being	self-constructs	 and	 self-engineers.	The	horizontality	of	 a	 lake?	 It’s	 automatic.	The	 shape	of	 a	cloud?	Automatic.	The	fractal	shape	of	a	mountain?	Automatic.	Nature	houses	itself.			 What	 is	missing	 from	 these	 statements	 is	 that	 a	mountain,	 a	 lake,	or	 a	 cloud	 is	more	than	its	shape.	Far	more,	and	in	any	situation	too	much.	Nature’s	technology	is	not	your	typical	determinist	 engineering,	 structured	 by	 mere	 posts	 and	 beams,	 but	 an	 engineering	 of	 sheer	redundancy	 and	 affluence	 that	we	 recognize	 from	bird’s	 nests	 and	 jungles.	 Zillions	 of	water	molecules	work	 together	 to	establish	 the	 lake’s	 flatness.	Heraclitean	phusis	 (“nature”)	means	that	 each	molecule	 counts	on	 its	 fingers	how	 to	 respond	 to	 its	 neighbors.	Nature	 is	 physical	calculation.	The	material	 computer	of	 the	 lake	 is	 a	 computer	 far	bigger	 than	anything	 in	 the	basements	 of	 the	 Pentagon	 or	 Google	 Inc.	 In	 contrast	 to	 human	 forms	 of	 computing	 nature	does	not	 separate	appearance	 from	calculation;	 the	 screen	and	 the	machine	are	one	and	 the	same	 thing.	 All	 its	 atoms	 act	 through	 “digital”	 finger-counting,	 with	 which	 they	 scan	 their	environment.	They	do	not	see	through;	 instead,	 they	“see	out”	 in	 the	sense	that	 they	actively	look	forward.	There	is	nothing	blind	in	the	workings	of	nature.			 This	brings	us	to	our	third	strategy,	radiance.	Things	are	now	their	own	media,	doing	their	own	broadcasting.	 Jewelry,	saints,	 flowers,	 fireworks:	 their	appearances	themselves	are	acts,	but	actuality	 is	 too	 small	 to	 contain	 them.	The	 thinking	of	 radiance	 is	neither	 reflective	nor	penetrative	but	a	wondering.	Wonder	does	not	penetrate	things;	it	leaves	them	as	they	are.	In	Whitehead’s	words,	 “at	 the	 end,	when	 philosophic	 thought	 has	 done	 its	 best,	 the	wonder	remains.”5	Things	overflow	–	a	word	seemingly	of	the	same	order	as	“leaking,”	but	in	contrast	to	 the	 latter,	 overflow	 issues	 from	 the	 surface.	 It	 finds	 its	 precursor	 in	 a	 Gothic	 emanatio:	effluence.	 The	 Latin	 emanare	 denotes	 “flowing	 out,”	 but	 emanation	 does	 not	 mean	 the	horizontal	 movement	 we	 associate	 with	 the	 word.	 Emanating	 things	 cannot	 stop	 leaking,	turning	 their	 movement	 into	 a	 begetting,	 an	 offspring.	 Things	 jump	 from	 themselves.	 The	radicalism	 of	 emanation	 is	 contained	 in	 the	 Nicene	 Creed’s	 “begotten,	 not	 made,”	 which	excludes	 both	 religious	 creation	 and	materialist	 evolution.	 For	 the	 Neoplatonist	 Plotinus,	 of	course,	 things	 emanate	 downwards;	 they	 descend	 from	 the	 One,	 in	 what	 Eckhart	 calls	 the	ursprunc,	 the	 “original	 jump,”	 as	 an	 off-spring	 or	 descendant.	 In	 the	 eyes	 of	 classical,	Neoplatonist	emanation,	things	do	not	so	much	flow	as	fall	from	an	original	state	of	perfection	into	ever-less-perfect	beings.	Radiance	does	not	follow	the	classical	concept	of	emanation	in	its	pure	verticality	but	 finds	a	new	form.	 It	encounters	every	 thing	uniquely	as	overflowing,	but	not	 as	 continuous	 with	 the	 first	 cause.	 Each	 thing	makes	 the	 flow	 discontinuous.	 Radiance,	then,	accepts	both	the	flow	of	 transparency	and	the	blockage	of	opacity	but	puts	them	in	the	wrong	 order.	 That	 is,	 things	 paradoxically	 make	 themselves;	 their	 technology	 is	 that	 of	appearance.		 Radiance	seeks	an	extreme	form	of	phenomenology,	a	wonderology,	a	flickering	spook-phenomenology	in	which	things	jump	at	each	other,	absent	as	they	move	upwards	and	present	as	they	come	down	to	meet	us.	Their	activity,	their	workings,	can	only	be	understood	as	part	of	their	 flickering	 appearance.	 Their	 depth	 stretches	 backward	 to	 the	 point	 of	 blockage	 and	forward	 into	 their	 surroundings.	Wonderology	does	not	mean	we	 look	up	 to	 things.	We	 face	them	here	in	front	of	us;	however,	that	is	not	where	they	came	from.																										notes																																																										1	Pierre	Hadot,	The	Veil	of	Isis:	An	Essay	on	the	History	of	the	Idea	of	Nature,	trans.	M.	Chase	(Cambridge,	2	Page	duBois,	Torture	and	Truth	(New	York:	Routledge,	1991).	3	Cf.	Wim	Nijenhuis,	“Het	Zwarte	Licht”	[“Black	Light”],	in	NOX	A:	Actiones	in	Distans,	eds.	M.	Nio	and	L.	Spuybroek	(Amsterdam:	1001	Publishers,	1991),	93–106.	Nijenhuis	draws	compelling	analogies	between	Pseudo-Dionysius,	St.	John	of	the	Cross	and	Meister	Eckhart.	4	Martin	Heidegger,	“Memorial	Address,”	in	Discourse	on	Thinking,	trans.	J.	Anderson	and	H.	Freund	(New	York:	Harper	and	Row,	1966),	43–57.	5	A.N.	Whitehead,	Modes	of	Thought	(New	York:	The	Free	Press,	1968),	168.	

In the Thick of Things

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In the Thick of Things

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