Goodman's Languages of Art Paul Ziff The Philosophical Review, Vol. 80, No. 4. (Oct., 1971), pp. 509-515. Stable URL: http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0031-8108%28197110%2980%3A4%3C509%3AGLOA%3E2.0.CO%3B2-Z The Philosophical Review is currently published by Cornell University.
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GOODMAN'S LANGUAGES O F ART1
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ELSON GOODMAN'S recent book, Languages of Art, is worth reading: it makes one think. But it is hard to understand and then even harder to believe. The book is subtitled An Approach To A Theory Of Symbols. "The objective is an approach to a general theory of symbols" (p. xi). What is meant by "symbol" ? Symbol is used here as a very general and colorless term. It covers letters, words, texts, pictures, diagrams, maps, models, and more, but carries no implication of the oblique or the occult [p. xi]. I t is added that "the most literal portrait and the most prosaic passage are as much symbols, and as 'highly symbolic,' as the most fanciful and figurative" (p. xi). Is every painting and every piece of sculpture, whether representational or abstract or nonobjective, a symbol? Is a toy airplane a symbol? Is a mask? What about a doll, or a chess piece, or a lock of hair? I do not know what the answers to these questions are supposed to be : the author's usage is unclear. Goodman is concerned with "symbol systems." (He mentions that the word "languages" in the title of the book "should, strictly, be replaced by 'symbol systems' " [p. xii].) A symbol system "consists of a symbol scheme correlated with a field of reference" (p. 143). What then is a symbol scheme? "Any symbol scheme consists of characters" (p. I 3 I ) . And what are characters ? "Characters are certain classes of utterances or inscriptions or marks" (p. 131). The term "inscription" is used "to include utterances, and 'mark' to include inscriptions; an inscription is any mark-visual, auditory, etc.-that belongs to a character" (p. 131). SO a symbol scheme consists of characters, where characters are certain classes of marks. If characters are "certain classes of marks," which classes are they? Goodman does not seem to say. If someone's boots make marks on a newly waxed floor, do those marks belong to a character? They do belong to the class of marks made by that person and the presence of such marks could be of significance. Does such a class constitute a character? O r suppose a house decorator is instructed to decorate a wall with three 1
Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Co., Inc., 1968. Pp. xiii,
277.
PAUL
types of marks: one-inch straight lines, one-inch squares, and circles of one inch in diameter; if the decorator does as he was instructed, will the marks on the wall belong to certain characters and, if so, do these characters constitute a symbol scheme? Is, for example, each one-inch-square mark on the wall an inscription of a certain character and is each a symbol in a symbol scheme? I do not know what the answers to these questions are supposed to be. A symbol system consists of a symbol scheme correlated with a field of reference. Symbol systems can be sorted into two classes: what the author calls "notational systems" and "non-notational systems." Notational systems are defined in terms of the satisfaction of five mutually independent conditions (p. 156). Although these five conditions "were designed to define notational systems, other important types of symbol system are distinguished by violation of certain combinations of these conditions" (p. I 56). The first necessary condition for a notation is character-indzgerence among the instances of each character. Two marks are character-indifferent if each is an inscription (i.e. belongs to some character) and neither one belongs to any character the other does not Cp. 1321.
The second condition is that the characters be jinitely dzgerentiated, or articulate. I t runs: Fm every two characters K and K' and every mark m that does not actually belong to both, determination either that m does not belong to K or that m does not belong to K' is theoretically possible [pp. I 351361.
The preceding two conditions are syntactic requirements of notations. The remaining three are semantic. The first semantic condition is that the notational system be unambiguous, hence ambiguous inscriptions and ambiguous characters are excluded (p. 148). The second semantic condition is concerned with "compliance," where "whatever is denoted by a symbol complies with it" (p. 144). It enjoins the semantic disjointness of characters : "no two characters have any compliant in common" (p. 151). The final requirement for a notational system is semantic jinite dzgerentiation; that is, for every two characters K and X' and every object h that does not comply with both, determination either that h does not comfily with K or that h does not comply with K' must be theoretically possible [pp. 152- 1531.
Goodman dwells on a distinction between what he calls "analog" systems and "digital" systems : "a symbol scheme is analog if syntactically dense; a system is analog if syntactically and semantically dense" (p. 160). I n contrast, "To be digital a system must be not merely dis-
GOODMAN'S LANGUAGES OF ART
continuous but dzfterentiated throughout, syntactically and semantically" (p. 161). And since "only thoroughly dense systems are analog, and only thoroughly differentiated ones digital, many systems are of neither type" (p. 162). Goodman claims that his study of symbol schemes and symbol systems and notations provides "means for analysing and for comparing and contrasting in significant ways the varied systems of symbolization used in art, science, and life in general" (p. 157). And it is in such terms that he discusses such varied matters as representation in art, differences between depictions and descriptions, modes of metaphor, expression, the identity of works of art and of pieces of music, differences between diagrams, maps and models, the dance, architecture, and so on. For want of space I shall comment here only on some of Goodman's views about pictorial representation and about music. Goodman begins his study by stating that "the nature of representation wants early study in any philosophical examination of the ways symbols function in and out of the arts" (p. 3). He says, "The plain fact is that a picture, to represent an object, must be a symbol for it, stand for it, refer to it" (p. 5). This plain fact wants explaining. Finding an old painting in an attic, one asks oneself, "Does this painting represent anything?" O n Goodman's account one is asking whether the painting is a symbol for, stands for, refers to some object. How is one supposed to answer the question? Goodman insists that no degree of resemblance is sufficient to establish the requisite relationship of reference. Nor is resemblance necessary for reference; almost anything may stand for almost anything else. A picture that represents-like a passage that describes-an object refers to and, more particularly, denotes it. Denotation is the core of representation and is independent of resemblance [p. 51.
How does one determine whether the painting in the attic denotes something? No answer to this question is to be found in the text. Goodman distinguishes between representing something and being a representation. Thus he says that pictures of Pickwick or of a unicorn "do not represent anything; they are representations with null denotation" (p. 2 I). Presumably pictures of Pickwick or of unicorns do not denote Pickwick or unicorns because there is no Pickwick and there are no unicorns to be denoted. (But how does the author know that pictures of Pickwick do not represent or denote something else, say the moon? I t is true that they do not look like the moon, but on the author's view that does not signify.) A unicorn-picture is a kind of picture but it
PAUL ZIFF
is not a symbol for a unicorn, for if it were it would represent a unicorn and, according to Goodman, it does not do that. (What is a unicornpicture a symbol for?) Unicorn-pictures are representations, though they have null denotations (see pp. 25-26). And representation, we are told, is "a symbolic relationship" (p. 43). (But what is the relationship between ?) Goodman is relatively clear about the relation between representation and denotation, though the view is curious. A unicorn-picture is a representation but it does not denote anything, or, as he also says, it has a null denotation. Indeed, this latter characterization appears to be the favored one. For, having made it clear, so to speak, that a representation may have a null denotation, Goodman says, "What we have done so far is to subsume representation with description under denotation" (p. 42). He adds that "representation is thus contrasted with nondenotative modes of reference" (p. 43). How curious the view is can be seen by considering the following. Isn't a unicorn-picture a representation and yet in fact nondenotative? How then is representation subsumed under denotation? Or is Goodman to be taken as saying that all representations have a denotation though mainly a null denotation? Would this be like saying that all remarks make reference to cheetahs, only when one talks about the weather and such matters one is making a null reference to cheetahs? Goodman does claim that all representations have a denotation though many many have only a null denotation and hardly any have otherwise. Thus he says, "In representing, a picture at once picks out a class of objects" (p. 31) and he explains that "The picture does not denote the class picked out, but denotes the no or one or several members of that class" (n. 26, p. 31). Evidently a unicorn-picture denotes "the no members" of some class. Goodman says that representation is to be subsumed, along with description, under denotation. Since many pictures that are clearly representational equally clearly have null denotations, if subsuming representation under denotation is to be an illuminating move to make in this sort of game, one would suppose that matters of denotation would have some important bearing on matters of representation; in particular, one would be inclined to suppose that a unicorn-picture, which is a representation, has some important connection with matters of denotation despite the fact that a unicorn-picture has a null denotation. What then, according to Goodman, makes a unicornpicture a unicorn-picture and not something else? No answer is to be found in his account.
GOODMAN'S LANGUAGES OF ART
A unicorn-picture is a kind of picture. But "The way pictures . . . are . . . classified into kinds, like most habitual ways of classifying, is far from sharp or stable, and resists codification" (p. 23). Goodman adds that "exact and general conditions under which something is a soandso-picture or a soandso-description would indeed be hard to formulate" (p. 24). He does not mean to attempt it. All that matters here, he insists, is "that pictures are indeed sorted with varying degrees of ease into man-pictures, unicorn-pictures, Pickwick-pictures," and so forth (p. 24). But this gets us no further in our understanding of what connection there is supposed to be between representation and denotation. Goodman evidently declines to discuss what makes a unicorn-picture a unicorn-picture and not a man-picture, but then what has a unicorn-picture to do with denotata other than not having any? Goodman's account of representation is curious but his account of music is bizarre. He considers whether and how fully "the language of musical scores qualifies as a truly notational system" (p. 181).He concludes that it comes as near to meeting the theoretical requirements for notationality as might reasonably be expected of any traditional system in constant actual use, and that the excisions and revisions needed to correct any infractions are rather plain and local. After all, one hardly expects chemical purity outside the laboratory [p. 1861.
But, in the opinion of the reviewer, actual musical scores and music are vastly misconceived, misunderstood, and misappreciated when gerrymandered to conform to Goodman's schemes. Given a notational system, a work is defined by the score. And that, Goodman evidently thinks, is the way it is with actual music. But any musician knows it is not like that at all. Reading the printed score, one plays a certain way: no bowing manner is specified, but the Baroque character and style of the passage suggests at once that martelhis wanted, not legato; no fingering is indicated, but open strings are likely to do; taking it to be Telemann, one realizes that the slurred notes can bear a slight but not over-expressive vibrato; of course, precisely how one wants to play the indicated notes depends on what sort of musical structure the notes occur in, what dynamics are called for, and so forth. To find the work from the score one must look to the tradition in which the work was created. Goodman states, "Given the notational system and a performance of a score, the score is recoverable" (p. 178).This is occasionally so with respect to actual performances of music, and sometimes not. A
PAUL
Byrd motet could pose problems: a contrapuntal perfectionist, he would write his polyphony below the threshold of audibility. And then how does one determine whether one is hearing a poorly executed pair of thirty-second notes or a well-executed dotted thirty-second followed by a sixty-fourth? To recover the score from a performance of a Gabrieli cunzone performed in polychoral style at St. Mark's at Venice, an understanding of architectural acoustics might well be necessary. No hint of such matters is to be found in Goodman's account. Noting that "the verbal language of tempos is not notational" (p. 185), Goodman claims that "the tempo words cannot be integral parts of a score insofar as the score serves the function of identifying a work from performance to performancey' (p. 185). He then makes the truly remarkable claim that No departure from the indicated tempo disqualifies a performance as an instance-however wretched-of the work defined by the score. For these tempo specifications cannot be accounted integral parts of the defining score, but are rather auxiliary directions whose observance or nonobservance affects the quality of a performance but not the identity of the work [p. 1851.
Goodman thus would have one suppose that, for example, a trill is not an essential feature of a work, even if a composer, say Tartini, insisted on it: slowed down enough, a trill ceases to be a trill, for a trill is usually defined as the rapid alternation of a given note with the diatonic second above it; so on Goodman's account one might play the Devil's Trill and yet play no trill. Further, if one ignores considerations of tempo then one must suppose that the harmonic structure of a work may be irrelevant to its identity. For consider a Venetian polychoral work scored for two organs with a rapid alternation of parts such that a note from one organ is still reverberating while a note is sounded on the other organ; the harmonies produced would then depend on the fact that the sounds produced by the instruments in question have certain periods of decay. But if the tempo of the performance were sufficiently retarded, all chordal effects would disappear. And still further, if the "verbal language of tempos is not notational" (p. 185), then one would suppose that the verbal language of dynamics, of volume, is not notational either. Tempo indications can be replaced, at least in some cases, by metronome markings (but what metronome reading could be assigned to a tempo rubato?), but what could serve in place ofpiano piano? Imagine a largo pianissimo performance of a score such that everything is played at equal volume in so far as possible: the notes could be the ones indicated in the score of, but it would not be a performance of, the 181.2 Overture.
GOODMAN'S LANGUAGES OF ART
Since complete compliance with the score is Goodman's only requirement "for a genuine instance of a work, the most miserable performance without actual mistakes does count as such an instance, while the most brilliant performance with a single wrong note does not" (p. 186). But what is supposed to count as a "wrong note" ? Perhaps Goodman thinks that notes are to be specified in terms of frequencies; thus A, might be 440. If so, a glance at the history of the pitch A, should have disabused him of that notion. The pitch A, has in fact ranged from 370 to 567.3; for example, the great organ in Strasbourg Cathedral, dating from I 7 I 3, has A, at 393.2 ; Handel's tuning fork is 422.5 ; the organ at St. Jacobi Kirche, Hamburg, approved by Bach, is 484.2 (cf. J. J. Josephs, The Physics of Musical Sound, Van Nostrand Momentum Book I 3 [1g67], pp. 64-65). American orchestras generally prefer 440, European ones tend to prefer 436. It is not frequencies that one should attend to here but intervals. But intervals figure in scales and there are different scales. If a string performer plays F-sharp then if he is playing in G major he may be slightly flat even if his intonation would be correct for some other key; for F-sharp is a leading tone in G major. What key a performer is playing in of course depends on the musical structure of the work in question. For a performance to be a genuine instance of a work, what is required? Goodman evidently thinks that sounding certain notes is it. Such a view fits nicely with his symbol schemes. But it sheds no light on sensible and sensitive musical practice. If Fischer-Dieskau and Victoria de 10s Angeles sing Die Schiine Miillerin, the notes differ but both performances are genuine instances of the work: the transposition of songs to accommodate the voice range of a singer is and has been common musical practice for centuries. To sound certain notes is not necessary; neither is it sufficient. Even if appropriately transposed and transcribed, the performance of a score by a concert of kazoos could not constitute a genuine instance of the Prdlude d l'aprbs-midi d'un faune. What constitutes a genuine instance of a work? What makes a painting a representational painting? These are nice questions the answers to which are not to be found in Goodman's Languages of Art. Even so, I wholeheartedly recommend this book to those concerned with problems of art and language, because it is a genuinely interesting presentation of unusual views. And as such it provokes and stimulates: it makes one think.
University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill
