hypothesis definition art history

• Table of Contents
• Random Entry
• Chronological
• Editorial Information
• About the SEP
• Editorial Board
• How to Cite the SEP
• Special Characters
• Advanced Tools
• Support the SEP
• PDFs for SEP Friends
• Make a Donation
• SEPIA for Libraries
• Entry Contents

Bibliography

Academic tools.

• Friends PDF Preview
• Author and Citation Info
• Back to Top

History of the Ontology of Art

Questions central to the ontology of art include the following: what sort of things are works of art? Do all works of art belong to a single category of entities? Do they have multiple instances? Do works have parts or constituents, and if so, what is their relation to the work as a whole? How are works of art individuated? Are they created or discovered? Can they be destroyed?

Explicit and extensive treatments of these topics written prior to the 19 th century have yet to be found. This does not mean, however, that there is nothing relevant to these ontological questions in early writings on beauty, the arts, and related matters. For example, Aristotle’s discussion of the functions and elements of tragedy (see Gerald Else 1957) can be mined for ideas about the nature of dramatic and literary works more generally. And what can be made of the hint, in Metaphysics Eta, 6, that the unity of The Iliad is a matter of a set of words made “one” by being connected together?

Rather than attempting to make conjectures about such difficult exegetical topics, this entry focuses primarily on contributions made by authors who explicitly address themselves at length to some of the aforementioned questions pertaining directly to the ontology of works of art, either in general or with reference to such major fine-art forms as music, literature, painting, architecture, and sculpture.

One further note about the scope of this entry: instructive surveys of the subfield of aesthetics known as the ontology of art are fairly plentiful; see Nicholas Wolterstorff (1992), Gregory Currie (1998, 2010), Joseph Margolis (1998), Stephen Davies (2003a, 2020), Amie Thomasson (2004, 2006b), Guy Rohrbaugh (2005), Theodore Gracyk (2009), Robert Stecker (2010), and Carl Matheson and Ben Caplan (2011). Surveys of the history of the field have not, however, been forthcoming, and the comments on this topic that crop up in the literature are sketchy and sometimes quite misleading. One shortcoming has been a marked tendency to focus on more recent contributions, the one salient exception being due attention paid to works by Roman Ingarden (e.g., 1931, 1962, and see the entry on Ingarden). Accordingly, the present entry focuses primarily on contributions made in the 19 th and 20 th centuries and the first decade of the 21 st .

1.1 Realism

1.2 modes of being and existence, 1.3 the imagination and fictionalism, 1.4 intermittence, 1.5 idealism, 1.6 elimination, 2.1 multiple vs. singular artistic items, 2.2 artistic vehicles vs. works of art, 3.1 platonism and its critics, 3.2 type-token distinctions, 3.3 norm-kinds, 3.4 capacities, artifacts, and actions, other internet resources, related entries, 1. do works of art exist.

Although artists, critics, and art lovers are likely to think it absurd to deny that a work of art is as real as anything else one might encounter, many philosophers and art theorists have raised questions about the very existence or “mode of being” of works of art.

One prevalent response to the question of art’s existence is a straightforward realism to the effect that works of art figure amongst those entities that, once they have been brought into existence, do not depend on anyone’s (actual or possible) beliefs or responses. Assuming that something can only be discovered if it already exists, a striking example of a realist statement is Samuel Alexander’s claim that “Shakespeare discovered Hamlet in the English language the way the sculptor discovers his figure in the block” (1925, 28). A more prominent example of a philosopher who defends realism about works of art is Monroe C. Beardsley (1958), who seems to have espoused the disjunctive thesis that a work of art is either a particular physical object or a kind of physical object (see the entry on Beardsley’s aesthetics). Various other options for realism about artworks will be mentioned below.

Some philosophers draw distinctions between different modes of being, and some of these philosophers have attributed modes of being other than existence to works of art.

An example is C. E. M. Joad, who included a fairly lengthy discussion of issues related to the ontology of art in his popular Guide to Philosophy of 1936. Joad denied that a work such as Shakespeare’s Hamlet could be correctly identified with any existing concrete particular, such as a script, or with a collection of events, such as those involved in a staging of the play. Nor should the title ‘Hamlet’ be taken as referring to ideas in the author’s mind, to some spectator’s experience of the work, or to some collection of experiences occasioned by performances of the play. Joad’s alternative was to say that the work of art is a subsistent object, neither mental nor material, which, like other universals, is a constituent of the universe possessing a special kind of being, subsistence, in its own right. According to Joad, then, at least some works are subsistent universals, and this is the sort of entity to which the titles of such works of art refer. For background to the distinction between existence and subsistence, see the entry on possible objects.

In his Mellon lectures presented at the National Gallery in Washington in 1955 (published in 1957), Étienne Gilson classified works of art as Aristotelian substances (for background, see the entries on substance and Aristotle’s metaphysics). Gilson also claimed that a work has aesthetic and artistic modes of existence in addition to a substantial one. A work exists artistically qua product of the artist’s activity, whereas it exists aesthetically when it is the object of someone’s aesthetic (or contemplative) experience. A similar plurality of modes of existence of works of art had been postulated by Étienne Souriau (1943, 1947), who posited thing-like [ chosale ], aesthetic, and transcendent modes of existence.

In attributing artistic and aesthetic modes of existence to works, Gilson adverted to a physical object’s relation to the experiences and actions of cognizing subjects. Similarly, a long series of philosophers have taken subjective relations and experiences to be crucial to answering the question of the existence of works of art. It has often been proposed, for example, that works are at least in part a product of the imagination, and this not merely in the sense that artists must imagine what sort of thing they want to make or do if a work of art is to be brought into existence. Instead, the thought is that even the existence or reality of a completed work of art continues to depend on the make-believe or imaginative activity of the artist or some other subject, such as the observer or reader who appreciates the work as a work of art.

That the imagination plays a crucial role in aesthetic responses to both art and nature was an important theme in 18 th -century aesthetics (see the entries on French, British, and German aesthetics in the 18 th century). Joseph Addison’s (1712) description of the “pleasures of the imagination” was influential, yet not as influential perhaps as Immanuel Kant’s idea that the activation of the power or faculty of the imagination was essential to aesthetic judgments (for more detail, see the entry on Kant’s aesthetics). In the 19 th and 20 th centuries, various thinkers contended that the imagination plays a crucial role in both the creation and the reception of works of art. Prominent examples of philosophers who emphasized the importance of Einbildungskraft or Phantasie in this regard include Friedrich Theodor Vischer (1857, 1898), Robert Zimmermann (1865), Hermann Lotze (1884), Eduard von Hartmann (1888), Karl Köstlin (1869, 1889), Konrad von Lange (1895, 1901, 1912, 1935), Christian von Ehrenfels (1896–1899, 318), and Johannes Volkelt (1905–1915).

Von Hartmann (1888, vol. 2, 11) rejects what he called “naïve realistic” assumptions about the objects of aesthetic or artistic judgements. Arguing for a “transcendental realism,” he contends that beauty is not a material object, but a subjective appearance, like the sweetness of sugar. Von Hartmann observes that people confidently say such things as “this book is Homer’s Iliad ,” “this score is Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,” and “this painting is Raphael’s Sistine Madonna .” Although it is often acknowledged that the first two examples are philosophically untenable, it ought to be admitted, von Hartmann contends, that the third sort of statement is also inaccurate. The painted surface in itself is not beautiful even though in some circumstances it has the capacity to contribute to a subjective appearance of beauty, which von Hartmann characterizes as Schein or Phantasie . If the work of art is the bearer or locus of beauty and other aesthetic properties, it cannot be the material object in itself. Yet Hartmann also contests what he called “subjective idealism,” and in his discussion of artistic creation emphasizes the artist’s engagement with the material constraints of artistic media. The “phantasy work” that an artist elaborates prior to the creation of an “external work of art” is never neutral with regard to media or instrumentation (1888, vol. 2, 180).

Konrad von Lange held that imaginative play and an attitude he called ‘conscious self-deception’ [ die bewusste Selbsttäuschung ] are necessary to both the creation and appreciation of art. He did not explicitly draw the conclusion that works of art are therefore fictions, but he did describe our commerce with them as a kind of lucid illusion in which we playfully entertain thoughts of states of affairs that we know not to exist. The artistic artifact, he proposed, is like the toy or other object that is recruited to the ends of a child’s imaginative play. A sophisticated and highly influential contemporary exponent of this kind of approach to art and, more specifically, to the philosophical analysis of depiction and fictional content, is Kendall L. Walton (1990).

Jean-Paul Sartre (1938, 1940) has often been credited with the idea that works of art are illusory (in the sense of systematically being the object of some sort of error about their mode of existence), but it is not obvious that this is the best interpretation of his remarks on the topic. Sartre declares that Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony “is outside of the real , outside of existence” (1940, 371, my trans.). He also says that we do not really hear the symphony at all, but only hear the composition in our imaginations. Such statements can be read as being meant to debunk a widespread illusory belief in the existence of musical works; they also hold open the possibility of imagining works without believing in their existence, in which case the putative illusion is not necessary. One of the possible targets of Sartre’s remarks is a kind of idealist doctrine discussed below. For an informative discussion of Sartre’s views on the subject, see Peter V. Lamarque (2010, chapter 10); and for additional background, see the entry on existentialist aesthetics.

On this topic Sartre was preceded and possibly influenced by Ingarden and Nicolai Hartmann, who was professor of theoretical philosophy in Berlin at the time of Sartre’s stint at the Institut français in Berlin from 1933–1934. In a paper presented at the International Congress of Philosophy held at Harvard in 1926 and published in 1927, Hartmann contrasted psychological and ontological approaches in aesthetics and argued for the priority of the latter. In this paper he outlined positions that he was to develop at length in a series of works, including his (1933) and an unfinished treatise on aesthetics, written in 1945 and published posthumously in 1953.

Hartmann’s central thesis on the ontology of art is that works are fictions that depend upon the perceptual and imaginative activities of artists and their audiences. In Hartmann’s view, the work of art has at least two parts or strata: the first layer, which he sometimes refers to as the “foreground,” is perceptible—Hartmann’s examples include a piece of stone, colors on a surface, and audible sounds. The perception of such items is the basis of the aesthetic experience of the higher “background” stratum, which also requires imaginings occasioned by this perceptual experience. The artistic and aesthetic qualities of the work arise from the relation between these ‘heterogeneous’ levels. Hartmann’s discussion of the artwork’s strata resembles some of the claims made by Ingarden. It would appear that the two philosophers arrived at these results independently; for a comparison of their positions, see Wolfgang Ruttkowski (1990).

Hartmann maintains that as a result of its dependence upon the imagination, the work of art lacks independent or autonomous being, or what he calls ‘ Ansichsein ’. A work is an observer-relative appearance or Erscheinung , experienced as such. An appearance experienced as appearance is not to be confused, however, with illusion or Schein because it involves self-reflexive awareness that something is being imagined as opposed to believed. In this regard Hartmann evokes the familiar analogy to children’s imaginative play, while commenting that for the adult such play “remains fiction” (1953, 53).

Hartmann’s concept of artistic appearance does not embrace only the depictive or symbolic contents of representational works of art, as Hartmann also applies his levels analysis to the aesthetic properties of non-figurative works, including architectural ones. A building qua material object obviously figures amongst the real entities of the world, but to experience the material building as a work of art is to engage in the imaginative apprehension of fictional qualities. Hartmann appears to be claiming in this regard that such terms as ‘grandiose’, ‘pompous’ or ‘majestic’, are, when used as labels to name the aesthetic qualities of a building, in some sense imaginative and hence fictional.

Kindred approaches to the question of the work’s existence have been developed by a number of different figures, an early instance being the American philosopher Stephen C. Pepper, who describes how the imagination contributes to a process in which “an aesthetic work of art is created out of a physical work of art” (1937a, 231; 1955). Pepper, who was a professor of philosophy at the University of California at Berkeley, was on the same panel as Hartmann at the 1926 Congress mentioned above. It is not clear, however, whether Pepper embraced Hartmann’s conclusion that works of art are in some sense fictions. Pepper argued for a relativist conception whereby ontological issues depend ultimately on such overarching rival frameworks as organicism, mechanism, and pragmatism or “contextualism.” Pepper explicitly denied that any one of these frameworks was the one true theory.

Another philosopher whose early contributions merit attention in this vein is Joseph Margolis (1958, 1959, 1961). Margolis describes a work of art as being comprised of a physical system (for example, a lump of clay) and an aesthetic design. To behold something as a work of art, it is necessary to combine a sensory perception of the physical item with an imaginative experience of the aesthetic design. The design “supervenes” upon the physical system. Margolis suggests that whereas contradictory assertions about a physical object cannot both be true, the principle of noncontradiction does not apply to the description of works of art.

Margolis (1958) explicitly endorses one implication of his hypothesis regarding the way of being or Seinsweise of the work of art. In the absence of the right sort of attention, the work ceases to exist, even though the physical system remains intact. Yet the same work can return to existence when the same sort of imaginative attention is directed upon the physical system that constitutes the supervenience base of the artwork, thereby “reviving” the correlative aesthetic design.

Several philosophers (e.g., Eleanor Rowland 1913, 117, Gilson 1957, Hilde Hein 1959, Andrew Harrison 1967–68, Currie 1989, 57) have questioned the wisdom of allowing that the existence of a work is intermittent. An early example is Johannes Volkelt (1905, 11), who asserts that the statue of Zeus in Otricoli was a work of art throughout the many centuries during which it lay buried and unobserved. As Wolterstorff later put it, “Have not Beethoven’s quartets, Rembrandt’s prints, and Yeats’s poems existed at least ever since their composition?” (1980, 43). As will become apparent below, a desire to find some alternative to the hypothesis of intermittent existence has influenced some of the proposals about the category of enduring or perduring entities to which artworks should be said to belong. For example, Andrew Paul Ushenko characterized works as powers so as to avoid the intermittence problem (1953, 47), and similar intuitions motivated Pepper’s (1965) “double-dispositional” account, according to which a work’s continuous existence depends on the “passive disposition” of a physical object as well as the “dynamic disposition” of the observer.

It would be quite misleading to give the impression that all of those philosophers who thought minds and their activities have something to do with the existence of works of art also thought that this means that works were somehow less real than, say, natural physical entities and events. Idealists invert this hierarchy. This is explicit in Benedetto Croce (1913, 1965, 9–10) when he asserts that works of art cannot be physical entities because works of art are “supremely real” whereas the physical world is “unreal.”

Another proponent of an idealist ontology of art is Waldemar Conrad (1908–09). Conrad stressed Edmund Husserl’s contrast between “natural” and “phenomenological” attitudes and their objects (for background, see the entries on Husserl and phenomenology). Conrad asserts that only the latter attitude can reveal the “ideal Object” that is the genuine or intended [ gemeinte ] work of art. In his example, which could well have served as the counterpoint for Sartre’s discussion of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, the genuine work is the symphony itself as opposed to the various spatiotemporal events, such as more or less competent orchestral performances, or someone’s whistling the melody or reading the score, that might help to direct attention to some of the work’s essential features (1908–09, 77–78). Conrad does not present a detailed defense of his assumptions about the ontology of ideal objects, but clearly shared Husserl’s aversion to psychologism (for background, see the entry on psychologism).

Croce’s (1902, 1913, 1948) claims about works (and ideas) as “expressions” of experience generated a lot of controversy and did much to put ontological issues on the agenda of aesthetics and the philosophy of art (for background, see the entry on Croce’s aesthetics). British proponents of Croce-inspired aesthetics included Lascelles Abercrombie (1922), who promoted the idea that the work is an experience, and P. Leon (1931), who rhapsodized about the aesthetic object as an experienced quale . Drawing upon a broad Platonic and Romantic background, George W. Beiswanger (1939) developed the view that the “material” work is merely a means to the aesthetic object, which he characterized as “experienced experiencing,” an idea inspired, apparently, by John Dewey’s remark that “the actual work of art is what the product does with and in experience” (1934, 3).

By far the most influential Croce-inspired aesthetician was Robin George Collingwood (1925, 1938), whose several translations of Croce’s work helped make the Italian philosopher’s views more accessible to readers bereft of Italian (for background and references, see Alan Donagan 1972). As Collingwood’s philosophy of art is the subject of a separate entry as well as various commentaries (e.g., Ian Winchester 2004, David Davies 2008), we can be brief here. For some purposes talk of a “Croce-Collingwood” theory of art is good enough, but of course differences come to the fore when one reads these authors with an eye to detail. It seems fair to say that for Collingwood, the work of art is not a physical object or finished artifact, but the conscious imaginative activity through which creative expression takes place. That works are the activity of the imagination does not make them any less real in Collingwood’s opinion.

An objection to all theories that invite us to think of works of art as experiences—those of the artist and/or those of the audience—is that this is a conflation of an experience and the object of the experience. It is one thing to acknowledge that a work is the product or even the expression of an experience and that it is designed to occasion certain kinds of experiences; it is something else entirely to assert that the work is itself an experience and nothing more. Such an account neglects the physical dimensions of art, beginning with the artist’s encounter with materials and media. It is also objected that the attempted reduction of artworks to experiences would convert a public, culturally situated entity into something private. Early worries of this sort were articulated in relation to Croce’s aesthetics by Alexander (1925) and Louis Arnauld Reid (1926). More recently, these objections have been raised against Roger Scruton’s (1997) ontology of musical works by Jerrold Levinson (2000), who explicitly links Scruton’s account to the legacy of Collingwood and idealism.

Not all philosophers have agreed that all works of art must be public. In his taxonomy of the fine arts, Bernard Bolzano distinguishes between the arts of the external senses and those of pure thought (1849, 14; 2021, 96; 2023, 95–96). The latter arts produce works comprised of complex ideas or thoughts that are not linguistically articulated and that are only directly accessible to the person thinking of them. Bolzano remarks that this feature of the arts of pure thought is a great imperfection. He adds, however, that these arts play a role in the creation of those works of art, such as statues and songs, that are perceptible to audiences: “Closer reflection will make it clear that not just some but all works of art that consist in an object in external reality could never have been produced by their creator through his free and intentional action if he had not first been able to develop a very detailed representation of the object in his mind” (1849, 15–16; 2021, 98; 2023, 97).

Given a sufficiently austere ontology, titles such as ‘Das Lied von der Erde’ and ‘To the Lighthouse’ have no real referents. Those who defend such an ontology are rarely eager to trumpet the implications for the arts, perhaps because doing so would be a poor recommendation for the austerity. A few thinkers writing about aesthetics have, however, conjectured that we would be better off without committing ourselves to the existence of works. For example, Richard Rudner (1950) distinguished between questions about the object of our aesthetic responses and questions about the referents of the names of works. The answer to the latter question is that such names are non-designative or syncategorematic. The former question, Rudner concludes, is not scientific and should be set aside.

Roland Barthes (1971) notoriously asserted that the concept of the work of art is part of a repressive ideology that should be replaced by a liberating conception of textuality. The word ‘textualité’ referred in his mind to a highly indeterminate and exciting sphere of semantic and erotic possibilities; ‘une œuvre’ [a work] stood for an ideological drag involving wrong-headed thinking about fixed meanings, ownership, and repression.

In a somewhat similar spirit but without Barthes’s poststructuralist idiom, Stephen David Ross (1977) contends that there is no work of art simpliciter , but any number of discriminable achievements or loci of artistic value.

Anders Pettersson (1981, 1984, 1990, 2009, 2012) contends that talk of a text or literary work can be eliminated. He acknowledges that the concept of a literary work forms part of ordinary language and is useful in theoretically undemanding contexts, but he also argues that it is a self-contradictory construct that creates many pseudo-problems for literary theory. We can say what we need to say about literature in a theoretically adequate way without making any ontological commitments to texts or works and without introducing any new entities by referring to such phenomena as physical copies of texts, texts in the sense of sequences of signs, or meaning in its different varieties.

A more recent proponent of an eliminativist strategy is Ross P. Cameron (2008), who contends that we need not make works of art part of our fundamental metaphysics. Even so, we can still hold our common sense statements about them to be true. For criticisms of the idea that this eliminativist position is compatible with common sense or well-entrenched practices, see Robert Stecker (2009) and Stefano Predelli (2009).

2. Monism and its rivals

In this context ‘monism’ is simply a label for the idea that all works of art fall within one ontological category, such as abstract particulars. A prevalent argument against this sort of thesis rests on the distinction between performance and non-performance works: many musical works can be performed by various persons and on various occasions; a painting cannot. Having described such distinctions amongst works of art, Wolterstorff concludes tersely that “Works of art are not all alike in their ontological status” (1975, 230). According to Stephen Davies (2001), we need not look beyond the art of music to find grounds for rejecting ontological monism. More recently, Robert Howell (2002a, 2002b) has argued that if the term ‘work of art’ covers artistic improvisations, the various utterances referred to as ‘oral literature’, and such items as paintings and scored musical compositions, then no single adequate ontological category is to be found. With reference to artists’ stipulative authority over the “features and boundaries” of their works, Sherri Irvin declares that “Any claim to the effect that all works belong to the same ontological category will thus come out false or uninformative” (2008, 1). Yet as will become clear below, monism still has its proponents.

Many debates over monism and rivals to that position have hinged on the question of reproduction and multiple instances, the thought being that in the case of at least some works, adequate technologies of reproduction yield more than one instance of an artistic artifact, and therefore of the work (an entailment that does not go unchallenged, as we shall see below). For example, it would be highly implausible to contend that Henri Cartier-Bresson’s famous photographic work, “Behind the Gare Saint-Lazare, Paris” (1932), consists in the negative used to make prints, or in the first or any other single print of this picture. Multiply instantiated works form one major category, then, while singular or non-reproducible ones form another.

It has been complained, however, that this distinction ought not to be taken as decisive for an ontology of art since it rests upon a contingent thesis about what is technologically possible.

The question of how technological change can influence our basic conception of works of art was raised by Walter Benjamin in a famous essay, a first version of which appeared in French in 1936 (translated literally, the title is ‘The Work of Art in the Age of its Mechanical Reproducibility’). Benjamin is generally interpreted as claiming that the advent of techniques of mechanical reproduction has undermined the quasi-religious “aura” that previously surrounded the individual work of art. Benjamin appears to have viewed such technological change as part of a liberating or progressive historical process. Whether Benjamin held that no work of art really was or could be an “authentic” concrete particular is hard to determine, however, as the history of art’s political functions is the primary focus of his somewhat obscure essay. Benjamin does declare early on (in both the first and revised versions of his essay) that “In principle, the work of art has always been reproducible. Objects made by humans could always be copied by humans” (2008, 20).

Other philosophers have argued that technological possibility should not be thought decisive with regard to the soundness of a monist ontology of art: the important philosophical question is what is nomologically or metaphysically possible. A relatively early example is C. I. Lewis’s oft-overlooked (1946) discussion of the ontology of the work of art.

Drawing on the work of Pepper and D. W. Prall (1929, 1936), Lewis held that an aesthetic appreciation of art is based on the contemplation of an “aesthetic essence” presented by the work. Lewis describes an aesthetic essence as “a certain composition of sense or qualia” and as “an immediate apprehension of sense” (1946, 188). Lewis also writes in this context of “qualitatively identical items of content (Santayana’s ‘essences’?)” (1946, 18), thereby suggesting he is not quite sure whether his notion of an essence comes close to that of George Santayana, who described essences as the immediate data of experience (1923). (For background, see the entry on Clarence Irving Lewis, and especially the section on “the given.”)

When we appreciate a painting, Lewis contends, what we contemplate is what this canvas could have in common with some optimal reproduction of it, namely, “that qualitative and abstract essence which is here incorporated, and is theoretically repeatable in some other physical object” (1946, 477). Lewis claims that an aesthetic object always depends upon some physical object, but he maintains that these dependency relations differ in degree: a poem depends on a particular inscription less than a work of visual art depends on a particular visible object. A poem, he proposes, is “an abstraction which is actualized in the instances of its presentation, through the medium of some physical vehicle. It is an entity essentially repeatable in, or common to, different physical events or things which instance it” (1946, 474–475). Lewis goes on to say that the abstractness of works is not like that of universals in that the latter “stand in contrast to anything which is sensuously qualitative and imaginal” (1946, 475). Lewis also maintains that a work or art is not just a type of visual appearance abstracted from a physical object, or in Lewis’s terms, an artistic vehicle. Instead, for Lewis, the aesthetic essence constitutive of the identity of the work of art, as opposed to the physical object, “lies in the context associated with this physical entity which presents it” (1946, 474, Lewis’s italics). Lewis holds that if the observer does not take this associated context into account in the interpretation of the vehicle, the work of art is misapprehended or not apprehended at all: “whatever the subject must bring to the presentation, in order correctly to understand the poem presented, belongs to the poem” (1946, 474).

Note that Lewis considers every aesthetic essence to be “an abstraction which theoretically could be identically presented by another physical thing” (1946, 476). Similar claims to the effect that all works of art are multiple, at least in principle and qua objects of appreciation, were subsequently made by Ushenko (1953, 21–25), Peter Strawson (1959, 231, n. 1; 1974, 183), Jeanne Wacker (1960), Anthony Savile (1971), Eddie Zemach (1966, 1986), and Currie (1989).

Many other writers have, on the contrary, stressed the singularity of at least some works of art and/or some of their constituents. Croce’s influential (1903) diatribe against the “science” of genres stands at the top of a list that includes George Boas (1937), Henri Focillon (1934, 56), Souriau (1947, 70), Stuart Hampshire (1952), Ingarden (1962), Nelson Goodman (1968), Richard Wollheim (1968), Wolterstorff (1975, 1980), Catherine Lord (1977), Mark Sagoff (1978), E. J. Lowe (1983), Levinson (1987, 1996), Gérard Genette (1994), Anthony O’Hear (1995), Irvin (2008), and Michael Weh (2010).

The diversity of arguments and positions on this broad particularist theme should be noted. For example, Ingarden reacts negatively to the prospect of a multiplicity of perfect replicas of the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris: seeing such things side by side, he comments, would cause “the strongest displeasure, precisely because it belongs to the nature of the work of art to be an individual, in the sense of something qualitatively unique” (1989, 274; 1962, 278). O’Hear defends a “singularity thesis” to the effect that “works of distinction” are necessarily individual and unique, whereas Weh argues that artistic intentions constrained by the historical circumstances determine whether and when a work is reproducible or multiple. Wolterstorff’s line on this topic is that in the case of many paintings, the artist does not settle on a set of properties that establish criteria for correctness of instances or “occurrences” of the work (1980, 72). Genette maintains that the reproducibility of works of art is a matter of an institutionally codified consensus based on a balance between means and needs (1994, 101). For critical discussions of Genette’s art ontology, see Lamarque (2011), Livingston (2011), and Roger Pouivet (2011).

In a paper published posthumously in 2001, Frank Sibley contends that a “two-directional pull” is a pervasive feature of the practices and discourses of art, at least with regard to visual works of art such as the Mona Lisa . If a painting is a particular physical object, the work of art referred to as the Mona Lisa may or may not be a painting: “Perhaps it both is and is not, can be and need not be” (2001, 272). We are interested in the unique physical object, yet we also find that a copy can serve many of the same functions, including artistic and aesthetic ones. So either we have two distinct concepts of works of this kind, or we have inherited what Sibley calls an “uneasy composite or hybrid of two conflicting notions” (2001, 272).

One source of confusion in this area is divergent assumptions about both the extension and intension of the expression ‘work of art’ and its cognates: what is it, exactly, that can or cannot be classified in a single, basic ontological category? Whereas Virgil Aldrich (1963) proclaims the term ‘work of art’ useful because of its ambivalence, others (e.g., Boas 1937) have found the pervasive ambiguity in the discourse about artworks (starting with a process/product conflation) troublesome and in need of clarification. I. A. Richards famously wrote that people “naturally talk about poems (and pictures, etc.) in a way which makes it impossible for anybody to discover what it is we are talking about” (1924, 176). Evoking the “vague” and “diverse” usage of the term, Francis Sparshott (1963) worried that the question about what sort of thing a work of art is might have no precise answer. Richard Shusterman concurs, and passes the question of the identity of the work of art along to the “piecemeal efforts of practicing art critics” (1980, 543). Claudine Tercelin (2005) develops a Peircean perspective attuned to the possibility of an irreducible, ontic vagueness in art (and elsewhere).

Thomasson (2005) argues that the relevant sortals yield only vague and incomplete identity and persistence conditions. As a result, some questions in the ontology of art admit of no precise answers. A good example would be the question of just how faulty a performance of a difficult composition can be and still count as a performance of the work. She also holds that there is no justifiable response to the question of whether a poem has actually been created when the poet has a complete sequence of words in mind but has never spoken it aloud or written it down (2005, 227). Thomasson’s skepticism, however, is a limited one: some art-ontological questions do have determinate answers about which sufficiently well-informed practitioners in the world of art could not be wrong. Thomasson reasons that competent users of the discourse successfully refer to particular novels, paintings, and symphonies, so they must have reliable concepts when it comes to the relevant art kinds. Thomasson does not, however, believe that the same argument works for the more general concept, work of art .

Dominic McIver Lopes (2007) accepts the premise that art-ontological questions find answers in sound art-appreciative practice, but conjectures, with reference to examples of Japanese architecture, that such practices vary significantly across cultures. Rafael De Clercq (2008) proposes an alternative explication of the Japanese examples; in a response to De Clercq, Lopes surveys the options and concludes that they “all challenge some widespread philosophical doctrines about the cultural invariance of ontology or reference” (2008, 196).

Pepper, who struggled with art-ontological issues for several decades, ended up proclaiming in his (1952) that ‘work of art’ is best understood as a “portmanteau” expression on which are hung significantly different conceptual garments. In his early writings on the ontology of art (e.g., 1937b, 231; 1946), Pepper had distinguished between the work of art and “the aesthetic work.” In response to published objections and queries (Nathan Berall 1951, James L. Jarrett 1952, Robert Hoffman 1962), he later drew a distinction between what he proposed to call ‘the control object’ (that he had previously referred to as the ‘physical work of art’ or ‘the vehicle’) and the object of critical evaluation (previously, ‘the aesthetic work of art’).

Various terms for a distinction in this vicinity have been employed. Hermann Siebek (1875, 7) and von Hartmann (1888, vol. 2, 35, 208) both used the term ‘ Vehikel ’ to refer to the material or perceptible bases of aesthetic objects and works of art. Volkelt (1905, 11) used the term ‘ Ausserdinge ’ to refer to the non-psychological items that make up what he called the “pre-aesthetic basis of the work of art.” H. S. Goodhart-Rendel (1934) distinguished between the material of art, the artistic vehicle, and the work of art. His idea is that the vehicle is whatever is used to “externalize” the work or to “disclose it to the world” (1934, 4). In the case of music, the sound is the vehicle; sound is not the artist’s material, however, because some musicians can compose in their heads, and on Goodhart-Rendel’s usage, only those media that are necessary to working in an art form are to be taken as materials. All that is strictly necessary to musical composition is an idea or thought of a sequence of sounds.

The term ‘vehicle’ was taken up again by Harold Osborne, who defined it as what “enables the same organization of material to enter the experience of different persons at different times” (1953, 96). A particular arrangement of pigments upon a canvas or some other surface could be the vehicle of a work, but the work itself is distinct from its material component. The work is not the vehicle alone, but “an enduring possibility, often enshrined or recorded in a material medium, of a specific set of sensory impressions” (1953, 100).

For those who dislike the medical and other connotations of the term ‘vehicle’, there are other options. Ruby Meager uses the term ‘manifestation’, commenting that “a poem is like a universal in being capable of multiple manifestations of which no single one can count as the poem itself” (1958–59, 52). Many writers have preferred the term ‘instances’. Currie, for example, defines ‘instance’ as “all those concrete things that we come into contact with when we experience a work of art” (1989, 5).

Why distinguish between the work of art and its vehicle, manifestation, or control object? Various reasons have motivated such distinctions. One line of thought is that a work is “constituted” by a material object or vehicle, where the constitution relation is not a matter of identity (for background, see the entry on material constitution, and Lamarque 2010). Pouivet (2000, 2010) has brought such arguments to bear on a number of issues in the ontology of art. Simon J. Evnine (2009, 2016) develops a constitution theory as well.

John Dilworth (2005a) distinguishes between the concrete artifact or event and the artwork. In his view the relation between them is representational. The artifact or event represents the work, which in turn represents other content, namely, the subject matter of the work.

In an analogy that some philosophers (e.g., Arthur C. Danto 1993, 199–200) have taken quite seriously, the vehicle is to the work as the body is to the person; for a very early remark in this vein, see Johan Georg Sulzer (1792, vol. 4, 727), who declares that the work of art has both body (the artistic material or Stoff ), and soul or Geist (the representation or Darstellung ). For a critical assessment of artwork-person analogies, see Stephen Davies (2001, 175–81). Another way of motivating the work–vehicle distinction in aesthetics is to say, along with Pepper and others, that reference to the vehicle or artistic structure alone does not suffice to identify the object of critical evaluation, or what artistic and aesthetic appreciation is really about.

The next section evokes a commonly told story about the basis of a work-object distinction, indicating some ways in which this story is misleading.

2.2.1 Indiscernibility and the story of Pierre Menard

In his widely cited 1964 paper, “The Artworld,” Danto cleverly evoked ways in which perceptually indistinguishable painted canvases could be the vehicles of strikingly different works of art bearing different titles and contrasting artistic and aesthetic qualities. It follows, Danto reasons, that the painted canvas alone is not the work of art, unless ‘is’ has a special sense.

In a reply to questions raised by Sparshott (1976), Danto claimed to have been “loosely following a famous model in the philosophy of perception” when he began to explore the implications of indiscernibles for issues in aesthetics (1976, 80). Yet at the outset of the second chapter of his 1981 book, The Transfiguration of the Commonplace , Danto commented: “the possibility was first recognized, I believe, in connection with literary works, by Borges, who has the glory of having discovered it in his masterpiece, Pierre Menard, Symbolist Poet ” [sic].

It is certainly the case that many philosophers have found inspiration in Jorge Luis Borges’s 1939 story, “Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote,” an English translation of which first appeared in 1962 (for more on this topic, see Livingston and Pettersson 2016). This short story is not easy to summarize, but one relevant part of it concerns a French symbolist who sets out to create a novel by rewriting—without simply copying—the text of Cervantes’s masterpiece. The narrator of the story makes observations about ways in which Menard’s work would be different from Cervantes’s even if Menard somehow managed to produce something “verbally identical” to what Cervantes had written.

In English-language philosophical publications, the earliest reference to the tale and to its implications for the ontology of art appears in Savile’s (1971) essay on Goodman’s Languages of Art (for background, see the entry on Goodman’s aesthetics). Subsequent references to the story’s philosophical implications include Walton (1973), Wollheim (1978), Goodman (1978), David K. Lewis (1978), Levinson (1980a, 2012), Ben Tilghman (1982), Susan Wilsmore (1987), Currie (1989), Jean-Marie Schaefer (1989), Michael Wreen (1990), David Davies (1991, 2010), Christopher Janaway (1992), Lamarque (1998, 2010), Jacques Morizot (1999), and the papers in Petr Kot’átko and Karel Cisar (2004).

Savile presented what he referred to as the “Borges-paradox” in order to contest some of Goodman’s claims about the individuation of works of art. More specifically, Goodman had distinguished between “autographic” and “allographic” works, where the former, unlike the latter, are susceptible to forgery. Moving quickly, the thought is that while it is possible to make a more or less successful forgery of a particular painting, it is impossible to make a deceptive copy of a work of literature because any verbally identical instance of the text is a good copy of the work, or in Goodman’s terms, an instance produced in conformity with a system of notation (for discussion of Goodman’s distinction, see Levinson 1980b, Pillow 2003, and the entry on Goodman’s aesthetics ). For a discussion of Goodman on relations between scores and musical works, see Bengt Edlund (1996).

Savile presents the Pierre Menard case as a counterexample to Goodman’s thesis that the identity conditions of allographic works are determined by a notational scheme.

Two numerically distinct tokens of the same “verbally identical” text-type could be generated by different literary authors—Menard and Cervantes—working in significantly different artistic contexts. These could, then, be the texts of two artistically different works. Ergo, the work is not the text. Turning from literature to music, Savile asks us to imagine a case where Stockhausen independently composes “an ode notationally and semantically identical” with a composition by Stamitz. Savile proposes that “We should certainly not say that they had composed the same work, for the way in which it would be appropriate to hear them would be quite different” (1971, 23; cf. Levinson 1980a).

The Borgesian narrator also floats the idea that one work could have two artistically different texts, which could be taken as reinforcing a Menard-inspired assault on a text-to-work biconditional (Livingston 2005a). Generalizing, we end up with a broad distinction between works of art and their “objects” or vehicles.

There has unsurprisingly been some skepticism about both the distinction between vehicle and work, and the idea that cogent reasoning in favor of such a distinction is really to be found in the Borges story. Tilghman (1982), Currie (1989, 134 n. 19) and Lamarque (2010), for example, raise questions about the intelligibility and coherence of that part of the Borges story that concerns Pierre Menard’s unusual intentions and putative achievement with regard to the writing of “his” Quixote. What are we supposed to imagine about Menard’s ambition in setting out to “rewrite” but not copy the text of the novel by Cervantes? Is this a psychologically coherent project? What is more, is there any good reason to think of his text as a new work? For denials, see Goodman (1978) and Goodman and Catherine Z. Elgin (1988), who contend that Menard’s text, if brought to completion, would only be a “replica” of Cervantes’s. Harry Deutsch (1991, 224) also contests interpretations of the story that find in it a cogent expression of ontological contextualism. The story should instead be read as expressing Borges’ satirical distance from the views of its narrator.

With regard to the text-work distinction and the more general arguments given in support of it, various doubts have been raised. Wollheim (1993) challenges the evidentiary value of thought experiments in a context where the concept in question—in this case, the one evoked by the expression ‘work of art’—has no determinate conditions for its application, but only some broad assumptions that can easily be “transgressed” by the apparent results of a thought experiment. Tilghman had complained a decade earlier that Danto did not specify any criteria of work constitution. Tilghman (1982) added that the ontological question of constitution is in any case not crucial to questions about criticism and appreciation.

It can also be reasonably doubted whether the Borges story truly merits the “glory” of discovery to which Danto alludes. Lamarque (1998, 2010) finds evidence of the key contextualist insight, or at least closely related points, in passages from both Shakespeare and Kant.

2.2.2 Carl Lange’s indiscernibles

Another earlier and little-known contribution on our topic was made by the Danish physician and neurologist, Carl Georg Lange (1834–1900). Lange’s book of 1899, Bidrag til Nydelsernes Fysiologi som grundlag for en rationel æstetik , the title of which can be translated quite literally as ‘Contribution to the Physiology of the Pleasures as Foundation for a Rational Aesthetics’, begins with a lengthy survey of the author’s ideas about the nature of the various sources of enjoyment or pleasure, and then moves on to apply these ideas to the arts and beauty.

Lange argues that the various sorts of enjoyments or pleasures [the Danish ‘ nydelser ’ is ambiguous between the two] given to us by works of art have a few basic sources, including variety [ afvekslingen ] and the arousal of sympathy. He also stresses the art appreciator’s admiration of the artist’s manifest overcoming of artistic difficulties in the creation of the work. The awareness that very few people, or perhaps even only a unique individual [ den Enkelte ], could have brought about a particularly innovative and difficult artistic achievement is a distinct source of artistic enjoyment. Lange wants to argue that this type of artistic enjoyment depends upon the appreciator’s awareness of aspects of the art object’s origins. One can only admire a work, in the special sense of artistic admiration or ‘ beundring ’ conceived of by Lange, to the extent that one can understand and evaluate the artistic difficulties the artist has overcome. Although Lange here repeats a claim made in earlier aesthetic treatises (e.g. Véron 1878, 63), he takes the argument one step further. He turns to an imaginary indiscernibility example in an effort to make a point about the relevant aspects “in a work” [ i et Værk ] that can give rise to the special kind of enjoyment he has in mind:

There are examples where people, and this includes even the experts, disagree over which of two paintings is the original and which is a copy. In such a situation one should think that the artistic pleasures these two paintings occasion must be more or less the same, and indeed they are, up to the moment when the doubt is removed. Once this happens the difference is very large, as history shows. Nothing prevents us in any case from imagining a copy that so perfectly reproduces the original that there is no way to distinguish them from each other. Yet there is all the difference in the world between the enjoyments they occasion. The enjoyment value of the copy, and with it, its economic value, is negligible compared to that of the original, and this notwithstanding the fact that they resemble each other like two drops of water (1899, 125–126, my trans.).

Lange holds, in other words, that one object of aesthetic admiration and enjoyment is the relational event of artist A in context C creating something sufficiently novel to provide an audience with a certain type of pleasure. Lange explicitly insists that the kind of value he has in mind is “in” the work, but not an intrinsic feature of the (tokens of) the visually identical image type.

As will become apparent below, the debate between monisms and their rivals in the ontology of art continues.

3. What sorts of entities are works of art?

Philosophers who have asked themselves what sorts of things works of art are have had recourse to a bewildering array of received and newly postulated ontological categories. The following survey is not exhaustive, but identifies some of the most prominent proposals published in the period focused on in this entry.

Platonism about works of art can be understood as the thesis that some or even all works of art are abstract entities that have no spatiotemporal location (for background, see the entry on platonism in metaphysics). It is most common to conjoin a platonist account of works in some art forms, such as music and literature, with a different account, i.e. the physical object hypothesis, of works in other art forms, such as painting and dance. Recent advocates of platonism in the ontology of art include Kingsley Price (1982), Peter Kivy (1983, 1987), and Julian Dodd (2000, 2007, 2010). Noteworthy recent critiques of platonist theses in the ontology of art include R. A. Sharpe (1995, 2000, 2001), Stephen Davies (1993, 2003b, 2008), Predelli (1995, 2001, 2002, 2006), Saam Trivedi (2002, 2008), Andrew Kania (2008a, 2008b, 2012), David Davies (2009a, 2009b), Marcus Rossberg (2012), Chris Tillman (2011), and Gary Ostertag (2012).

Some of the objections to platonism in art ontology are versions of longstanding criticisms of the postulation of abstract objects, such as the objection that the instantiation relation between universals and their particular manifestations leads to a regress, or is obscure or inexplicable. Other objections are raised by philosophers who do not reject all postulations of knowable abstract objects, but who nonetheless find that works of art are not adequately classified as such items.

One worry about platonism with regard to music runs as follows: if a sound, and the hearing of a sound, are spatiotemporal events, and if a musical work is an abstract type that has no spatiotemporal location and that exists independently of particular performances of it, how could it be literally true to say that a musical work has such-and-such sounds? Do platonists about musical works have to accept the conclusion that musical works are, strictly speaking, inaudible (Davies 2009b)? Another worry concerns performances and their relation to the abstract objects of which they are a performance: if a musical work is a fully determinate abstract object, how could an interpretative performance of it be necessary to its appreciation (Predelli 1995, 2001)?

Rudner raised another objection that is often taken up in the literature (e.g., Caplan and Matheson 2004). If a work such as Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is an abstract entity, this would have “as a counter-intuitive consequence a denial that Beethoven created the Fifth Symphony ” (1950, 385).

Here we encounter a paradox, or incoherent conjunction of thoughts each of which has some intuitive appeal when examined separately. As Kania (2008a, 22) and Cameron (2008, 295) put it in the context of discussions of the ontology of musical works, the triad may be specified as follows:

(A) Works of art are created. (B) Works of art are abstract objects. (C) Abstract objects cannot be created.

Many philosophers (e.g., Wolterstorff 1980, Kivy 1987, Currie 1989) have thought that this paradox is best resolved by rejecting (A). For others, such as Khatchadourian (1960) and Renée Cox (1985), (A) is true; works of art should be recognized as items that come into existence and can be destroyed. Given this premise, which is defended at length by Charles Nussbaum (2003), the trio may be interpreted as a reductio of (B). Yet giving up on (B) would seem to require us to overlook the obvious fact that we commonly speak of a musical work as being repeatable. Cannot the same recorded song be replayed on multiple occasions? Another strategy is to restore coherence by revising only (C). Margaret MacDonald (1952–1953) proposes that works are abstract types that are genuinely created by the artist or author. Similarly, Thomasson argues that at least some works of art (i.e., musical and literary works) are a kind of “abstract artifact” meriting recognition as genuine creations (1999, 2005, 2006a, 2006b, 2010). Barry Smith (2008) also argues for what he calls ‘quasi-abstract patterns’, which like numbers are nonphysical and nonpsychological, but which are tied, through the actions of agents, to a time and historical context. Anthony Ralls (1972) characterizes works as created universals concretely embodied through the intentional activities of artists. Peter Alward (2004) contends that the paradox is generated by inappropriate assumptions about types, and that genuine artistic creation is compatible with a continuant/stage model of works and performances. Lee Walters (2013) argues for a solution to the paradox based on the thesis that works are created types. He responds to an array of objections to this approach, including those advanced in Allan Hazlett (2012).

Many philosophers who have sought to say what sorts of entities works of art are have spoken of ‘types’ and ‘tokens’, an idiom which can be traced back to Charles Sanders Peirce (1931–1958, IV, para. 537, 423). (For background, including a discussion of Peirce’s statements on the topic, see the entry on types and tokens.) One idea that some art ontologists have found promising is that as a special sort of abstraction, types have features that should be kept in mind as we seek to solve the paradox of creation and other vexed issues, such as the question of how a work of art can have particular perceptible qualities if it is an imperceptible abstract object. As becomes apparent below, however, the conclusions on this score have been quite diverse.

Although Wollheim has at times wrongly been credited with this move, the earliest explicit reference to the type-token distinction in the literature on the ontology of art is to be found in Rudner (1950). Subsequent philosophers who have discussed applications of type-token distinctions in the philosophy of art include Charles Stevenson (1957, 1958), Meager (1958–59) Margolis (1958, 1959, 1961), W. D. L. Scobie (1960), Wacker (1960), Khatchadourian (1960), Ruth Saw (1961), Donald F. Henze (1957, 1961), Jay E. Bacharach (1971), Nigel Harrison (1975), R. A. Sharpe (1979, 1995, 2001), Rossberg (2012), and Davies (2012).

Rudner brought up the type-token distinction in the context of a critique of Lewis’s (1946) idea that a work of art is a contextualized abstract entity. Rudner conjectured that what Lewis had in mind in talking about the relationship between an abstract entity and its renditions or instances was the type-token relation. This conjecture makes sense given that Lewis was one of the first American philosophers to read his way through the Peircean Nachlass , which he found stored in cartons in the first office he was assigned at Harvard. Lewis indeed refers to Peirce at times in his (1946), but he did not endorse Peirce’s theses about the nature of types; nor did Lewis use the idiom of types and tokens in the passages where he tried to identify what he took to be the special character of the relations between aesthetic essences and their concrete vehicles, one of his main proposals being that some kinds of works of art depend more than others on concrete objects.

Stevenson (1957) reached for a type/token distinction in an attempt to disambiguate the intuitively appealing idea that a poem is a written or spoken sequence of words. ‘Word’, Stevenson notes, is ambiguous between the particular instance or token and the type of word. While he finds it tempting to rule that the poem is the type (of word sequence), Stevenson considers this to be incompatible with ordinary discourse about literature, as when we use the title of a work to refer to a particular token, saying “Please hand me Paradise Lost .” Stevenson considers it best to allow that the work is either a type or a token, leaving the task of disambiguation to context-sensitive usage. He explicitly rejects René Wellek and Austin Warren’s (1942) Ingarden-inspired thesis that a work is an abstract item, namely a stratified system of norms. In order to accommodate the idea that meaning is also essential to the kind of thing a poem is, Stevenson uses the term ‘megatype’ to pick out classes of word sequences having the same meaning, so that a poem is identifiable as a megatype. Megatypes, he would appear to believe, are ultimately reducible to “a special kind of physical object or event” (1958, 41 n. 2), but it is not clear how this analysis will proceed: is the conjunction of a meaningful text type and the text types of all of its past, present, and future faithful translations a physical object or event?

In an extended criticism of particularist accounts of the individuation and evaluation of works, Meager characterizes a work as either a spatiotemporal object or performance that manifests a pattern of elements that is the product of a person’s (or group of persons’) activity, where the activity was not a matter of copying or servile imitation, and where the object or performance is evaluated non-instrumentally. The concept of a work of art, she comments, “operates in a rather special way as a universal defined by a spatio-temporal particular, which may itself therefore be regarded as a type-universal” (1958–59, 59). According to Meager, the identity of the individual artist is not a factor of work individuation: should two different persons independently author poems that happen to consist in the same sequence of words, they have independently authored the same work, even if their motives, intentions, and contexts are strikingly different.

Turning now to Wollheim’s influential application of a type-token distinction (1968, 1980), what is most noteworthy about his articulation of the idea that at least some works of art are best categorized as types is the reason he gives for saying that types are different from other “generic entities,” and in particular, universals. The relation between a type and its tokens is, according to Wollheim, “more intimate” than the relation between a universal (e.g., a property) and its instances. Whereas the property being white is not itself white, all and only those properties that a token has by virtue of its being a token of a given type are “transmitted” to that type as well: as no bit of cloth that is not rectangular can be a correctly formed token of the type The Union Jack , it follows that the property of being rectangular also belongs to the type The Union Jack . This idea is endorsed by Oswald Hanfling (1992, 80–82), Linda Wetzel (2009), and others.

This contention about the “more intimate” relation between types, tokens, and their instantiations of properties leaves one to wonder how Wollheim conceived of both universals and types. Unlike Peirce, he does not hold that the existence of a type depends on that of at least one token; Wollheim seems inclined to accept types as a species of autonomously existing abstract object. Yet if any item that instantiates the property rectangular must be spatial, and if every token of The Union Jack instantiates that property, then it follows from Wollheim’s claim that The Union Jack is, qua type, rectangular. It would appear to follow from this that the type must be a concrete, spatially located entity, since anything that can literally be rectangular must be located in space. Yet one of the main reasons for going in for the theory of types in the first place was Peirce’s basic observation that while token word inscriptions of ‘the’ have their times and places, the word the , qua type, has no location. Is it sound to postulate the existence of an autonomous abstraction having spatial or temporal features?

Reicher (1998) acknowledges that if works are types, they cannot literally have spatiotemporal properties. With the aim of providing a more accurate restatement of ordinary talk about the perceptible qualities of works, she distinguishes between two different modes of predication. In an example of a first mode of predication, someone says ‘the table is rectangular’. This is contrasted to a different mode whereby we say, for example, ‘this work of art is determined as [ ist bestimmt als ] rectangular’. If a work of art has been determined as rectangular, then every realization of the work is rectangular. We can perceive a work’s realizations, as these are concrete objects or actions, but strictly speaking, we apprehend [ erfassen ] but do not perceive the type itself. (For background on this approach, see the entry on nonexistent objects.)

Guy Rohrbaugh (2003) argues that even in the case of repeatable works such as photographs, the category of types does not adequately capture at least three fundamental features of works of art: temporality (they come into existence and can cease to exist), temporal flexibility (some of their qualities can change over time), and modal flexibility (a work could have had properties other than those it actually has). According to Rohrbaugh, type theories cannot accommodate this kind of modal flexibility. He proposes instead that works of art should be conceived of as historical individuals that persist through time.

Wolsterstorff complains that Wollheim’s thesis about the sharing of properties among types and their tokens gives us “no illumination” with respect to the pattern of such sharing (1975, 239). Artistic types and their tokens cannot have all and only the same properties. For this reason Wolterstorff turns to a kind of “analogous predication” in which properties attributed to the token are analogously attributed to the type. Suppose a performance or instance of a work has the prescribed or indicated property, P. The analogous property of the work ( qua type or kind) is the property: being such that something cannot be a correct or proper example of the work without having the property of being P. Shifting to the terminology of ‘kinds’ and ‘examples’, Wolterstorff focuses on properties that are necessary to “properly formed” examples of a kind, where the kind in question is a “norm-kind” that can (but need not) have both improperly and properly formed instances. For example, some seriously flawed attempts to play a difficult piece by Chopin are nonetheless performances of that work, even though they lack qualities that a proper or a good instance of the work would have. This proposal is meant to accommodate the many cases where significantly different artistic and aesthetic properties figure within the occurrences or performances of one and the same work (on this theme, see also Walton 1977).

Wolterstorff accepts the thesis that works of art neither come into nor go out of existence (1980, 88–89). A kind, K , exists if and only if the correlated property, k , exists. With regard to the existence of properties, Wolterstorff’s initial view (1970) was that for any property, being-f , this property exists just in case either something is- f or something is not- f . Criticisms (John Perry 1974) involving Russell’s paradox of unexemplified properties led him to qualify this “general predicate entailment principle.”

Wolterstorff holds that the sequences of sounds and words of which musical and literary works are made up exist everlastingly. What the artist does in creating a work, then, is to make it the case that a “preexistent kind becomes a work —specifically, a work of his ” (1980, 89). Wolterstorff’s idea, then, is that a composer can select but not create a sound pattern or type of sound-occurrence. Although the latter is an entity that already exists, it is not a musical work unless some composer has determined and perhaps recorded its correctness conditions qua work. Wolterstorff remarks that the composing of a musical work is similar to the inventing of a game (1980, 63).

One family of views on the ontological status of works of art finds its orientation in a longstanding conception of the arts in general. The word ‘art’ derives from the Latin ’ars’, which is often taken as translating the Greek term ‘technē’, which covered various sorts of practical capacities or powers. The word derived from the Indo-European root ‘tek’, meaning to put together the woodwork of a house; a ‘tekton’ was a carpenter (Angier 2010, 1). Carpentry is something that cannot be done without some skill, and to become good at the art of carpentry requires training and practice. To exercise an art or craft is to activate a power to bring things about that otherwise would not have happened. In this vein Aristotle declares in his Metaphysics that “all arts, i.e. all productive forms of knowledge are potentialities; they are principles of change in another thing or in the artist himself considered as other” ( Met. 1046a36–1046b4; 1984a, 1652). In Nicomachean Ethics he remarks that “since building is an art and is essentially a reasoned state of capacity to make, and there is neither any art that is not such a state nor such a state that is not an art), art is identical with a state of capacity to make, involving a true course of reasoning” ( Nic. Eth. , 1140a6–1140a11; 1984b, 1799–1800).

That the arts are a matter of the rational production and judgement of artifacts was widely accepted by medieval thinkers (for background, see Eco 1988, 164–165). For example, in the discussion of iconoclasm and idolatry in the Opus Caroli regis contra synodum (ca. 794), Theodulf of Orléans characterized pictures as manufacta (Noble 2009, 227, 347). Claims of this sort stood in opposition to Byzantine beliefs in such things as acheiropoeitoi , or miraculous sacred images not created by mortal hands.

No doubt with Aristotle in mind, in his Summa Theologica (1912, I-II, 57, 4c) Thomas Aquinas defined ‘art’ as right reason in the making of things ( ars est recta ratio factibilium ). In (1744, 7) James Harris identified art as “an habitual power in man of becoming the cause of some effect, according to a system of various and well-approved precepts.” Kant in turn identified a work or opus as the product of a doing [ Tun ] ( facere ), to which he contrasted the effects of nature, such as a beehive. Only what is the product of the exercise of a capacity to choose [ eine Willkür ] is art (2000 [1790], 182–183, paragraph 43). (For commentary on Kant’s definitions of art and fine art, see Paul Guyer 1997.) Bolzano’s (1849) essay on the nature and classification of works of art similarly emphasizes the necessity of the artist’s intentional activity to the creation of a work. Various philosophers have more recently classified works of art (or at least some works of fine art) as artifacts; examples include Marcia Eaton (1969), Gary Iseminger (1973), Denis Dutton (1979), Risto Hilpinen (1992, 1993), Thomasson (1999), and Levinson (2007) (for background, see the entry on artifacts). The next section is devoted to Levinson’s influential proposal.

3.4.1 Works of art as indicated structures

Levinson advocates a “contextualism” in aesthetics (2005), which is not to be confounded with the approach defended by Pepper (1937a, 1968, 1970) under the same label. For discussions of contextualism in aesthetics, see Gracyk (1996, 2009), Stephen Davies (2001, 1994a, 1994b), and Matheson and Caplan (2007). In his (1980a, 1990) Levinson sets forth and defends an account of “paradigm musical works,” i.e. fully notated compositions within Western culture. His proposal is motivated by the attempt to meet what he takes to be three salient requirements on an adequate ontology of works of this sort: creatability, fine individuation, and the inclusion of performance means.

The first requirement specifies that “Musical works must be such that they do not exist prior to the composer’s compositional activity, but are brought into existence by that activity” (1980, 68). Like Wolterstorff, Levinson allows that all possible sound-types, and patterns and sequences thereof, preexist anyone’s compositional activities. The creatability requirement must be compatible with this assumption, he maintains. The claim is not, then, that composers can bring musical structures into existence; what they can do, however, is “indicate” a structural type along with a performance means or manner of generating instances or tokens of sound sequences of that type. A musical work is, then, a relational entity of the sort “sound structure and performance-means as indicated by artist X at time t .”. This sort of abstract item, Levinson writes, “does not preexist the activity of composition and is thus capable of being created” (1980a, 79; cf. John Andrew Fisher 1991). Entities of this sort, it seems, only come into existence through the actual event of indication performed by a person (or persons) in some context. Terms figuring alongside ‘indicate’ in Levinson’s descriptions of what the artist does with the abstract object include ‘discover’, ‘choose’, and ‘demonstrate’ (1990). Levinson says more about how he understands the difference between ordinary and artistic indication in his (2012).

Levinson’s fine individuation requirement springs from the intuition that if two composers were to indicate the same sound-structure, they would not thereby generate the same musical work. The contrary intuition had been forwarded by Meager (1958–59, 57–58) and Wolterstorff (1975, 248); it was criticized in Walton (1977) and Savile (1971). Levinson entertains the possibility that the identity of the composer is not essential to the individuation of works; perhaps it is at least logically possible for a work to be composed by a person other than the one who actually did so. Levinson explores the thesis that something like sameness of musical-historical context is a constraint sufficient to satisfy the requirement of fine-grained individuation.

Levinson proposes, then, that some musical works may be classified as “initiated types,” that is, types that are brought into being by an intentional action of indication performed upon a pure structure. With regard to works of visual art, Levinson (1996) defends the idea that at least some such works are physical objects as intended by the artist for a certain regard or treatment. The work is the relational entity comprised of the object or structure and the artist’s action in a context.

Currie objects that Levinson’s ontological category, structure as indicated-by-artist at time t , is metaphysically obscure (1989, 58). Fleming discovered penicillin, but do we believe that in so doing he also created the entity, penicillin-as-discovered-by-Fleming? Levinson is explicitly committed to the idea that when the artist indicates or discovers or chooses an abstract structure, “something further comes into existence,” namely, an initiated type (1990, 262). Currie’s point is that if this is allowed, various unwanted ontological commitments follow. A related criticism raised by Dodd (2000), Predelli (2001), and Alward (2004) is that indicating is not really a matter of creating, and if this is correct, it follows that Levinson’s proposal does not satisfy a sufficiently robust version of the first of his three requirements on an adequate ontology of the relevant sorts of works.

Currie also raises the objection that Levinson’s account does not individuate works adequately; this objection has been further pursued by David Davies (2004), and by Matheson and Caplan (2007). Lamarque (2010) contends that there is an indeterminacy as to which tokens are of a given indicated type.

In response to James Anderson’s (1985) suggestion that Levinson’s proposal could be amplified with reference to Wolterstorff’s ideas about norm-kinds, Levinson (1990) expresses reservations about the latter, but adds that the notion that the artist makes certain features normative for a work helps to explain in what indicating a structure consists.

3.4.2 Artworks as actions

Various philosophers have explored the idea that works should be classified as actions or performances as opposed to the products or objects that may result from such actions. Croce, Collingwood, and Dewey are early and highly influential examples. In a remarkable review of Dewey’s aesthetics, Croce makes a list of familiar ideas to be found in Dewey’s work. One of these ideas, which he says was formulated much earlier in Italy, is that “there are not artistic ‘things’, but only an artistic doing, an artistic producing” (1948, 205). Jeffrey Maitland (1975) similarly suggests that the work of art is a “doing”, but also declares that a work is a “performative presence.” Denis Dutton writes that “As performances, works of art represent the ways in which artists solve problems, overcome obstacles, make do with available materials.” (1979, 305). He adds in the same context that “the work of art has a human origin, and must be understood as such.”

Sparshott (1980, 1982) conceives of a work as a performance, and more specifically, as an action when it is conceived in a certain way, namely, as the establishment of a design. Work identity is determined by both the nature of this design and the type of action that yielded it: same design and origin, same work. Sparshott’s evocation of a unity of outcome and agency is complicated, however, by the fact that he thinks in terms of reconstructed or idealized, nonfactual artistic intentions, as opposed to the actual intentions and actions of the artist or artists responsible for the production of a “system of qualities.”

Currie (1989) proposes that all artworks belong to the category of action types. Works are types of events, then, and events are said by Currie to be a “natural ontological category.” Although Currie says he wants to stay neutral on issues pertaining to the nature and individuation of events, he at least provisionally works with Jaegwon Kim’s (1976) conception of events as property exemplifications by an object or substance (or ordered n -tuple of objects/substances) at a time. As types, works could not themselves literally be events, and Currie’s event-types are individuated in ways that abstract from the “constitutive substance” figuring within Kim’s basically Aristotelian perspective on events.

More specifically, Currie’s proposal is that a work is an action type of the form: an agent, A , discovers a structure, s , via a heuristic path, H , at a time, t .

Currie allows that the artist does not create the work of art. Nor does the artist discover it. The artist can discover a preexisting abstract artistic structure, but the work is an action type that the artist “performs” in so doing.

Currie explains that the heuristic path is the “way in which the artist arrived at the final product.” Neither a particular agent nor a specific time is essential to the action type that is the work of art: someone else could discover the same structure at a different time yet instantiate the same work. Currie conjectures, for example, that if “Picasso’s twin on ‘Twin Earth’ produces a canvas indistinguishable from Picasso’s Guernica , and if he does so in the same way, then Guernica and Twin Guernica are instances of the same work” (1989, 9). Currie also introduces a similar conjecture involving Beethoven, twin Beethoven, and twin tokens of the Hammerklavier sonata.

Wolterstorff (1992) and Levinson (1992) complain that a counterintuitive implication of Currie’s proposal is that one cannot read a literary work. Levinson (1992) takes up the question of work individuation and asks whether Beethoven and twin Beethoven really make the same works, even though they act within qualitatively identical cultures and come up with tokens of the same artistic structure via qualitatively identical paths.

Questions have been raised (e.g., by Levinson 1992 and David Davies 2004) about Currie’s Lakatos-inspired notion of the artist’s heuristic path, beginning with the obvious query as to what is and is not included in the “way” the artist discovers the structure. Currie allows that the path can include facts unknown to the artist if they are deemed relevant to the appreciation of his or her achievement. For example, even if Virginia Woolf did not know of Marcel Proust’s work when she wrote Jacob’s Room , she could “in principle” have known about it, and so Proust’s prior inventions were part of her path and are relevant to our understanding of Woolf’s achievement. Currie acknowledges that his notion of a heuristic path is vague, and he entertains the possibility that describing the heuristic of a work “starts to look like writing the history of the universe” (1989, 72). Yet he optimistically predicts that there “will be wide agreement about how the idea is to be applied in particular cases” (1989, 73). More specifically, he indicates that “case studies” in the analysis of such heuristics can be found in Michael Baxandall’s (1985).

In his proposal for an alternative to contextualist ontologies of art, David Davies (2004, 2005) proposes that works of art are best classified, not as indicated structures or as action types, but as action tokens. A work of art, then, is a ‘doing’ or generative performance. Davies further analyzes the latter as a sequence of “motivated manipulations of a vehicular medium through which a particular focus of appreciation is specified” (2005a, 75). With regard to the bedeviled question of which factors in the historical context of a work’s creation do and do not determine the identity of the work (a question that is taken to be distinct from the question as to which factors are in some broad sense relevant to the work’s understanding and appreciation), Davies identifies what he calls the artist’s “primary motivation,” which governs activities that specify an artistic vehicle that articulates a given artistic content. It is these art-content-articulating manipulations of artistic vehicles that qualify as elements in the performance that is identified with the work. For example, whether an artist’s intentional ingestion of a drug during the making of the “focus of appreciation” or product of the generative performance is to be counted as part of the work depends, then, on whether this action is part of a manipulation of an artistic vehicle effectively designed to articulate some aspect of the work’s content.

Dilworth (2005b) objects that Davies’s basic contention to the effect that works are action tokens is incompatible with his claim that works, conceived of as a particular generative performance, have a kind of “modal flexibility,” which means that the same work could have had different properties (e.g., it could have been created a few minutes earlier or later, or in a significantly different art-historical context). Davies argues that his performance theory, unlike such rivals as the indicated structure theory, is compatible with a work-relative modality. For an informative discussion of this topic, see Matheson and Caplan (2008).

Some critics of Davies’ account (Kania 2005, Stecker 2005) contend that he provides insufficient grounds for the adoption of a highly revisionary ontological doctrine that gives the lie to countless ordinary statements about works of art, such as “the Mona Lisa can be seen at the Louvre.” This criticism echoes Mary McCarthy’s remark in response to Harold Rosenberg’s proposal that action paintings are not pictures but “events”: “You cannot hang an event on a wall, only a picture” (Rosenberg 1962, 5). Davies (or the proponent of any other ontological account that is incompatible with prevalent pronouncements in ordinary language) may respond that the philosopher’s goal is not to ratify all casual and unreflective utterances about the arts, but to articulate a cogent (and possibly revisionary) metaphysics. Davies in fact contends that his proposal is meant to obey a “pragmatic constraint” to the effect that “Artworks must be conceived ontologically in such a way as to accord with those features of our critical and appreciative practice upheld on rational reflection” (2004, 23). This constraint is part of a larger argument that also rests on the following “epistemological” premise: “Rational reflection upon our critical and appreciative practice confirms that certain sorts of properties, actual or modal, are rightly ascribed to what are termed ‘works’ in that practice, or that our practice rightly individuates what are termed ‘works’ in a certain way” (2004, 23).

Stecker (2009) argues that Davies’s epistemological argument does not justify settling on the performance theory or any of the other rival ontological proposals. Stecker holds that the pragmatic, referential core of our talk about musical works requires them to be audible, repeatable, and performable. This finding, he contends, is compatible with contextualism, but not with Davies’s own proposal.

Given that the practices in the spheres of art are contradictory, changing, and influenced by cacophonous theorizing, the practices alone cannot tell us which aspects of practice are and are not indicative of reliable answers to art-ontological queries. Consequently it is fair to ask how a philosopher’s rational reflection on practice can lead to accurate answers to art-ontological questions (Livingston 2005b). Two salient issues in this regard are how sufficient evidence about art-related attitudes and behavior is to be gathered by philosophers, and how this evidence can be interpreted in such a manner that it provides reliable support for general ontological claims. Art-ontologists need a reliable, principled method with which to select and interpret the practices that are meant to support their theories.

• Abercrombie, Lascelles, 1922, An Essay Towards a Theory of Art , London: Martin Secker.
• Addison, Joseph, 1712, ‘Pleasures of the Imagination’, Spectator , nos. 411–421. [ available online .]
• Aldrich, Virgil C., 1963, Philosophy of Art , Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall.
• Alexander, Samuel, 1925, Art and the Material , Manchester: The University Press.
• Alward, Peter, 2004, ‘The Spoken Work’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 62 (4): 331–337.
• Anderson, James, 1985, ‘Musical Kinds’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 25 (1): 43–49.
• Angier, Tom, 2010, Technē in Aristotle’s Ethics: Crafting the Moral Life , London: Continuum.
• Aquinas, Thomas, 1912, Summa Theologica , London: R. & T. Washbourne.
• Aristotle, 1984a, Metaphysics , in The Complete Works of Aristotle (Volume 2), Jonathan Barnes (ed.), Princeton: Princeton University Press, 6th printing with corrections, 1995.
• –––, 1984b, Nicomachean Ethics , in The Complete Works of Aristotle (Volume 2), Jonathan Barnes (ed.), Princeton: Princeton University Press, 6th printing with corrections, 1995.
• Bachrach, Jay E., 1971, ‘Type and Token and the Identification of a Work of Art’, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research , 31 (3): 415–420.
• Barthes, Roland, 1971, ‘De l’œuvre au texte’, La Revue d’esthétique , 3, 225–232; trans. ‘From Work to Text’, in Textual Strategies: Perspectives in Post-Structuralist Criticism , Josué V. Harari (ed.), Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1979, 73–81.
• Baxandall, Michael, 1985, Patterns of Intention: On the Historical Explanation of Pictures , New Haven: Yale University Press.
• Beardsley, Monroe C., 1958, Aesthetics: Problems in the Philosophy of Criticism , New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company.
• Beiswanger, George W., 1939, ‘The Esthetic Object and the Work of Art’, Philosophical Review , 48 (6): 587–605.
• Benjamin, Walter, 1936, ‘L’œuvre d’art à l’époque de sa reproduction mécanisée’, Zeitschrift für Sozialforschung , 5: 40–66; ‘Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit’, in Gesammelte Schriften , I:2, Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser (eds.), Frankfurt am Main, Suhrkamp, 1980, 431–469; Michael W. Jennings, Brigid Doherty, and Thomas Y. Levin (eds.), Edmund Jephcott, Rodney Livingstone, Howard Eiland, et al. (trans.), The Work of Art in the Age of its Technological Reproducibility and Other Writings on Media , Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008.
• Berall, Nathan, 1951, ‘A Note on Professor Pepper’s Aesthetic Object’, The Journal of Philosophy , 48 (24): 750–754.
• Bilsky, Manuel, 1953, ‘The Significance of Locating the Art Object’, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research , 13 (4): 531–536.
• Blaukopf, Kurt, 1996, Die Ästhetik Bernard Bolzanos , Sankt Augustin: Academia.
• Boas, George, 1937, A Primer for Critics , Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press.
• Bolzano, Bernard, 1849 [2021, 2023], Über die Eintheilung der schönen Künste. Eine ästhetische Abhandlung , Prague: Haase; reprinted in Gesamtausgabe. Series II: Nachlass. A: Nachgelassene Schriften (Volume 13: Ästhetische Schriften ), Jan Berg, Edgar Morscher, and Peter Michael Schenkel (eds.), Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Fromann-Holzboog, 2021, 79–142; translated as Essays on Beauty & the Arts , Dominic McIver Lopes (ed.), Adam Bresnahan (trans.), Indianapolis: Hackett, 2023.
• Borges, Jorge Luis, 1939, ‘Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote’, Sur , 56: 7–16; trans. ‘Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote’, in Ficciones , Andrew Kerrigan (ed.), New York: Grove Press, 1962, 45–55.
• Cameron, Ross P., 2008, ‘There are No Things that Are Musical Works’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 48 (3): 295–314.
• Caplan, Ben, and Carl Matheson, 2004, ‘Can a Musical Work be Created?’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 44 (2): 113–134.
• Collingwood, Robin George, 1925, Outlines of a Philosophy of Art , London: Oxford University Press, H. Milford.
• –––, 1938, The Principles of Art , Oxford: Clarendon.
• Conrad, Waldemar, 1908–9, ‘Der ästhetische Gegenstand: eine phänomenologische Studie’, Zeitschrift für Ästhetik und allegemeine Kunstwissenschaft , 3 (1): 71–118, 3 (4): 469–511; 4 (3): 400–455.
• Cox, Renée, 1985, ‘Are Musical Works Discovered?’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 43 (4): 367–374.
• Croce, Benedetto, 1902, L’Estetica come scienza dell’espressione e linguistica generale: Teoria e storia , Bari: G. Laterza e figli; Colin Lyas (trans.), The Aesthetic as the Science of Expression and of the Linguistic in General , Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992.
• –––, 1913, Breviario di estetica , Bari: G. Laterza e figli; Patrick Romanell (trans.), Guide to Aesthetics , Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1965.
• –––, 1948, ‘On the Aesthetics of Dewey’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 6 (3): 203–207.
• Currie, Gregory, 1989, An Ontology of Art , London: Macmillan.
• –––, 1998, 2010, ‘Artworks, ontology of’, in The Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy , Edward Craig (ed.), London: Routledge.
• Danto, Arthur, 1964, ‘The Artworld’, The Journal of Philosophy , 61 (19): 571–584.
• –––, 1976, ‘An Answer or Two for Sparshott’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 35 (1): 80–82.
• –––, 1981, The Transfiguration of the Commonplace: A Philosophy of Art , Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
• –––, 1993, ‘Responses and Replies’, in Danto and His Critics , Mark Rollins (ed.), Oxford: Blackwell, 193–216.
• Davies, David, 1991, ‘Text, Context, and Character: Goodman on the Literary Artwork’, Canadian Journal of Philosophy , 21: 331–345.
• –––, 2004, Art as Performance , Malden, MA: Blackwell.
• –––, 2005, ‘Reperforming and Reforming Art as Performance : Responses’, Acta Analytica , 20: 64–90.
• –––, 2008, ‘Collingwood’s “Performance” Theory of Art’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 48 (2): 162–174.
• –––, 2009a, ‘The Primacy of Practice in the Ontology of Art’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 67 (2): 159–171.
• –––, 2009b, ‘Dodd on the “Audibility” of Musical Works’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 49 (2): 99–108.
• –––, 2011, Philosophy of the Performing Arts , Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell.
• –––, 2012, ‘What Type of “Type” is a Film?’, in Art and Abstract Objects , Christy Mag Uidhir (ed.), Oxford: Oxford University Press, 263–283.
• Davies, Stephen, 1994a, Musical Meaning and Expression , Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.
• –––, 1994b, ‘Musical Understanding and Musical Kinds’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 52 (1): 69–81.
• –––, 2001, Musical Works and Performances: A Philosophical Exploration , Oxford: Oxford University Press.
• –––, 2003a, ‘Ontology of Art’, in The Oxford Handbook of Aesthetics , Jerrold Levinson (ed.), Oxford: Oxford University Press, 155–180.
• –––, 2003b, Themes in the Philosophy of Music , Oxford: Oxford University Press.
• –––, 2008, ‘Musical Works and Orchestral Colour’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 48 (4): 363–375.
• –––, 2020, ‘Works of Music: Approaches to the Ontology of Music from Analytic Philosophy’, Music Research Annual , 1: 1–19.
• De Clercq, Rafael, 2008, ‘Lopes on the Ontology of Japanese Shrines’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 66 (2): 193–194.
• Deutsch, Harry, 1991, ‘The Creation Problem’, Topoi , 10 (2): 209–225.
• Dewey, John, 1934, Art as Experience , New York: Minton, Balch.
• Dilworth, John, 2005a, The Double Content of Art , Amherst, NY: Prometheus.
• –––, 2005b, Review of David Davies, Art as Performance , The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 63 (1): 77–80.
• Dodd, Julian, 2000, ‘Musical Works as Eternal Types’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 40 (4): 424–440.
• –––, 2007, Works of Music: An Essay in Ontology , Oxford: Oxford University Press.
• –––, 2010, ‘Confessions of an Unrepentant Timbral Sonicist’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 50 (1): 363–375.
• Donagan, Alan, 1972, ‘Collingwood’s Debt to Croce’, Mind , 81 (322): 265–266.
• Dutton, Denis, 1979, ‘Artistic Crimes’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 19 (4): 302–314.
• Eaton, Marcia, 1969, ‘Art, Artifacts, and Intentions’, American Philosophical Quarterly , 6 (2): 165–169.
• Eco, Umberto, 1988 [1956, 1970], The Aesthetics of Thomas Aquinas , Hugh Bredin (trans.), Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
• Edlund, Bengt, 1996, ‘On Scores and Works of Music: Interpretation and Identity’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 36 (4): 367–380.
• Ehrenfels, Christian von, 1986 [1896–1899], ‘Ästhetische Vorlesungen’, in Ästhetik. Philosophische Schriften , vol. 2, Reinhard Fabian (ed.), Munich and Vienna: Philosophia, 261–428.
• Eklund, Matti, 2006, ‘Metaontology’, Philosophy Compass , 1 (3): 317–374.
• Else, Gerald, 1957, Aristotle’s Poetics: The Argument , Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
• Evnine, Simon, 2009, ‘Constitution and Qua Objects in the Ontology of Music’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 49 (3): 203–217.
• –––, 2016, Making Objects and Events: A Hylomorphic Theory of Artifacts, Actions, & Organisms , Oxford: Oxford University Press.
• Fisher, John Andrew, 1991, ‘Discovery, Creation, and Musical Works’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 49 (2): 129–136.
• Focillon, Henri, 1934, Vie des formes , Paris: E. Leroux.
• Genette, Gérard, 1994, L’Œuvre de l’art (Volume 1: Immanence et transcendance ), Paris: Seuil; G.M. Goshgarian (trans.), The Work of Art , Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1997.
• –––, 1997, L’Œuvre de l’art (Volume 2: La relation esthétique ), Paris: Seuil; G.M. Goshgarian (trans.), The Aesthetic Relation , Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999.
• Gilson, Étienne, 1957, Painting and Reality , Princeton: Princeton University Press.
• Goodhart-Rendel, H. S., 1934, Fine Art , Oxford: Clarendon.
• Goodman, Nelson, 1968, Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols , Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill.
• –––, 1978, ‘Comments on Wollheim’s Paper’, Ratio , 20: 49–51.
• –––, and Catherine Z. Elgin, 1988, ‘Can the Work Survive the World?’, in Reconceptions in Philosophy and Other Arts and Sciences , Indianapolis: Hackett, 49–65.
• Gracyk, Theodore, 2006, Rhythm and Noise: An Aesthetics of Rock Music , Durham, NC: Duke University Press.
• –––2009, ‘Ontological Contextualism’, in A Companion to Aesthetics , 2 nd edition, Stephen Davies et al. (eds.), Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 449–453.
• Guyer, Paul, 1997, ‘From Jupiter’s Eagle to Warhol’s Boxes: The Concept of Art from Kant to Danto’, Philosophical Studies , 25 (1): 83–116.
• Hampshire, Stuart, 1952, ‘Logic and Appreciation’, The World Review , 44 (October): 36–40, reprinted in Aesthetics and Language , William Elton (ed.), Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1954, 161–169.
• Hanfling, Oswald, 1992, ‘The Ontology of Art’, in Philosophical Aesthetics: An Introduction , Oswald Hanfling (ed.), Oxford: Blackwell, Open University, 75–110.
• Harrison, Andrew, 1967–68, ‘Works of Art and Other Cultural Objects’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society , 68: 105–128.
• Harrison, Nigel, 1975, ‘Types, Tokens, and the Identity of the Musical Work’, British Journal of Aesthetics , 15 (4): 336–346.
• Hartmann, Eduard von, 1888, Ästhetik. Philosophie des Schönen , 2 nd edn., 2 vols., Leipzig: Wilhelm Friedrich.
• Hartmann, Nicolai, 1927, ‘Über die Stellung der ästhetischen Werte im Reich der Werte überhaupt’, in Proceedings of the Sixth International Congress of Philosophy , Edgar Sheffield Brightman (ed.), New York: Longmans, Green, and Co, 428–436.
• –––, 1933, Das problem des geistigen Seins , Berlin: Walter de Gruyter.
• –––, 1953, Ästhetik , Berlin: De Gruyter.
• Hazlett, Allan, 2012, ‘Against Repeatable Artworks’, in Art and Abstract Objects , Christy Mag Uidhir (ed.), Oxford: Oxford University Press, 161–178.
• Hein, Hilde, 1959, ‘Intermittent Existence and the Identity of Works of Art’, Review of Metaphysics , 12 (4): 633–638.
• Henze, Donald F., 1957, ‘The Work of Art’, The Journal of Philosophy , 54 (14): 429–442.
• –––, 1961, ‘The “Look” of a Work of Art’, The Philosophical Quarterly , 11 (45): 360–365.
• Hick, Darren Hudson, 2011, ‘Toward an Ontology of Authored Works’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 51 (2): 185–199.
• Hilpinen, Risto, 1992, ‘On Artifacts and Works of Art’, Theoria , 58 (1): 58–82.
• –––, 1993, ‘Authors and Artifacts’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society , 93: 155–178.
• Hoffman, Robert, 1962, ‘Conjectures and Refutations on the Ontological Status of the Work of Art’, Mind , 71 (284): 512–520.
• Howell, Robert, 2002a, ‘Types, Indicated and Initiated’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 42 (2): 105–127.
• –––, 2002b, ‘Ontology and the Nature of the Literary Work’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 60 (1): 67–79.
• Ingarden, Roman, 1931, Das literarische Kunstwerk : Eine Untersuchung aus dem Grenzgebiet der Ontologie, Logik und Literaturwissenschaft , Halle: Max Niemeyer; George G. Grobowicz (trans.), The Literary Work of Art , Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1973.
• –––, 1962, Untersuchungen zur Ontologie der Kunst: Musikwerk, Bild, Architektur, Film , Tübingen: Max Niemeyer; Raymond Meyer with John T. Goldthwait (trans.), The Ontology of the Work of Art , Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1989.
• Irvin, Sherri, 2008, ‘The Ontological Diversity of Visual Artworks’, in New Waves in Aesthetics , Kathleen Stock and Katherine Thomson-Jones (eds.), Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 1–19.
• Iseminger, Gary, 1973, ‘The Work of Art as Artifact’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 13 (1): 3–15.
• Janaway, Christopher, 1992, ‘Borges and Danto: A Reply to Michael Wreen’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 32 (1): 72–76.
• Jarrett, James L., 1952, ‘More on Professor Pepper’s Theory of the Aesthetic Object’, The Journal of Philosophy , 49 (14): 475–478.
• Joad, C.E.M, 1936, Guide to Philosophy , London: Victor Gollancz.
• Kania, Andrew, 2005, Review of David Davies, Art as Performance , Mind , 114 (453): 137–141.
• –––, 2008a, ‘New Waves in Musical Ontology’, in New Waves in Aesthetics , Kathleen Stock and Katherine Thomson-Jones (eds.), Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 20–40.
• –––, 2008b, Review of J. Dodd, Works of Music , The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 66 (2): 201–203.
• –––, 2012, ‘Platonism vs. Nominalism in Contemporary Musical Ontology’, in Art and Abstract Objects , Christy Mag Uidhir (ed.), Oxford: Oxford University Press, 197–222.
• Kant, Immanuel, 1902 [1790], Kritik der Urteilskraft. Kants gesammelte Schriften , vol. 5, Berlin: Walter De Gruyter; Paul Guyer and Eric Matthews (trans.), Paul Guyer (ed.), Critique of the Power of Judgment , Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.
• Khatchadourian, Haig, 1960, ‘Works of Art and Physical Reality’, Ratio , 2 (2): 148–161.
• Kim, Jaegwon, 1976, ‘Events as Property Exemplifications’, in Myles Brand and Douglas Walton (eds.), Action Theory , Dordrecht: Reidel, 159–177.
• Kivy, Peter, 1983, ‘Platonism in Music: A Kind of Defense’, Grazer Philosophische Studien , 19: 109–129.
• –––, 1987, ‘Platonism in Music: Another Kind of Defense’, American Philosophical Quarterly , 24 (3): 245–252.
• Knight, William, 1891, The Philosophy of the Beautiful: Being Outlines of the History of Aesthetics , New York: Charles Scribner.
• Köstlin, Karl, 1869, Ästhetik , Tübingen: L. Fr. Fues’sche.
• Kot’átko, Petr, and Karel Císař (eds.), 2004, Text a dílo: případ Menard , Prague: Philosophia.
• Lamarque, Peter V., 1998, ‘Aesthetic Value, Experience, and Indiscernibles’, Nordisk estetisk tidskrift , 17: 61–78.
• –––, 2010, Work and Object , Oxford: Oxford University Press.
• –––, 2011, ‘Immanence et transcendance: l’ontologie de l’art a-t-elle besoin de cette distinction?’, in La Pensée esthétique de Gérard Genette , Joseph Delaplace, Pierre-Henry Frangne, and Gilles Mouëllic (eds.), Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 71–86.
• Lange, Carl Georg, 1899, Bidrag til Nydelsernes fysiologi som grundlag for en rationel æstetik , Copenhagen: Gyldendalske.
• Lange, Konrad von, 1895, Die bewusste Selbsttäuschung als Kern des künstlerischen Genusses , Leipzig: Veit.
• –––, 1901, Das Wesen der Kunst , Berlin: Grote.
• –––, 1912, ‘Der Zweck der Kunst’, Zeitschrift für Ästhetik und allegemeine Kunstwissenschaft , 7 (2): 177–193.
• –––, 1935, ‘Art as Play’, Max Schertel and Melvin M. Rader (trans.), in A Modern Book of Esthetics: An Anthology , Melvin M. Rader (ed.), New York: Henry Holt and Company, 6–36.
• Lee, Vernon, 1933, Music and its Lovers , New York: E. P. Dutton and Co.
• Leon, P., 1931, ‘The Work of Art and the Aesthetic Object’, Mind , 40 (159): 285–296.
• Levinson, Jerrold, 1980a, ‘What a Musical Work Is’, The Journal of Philosophy , 70 (1): 5–28.
• –––, 1980b, ‘Autographic and Allographic Art Revisited’, Philosophical Studies , 38 (4): 367–383.
• –––, 1987, ‘Zemach on Paintings’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 27 (3): 278–283.
• –––, 1990, ‘What a Musical Work Is, Again’, in Music, Art, and Metaphysics , Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 215–263.
• –––, 1992, Critical Notice of Gregory Currie’s An Ontology of Art, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research , 52 (1): 215–222.
• –––, 1996, ‘The Work of Visual Art’, in The Pleasures of Aesthetics: Philosophical Essays , Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 129–137.
• –––, 2000, Review of Roger Scruton, The Aesthetics of Music , The Philosophical Review , 109 (4): 608–614.
• –––, 2005, ‘Contextualisme esthétique’, Philosophiques , 32 (1): 125–133; ‘Aesthetic Contextualism’ in The Postgraduate Journal of Aesthetics , 4:3 (2007): 1–12.
• –––, 2007, ‘Artworks as Artifacts’, in Creations of the Mind: Theories of Artifacts and Their Representation , Eric Margolis and Stephen Laurence (eds.), Oxford: Oxford University Press, 74–84.
• –––, 2012, ‘Indication, Abstraction, and Individuation’, in Art and Abstract Objects , Christy Mag Uidhir (ed.), Oxford: Oxford University Press, 49–61.
• Lewis, C.I., 1946, An Analysis of Knowledge and Valuation , La Salle, IL: Open Court.
• Lewis, David K., 1978, ‘Truth in Fiction’, American Philosophical Quarterly , 15 (1): 37–46.
• Livingston, Paisley, 2005a, Art and Intention: A Philosophical Study , Oxford: Clarendon.
• –––, 2005b, ‘L’ontologie et la valeur artistique’, Philosophiques , 31 (1): 224–228.
• –––, 2011, ‘Itérabilité et ontologie de l’art’, in La Pensée esthétique de Gérard Genette , Joseph Delaplace, Pierre-Henry Frangne, and Gilles Mouëllic (eds.), Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 87–100.
• –––, 2013, ‘On Cinematic Genius: Ontology and Appreciation’, Philosophy and the Arts, Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplement , 71, Anthony O’Hear (ed.), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 85–104.
• –––, 2016, ‘Bolzano on Art’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 56 (4): 335–345.
• –––, and Mikael Pettersson, 2016, ‘Thought Experiments in Aesthetics’, in Companion to Applied Philosophy , Kasper Lippert Rasmussen, Kimberley Brownlee, and David Coady (eds.), Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 501–513.
• Lopes, Dominic McIver, 2007, ‘ Shikinen Sengu and the Ontology of Architecture in Japan’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 65 (1): 77–84.
• –––, 2008, ‘Reference, Ontology, and Architecture: Response to Rafael De Clercq’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 66 (2): 194–196.
• Lord, Catherine, 1977, ‘A Kripkean Approach to the Identity of a Work of Art’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 36 (2): 147–153.
• Lotze, Hermann, 1884, Grundzüge der Aesthetik , Leipzig: G. Hirzel.
• Lowe, E. J., 1983, ‘On the Identity of Artifacts’, The Journal of Philosophy , 80 (4): 220–232.
• MacDonald, Margaret, 1952–1953, ‘Art and Imagination’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society , 53: 205–226.
• Maitland, Jeffrey, 1975, ‘Identity, Ontology, and the Work of Art’, Southwestern Journal of Philosophy , 6 (3): 181–196.
• Margolis, Joseph, 1958, ‘The Mode of Existence of a Work of Art’, Review of Metaphysics , 12 (1): 26–34.
• –––, 1959, ‘The Identity of a Work of Art’, Mind , 68: 34–50.
• –––, 1961, ‘Rejoinder to W. D. L. Scobie on the Identity of a Work of Art’, Mind , 70 (280): 544–546.
• –––, 1998, ‘The Historical Ontology of Art’, in Encyclopedia of Aesthetics (Volume 3), Michael Kelly (ed.), 390–394.
• Matheson, Carl, and Ben Caplan, 2006, ‘Defending Musical Perdurantism’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 46 (1): 59–69.
• –––, 2007, ‘Fine Individuation’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 47 (2): 113–147.
• –––, 2008, ‘Modality, Individuation and the Ontology of Art’, Canadian Journal of Philosophy , 38 (4): 491–518.
• –––, 2011, ‘Ontology’, in The Routledge Companion to Philosophy and Music , Theodore Gracyk and Andrew Kania (eds.), London: Routledge, 38–47.
• Meager, Ruby, 1958–59, ‘The Uniqueness of a Work of Art’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society , 59: 49–70.
• Noble, Thomas F. X., 2009, Images, Iconoclasm, and the Carolingians , Philadelphia: Philadelphia University Press.
• Morizot, Jacques, 1999, Sur le problème Borges , Paris: Kimé.
• Nussbaum, Charles, 2003, ‘Kinds, Types, and Musical Ontology’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 61 (3): 273–291.
• O’Hear, Anthony, 1995, ‘Art and Technology: An Old Tension’, in Philosophy and Technology , Roger Fellows (ed.), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995, 143–158.
• Osborne, Harold, 1953, Theory of Beauty: An Introduction to Aesthetics , London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
• Ostertag, Gary, 2012, ‘Critical Study. Julian Dodd, Works of Music ’, Noûs , 46 (2): 355–374.
• Pareyson, Luigi, 1966, I problemi dell’estetica , Milano: Marzorati.
• –––, 1988, Estetica: Teoria della formatività , Milano: Bompiani.
• Peirce, Charles Sanders, 1931–1958, Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce , Charles Hartshorne and Paul Weiss (eds.), Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
• Pepper, Stephen C., 1937a, Aesthetic Quality: A Contextualist Theory of Beauty , New York: Charles Scribner and Sons.
• –––, 1937b, ‘The Individuality of a Work of Art’, University of California Publications in Philosophy , 20, 81–98.
• –––, 1946, The Basis of Criticism in the Arts , Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press.
• –––, 1952, ‘Further Consideration of the Aesthetic Work of Art’, The Journal of Philosophy , 49 (8): 274–279.
• –––, 1955, The Work of Art , Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
• –––, 1965, ‘The Work of Art Described from a Double Dispositional Base’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 23 (2): 421–427.
• –––, 1968, ‘The Development of Contextualistic Aesthetics’, The Antioch Review , 28, 169–185.
• –––, 1970, ‘Autobiography of an Aesthetics’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 28 (3): 275–286.
• Perry, John, 1974, Review of On Universals: An Essay in Ontology by Nicholas Wolterstorff’, The Journal of Philosophy , 71 (8): 254–257.
• Pettersson, Anders, 1981, Verkbegreppet: En litteratur-theoretisk undersökning , Oslo: Novus.
• –––, 1984, ‘The Ontology of Literary Works’, Theoria , 50 (1): 36–51.
• –––, 1990, A Theory of Literary Discourse , Lund: Lund University Press.
• –––, 2009, ‘P. F. Strawson and Stephen Davies on the Ontology of Art: A Critical Discussion’, Organon F , 16: 615–631.
• –––, 2012, The Concept of Literary Application: Readers’ Analogies from Text to Life , Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan.
• Pillow, Kirk, 2003, ‘Did Goodman’s Distinction Survive LeWitt?’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 61 (4): 365–380.
• Pouivet, Roger, 2000, L’ontologie de l’œuvre d’art , Nîmes: J. Chambon; 2 nd edition, Paris: Vrin, 2010.
• –––, 2010, Philosophie du rock , Paris: P.U.F.
• –––, 2011, ‘L’ontologie de régime de Gérard Genette’, in Aisthesis: Pratiche, Linguaggi E Saperi Dell’Estetico , 4 (1): 39–49; reprinted in La pensée esthétique de Gérard Genette , Joseph Delaplace, Pierre-Henry Frangne, and Gilles Mouëllic (eds.), Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2012, 61–70. doi:10.13128/Aisthesis-10981
• Prall, D.W., 1929, Aesthetic Judgement , New York: Thomas Y. Crowell.
• –––, 1936, Aesthetic Analysis , New York: Thomas Y. Crowell.
• Predelli, Stefano, 1995, ‘Against Musical Platonism’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 35: 338–350.
• –––, 2001, ‘Musical Ontology and the Argument from Creation’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 41 (3): 279–292.
• –––, 2002, ‘Has the Ontology of Music Rested on a Mistake?’, Literature and Aesthetics , 12: 7–19.
• –––, 2006, ‘Platonism in Music: a Kind of Refutation’, Revue internationale de philosophie , 60, 238 (4): 401–14.
• –––, 2009, ‘Ontologese and Musical Nihilism’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 49 (2): 179–183.
• Price, Kingsley, 1982, ‘What is a Piece of Music?’ The British Journal of Aesthetics , 22 (4): 322–337.
• Ralls, Anthony, 1972, ‘The Uniqueness and Reproducibility of a Work of Art: A Critique of Goodman’s Theory’, Philosophical Quarterly , 22 (86): 1–18.
• Reicher, Maria E., 1998, Zur Metaphysik der Kunst. Eine logisch-ontologische Untersuchung des Werkbegriffs , Graz: dbv Verlag.
• –––, 2006, ‘Austrian Aesthetics’, in The Austrian Contribution to Analytic Philosophy , Mark Textor (ed.), New York: Routledge, 293–322.
• Reid, Louis Arnauld, 1926, ‘Artistic Experience’, Mind , 35 (138): 181–203.
• Richards, I. A., 1924, Principles of Literary Criticism , London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner, & Co.
• Rohrbaugh, Guy, 2003, ‘Artworks as Historical Individuals’, The European Journal of Philosophy , 11 (2): 177–205.
• –––, 2005, ‘The Ontology of Art’, in The Routledge Companion to Aesthetics , Berys Gaut and Dominic Lopes (eds.), 2 nd edition, London: Routledge, 241–253.
• Rosenberg, Harold, 1962, The Tradition of the New , 2 nd edn., New York: Horizon.
• Ross, Stephen David, 1977, ‘Some Ambiguities in Identifying the Work of Art’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 36 (2): 137–145.
• Rossberg, Marcus, 2012, ‘Destroying Artworks’, in Art and Abstract Objects , Christy Mag Uidhir (ed.), Oxford: Oxford University Press, 62–86.
• Rowland, Eleanor, 1913, The Significance of Art: Studies in Analytical Esthetics , Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, The Riverside Press Cambridge.
• Rudner, Richard, 1950, ‘The Ontological Status of the Esthetic Object’, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research , 10 (3): 380–388.
• Ruttkowski, Wolfgang, 1990, The Main Differences between Roman Ingarden’s and Nicolai Hartmann’s Strata-systems , Munich: Grin.
• Sagoff, Mark, 1978, ‘On Restoring and Reproducing Art’, Journal of Philosophy , 75 (9): 453–470.
• Santayana, George, 1923, Scepticism and Animal Faith: An Introduction to a System of Philosophy , New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.
• Sartre, Jean-Paul, 1938, La nausée , Paris: Gallimard.
• –––, 1940, L’Imaginaire: Psychologie phénoménologique de l’imagination , Paris: Gallimard; Bernard Frechtman (trans.), The Psychology of Imagination , New York: Washington Square Press, 1966.
• Savile, Anthony, 1971, ‘Nelson Goodman’s “Languages of Art”: A Study’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 11 (1): 3–27.
• Saw, Ruth, 1961, ‘What is a “Work of Art”?’, Philosophy , 36 (136): 18–29.
• Schaefer, Jean-Marie, 1989, Qu’est-ce qu’un genre littéraire? , Paris: Seuil.
• Scobie, W.D.L., 1960, ‘Margolis on the Identity of a Work of Art’, Mind , 69 (274): 256–258.
• Scruton, Roger, 1997, The Aesthetics of Music , Oxford: Oxford University Press.
• Sharpe, R.A., 1979, ‘Type, Token, Interpretation, and Performance’, Mind , 88 (351): 437–440.
• –––, 1995, ‘Music, Platonism and Performance: Some Ontological Strains’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 35 (1): 38–48.
• –––, 2000, Music and Humanism: An Essay in the Aesthetics of Music , Oxford: Oxford University Press.
• –––, 2001, ‘Could Beethoven have “Discovered” the Archduke Trio?’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 41 (3): 325–327.
• Shusterman, Richard, 1980, ‘The Identity of the Work of Art’, Philosophical Inquiry , 2, 534–545.
• Sibley, Frank, 2001, ‘Why the Mona Lisa May Not be a Painting’, in Approach to Aesthetics , John Benson, Betty Redfern, and Jeremy Roxbee Cox (eds.), Oxford: Clarendon, 256–272.
• Siebeck, Hermann, 1875, Das Wesen der ästhetischen Anschauung. Psychologische Untersuchungen zur Theorie des Schönen und der Kunst , Berlin: Dümmlers.
• Smith, Barry, 2008, ‘Searle and De Soto: The New Ontology of the Social World’, in The Mystery of Capital and the Construction of Social Reality , Barry Smith, David Mark, and Isaac Ehrlich (eds.), Chicago: Open Court, 35–51.
• Souriau, Étienne, 1943, Les différents modes d’existence , Paris: Presses Universitaires de France.
• –––, 1947, La correspondance des arts: éléments d’esthétique comparée , Paris: Flammarion.
• Sparshott, Francis, 1963, The Structure of Aesthetics , Toronto: The University of Toronto Press.
• –––, 1976, ‘Some Questions for Danto’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 35 (1): 79–80.
• –––, 1980, ‘What Works of Art Are’, Pacific Philosophical Quarterly , 61 (2): 346–367.
• –––, 1982, The Theory of the Arts , Princeton: Princeton University Press.
• Stecker, Robert, 2005, Review of David Davies, Art as Performance , The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 63 (1): 75–77.
• –––, 2009, ‘Methodological Questions about the Ontology of Music’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 67 (4): 375–386.
• –––, 2010, Aesthetics and the Philosophy of Art: An Introduction , 2 nd edn., Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield.
• Stevenson, Charles L., 1957, ‘On “What Is a Poem?”’, The Philosophical Review , 66 (3): 329–362.
• –––, 1958, ‘On the “Analysis” of a Work of Art’, The Philosophical Review , 67 (1): 33–51.
• Strawson, Peter, 1954, Review of Theory of Beauty by Harold Osborne, Mind , 63: 413–416.
• –––, 1959, Individuals , London: Methuen, University Paperbacks.
• –––, 1974, ‘Aesthetic Appraisal and Works of Art’, in Freedom and Resentment and Other Essays , London: Metheun, 178–188.
• Theodulf of Orléans, 1998 [ca. 794], Opus Caroli regis contra synodum (Libri Carolini) , Ann Freeman (ed.) with Paul Meyvaert, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Concilia 2, Suppl. 1, Hannover: Hahnsche.
• Thom, Paul, 1990, ‘Works for Performance’, Grazer Philosophische Studien , 38 (1): 139–156.
• –––, 2003, For an Audience: A Philosophy of the Performing Arts , Philadelphia: Temple University Press.
• Thomasson, Amie, 1999, Fiction and Metaphysics , Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
• –––, 2004, ‘The Ontology of Art’, in The Blackwell Guide to Aesthetics , Peter Kivy (ed.), Oxford: Blackwell, 78–92.
• –––, 2005, ‘The Ontology of Art and Knowledge in Aesthetics’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 63 (3): 221–229.
• –––, 2006a, ‘Existence Questions’, Philosophical Studies , 141 (1): 63–78.
• –––, 2006b, ‘Debates about the Ontology of Art: What Are We Doing Here?’, Philosophy Compass , 1 (3): 245–255.
• –––, 2010, ‘Ontological Innovation in Art’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 68 (2): 119–130.
• Tiercelin, Claudine, 2005, ‘Vagueness and the Ontology of Art’, Cognitio: revista de filosofia , 6 (2): 221–253.
• Tilghman, B.R., 1982, ‘Danto and the Ontology of Literature’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 40 (3): 293–299.
• Tillman, Chris, 2011, ‘Musical Materialism’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 51 (1): 13–29.
• Trivedi, Saam, 2002, ‘Against Musical Works as Eternal Types’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 42 (1): 73–82.
• –––, 2008, ‘Music and Metaphysics’, Metaphilosophy , 39 (1): 124–43.
• Ushenko, Andrew Paul, 1953, Dynamics of Art , Bloomington, IN: University of Indiana Press.
• Véron, Eugène, 1878, L’esthétique , Paris: C. Reinwald.
• Vischer, Friedrich Theodor, 1857, Ästhetik oder Wissenschaft des Schönen, zum Gebrauche für Vorlesungen , Stuttgart: C. Macken.
• –––, 1898, Das Schöne und die Kunst. Zur Einführung in die Ästhetik , Stuttgart: Cotta’schen.
• Volkelt, Johannes, 1905–1915, System der Ästhetik , 3 vols., Munich: C. H. Beck’sche.
• Wacker, Jeanne, 1960, ‘Particular Works of Art’, Mind , 69 (274): 223–233.
• Walton, Kendall L., 1973, ‘Categories and Intentions: A Reply’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 32 (2): 267–268.
• –––, 1977, ‘The Presentation and Portrayal of Sound Patterns’, In Theory Only , 2 (11–12): 3–16; revised version in Human Agency: Language, Duty and Value , Jonathan Dancy, Julius Moravcsik, and Christopher Taylor (eds.), Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988, 237–257.
• –––, 1990, Mimesis as Make-Believe: On the Foundations of the Representational Arts , Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
• Walters, Lee, 2013, ‘Repeatable Artworks as Created Types’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 53 (4): 461–477.
• Webster, William E., 1974, ‘A Theory of the Compositional Work of Music’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 33 (1): 59–66.
• Weh, Michael, 2010, ‘Production Determines Category: An Ontology of Art’, The Journal of Aesthetic Education , 44 (1): 84–99.
• Wellek, René, and Austin Warren, 1942, Theory of Literature , New York: Harcourt, Brace &; World.
• Wetzel, Linda, 2009, Types and Tokens: On Abstract Objects , Cambridge, MA: M. I. T. Press.
• Wilsmore, Susan, 1987, ‘The Literary Work Is Not its Text’, Philosophy and Literature , 11: 307–316.
• Winchester, Ian, 2004, ‘Collingwood’s Notion of a Work of Art’, Collingwood and British Idealism Studies , 10: 62–70.
• Wollheim, Richard, 1968, Art and its Objects: An Introduction to Aesthetics , New York: Harper and Row; 2 nd edn. Revised, 1980.
• –––, 1978, ‘Are the Criteria of Identity that Hold for a Work of Art in Different Arts Aesthetically Relevant?’, Ratio , 20 (1): 29–48.
• –––, 1993, ‘Danto’s Gallery of Indiscernibles’, in Danto and His Critics , Mark Rollins (ed.), Oxford: Blackwell, 28–38.
• Wolterstorff, Nicholas, 1970, On Universals , Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
• –––, 1975, ‘Toward an Ontology of Art Works’, Noûs , 9 (2): 115–142.
• –––, 1980, Works and Worlds of Art , Oxford: Clarendon Press.
• –––, 1991, ‘Review of Currie’s An Ontology of Art ’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 49 (1): 79–81.
• –––, 1992, ‘Ontology of Artworks’, in A Companion to Aesthetics , David Cooper (ed.), Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 310–314.
• Wreen, Michael, 1990, ‘Once Is Not Enough’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 30 (2): 149–158.
• Zemach, Eddy, 1966, ‘The Ontological Status of Art Objects’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism , 25 (2): 145–154.
• –––, 1989, ‘How Paintings Are’, The British Journal of Aesthetics , 29 (3): 239–251.
• Zimmermann, Robert, 1865, Allgemeine Ästhetik als Formwissenschaft , Vienna: Wilhelm Braumüller.

How to cite this entry . Preview the PDF version of this entry at the Friends of the SEP Society . Look up topics and thinkers related to this entry at the Internet Philosophy Ontology Project (InPhO). Enhanced bibliography for this entry at PhilPapers , with links to its database.

[Please contact the author with suggestions.]

abstract objects | aesthetics: British, in the 18th century | aesthetics: existentialist | aesthetics: French, in the 18th century | aesthetics: German, in the 18th century | Aristotle, General Topics: metaphysics | art, conceptual | artifact | Beardsley, Monroe C.: aesthetics | Benjamin, Walter | categories | Collingwood, Robin George: aesthetics | Croce, Benedetto: aesthetics | dance, philosophy of | Dewey, John: aesthetics | fiction: fictional entities | Goodman, Nelson: aesthetics | imagination | Ingarden, Roman | Kant, Immanuel: aesthetics and teleology | Lewis, Clarence Irving | material constitution | Meinong, Alexius | metaphysics | music, philosophy of | phenomenology | psychologism | realism | Sartre, Jean-Paul | substance | theater, philosophy of | types and tokens

Copyright © 2024 by Paisley Livingston < pl @ ln . edu . hk >

• Accessibility

Support SEP

Mirror sites.

View this site from another server:

• Info about mirror sites

The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy is copyright © 2024 by The Metaphysics Research Lab , Department of Philosophy, Stanford University

Library of Congress Catalog Data: ISSN 1095-5054

• school Campus Bookshelves
• menu_book Bookshelves
• perm_media Learning Objects
• login Login
• how_to_reg Request Instructor Account
• hub Instructor Commons
• Download Page (PDF)
• Download Full Book (PDF)
• Periodic Table
• Physics Constants
• Scientific Calculator
• Reference & Cite
• Tools expand_more
• Readability

selected template will load here

This action is not available.

2.2: Art History and World Art History

• Last updated
• Save as PDF
• Page ID 126788

• Cerise Myers, Ellen C. Caldwell, Alice J. Taylor, Margaret Phelps & Lisa Soccio
• ASCCC Open Educational Resources Initiative (OERI)

Art history and world art history

adapted from Smarthistory

“What’s visible becomes thinkable, and what’s thinkable becomes doable.” Timothy Snyder

In 2003, when Colin Powell went to the United Nations to make a case for going to war with Iraq, U.N. officials decided to discreetly cover the tapestry reproduction of Picasso’s Guernica that graces the entrance to the Secretariat. As Maureen Dowd observed in The New York Times , “Mr. Powell can’t very well seduce the world into bombing Iraq surrounded on camera by shrieking and mutilated women, men, children, bulls and horses.” The fact that it became necessary to hide Picasso’s anti-war masterpiece to make a case for militarism reminds us just how much power images and objects have in the world. As Timothy Snyder, a prominent historian of the Holocaust, argues in the quote above, images communicate ideas and influence people’s attitudes in consequential ways. This means that the work of art history—interpreting, contextualizing, and thinking critically about visual culture, and helping others to do so— really matters : not just for those involved directly with the art world, but for society at large.

A conservative discipline?

“Art history is relevant” is not how the discipline of art history is typically framed in popular discourse. Most people picture art historians as wealthy, white, intellectually conservative, and disconnected from the rest of the world. If the humanities are viewed by many critics as outdated fields with little to contribute to “productive,” STEM-driven society, art history has become their poster child—as President Obama (shown in the distinctly non-traditional presidential portrait in Figure \(\PageIndex{2}\)) once unfortunately made clear .

This representation is frustrating. Many are drawn to art history not because of being narrow-minded, but because they deeply respect objects that they study, and want to make sure they're treated with the same meticulous rigor that other types of scholars afford texts. Although texts are vitally important for understanding history, images and objects also have immense communicative power, and they deserve equally meticulous and nuanced study. It is key to put the works first, giving close attention to the conditions of their makers, making, and use. This approach doesn’t stop with formal or iconographic analysis, though these are important foundations. Alongside profound respect for objects, their particular meanings, and their histories, critical theory is deeply influential. Feminist, post-structuralist, and postcolonial critiques of power, politics, and representation form the basis of much of this work. Art history is not inherently a conservative discipline, but instead is relevant, critical, and a product of its current moment—just like art itself.

Still, most introductory survey courses still lean heavily on what has been handed down to us through textbooks, departmental requirements, and the foundational art historical education of the instructors: the traditional Western canon (a list of the art that is most worthy of our attention and study). Even courses that include “global” in their titles, as many now do, required squeezing in absurdly pared-down units on "non-Western art" alongside the accepted narrative trajectory of the Western survey. Despite the “global” title, the real focus of this type of class remains clear. Heaven forbid we leave anything “important” out of the Western units! These classes, sadly, become surveys of “the West” with a smattering of “the rest.” [1]

The “global” in scholarly discourse

How must the discipline of art history change, what are the assumptions it must relinquish, and what ideas must it embrace in order to effect a true dislocation of “center-periphery” models of cultural intellectual exchange? Aruna D’Souza and Jill Casid

D’Souza and Casid’s words call attention to the continuing presence of the “center-periphery” model within our discipline: that is, Western art, with its more or less accepted trajectory through classical Greece and Rome, the European Renaissance, and modern Europe and Anglo North America, has historically been accorded a central place within the discipline, whereas art from everywhere else remains at the margins. The center-periphery model applies not only geographically, but also in terms of the people who create art: for instance, Native American and some Spanish colonial art are clearly part of the “periphery,” even though they are spatially embedded in North America. The marginalization of artists of color and women artists in all regions is also an important part of this larger problem. In addition to all this, art history itself arose as a discipline within a Western, colonial context, and this context was key in framing even such basic methodological concepts as what constitutes a work of art. A gracefully-formed and elegantly painted ceramic jar like the one in Figure \(\PageIndex{3}\) may be displayed as merely "craft" rather than capital-a Art.

Even when the center-periphery idea is used to critique the marginalization of non-European artworks and methods, the very structure of this model upholds the idea of Europe as a conceptual “center,” reifying the very power relationship it seeks to deconstruct. What do we do with these legacies? Is it enough to simply add more works from underrepresented cultures to the existing canon? Or do we attempt to do away with binary concepts like “center and periphery” altogether, complicating the notion of hermetic styles, schools, or traditions? Or, should we look to radically redefine how we define and analyze “art” itself and, consequently, its many histories?

A range of prominent scholars have been working to address these questions, though the results have not been as rapidly or widely influential as many would like. However tantalizing, erudite, and enjoyable as some of these offerings may be, they almost all seem to lack a key aspect: broad, seamless employability at the basic level of the art history classroom.

The “global” problem in the classroom

Most of the globe remains at the periphery of undergraduate art history education, as recent studies have shown. This overwhelmingly Western bias does not end solely with departmental requirements; it also exists at the basic level of the introductory art history survey curriculum. The most widely-used textbooks still organize the history of art in terms of the well-developed Western canon, with other art traditions presented as holistic, geographically based addenda that reduce the span of entire continents and multiple centuries to single chapters.

Reframing the world

In 1987, the artist Alfredo Jaar provoked furor with his public artwork A Logo for America , an animation he designed for Times Square’s Spectacolor board wherein he proclaimed that the United States is not “America.” Rather, the animation posited, the term applies to places all across the Americas—both North and South. Jaar’s snappy, 15-second jab at the narcissism and cultural hegemony of the United States reminds us of the immense power that even the most seemingly simple words or concepts can have in framing global identities and power relations. Works like this push us to question the basic ways of thinking about the world that we often assume, in light of the inequitable systemic conditions that produced them, are neutral. This process of self-reflexively examining—and working to deconstruct—those conditions is commonly referred to as the work of discursive “decolonization.”

Jaar’s emphasis on terminology reminds us that, as we consider how to decolonize the canon in terms of the artworks we include, we also have to think carefully about the analytical tools we use to interpret and contextualize them. Our methods, formulated within a primarily Western context (both in terms of the works of art they were applied to and those who applied them), come with their own inherent biases.

Editors' Note: On Decolonizing the Canon

A canon can be defined as a rule for a standard of beauty developed for artists to follow, and as a body of works considered especially important. In art history, the “Western” canon of artworks often accorded highest status and most celebrated was formulated by white Euro/American men—and consisted of art by predominantly white, Euro/American, cisgender, men. Artistic canons, however, are not static and have been changing and expanding over time. As Dr. Mary Kelly and Dr. Ceren Özpınar argue , "The conventional 'centering' of art history in Europe and America and traditional 'Western' methodologies is increasingly unsatisfactory in the current age. Therefore, further emphasis on translocal and transnational encounters are necessary in order to tease out conditions of global exchange."

Today, many scholars are thinking about how to do that work and “decolonize” canons in various disciplines, including art history. This involves an active reconsideration and reordering of an important body of works, by first labeling colonialist or settler influences and artistic cultural legacies, and then actively resisting or recasting the canon with a different set of values, artists, and influences.

For further discussion into decolonizing art history and the canon, including how that might look for educators, please explore the following resources:

• Catherine Grant and Dorothy Price's "Decolonizing Art History" features interviews with art historians about the state of the field and efforts these professionals are making towards decolonization. Professors such as James D'Emilio explore the topic, arguing: "A decolonized art history looks beyond diversifying canons, curricula, and practitioners. It recognizes that we now study, teach, and display art with culturally specific methods whose universal claims reflect early modern and modern European hegemony."
• On The New York Times' "Still Processing" podcast, Wesley Morris and Daphne A. Brooks explore the strict and problematic confines of artistic canons in their episode "We're Never Going to Get that Top 40 Out of Us."
• Amber Hickey and Ana Tuazon provide a case study for decolonizing the classroom in " Decolonizing and Diversifying Are Two Different Things: A Workshop Case Study " and a zine with Decolonial Strategies for the Art History Classroom .

“Global” vs. “world”

This critique of methods is at the root of key current discussions about the use of the word “global” itself. John Onians has proposed the term “world art studies” (as opposed to “global art history”) to differentiate between research that looks at the “global”—i.e. globalized, networked—contemporary world through a traditional art historical lens, and that which looks at the “world,” looking at the longer span of historical time and geographic space, using a variety of interdisciplinary methods . The notion of “world” art studies has become an important point of discussion within subfields such as colonial Latin American art, precisely because it entails an interdisciplinary approach that helps to cut through inherited disciplinary boundaries around artists, styles, and periods.

Questioning, critiquing, and connecting

As Benjamin Harris, a specialist on the global contemporary art world, reminds us: “A truly ‘global field of art history’ would comprise an intellectual intervention premised on a critique of Western power in the world as it exists and is reproduced (and challenged) in cultural and artistic terms.” I believe many art historians would agree with this statement, but putting it into practice—especially in the Western survey, with its well-established narratives about stylistic lineage, single heroic artists as innovators, and geographical and chronological divisions—is challenging.

Whether or not it is important for students to take the Western survey at some point in their art history education, it is clear that students need a robust and current toolkit for looking at and analyzing art. It is also important to decenter the canon by looking at art through non-traditional lenses. Indigenous scholars, in particular, have been active in exploring alternative ways of analyzing and teaching about art. An example of this comes from Carmen Robertson, faculty in the Department of Indian Fine Arts at the First Nations University of Canada. As she states in an interview :

The first and most profound difference I find in teaching my courses is the decentering that takes place. European art is not the filter through which these courses are taught. Aboriginal values and traditions inform and direct discussions of the artwork shown in class. I embrace . . . an interdisciplinary approach [which includes] . . . connections to traditional ways, colonial adaptations and recent developments[.]

For instance, when looking at West African Igbo art, Robertson has her students read Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and then “discuss both traditional and contemporary expressions by Igbo artists, how museums display their work, and the effects of colonization on the arts.”

Networks as critique

What these approaches have in common, besides their willingness to expand the lens of art history to include concerns such as institutional, political, and cultural power relations, is a focus on objects as interconnected . Scholars in Global Renaissance studies, for instance, have been pioneering ways of reframing the art production of the trans-Atlantic and trans-Pacific in order to question the traditional periodization and categories of style that arose in the art history of the European Renaissance. Art historian Ananda Cohen-Aponte points to the existence and necessary acknowledgement of “many Renaissances and many Baroques whose artistic fruits spilled into territories across the Americas and Asia.” [2]

The reframing of objects within global networks can itself give rise to a form of critique, since, if we look closely and rigorously, these relationships demand new, more interdisciplinary approaches in order to be fully understood. But Cohen-Aponte brings up another important point as well: if we want to truly decolonize the discourse of art history, then, we also have an obligation to make space for Indigenous scholars and scholars from the Global South to take the lead writing the history of art.

[1] Art history’s awareness of these problems is nothing new. To name just three key (dare I say canonical?) texts: John Berger tackled these issues in his seminal 1972 series and book, Ways of Seeing ; Edward Said’s 1978 Orientalism has become its own shorthand; and Hans Belting’s many writings on globalization in the art world are a touchstone for anyone who studies contemporary art.

[2] Ananda Cohen-Aponte, " Decolonizing the Global Renaissance: A View from the Andes ," in The Globalization of Renaissance Art: A Critical Review, edited by Daniel Savoy (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 73–74.

Articles in this section:

Smarthistory, " Art history and world art history ," in Smarthistory , January 12, 2021 ( CC BY-NC-SA )

• Search Menu
• Browse content in Arts and Humanities
• Browse content in Archaeology
• Anglo-Saxon and Medieval Archaeology
• Archaeological Methodology and Techniques
• Archaeology by Region
• Archaeology of Religion
• Archaeology of Trade and Exchange
• Biblical Archaeology
• Contemporary and Public Archaeology
• Environmental Archaeology
• Historical Archaeology
• History and Theory of Archaeology
• Industrial Archaeology
• Landscape Archaeology
• Mortuary Archaeology
• Prehistoric Archaeology
• Underwater Archaeology
• Urban Archaeology
• Zooarchaeology
• Browse content in Architecture
• Architectural Structure and Design
• History of Architecture
• Residential and Domestic Buildings
• Theory of Architecture
• Browse content in Art
• Art Subjects and Themes
• History of Art
• Industrial and Commercial Art
• Theory of Art
• Biographical Studies
• Byzantine Studies
• Browse content in Classical Studies
• Classical History
• Classical Philosophy
• Classical Mythology
• Classical Literature
• Classical Reception
• Classical Art and Architecture
• Classical Oratory and Rhetoric
• Greek and Roman Epigraphy
• Greek and Roman Law
• Greek and Roman Papyrology
• Greek and Roman Archaeology
• Late Antiquity
• Religion in the Ancient World
• Digital Humanities
• Browse content in History
• Colonialism and Imperialism
• Diplomatic History
• Environmental History
• Genealogy, Heraldry, Names, and Honours
• Genocide and Ethnic Cleansing
• Historical Geography
• History by Period
• History of Emotions
• History of Agriculture
• History of Education
• History of Gender and Sexuality
• Industrial History
• Intellectual History
• International History
• Labour History
• Legal and Constitutional History
• Local and Family History
• Maritime History
• Military History
• National Liberation and Post-Colonialism
• Oral History
• Political History
• Public History
• Regional and National History
• Revolutions and Rebellions
• Slavery and Abolition of Slavery
• Social and Cultural History
• Theory, Methods, and Historiography
• Urban History
• World History
• Browse content in Language Teaching and Learning
• Language Learning (Specific Skills)
• Language Teaching Theory and Methods
• Browse content in Linguistics
• Applied Linguistics
• Cognitive Linguistics
• Computational Linguistics
• Forensic Linguistics
• Grammar, Syntax and Morphology
• Historical and Diachronic Linguistics
• History of English
• Language Acquisition
• Language Evolution
• Language Reference
• Language Variation
• Language Families
• Lexicography
• Linguistic Anthropology
• Linguistic Theories
• Linguistic Typology
• Phonetics and Phonology
• Psycholinguistics
• Sociolinguistics
• Translation and Interpretation
• Writing Systems
• Browse content in Literature
• Bibliography
• Children's Literature Studies
• Literary Studies (Asian)
• Literary Studies (European)
• Literary Studies (Eco-criticism)
• Literary Studies (Romanticism)
• Literary Studies (American)
• Literary Studies (Modernism)
• Literary Studies - World
• Literary Studies (1500 to 1800)
• Literary Studies (19th Century)
• Literary Studies (20th Century onwards)
• Literary Studies (African American Literature)
• Literary Studies (British and Irish)
• Literary Studies (Early and Medieval)
• Literary Studies (Fiction, Novelists, and Prose Writers)
• Literary Studies (Gender Studies)
• Literary Studies (Graphic Novels)
• Literary Studies (History of the Book)
• Literary Studies (Plays and Playwrights)
• Literary Studies (Poetry and Poets)
• Literary Studies (Postcolonial Literature)
• Literary Studies (Queer Studies)
• Literary Studies (Science Fiction)
• Literary Studies (Travel Literature)
• Literary Studies (War Literature)
• Literary Studies (Women's Writing)
• Literary Theory and Cultural Studies
• Mythology and Folklore
• Shakespeare Studies and Criticism
• Browse content in Media Studies
• Browse content in Music
• Applied Music
• Dance and Music
• Ethics in Music
• Ethnomusicology
• Gender and Sexuality in Music
• Medicine and Music
• Music Cultures
• Music and Religion
• Music and Media
• Music and Culture
• Music Education and Pedagogy
• Music Theory and Analysis
• Musical Scores, Lyrics, and Libretti
• Musical Structures, Styles, and Techniques
• Musicology and Music History
• Performance Practice and Studies
• Race and Ethnicity in Music
• Sound Studies
• Browse content in Performing Arts
• Browse content in Philosophy
• Aesthetics and Philosophy of Art
• Epistemology
• Feminist Philosophy
• History of Western Philosophy
• Metaphysics
• Moral Philosophy
• Non-Western Philosophy
• Philosophy of Science
• Philosophy of Language
• Philosophy of Mind
• Philosophy of Perception
• Philosophy of Action
• Philosophy of Law
• Philosophy of Religion
• Philosophy of Mathematics and Logic
• Practical Ethics
• Social and Political Philosophy
• Browse content in Religion
• Biblical Studies
• Christianity
• East Asian Religions
• History of Religion
• Judaism and Jewish Studies
• Qumran Studies
• Religion and Education
• Religion and Health
• Religion and Politics
• Religion and Science
• Religion and Law
• Religion and Art, Literature, and Music
• Religious Studies
• Browse content in Society and Culture
• Cookery, Food, and Drink
• Cultural Studies
• Customs and Traditions
• Ethical Issues and Debates
• Hobbies, Games, Arts and Crafts
• Lifestyle, Home, and Garden
• Natural world, Country Life, and Pets
• Popular Beliefs and Controversial Knowledge
• Sports and Outdoor Recreation
• Technology and Society
• Travel and Holiday
• Visual Culture
• Browse content in Law
• Arbitration
• Browse content in Company and Commercial Law
• Commercial Law
• Company Law
• Browse content in Comparative Law
• Systems of Law
• Competition Law
• Browse content in Constitutional and Administrative Law
• Government Powers
• Judicial Review
• Local Government Law
• Military and Defence Law
• Parliamentary and Legislative Practice
• Construction Law
• Contract Law
• Browse content in Criminal Law
• Criminal Procedure
• Criminal Evidence Law
• Sentencing and Punishment
• Employment and Labour Law
• Environment and Energy Law
• Browse content in Financial Law
• Banking Law
• Insolvency Law
• History of Law
• Human Rights and Immigration
• Intellectual Property Law
• Browse content in International Law
• Private International Law and Conflict of Laws
• Public International Law
• IT and Communications Law
• Jurisprudence and Philosophy of Law
• Law and Politics
• Law and Society
• Browse content in Legal System and Practice
• Courts and Procedure
• Legal Skills and Practice
• Primary Sources of Law
• Regulation of Legal Profession
• Medical and Healthcare Law
• Browse content in Policing
• Criminal Investigation and Detection
• Police and Security Services
• Police Procedure and Law
• Police Regional Planning
• Browse content in Property Law
• Personal Property Law
• Study and Revision
• Terrorism and National Security Law
• Browse content in Trusts Law
• Wills and Probate or Succession
• Browse content in Medicine and Health
• Browse content in Allied Health Professions
• Arts Therapies
• Clinical Science
• Dietetics and Nutrition
• Occupational Therapy
• Operating Department Practice
• Physiotherapy
• Radiography
• Speech and Language Therapy
• Browse content in Anaesthetics
• General Anaesthesia
• Neuroanaesthesia
• Browse content in Clinical Medicine
• Acute Medicine
• Cardiovascular Medicine
• Clinical Genetics
• Clinical Pharmacology and Therapeutics
• Dermatology
• Endocrinology and Diabetes
• Gastroenterology
• Genito-urinary Medicine
• Geriatric Medicine
• Infectious Diseases
• Medical Toxicology
• Medical Oncology
• Pain Medicine
• Palliative Medicine
• Rehabilitation Medicine
• Respiratory Medicine and Pulmonology
• Rheumatology
• Sleep Medicine
• Sports and Exercise Medicine
• Clinical Neuroscience
• Community Medical Services
• Critical Care
• Emergency Medicine
• Forensic Medicine
• Haematology
• History of Medicine
• Browse content in Medical Dentistry
• Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery
• Paediatric Dentistry
• Restorative Dentistry and Orthodontics
• Surgical Dentistry
• Browse content in Medical Skills
• Clinical Skills
• Communication Skills
• Nursing Skills
• Surgical Skills
• Medical Ethics
• Medical Statistics and Methodology
• Browse content in Neurology
• Clinical Neurophysiology
• Neuropathology
• Nursing Studies
• Browse content in Obstetrics and Gynaecology
• Gynaecology
• Occupational Medicine
• Ophthalmology
• Otolaryngology (ENT)
• Browse content in Paediatrics
• Neonatology
• Browse content in Pathology
• Chemical Pathology
• Clinical Cytogenetics and Molecular Genetics
• Histopathology
• Medical Microbiology and Virology
• Patient Education and Information
• Browse content in Pharmacology
• Psychopharmacology
• Browse content in Popular Health
• Caring for Others
• Complementary and Alternative Medicine
• Self-help and Personal Development
• Browse content in Preclinical Medicine
• Cell Biology
• Molecular Biology and Genetics
• Reproduction, Growth and Development
• Primary Care
• Professional Development in Medicine
• Browse content in Psychiatry
• Addiction Medicine
• Child and Adolescent Psychiatry
• Forensic Psychiatry
• Learning Disabilities
• Old Age Psychiatry
• Psychotherapy
• Browse content in Public Health and Epidemiology
• Epidemiology
• Public Health
• Browse content in Radiology
• Clinical Radiology
• Interventional Radiology
• Nuclear Medicine
• Radiation Oncology
• Reproductive Medicine
• Browse content in Surgery
• Cardiothoracic Surgery
• Gastro-intestinal and Colorectal Surgery
• General Surgery
• Neurosurgery
• Paediatric Surgery
• Peri-operative Care
• Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery
• Surgical Oncology
• Transplant Surgery
• Trauma and Orthopaedic Surgery
• Vascular Surgery
• Browse content in Science and Mathematics
• Browse content in Biological Sciences
• Aquatic Biology
• Biochemistry
• Bioinformatics and Computational Biology
• Developmental Biology
• Ecology and Conservation
• Evolutionary Biology
• Genetics and Genomics
• Microbiology
• Molecular and Cell Biology
• Natural History
• Plant Sciences and Forestry
• Research Methods in Life Sciences
• Structural Biology
• Systems Biology
• Zoology and Animal Sciences
• Browse content in Chemistry
• Analytical Chemistry
• Computational Chemistry
• Crystallography
• Environmental Chemistry
• Industrial Chemistry
• Inorganic Chemistry
• Materials Chemistry
• Medicinal Chemistry
• Mineralogy and Gems
• Organic Chemistry
• Physical Chemistry
• Polymer Chemistry
• Study and Communication Skills in Chemistry
• Theoretical Chemistry
• Browse content in Computer Science
• Artificial Intelligence
• Computer Architecture and Logic Design
• Game Studies
• Human-Computer Interaction
• Mathematical Theory of Computation
• Programming Languages
• Software Engineering
• Systems Analysis and Design
• Virtual Reality
• Browse content in Computing
• Business Applications
• Computer Security
• Computer Games
• Computer Networking and Communications
• Digital Lifestyle
• Graphical and Digital Media Applications
• Operating Systems
• Browse content in Earth Sciences and Geography
• Atmospheric Sciences
• Environmental Geography
• Geology and the Lithosphere
• Maps and Map-making
• Meteorology and Climatology
• Oceanography and Hydrology
• Palaeontology
• Physical Geography and Topography
• Regional Geography
• Soil Science
• Urban Geography
• Browse content in Engineering and Technology
• Agriculture and Farming
• Biological Engineering
• Civil Engineering, Surveying, and Building
• Electronics and Communications Engineering
• Energy Technology
• Engineering (General)
• Environmental Science, Engineering, and Technology
• History of Engineering and Technology
• Mechanical Engineering and Materials
• Technology of Industrial Chemistry
• Transport Technology and Trades
• Browse content in Environmental Science
• Applied Ecology (Environmental Science)
• Conservation of the Environment (Environmental Science)
• Environmental Sustainability
• Environmentalist Thought and Ideology (Environmental Science)
• Management of Land and Natural Resources (Environmental Science)
• Natural Disasters (Environmental Science)
• Nuclear Issues (Environmental Science)
• Pollution and Threats to the Environment (Environmental Science)
• Social Impact of Environmental Issues (Environmental Science)
• History of Science and Technology
• Browse content in Materials Science
• Ceramics and Glasses
• Composite Materials
• Metals, Alloying, and Corrosion
• Nanotechnology
• Browse content in Mathematics
• Applied Mathematics
• Biomathematics and Statistics
• History of Mathematics
• Mathematical Education
• Mathematical Finance
• Mathematical Analysis
• Numerical and Computational Mathematics
• Probability and Statistics
• Pure Mathematics
• Browse content in Neuroscience
• Cognition and Behavioural Neuroscience
• Development of the Nervous System
• Disorders of the Nervous System
• History of Neuroscience
• Invertebrate Neurobiology
• Molecular and Cellular Systems
• Neuroendocrinology and Autonomic Nervous System
• Neuroscientific Techniques
• Sensory and Motor Systems
• Browse content in Physics
• Astronomy and Astrophysics
• Atomic, Molecular, and Optical Physics
• Biological and Medical Physics
• Classical Mechanics
• Computational Physics
• Condensed Matter Physics
• Electromagnetism, Optics, and Acoustics
• History of Physics
• Mathematical and Statistical Physics
• Measurement Science
• Nuclear Physics
• Particles and Fields
• Plasma Physics
• Quantum Physics
• Relativity and Gravitation
• Semiconductor and Mesoscopic Physics
• Browse content in Psychology
• Affective Sciences
• Clinical Psychology
• Cognitive Psychology
• Cognitive Neuroscience
• Criminal and Forensic Psychology
• Developmental Psychology
• Educational Psychology
• Evolutionary Psychology
• Health Psychology
• History and Systems in Psychology
• Music Psychology
• Neuropsychology
• Organizational Psychology
• Psychological Assessment and Testing
• Psychology of Human-Technology Interaction
• Psychology Professional Development and Training
• Research Methods in Psychology
• Social Psychology
• Browse content in Social Sciences
• Browse content in Anthropology
• Anthropology of Religion
• Human Evolution
• Medical Anthropology
• Physical Anthropology
• Regional Anthropology
• Social and Cultural Anthropology
• Theory and Practice of Anthropology
• Browse content in Business and Management
• Business Strategy
• Business Ethics
• Business History
• Business and Government
• Business and Technology
• Business and the Environment
• Comparative Management
• Corporate Governance
• Corporate Social Responsibility
• Entrepreneurship
• Health Management
• Human Resource Management
• Industrial and Employment Relations
• Industry Studies
• Information and Communication Technologies
• International Business
• Knowledge Management
• Management and Management Techniques
• Operations Management
• Organizational Theory and Behaviour
• Pensions and Pension Management
• Public and Nonprofit Management
• Strategic Management
• Supply Chain Management
• Browse content in Criminology and Criminal Justice
• Criminal Justice
• Criminology
• Forms of Crime
• International and Comparative Criminology
• Youth Violence and Juvenile Justice
• Development Studies
• Browse content in Economics
• Agricultural, Environmental, and Natural Resource Economics
• Asian Economics
• Behavioural Finance
• Behavioural Economics and Neuroeconomics
• Econometrics and Mathematical Economics
• Economic Systems
• Economic History
• Economic Methodology
• Economic Development and Growth
• Financial Markets
• Financial Institutions and Services
• General Economics and Teaching
• Health, Education, and Welfare
• History of Economic Thought
• International Economics
• Labour and Demographic Economics
• Law and Economics
• Macroeconomics and Monetary Economics
• Microeconomics
• Public Economics
• Urban, Rural, and Regional Economics
• Welfare Economics
• Browse content in Education
• Adult Education and Continuous Learning
• Care and Counselling of Students
• Early Childhood and Elementary Education
• Educational Equipment and Technology
• Educational Strategies and Policy
• Higher and Further Education
• Organization and Management of Education
• Philosophy and Theory of Education
• Schools Studies
• Secondary Education
• Teaching of a Specific Subject
• Teaching of Specific Groups and Special Educational Needs
• Teaching Skills and Techniques
• Browse content in Environment
• Applied Ecology (Social Science)
• Climate Change
• Conservation of the Environment (Social Science)
• Environmentalist Thought and Ideology (Social Science)
• Natural Disasters (Environment)
• Social Impact of Environmental Issues (Social Science)
• Browse content in Human Geography
• Cultural Geography
• Economic Geography
• Political Geography
• Browse content in Interdisciplinary Studies
• Communication Studies
• Museums, Libraries, and Information Sciences
• Browse content in Politics
• African Politics
• Asian Politics
• Chinese Politics
• Comparative Politics
• Conflict Politics
• Elections and Electoral Studies
• Environmental Politics
• European Union
• Foreign Policy
• Gender and Politics
• Human Rights and Politics
• Indian Politics
• International Relations
• International Organization (Politics)
• International Political Economy
• Irish Politics
• Latin American Politics
• Middle Eastern Politics
• Political Methodology
• Political Communication
• Political Philosophy
• Political Sociology
• Political Behaviour
• Political Economy
• Political Institutions
• Political Theory
• Politics and Law
• Public Administration
• Public Policy
• Quantitative Political Methodology
• Regional Political Studies
• Russian Politics
• Security Studies
• State and Local Government
• UK Politics
• US Politics
• Browse content in Regional and Area Studies
• African Studies
• Asian Studies
• East Asian Studies
• Japanese Studies
• Latin American Studies
• Middle Eastern Studies
• Native American Studies
• Scottish Studies
• Browse content in Research and Information
• Research Methods
• Browse content in Social Work
• Addictions and Substance Misuse
• Adoption and Fostering
• Care of the Elderly
• Child and Adolescent Social Work
• Couple and Family Social Work
• Developmental and Physical Disabilities Social Work
• Direct Practice and Clinical Social Work
• Emergency Services
• Human Behaviour and the Social Environment
• International and Global Issues in Social Work
• Mental and Behavioural Health
• Social Justice and Human Rights
• Social Policy and Advocacy
• Social Work and Crime and Justice
• Social Work Macro Practice
• Social Work Practice Settings
• Social Work Research and Evidence-based Practice
• Welfare and Benefit Systems
• Browse content in Sociology
• Childhood Studies
• Community Development
• Comparative and Historical Sociology
• Economic Sociology
• Gender and Sexuality
• Gerontology and Ageing
• Health, Illness, and Medicine
• Marriage and the Family
• Migration Studies
• Occupations, Professions, and Work
• Organizations
• Population and Demography
• Race and Ethnicity
• Social Theory
• Social Movements and Social Change
• Social Research and Statistics
• Social Stratification, Inequality, and Mobility
• Sociology of Religion
• Sociology of Education
• Sport and Leisure
• Urban and Rural Studies
• Browse content in Warfare and Defence
• Defence Strategy, Planning, and Research
• Land Forces and Warfare
• Military Administration
• Military Life and Institutions
• Naval Forces and Warfare
• Other Warfare and Defence Issues
• Peace Studies and Conflict Resolution
• Weapons and Equipment

• < Previous chapter
• Next chapter >

25 Hegel’s Philosophy of Art

Lydia L. Moland is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Colby College in Waterville, Maine. She is the author of Hegel on Political Identity: Patriotism, Nationality, Cosmopolitanism (Northwestern University Press, 2011) and of numerous articles on Hegel’s political philosophy and philosophy of art, including “ ‘And Why Not?’ Hegel, Comedy, and the End of Art” (Verifiche, forthcoming); “A Hegelian Approach to Global Poverty” (Hegel and Global Justice, Springer, 2012); “An Unrelieved Heart: Hegel, Tragedy, and Schiller’s Wallenstein” (New German Critique, 2011); and “History and Patriotism in Hegel’s Rechtsphilosophie” (History of Political Thought, 2007). She is currently working on a comprehensive interpretation of Hegel’s aesthetics. In 2015, she was the recipient of a grant from the Deutscher Akademischer Austauschdienst to fund research at the Freie Universität in Berlin on a new project entitled The Prosaic Divine: Humor in the German Age of Aesthetics.

• Published: 06 June 2017
• Cite Icon Cite
• Permissions Icon Permissions

Despite Hegel’s effusive praise for art as one of the ways humans express truth, art by his description is both essentially limited and at perpetual risk of ending. This hybrid assessment is apparent first in Hegel’s account of art’s development, which shows art culminating in classical sculpture’s perfect unity, but then, unable to depict Christianity’s interiority, evolving into religion, surrendering to division, or dissipating into prose. It is also evident in his ranking of artistic genres from architecture to poetry according to their ability to help humans produce themselves both individually and collectively: the more adequately art depicts human self-understanding, the more it risks ceasing to be art. Nevertheless, art’s myriad endings do not exhaust its potential. Art that makes humans alive to the unity and interdependence at the heart of reality continues to express the Idea and so achieves Hegel’s ambitions for its role in human life.

Among the philosophers of Hegel’s generation, art achieved unprecedented status. Kant’s Critique of Judgment suggested that aesthetic experience was key to the achievement of human freedom. Schiller’s letters on aesthetic education claimed that art could heal the modern world’s alienation and inspire political enlightenment. Friedrich Schlegel and the poet Novalis launched German Romanticism with the assertion that art provided humans’ only access to truth. The young Hegel himself, together with his fellow students Friedrich Schelling and Friedrich Hölderlin, concluded that “the highest act of reason is an aesthetic act” and that the philosopher “must possess as much aesthetic power as the poet.” 1 These more romantic views did not survive into Hegel’s adulthood, but art continued to figure prominently in his philosophy. The Phenomenology of Spirit (1806) includes frequent and systematically pivotal references to art; art’s importance in Hegel’s mature philosophy is clear from its status in the Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences as a form of absolute spirit. Hegel’s wide-ranging knowledge of art and its history is evidenced by his regular university lectures on the topic, given at the height of his career. His interest in art was also personal. Students reported him to be an assiduous opera-goer; his letters to his wife recount how deeply great works of art, which he sought out on his travels, affected him. 2

Given this background, it is not surprising that art’s significance, according to Hegel, far exceeds its ability to please, amuse, or edify. Art, instead, is nothing less than “one way of bringing to our minds and expressing the Divine , the deepest interests of mankind, and the most comprehensive truths of the spirit” ( Ä:I , 21/7). 3 Not only this: it is partly through art that we become fully human in the first place. In art, Hegel says,

man brings himself before himself by practical activity, since he has the impulse, in whatever is directly given to him, in what is present to him externally, to produce himself and therein equally to recognize himself. This aim he achieves by altering external things whereon he impresses the seal of his inner being and in which he now finds again his own characteristics. Man does this in order, as a free subject, to strip the external world of its inflexible foreignness and to enjoy in the shape of things only an external realization of himself. ( Ä:I , 51/31)

This pronouncement has two components, both of which are central to Hegel’s idealism. The first is that freedom for Hegel means recognizing that the world is not inflexibly foreign: we do not confront an independently existing world that awaits our passive understanding. Instead, reality is formed by humans, together with each other and input from the world. The second is that being human is not a matter of belonging to a predetermined natural kind, but instead involves a process of collective self-determination and mutual recognition of that self-determination. Art merges these two insights by being an activity in which humans explicitly do what they otherwise implicitly do: they alter the external world’s otherness—by forming marble into sculptures or combining pigments to create paintings—and, in the process, both impress their ‘inner being’ on the world and are in turn formed by that world. In the object that results, humans discover the ‘deepest interests’ that characterize them and their societies: their conceptions of the divine, their understanding of their humanness, their attitude toward nature. In doing so, it has the potential to embody the unification of subject and object at the heart of Hegel’s idealism. 4 Art’s importance for Hegel, in short, can hardly be exaggerated.

Given art’s clear significance for Hegel’s philosophy, it is all the more surprising to find him describing art’s potential as decidedly limited. Despite its ability to manifest philosophical truth as Hegel understands it, art’s sensuous essence limits its ability to articulate these claims as claims about truth; somewhat ironically, the closer a work comes to articulating these claims, the less likely it is to be art. This limitation puts art in a particularly difficult position in the modern world, which, in Hegel’s view, has achieved the most self-consciously articulated understanding of truth. Despite the ‘universal need for art’, modern humans will never be able to express their deepest truths sensuously. “Art,” Hegel writes, “no longer affords that satisfaction of spiritual needs which earlier ages and nations sought in it, and found in it alone” ( Ä:I , 24/10).

These two claims—that art’s sensuous status limits its ability to make philosophical claims explicit and that art’s power in the modern world is diminished—together contribute to Hegel’s so-called ‘end of art’ thesis. This thesis, controversial already in Hegel’s lifetime, has precipitated no end of confusion, resulting perhaps most notoriously in the suggestion that Hegel predicted the ‘death’ of art and believed that no new art would be produced after his lifetime. Although this particular myth has been debunked by decades of scholarship, Hegel’s pronouncements about art’s limitations remain opaque, admitting, as do many of Hegel’s central claims, of multiple interpretations. 5 For the purposes of this chapter, I will interpret Hegel’s thesis about art’s end as referencing his concern that the emergence of modern subjectivity—a positive development in itself—exposes art to trends that threaten its status as art . This becomes evident if we follow Hegel’s intricately constructed, two-part story about art: the first illustrating how subjectivity’s historical unfolding shapes the development of art; the second assessing how subjectivity is embodied in individual arts from architecture to poetry. At several points in both accounts, art risks disintegrating: it risks, for instance, developing into religion, collapsing into incoherence, or dissipating into prose. Focusing on these points of possible dissolution allows us to address two central questions. The first concerns what future art must be like in order to continue fulfilling the ambitious mission Hegel assigns to it. The second regards what the value of art, not just as an articulation of humans’ deepest truths but as a sensuous articulation of those truths, might be.

25.1. Sources

The difficulty of parsing claims such as the ‘end of art’ thesis is much exacerbated by the fact that Hegel’s published references to art after the Phenomenology are minimal. The Encyclopedia contains only eight sections on art and references no particular artworks or even aesthetic genres. Although Hegel lectured on the philosophy of art several times (1818 in Heidelberg and then 1820/1821, 1823, 1826, and 1828/1829 in Berlin), his sudden death in 1831 prevented him from carrying out his plan to publish a student handbook to accompany his lectures. 6 Soon after his death, Hegel’s student Heinrich Gustav Hotho gathered the two notebooks Hegel had used in his lectures and expanded them, with the help of several students’ lecture notes ( Nachschriften ), into a work he entitled Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik (Lectures on Aesthetics). 7 This text, first published in 1835, became the standard reference for scholarship on Hegel’s philosophy of art. Its 1975 translation into English by T. M. Knox, entitled Hegel’s Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art , further solidified this status.

In the past decades, German scholar Annemarie Gethmann-Siefert has led a group of researchers who, referencing surviving student notes from individual lecture cycles, have cast disquieting doubt on the integrity of Hotho’s text. Hotho, this research suggests, revised and displaced examples, substituted in some cases his own aesthetic philosophy for Hegel’s, and—perhaps most seriously—altered the dialectical structure of Hegel’s argument. Gethmann-Siefert also claims that enduring controversies about Hegel’s position on art—his purported ‘classicism’, his description of art as the “sensible shining of the idea,” and the status of his claim about art’s end—are a result of Hotho’s tendentious editing. In an effort to establish what of the 1835 edition is actually attributable to Hegel, Gethmann-Siefert and others have published student Nachschriften from three of the years Hegel lectured on art. 8 These publications unquestionably bear out some of Gethmann-Siefert’s concerns. Philosophical issues aside, the fact that Hotho’s 1835 text runs to over 1,200 pages, while none of the student transcripts totals more than 400, suggests significant editorial license. The individual lecture notes also confirm that Hegel’s thoughts about art evolved, sometimes dramatically, between lecture cycles. Given the lack of a verifiably Hegelian text, no definitive account of Hegel’s mature reflections on art is likely to be forthcoming. Interpreting Hegel’s philosophy of art is for these reasons particularly difficult, even by the standards of Hegel scholarship.

Reactions to these difficulties have varied widely. Some scholars, convinced by Gethmann-Siefert’s concerns, now base their research only on the Encyclopedia or on the student transcripts. Others argue that Hotho’s text is as close as we can come to Hegel’s thought; moreover, Hotho’s text itself now has an almost 200-year history in the scholarship that deserves consideration. Still others attempt to strike a balance by using both Hotho’s text and the student transcripts. Given the richness of Hotho’s text—possibly based in sources now lost to us—and its history in the scholarship, this balanced approach seems to me warranted. I have relied on Hegel’s published comments in the Encyclopedia for systematic outlines but have used the lectures—both Hotho’s amalgamation and the more recently published student transcripts—in the hope of giving a sense of the depth and breadth of Hegel’s interest in art.

25.2. Preliminaries: Art, the Idea, the Ideal, and the Beautiful

One thing we can be sure of, given both the Encyclopedia ’s account and the lecture sources, is the position of art in Hegel’s system. The true, as Hegel famously says, is the whole; everything that exists is part of a self-producing totality. This totality dialectically generates the entirety of Hegel’s system from logic to chemistry to the family to politics. It also generates the opposition between the un-self-conscious (nature) and the self-conscious (humans). The aspects of this totality that have to do specifically with humans as self-conscious beings—their psychology, their moral status, their institutions, their modes of reflection—Hegel classifies as ‘spirit’. Self-consciousness implies reflectivity, or the capacity to understand why we do what we do. For this reason, the realm of spirit is normative. We ask for and give reasons for our decisions; together we create roles and their corresponding norms; we negotiate with each other for recognition of our actions within those roles. Ultimately, Hegel hopes, mutual recognition among self-determining subjects will generate institutions, such as civil society and the state, that support the further development of freedom and so are what he calls rational .

The fact that these institutions (ideally) derive from mutual recognition means that ethical life—the sphere of the family, civil society, and the state—is itself a form of self-legislation and so of freedom. It is also an expression of our unity with the world rather than our separation from it. The norms of ethical life do not originate in an otherworldly divine sphere, nor do they position us in opposition to nature. They are instead an outgrowth of our own activities. An important consequence of this view is Hegel’s claim that humans should not seek external sources of authority. We should not look to our senses for ‘real’ knowledge of the external world; neither should we look to nature or gods for the source of our laws. We, as the self-conscious part of the self-generating totality, are the creators of the world’s normative structure. Hegel calls this normative sphere the Idea.

The nature of the Idea, however, is such that it is not enough for humans to create the normative sphere and then cooperate within it. As the part of the whole that is self-conscious and so reflective, we must also reflect on the normative sphere itself. Genuine totality in Hegel’s scheme requires understanding of the totality; otherwise the totality would be not total but limited by its understanding. Absolute spirit is the term Hegel uses to describe the struggle to reflect on and articulate the Idea. Absolute spirit consists of art, religion, and philosophy, all of which have the same subject matter, namely, apprehension of the absolute Idea. 9 The three components of absolute spirit are, in other words, forms of humans’ attempts to articulate their status as co-authors of the normative sphere and so as free.

Art, as Hegel explains in Part I of the Aesthetics , differs from religion and philosophy in being sensuously embodied. Whereas religion is pictorial thinking and philosophy is free thinking ( Ä:I , 139/101), art “has no other mission but to bring before sensuous contemplation the truth as it is in the spirit” ( Ä:II , 257/623). Hegel calls art’s attempts to put the Idea in ‘determinate form’—in other words, to give sensuous embodiment to the fundamental unity underlying the normative sphere—‘the Ideal’ ( Ä:I , 145/106). 10 Art’s sensuous embodiment explains its position as the first, least explicit stage of absolute spirit. Although art is a vehicle for understanding truth, it does not present itself as such . Since the Idea requires that humans know the truth about their place in the world (as opposed only to sensing it), art falls below religion and philosophy, both of which depict their knowledge of the totality more explicitly as knowledge.

Humans throughout history, Hegel claims, have always endeavored to articulate the Idea. In other words, evaluation of the normative sphere has always been the content of art, religion, and philosophy as forms of reflection. But humans’ understanding of the normative sphere has frequently been inaccurate, attributing normative authority to nature or the gods instead of acknowledging the normative sphere as their own achievement. The modern age, Hegel thinks, had begun to remedy this inaccuracy by asserting that all humans (as opposed to only some) are free and so sources of normative authority. This positive development in terms of content, as we will see, generates the strange consequence that art—as an incomplete form of absolute spirit—can only adequately represent conceptions of the Idea that are themselves inadequate . Once a more adequate understanding of the Idea is achieved as absolute spirit’s content, religion and philosophy supplant art as the most fitting forms of reflection on that content.

Hegel extends the requirement for the appropriate balance of form and content to his definition of art itself. All art, he claims, seeks to represent the Idea in sensuous form. Art should then be judged by how well its sensuous form expresses the conception of the Idea in question, however inadequate that conception is. The two should interpenetrate each other such that “the external, the particular, appears exclusively as a presentation of the inner” ( Ä:I , 132/95). Bad art results not necessarily from the artist’s lack of skill but from an inadequate pairing of form and content. But even good art is not necessarily in Hegel’s conception beautiful art. Beautiful art, by contrast, is achieved only if the worldview in question is perfectly expressible in art such that “the figure shows [the Idea] and it alone” (E §556). The beautiful, in other words, leaves nothing left over; there is no part of the worldview’s content that it does not express, and it includes nothing that does not express the worldview in question. Beautiful art is, Hegel says, thus a “penetration of the vision or image by the spiritual principle” (E §559), “the pure appearance of the Idea to sense” ( Ä:I , 151/111). As we will see in what follows, Hegel thinks such beauty was achieved in only one of the three historical worldviews into which, he claims, history is divided.

25.3. The Symbolic, Classical, and Romantic Forms of Art

To repeat, the content of art has, in one sense, always remained constant. Like religion and philosophy, art chronicles humans’ attempts to articulate the Idea, to make sense of their place in the world’s normative structure. But in another sense, that content changes as the accuracy of their understanding of the Idea (from Hegel’s point of view) improves or worsens. 11 In Part II of his lectures, entitled “The Development of the Ideal into the Particular Forms of Art,” Hegel describes how the two elements of art—the Idea and its sensuous expression—yield three forms of art (which he also calls worldviews): an inadequate conception of the Idea can be given inadequate expression (symbolic art); an inadequate conception of the Idea can also be given adequate expression (classical art); and, finally, an adequate conception of the Idea can be given inadequate expression (romantic art). Tracing this development clarifies the role Hegel thinks art is capable of playing; it also reveals points at which art threatens to dissolve.

The symbolic worldview is inadequate in Hegel’s estimation because it depicts gods as independent sources of authority who hide meaning that humans are left to decipher. Symbolic art emerges, in other words, in religions “where the Idea has not yet been revealed and known in its free character” and “figuration suitable to the Idea is not yet found” (E §562). The divine is abstract and inscrutable; the artist can engage only in “a restless and unappeased effort which throws itself into shape after shape as it vainly tries to find its goal” (E §561). The result is often “hideous idols regarded as wonder-working talismans” produced in an attempt to interpret the gods’ commands (E §562). In the symbolic worldview, humans are ‘superficial’ (E §561), mere supplicants seeking to wrest meaning from an indecipherable universe.

Egyptian art is Hegel’s example of ‘symbolism proper’. Pyramids are an “external environment in which an inner meaning rests concealed” ( Ä:I , 460/356); the story of Isis and Osiris is “a symbol for the sun’s yearly course”; the Sphinx is the “objective riddle par excellence,” “the symbol of the symbolic itself” ( Ä:I , 465/360). Hindu epics, Islamic poetry, and Jewish psalms loosen the identification of the divine with the natural, a development that for Hegel counts as progress within the symbolic worldview toward better articulation of the Idea. But these religious views maintain a separation between an incomprehensible, sublime deity and the human, meaning that their art continues to embody what Hegel believes to be an inadequate understanding of humans’ place in the world. Because it gestures at content that cannot be contained in its form, symbolic art also cannot, according to Hegel, be beautiful.

This radical separation is resolved with the advent of the classical worldview in which gods begin appearing in human form. The human body—as opposed to grotesque talismans or towering pyramids—is of all natural forms “the highest and the true, because only in it can the spirit have its corporeity and thus its visible expression” (E §558). Everything from the position of humans’ mouths to the transparency of our veins indicates, according to Hegel, that the human body is as harmonious an expression of the spiritual as is physically possible ( Ä:I , 194/146, Ä:II , 21/433). In addition to giving gods human form, Greek mythology attributes human passions to the gods and divine motivation to humans. This interpenetration of human and divine increases within the evolution of Greek mythology itself, Hegel claims: Greeks first anthropomorphized the gods of nature (Poseidon as god of the sea), then deified human emotion (Aphrodite as goddess of love) and ultimately human institutions (Athena as guardian of Athens).

Unlike the symbolic world’s restless struggle to discover and interpret the normative, ancient Greeks (in Hegel’s oversimplified assessment) existed entirely in harmony with the community’s ethical life ( Ä:II , 25/437). There was, in other words, no interiority in the Greek worldview, no subjective perspective at odds with traditional mores. Art could therefore depict it fully: there was no content in the Greek worldview that art could not embody, and Greek art included nothing that did not express its worldview. Subject and substance, human and divine existed in complete accord, allowing the Greeks, uniquely among civilizations, to achieve pure beauty. “[T]‌he perfection of art reached its peak” in the cheerful peace of the classical world, Hegel says ( Ä:II , 127/517); classical art was “a conceptually adequate representation of the Ideal.” Nothing, Hegel wistfully concludes, “can be or become more beautiful” ( Ä:II , 128/517).

Ultimately, however, the classical world’s depiction of gods in human form was its undoing. Interpreting their motivations as divine suggested to humans that the divine was within them, a discovery that in turn produced a sense of individual moral agency independent of divine law or community practice. A new sense of interiority grew from this independence, prompting citizens to assess and dispute traditional laws, awakening “thought’s discontent with the reality which is given to it and which no longer corresponds with it” ( Ä:II , 107/501). Hegel describes this development as a clash between substance—understood here as the ethical order—and subjectivity—the individual’s assessment of that order. The resulting discontentment is most famously articulated in Socrates’ defiance of the government of Athens, but it also takes artistic form. In lampooning Athens’ sophists or its wars, Aristophanes’ comedies depict his protagonists’ subjectivity—their assertion of themselves as sources of moral authority—undermining substance, or the ethical life around them. In portraying this conflict, Aristophanes acknowledges a point of view that did not exist at the high point of classical culture.

Individuals’ insistence that their moral assessments be recognized represents a significant advance for humans’ understanding of themselves as free. But it also signals the end of art as an adequate expression of human self-understanding for the simple reason that interiority, Hegel claims, cannot successfully be given sensuous form. This, then, is one way that art threatens to dissolve. Interiority is better captured by religion’s narratives (specifically, in Hegel’s undoubtedly narrow view, by Christianity’s claim that God, in the form of the Holy Spirit, inhabits every believer) and by philosophy’s self-articulation in thought. Nevertheless, the development of interiority means not that art will not continue, but instead that humans will use art imperfectly to embody their new sense of interiority and their status as sources of authority.

In the romantic worldview—by which Hegel means any art after the appearance of Christianity—content and form again diverge. The topic of art is still the divine, but Christianity claims that the divine exists “in the spiritual world alone,” so any sensuous embodiment will by definition be inadequate (E §562). Painting depicting the suffering of martyrs is, for instance, unable to express the fullness of Christian piety. Tales of the Crusades only accentuate the incongruity between Christians’ territorial aims and Jesus’ spiritual kingdom. In medieval chivalric legends, the subjective drive for honor becomes so detached from any objective ethical assessment that knights ride to the aid even of “a gang of rascals” to prove their courage ( Ä:II , 215/589). Such contrast between subjective goals and objective reality forms the basis of comic writings by Ariosto, Cervantes, and Shakespeare in which “we find marvelous ramifications and conflicts introduced, begun, broken off, re-entangled, cross-cut, and finally resolved in a surprising way” ( Ä:II , 217/ 591). The romantic age’s characteristic subjectivity ultimately produces the romantic fiction of Hegel’s generation in which young, usually bourgeois protagonists, despairing at the world’s refusal to understand them, throw themselves against “the will of a father or an aunt” ( Ä:II , 219/593). Such novels, in Hegel’s laconic description, generally end when subjective idiosyncrasy capitulates to the prosaic: when the protagonist “gets his girl and some sort of position, marries her, and becomes as good a Philistine as others” ( Ä:II , 220/593).

After the domestication of romance in fiction, the separation of subjectivity and objectivity, implicit from the beginning of romantic art, becomes explicit. Art goes in two directions, both of which threaten its status as art . On the one hand, the artist, finding it impossible to give her interiority sensuous expression, abandons her subjectivity and resorts to imitating the object. Hegel’s example is the hyper-realism and domesticity of Dutch genre painting, in which anything, even tooth extraction, can be the subject of art ( Ä:II , 226/598). Although Hegel deeply admired the work of Vermeer and Rembrandt, he concludes that only their sheer talent and ‘subjective vivacity’ save their works from collapsing into mere imitation and ceasing to be art altogether. On the other hand, the artist abandons all pretentions to objectivity and loses herself in subjective whim. This results in what Hegel calls ‘subjective humor’, a novelistic genre (with disconcertingly little resemblance to contemporary definitions of humor) in which authors such as Jean Paul seek no objectivity or even coherence, instead stringing together whatever occurs to them into loose, fantastical plots ( Ä:II , 229/601). For most of his career, this development prompted Hegel to conclude that subjective humor marks the disintegration of art. 12

Art’s complex status in Hegel’s philosophy is evident again in the fact that precisely in its dissolution, art tracks the positive development of humans’ understanding of their place in the normative sphere: their understanding, in short, of the Idea. Because it could not tolerate subjectivity’s critique of the normative structure, the unity of the Greek worldview, however beautiful, reflected an inadequate understanding of the Idea. We can mourn its loss, but returning to Greek harmony would mean abandoning our ability to make moral judgments independently of our communities. We would then be denying that we are co-authors of our norms and so self-determining. Like it or not, art’s attempts to articulate the Idea will now concern “the depths and heights of the human heart as such, mankind in its joys and sorrows, its strivings, deeds, and fates” ( Ä:II , 238/607). Humanus , Hegel says in an echo of Goethe’s gentle irony, is art’s new ‘holy of holies’ ( Ä:II , 237/607). 13 This humanistic reorientation explains Hegel’s contention that modern humans can no longer ‘bend the knee’ to art: art can no longer celebrate the epoch-forming deeds of gods or heroes but must instead depict a reality all too human ( Ä:I , 142/103). In the deepest Hegelian sense, this radical secularization tracks the truth: the divine is the human, and human concerns are divine concerns. Only with this realization can we begin to understand the fully articulated Idea, which is to say the fundamental totality and our place in it. The fact that this truth is not adequately presentable in art does not make it any less true.

But art’s new human focus need not signal its demise. Art that resists spiritless imitation of objectivity, on the one hand, and subjective self-indulgence, on the other, could still fulfill art’s role in the modern world. In his last lectures, Hegel seems to have given more thought to this possibility, concluding that with the right effort, the modern artist can successfully depict the Idea. 14 The artist must (unlike the subjective humorist) take his work seriously ( Ä:II , 233/604); the content of the artwork must be “imbued with living and contemporary interest,” not a rehashing of old or sentimental themes ( Ä:II , 239/608). Finally, the artist must choose the right form for this inmost, contemporary truth. If these criteria are met, Hegel concedes that a kind of ‘spiritual beauty’ can be achieved in romantic art, even if the most perfect form of sensual beauty cannot ( Ä:II , 129/518). He concludes by suggesting that an art form he calls objective humor might reunite the two extremes of romantic art. In objective humor—a genre also not to be confused with the comical or the funny—the artist focuses her creative talents on the object, describing and enlivening it through her subjective associations. As a modern example of such synthesis, Hegel somewhat surprisingly lauds Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan, a lyrical cycle in which Goethe’s poetic imagination is employed not to parade or indulge his subjectivity (as in the case of Jean Paul’s fantastical plots) but to imbue everyday objects with beauty and meaning. In the process, both Goethe and the object are transformed and so embody the mutual formation of self and world that is at the heart of Hegel’s idealism.

We will likely never know what prompted Hegel’s more optimistic assessment of art’s potential in his 1828 lectures. But objective humor as a redemption of art’s potential aligns with another of Hegel’s philosophical claims. Art that includes objective humor’s acknowledgment of the mutual formation between subject and object is positioned to address yet another misunderstanding of the Idea, namely, the claim that any given subject alone can determine normativity. Aesthetically, we see this claim play out in chivalry’s haphazard definition of honor and the subjective humorist’s refusal to construct plots comprehensible to anyone but herself. In both cases, the subject refuses to negotiate with the world around her. We can understand Hegel’s objection to such art by considering a correlate mistake in ethical life: namely, an individual’s belief that her conscience alone can determine right and wrong. The ultimate truth—both in aesthetics and in ethics—is for Hegel otherwise: only in communities founded on mutual recognition can negotiation about normativity yield true freedom. Objective humor will never express this truth completely: no matter how skillfully the artist enlivens the object through her subjectivity, there will still be interiority left unexpressed. But in modeling the mutual determination between subject and object, objective humor provides a prototype, however limited, for the sensuous embodiment of the Idea in the romantic world. 15

25.4. The System of the Individual Arts

This mixed assessment of art’s potential within historical worldviews concludes Part II of the lectures. In Part III, entitled “The System of the Individual Arts,” Hegel leaves worldviews generally behind and instead explores the external aspect of art: the kinds of sensuous embodiment (visual, tactile, audial) that individual arts employ ( Ä:II , 245/613). In this second trajectory, which allows him to analyze art not as a historical phenomenon but on its own terms, Hegel has two principal aims that are distinct from his aims in Part II. One is to show the extent to which each art helps humans understand their relation to the totality—in other words, to what extent each art in itself expresses the Idea. The second is to develop the claim that art enables us to produce ourselves both individually and collectively. Also in tracing Hegel’s assessment of art’s external aspect, we find that the closer art comes to articulating the Idea, the more its status as art is undermined. Hegel considers five individual arts in an order that begins with architecture, which he considers barely an art, and ends with poetry, which in its furthest development risks no longer being art.

Architecture from Hegel’s standpoint is limited since it “has not found for the presentation of its spiritual content either the adequate material or the corresponding forms” ( Ä:II , 258/624). Architecture barely lifts itself above the sensuous: its material is heavy, natural, and raw, and so is ‘non-spiritual’. Its form must explicitly obey the laws of gravity and so is also not free ( Ä:II , 259/624). Nevertheless, each of the worldviews discussed in Part II expresses its ‘spiritual convictions’ through architecture. Paradigmatically symbolic architecture emerges when a developing nation seeks to express itself and, because its self-understanding is indefinite and abstract, “catches at what is equally abstract, i.e. matter as such, as what has mass and weight” ( Ä:II , 273/635). As examples, Hegel cites colossal structures in Babylon, India, and Egypt that serve as a ‘unifying point’ for a nation’s religious ideas, despite those ideas being vague and mutable. By contrast, the harmony of the classical worldview expresses itself architecturally through its embodiment of laws of proportion and gravity and by Greek temples’ perfect unity of form and function. Through their breadth rather than height, exposure to open air, and lack of a central gathering place, Greek temples embody the “cheerfulness, openness, and comfort” of the worldview that produced them ( Ä:II , 321/676). Romantic architecture, by contrast, “struggles upwards immeasurably and lifts itself to the sky,” inspiring its viewers to raise their spiritual gaze above the earthly ( Ä:II , 319/674). Gothic cathedrals, for instance, embody Christianity’s interiority by allowing no intrusion by nature—even natural light, Hegel points out, is filtered through stained glass windows. This contrast indicates that Christianity’s “spiritual meaning does not reside exclusively in the building” but in the hearts of its adherents ( Ä:II , 303–304/661). In allowing humans to express their spiritual understanding materially, architecture indeed contributes to humans’ ability to impress themselves on the world and see themselves in it. But architecture’s unspiritual matter and its trend toward functionality limit its potential to express the Idea.

Sculpture, like architecture, uses “heavy matter in its spatial entirety,” transforming inorganic material into an expression of spirit. Unlike architecture, however, sculpture’s form is not dictated by symmetry and functionality. In Hegel’s somewhat idiosyncratic view, only sculpture depicting the human body is true sculpture. Again because humans’ unique physiognomy (our upright posture, our recessed eyes) so perfectly captures spirituality, sculpture “comprises the miracle of spirit’s giving itself an image of itself in something purely material” ( Ä:II , 362/710). In achieving this unity of form and content, sculpture “more than any other art always points particularly to the Ideal” ( Ä:II , 372/718).

Sculpture proper is impossible in the symbolic worldview, given that it did not recognize the divine in the human and so could not portray their unity. The classical world, as we have already seen, by contrast depicted the human in divine form and so was the first to produce, in Hegel’s sense, sculpture as such. The height of classical sculpture, Hegel suggests, is found in fifth-century bc images of deities such as the Athena Parthenos and the Olympian Zeus , statues whose stillness and equipoise embodied the harmony of Greek life ( Ä:II , 439/773). Such sculptures give no indication of interior struggle or deliberation; their stillness is enhanced by their vacant eyes and impassive expressions. Paradigmatic sculptures also do not depict action since action suggests desire, restlessness, and a tension between the subject and the external world that is absent from classical Greek sensibility. Hegel acknowledges that even classical sculpture sometimes depicted gods undertaking simple actions and so does not fit this paradigm. But sculpture in its purest form depicts abstract, peaceful harmony and so achieves “beauty at once free and necessary” ( Ä:II , 373/718).

Once this harmony begins to disintegrate, however, sculpture’s essential three-dimensionality prevents it from being able to depict the range of emotions unleashed by romantic interiority ( Ä:II , 458/788). This task is assumed by ‘the romantic arts’—painting, music, and poetry—“whose mission it is to give shape to the inner side of personal life” ( Ä:II , 239/625). We recall Hegel’s claim that through art, humans also produce ourselves: in having the kinds of experiences made possible by the three romantic arts, we not only discover the form we give the external world; we also come to understand how our sense of ourselves as spatial, temporal creatures is achieved through interaction with the world.

Painting is an interior art, first of all, because the forms it depicts exist only in the mind of the viewer. Whereas a sculpture’s perceived shape is its physical shape (Athena’s sculpted head looks, and is, spherical), the figures in a painting are not actually the shape they appear to be (the painted apple looks, but is not, spherical). The mind is instead led, through conventions and techniques of painting, to infer the painted object’s shape through the contrast of colors. Painting’s ability to make us see three dimensions when there are only two means that painting is not concerned simply with making things visible, but with visibility as a phenomenon that occurs within an individual. 16 Painting does not reproduce the natural object, but “becomes a reflection of the spirit in which the spirit only reveals its spiritual quality by cancelling the real existent and transforming it into a pure appearance in the domain of spirit for apprehension by spirit” ( Ä:III , 27/805). In other words, painting prompts us to recognize how our reflective capacities ‘cancel’ the real object and convert it into something purely reflected, which can then itself become an object of reflection. On this account, painting is “the inner life of the spirit which undertakes to express itself as inner in the mirror of externality.” Because painting showcases interiority, the ‘real heart of painting’ is in the romantic world, rather than in oriental or classical painting ( Ä:III , 23–24/801–802).

Since painting’s images exist in full only through the viewer’s perception, it should be no surprise that painting is capable of depicting subjective interiority with fullness and vivacity. More completely than sculpture or certainly architecture, painting can depict “willing, feeling, … suffering, grief, and death, in the whole range of passions and satisfactions” ( Ä:II , 259/625). It can also express the complexity of action better than architecture or sculpture, thus coming closer to explicit reflection on the normative sphere’s assessment of motivations, intentions, and outcomes. Both because of this proliferation of factors and because context is necessary to make sense of them, painting’s subject matter varies much more widely than sculpture’s. Painting is called on to depict “great historical events, the most pre-eminent individuals,” but also, as again in Dutch genre painting, the “shimmering and glittering of wine in a glass, a flash of the eye, a momentary look or smile” ( Ä:III , 36/812). Painting additionally highlights subjectivity in that the particular artist’s take on any given subject matter becomes central in a way it was not in architecture or sculpture: whether thematizing scenes from the life of Christ, depicting landscapes, or portraying the struggles of the lower classes, in painting “something new is added,” namely, the “love, the mind and spirit, the soul, with which the artist seizes on them, makes them his own, and so breathes his own inspiration of production as a new life into what he creates” ( Ä:III , 37/837).

Music intensifies the interiority initiated in painting. Whereas a painting’s juxtaposition of color persists whether or not it is being viewed, a series of notes becomes a melody only through memory: the melody does not even come into existence without a listener ( Ä:III , 135/891–892). 17 In a clear case of mutual formation of self and world, music correspondingly gives the listener a sense of her temporal self ( Ä:III , 156/907–908). Music eliminates not only one dimension, as painting does, but “the whole of space”; it “keeps firmly to the inner life without giving it an outward shape or figure.” Purely instrumental music (which Hegel seems to consider music’s paradigmatic form), in having no recourse to images, is sound treated “as an end in itself” ( Ä:III , 133/899). Music is thus “manifested as a subjective inwardness” and occupies the most interior point of art.

While painting captured emotion better than sculpture or architecture, music embodies purified, ephemeral emotion: its “proper element is the inner life as such, explicitly shapeless feeling which cannot manifest itself in the outer world and its reality but only through an external medium which quickly vanishes and is cancelled at the very moment of expression” ( Ä:II , 261/626). Music’s shapeless and transitory nature, in other words, comes closest to capturing emotion’s essence. Music thus makes, as Hegel puts it, our “inner life intelligible” ( Ä:III , 149/902) and, for that reason, it has an extraordinary effect on us—to the point, Hegel comments, that we sometimes cannot help moving in time to music we hear. Through meter, intervals, and key, music makes laws of harmony audible the way architecture makes laws of gravity visible. By thus embodying the symbiotic relation between the world and human expression, music represents the Idea in sensuous form.

Music and poetry make use of the same sensible material, namely sound. But unlike music’s paradigmatic lack of language, poetry is the ‘art of speech’ ( Ä:III , 224/960). Poetry takes art’s embodiment of humans’ self-production a step further: instead of taking sensuous materials and forming them into art, in poetry humans take speech, and through speech their own ideas, as art’s material. In poetry, humans learn about their own concepts through the words they themselves use to signify those concepts. Poetry, as Hegel puts it, presents “to spiritual imagination and contemplation the spiritual meanings which it has shaped within its own soul” ( Ä:II , 261/626). As such, poetry is “the absolute and true art of the spirit and its expression as spirit,” meaning that more explicitly than any other art, poetry enables humans to reflect on their place in the world.

But again this high achievement poses a challenge for art. Poetry “works neither for contemplation, by the senses , as the visual arts do, nor for purely ideal feeling , as music does” ( Ä:II , 261/626). It is instead “a withdrawal from the real world of sense-perception and a subordination of that world.” What poetry wins, in other words, “on the spiritual side it all the same loses again on the sensuous.” Poetry risks no longer doing what art is meant to do: while sculpture, painting, and music make spiritual content “intelligible alike to sense and spirit,” poetry risks being unintelligible to sense. The further poetry moves from sense, the more it begins to “dissolve and acquire in the eyes of philosophy its point of transition to religious pictorial thinking as such, as well as to the prose of scientific thought” ( Ä:III , 234–235/968). Again we see art’s almost paradoxical dilemma: the closer it gets to explicitly depicting adequate human self-understanding, the more it risks ceasing to be art altogether.

To avoid this fate, poetry must explicitly undertake the project of remaining art, striking a mean “between the abstract universality of thought and sensuously concrete corporeal objects.” Poetry must do this, above all, by distancing itself from humans’ quotidian use of speech, namely prose. Through “choice, placing, and sound of words,” through rhyme schemes and meter, poetry must lift its language above the prosaic. Poetry must also distinguish itself from religion and philosophy by making its content an end in itself, as opposed to serving moralistic or pedagogical ends. It must weave its parts into an organic-seeming whole, giving “appearance of a close connection and coherence.” In these ways, poetry contrasts with the rambling contingency of everyday life and can exist “for its own sake and free on its own account” ( Ä:III , 231/965).

As long as poetry retains these artistic characteristics and resists the transition into religion or philosophy, it can take three forms that Hegel lists again in dialectical order: epic, lyric, and dramatic. Epic poetry is best suited to the understanding of a heroic age in which the individual does not distinguish between himself and his nation and creates an ethical order through his actions. Hegel’s disdain for attempts to revive ‘Germanic’ epics makes clear that such poetry is no longer appropriate for the modern world ( Ä:III , 347/1057). In lyric poetry, by contrast, the poet turns inward to express her emotions and longings; all is filtered through her experience and given meaning by her attitudes ( Ä:III , 415/1111).

Dramatic poetry—plays written not in prose but in a particular poetic meter and rhyme scheme—synthesizes the broad historical themes of epic poetry and the interiority of lyric poetry. It thus “is more capable than any other art of completely unfolding the totality of an event,” but can also display the ways modern subjects’ interiority plays out: in deliberation, resolution, and in the ways a dramatic character “picks the fruit of his own deeds” ( Ä:III , 479/1161). Dramatic poetry is consequently particularly well situated to consider questions of action and of responsibility, concepts that are central to humans’ understanding of themselves within the normative sphere. For these reasons, dramatic poetry ranks as the “highest stage of poetry and of art generally” ( Ä:III , 474/1158): it most explicitly thematizes the normative sphere that art, as a part of absolute spirit, is meant to address.

The protagonists’ actions and their relations to them determine three genres within dramatic poetry. If, through their actions, “individuals destroy themselves through their one-sidedness” in collision with the ethical order, tragedy results. Hegel’s standard example from the ancient world is Sophocles’ Antigone , in which Antigone and Creon, as instantiations of opposing sides of the ethical order, clash and are destroyed in the process. But if poetry is to depict a modern conception of the Idea, it must depict modern agents’ critical assessment of norms. Accordingly, modern tragic heroes, such as Shakespeare’s Hamlet or Schiller’s Wallenstein, deliberate, often excessively, about their options with little clarity about what duty requires ( Ä:III , 562/1228). 18 The increased importance of the protagonists’ attitude toward norms poses another challenge to artistic expression, this time to tragedy as a genre. If individuals are acting not as instantiations of eternal law but on their own preferences, it is all too easy to imagine that they could act otherwise. The inevitability necessary for tragic conflict is weakened, suggesting that the plays in question might as well have happy endings. 19 This fact, according to Hegel, explains the proliferation of modern tragicomedies in which the scoundrel—who in more restricted situations would have precipitated a tragedy—is converted to the good and, however implausibly, pledges to reform ( Ä:III , 568/1233). Comedy, by contrast, depicts collisions in which the comic protagonist, regardless of disasters that befall him, “remains undisturbed in himself and at ease” ( Ä:III , 531/1202). Here Hegel’s favorite example is again Aristophanes, whose characters employ ridiculous means in the pursuit of foolish ends, yet endure their resulting failures cheerfully.

Hegel’s high praise for Aristophanes seems to suggest that ancient comedy, at least, has the potential to express the truth of humans’ self-legislating capacities. Aristophanes’ protagonists make themselves “completely master of everything” ( Ä:III , 527/1199); they do not look to nature or tradition for their norms and retain light-hearted self-control, regardless of what happens. Although Aristophanes’ comedies sometimes end with the restoration of the old order, they nevertheless depict norms not as immutable laws against which characters throw themselves in tragic conflict, but as human creations open to criticism, mockery, and change. Unlike the ironic standpoint that was the target of Hegel’s lifelong scorn, comedy does not suggest that critiquing a given norm undermines normativity altogether. Instead it suggests that humans are collectively responsible for normativity. In this sense, it has the potential to fulfill art’s potential: if poetry consists of humans taking up their ideas as their subject matter and recognizing their ownership of those ideas, comedy is, among poetic genres, powerfully positioned to prevent us from reifying our norms and losing sight of our authority over them.

Hegel is, however, pessimistic about instances of comedy in his own age. Unlike Aristophanes’ merry arsonists, for instance, modern protagonists such as Moliere’s Tartuffe fully endorse their desires. This intensified subjectivity, typical again of the modern age, means that they are “deadly serious” in their degenerate aims. When those aims fail, they are bitter, and the audience’s laughter is at them, not with them. Such plays fall into the prosaic and become moralistic. Here once again, as in romantic art’s dissolution in subjective humor, art risks losing its status as art ( Ä:III , 570/1234).

The reflective nature of modern subjectivity means we will never have as easy a relation to ourselves and our aims as did Aristophanes’ characters. But by his own description, comedy need not fail in the way Hegel fears. Hotho’s edition includes the enticing suggestion that Hegel mentioned Shakespeare as a modern example of “comedy which is truly comical and truly poetic,” boasting a “deeper wealth and inwardness of humor” that can rival Aristophanes’ triumphs in ancient Greece. 20 Certainly some of Shakespeare’s comedies resist moralizing in favor of cheerfully exposing the complex negotiations involved in modern love or politics. Protagonists in comedies such as A Midsummer Night’s Dream call irrational norms into question through their antic undertakings, then cooperate with others to secure reform. 21 All of this is achieved in language that resists lapsing into prose through its intricate use of metaphor and simile, its carefully crafted soliloquies, and its neatly integrated plotlines ( Ä:I , 523/408). So expressed, dramatic poetry has the potential to present the Idea in sensuous form, even in the late flowering of the romantic age.

25.5. The End and Future of Art

Both the trajectory of forms of art and the trajectory of individual arts illustrate ways art might end: by becoming entirely prosaic or entirely subjective, by transitioning into religion, or by becoming moralistic. I have suggested that even if art in the modern world can , logically as it were, run to these extremes, this does not imply that it must . There is some indication that Hegel acknowledged examples of successful art in his lifetime: in addition to his praise for Shakespeare, Hegel speaks favorably of Goethe’s Iphigenie auf Tauris ( Ä:I , 297/229–230), as well as of some aspects of Schiller’s plays. For every Jean Paul and Molière, perhaps there is a more sincere artist (T. G. von Hippel and Friedrich Rückert are two of Hegel’s admittedly obscure examples) who can further art’s mission ( Ä:II , 231/602, 242/610). Hegel also failed to anticipate how novelists—Proust, Woolf, or Joyce, for instance—would appropriate poetry’s ability to bring our concepts to our spiritual attention through the creative use of speech. 22 It seems possible, then, that as long as the artist sincerely, in the terms of her time, grapples with humans’ role in the world, she can still give the Idea sensuous form. She may, in order to embody modern agents’ hyper-reflectivity, need to do so in a way that reflects more self-consciously on what art is or means. There may also always be a ‘pastness’ to art in the sense that we only recognize a truth about ourselves once an artist expresses it, thus closing it off conceptually and consigning it to history. But art’s self-criticism or pastness need not negate its modified effectiveness.

Still, the question remains: even if art can resist these extremes and remain art, why should it? In tending toward prose—in, that is, stripping language of its poetic elements—modern art risks not failing to articulate the Idea so much as failing, in doing so, to be art. But what sort of risk is this? Perhaps we need not lament art’s dissolution since, as Hegel suggests, the fundamental truths of the modern world are best expressed in philosophy’s prose. But what would a world without art look like? What is, in short, the value of art?

Art’s continued value for Hegel is rooted, first of all, in his claim that the truth is the whole. While philosophy ultimately articulates the fullest conception of the Idea, it cannot do so sensuously and so is itself incomplete. In order not to be limited by philosophy’s lack of sensuousness, the Idea requires sensuous expression and so requires art. Despite the many differences between objective and absolute spirit, the position of the family in the state may provide a helpful analogy. The state is the fullest expression of objective spirit by virtue of the fact that it explicitly articulates the political principles on which it is built. The family’s basis in blood ties and loyalty, being by definition unreflective, cannot be the basis of the state. This does not mean the family is not legitimate or should be done away with, but only that it must find an appropriate place within the state. Art’s sensuality is no less relevant to the modern world than the family’s immediacy is within the state, but the modern world cannot be fully articulated in art any more than the state can be governed like a family.

A second description of art’s continued value may help us shift to thinking about art’s future from a Hegelian point of view, applying his theory in ways he could not have anticipated. In the service of this shift, we might consider a way in which Hegel’s ‘end of art’ thesis is reminiscent of his even more notorious ‘end of history’ thesis. History, Hegel says, is the history of freedom . Early civilizations, Hegel contends, knew that one person (the ruler) was free; classical civilizations knew that some humans (excepting slaves) were free; only in the modern world has the realization that all humans are free been articulated. 23 When history ends, it is not because nothing more will happen or people will no longer write history. It is because history has reached the last logical articulation of freedom (there is nowhere to go, conceptually, beyond ‘all’) and will now always be the story of humans working out the immense consequences implied by the claim that all humans are free. The case is similar with art. Art, Hegel claimed, is one way we explore our deepest interests, including freedom. If this is true, art’s future will consist of artists working out, in new and revealing ways, what the modern assertion of universal human freedom actually commits us to. It will mean that artists will continue to hold our norms and self-understandings up to us and show us when those self-understandings are flawed, or when we are treating them as given (as natural or bestowed by a divinity) in a way we should not. Art will continue to articulate truths about us or our culture of which we are barely aware: it can continue to be an eye “whereby the inner soul and spirit is [ sic ] seen” ( Ä:I , 204/154). Art can do this in part through its refusal to promote a single answer or definite message. The fact that it cannot express the fully realized Idea means that it can remind us of the ambiguity endemic in even our most cherished principles. A world without art might be a world in which we begin to take philosophical truths as given and so relinquish the possibility of critiquing or reforming them. Especially in times of social upheaval, as Hegel himself says, when our norms face challenge or collapse, art can help us feel our way forward ( Ä:II , 234/605). Art may in fact be more relevant now than ever since its essential ambiguity aesthetically mirrors our postmodern uncertainty about our most fundamental principles. 24

The idea that artists can productively challenge received norms certainly seems true of artists (e.g., Kara Walker, Ai Weiwei) who explicitly thematize ways in which our attitudes toward race, gender, globalization, and so forth might be in tension with our professed belief—expressed in the prose of political declarations and manifestos—in human freedom. But it is also true of architecture that encourages us to rethink our conceptions of gravity, visual art that allows us to see color and shape anew, music that challenges received understandings of sound’s meaning and significance, and drama that unsettles our understandings of narrative or personhood. Artists such as Alexander Calder, Agnes Martin, and John Cage decenter and disrupt our perceptions; in so doing, they challenge perceptual norms and draw our attention to the ways in which we form and are formed by the sensuous world. Such art reminds us that if we assume that colors or sounds are simply in the world waiting to be perceived, we discount our own participation in the existence even of things that seem objectively independent of us. In Hegel’s terms, such art offers a vision of our unity with the world and so is a sensuous embodiment of the Idea.

Art’s continued value, then, derives from its inclusion of the sensuous in our perpetual quest for self-understanding and in its ability to disrupt our prosaic relationship to experience. Both aspects serve to remind us of our role in the world’s normative structure. Hegel puts it this way:

[T]‌he pure appearance of art has the advantage that it points through and beyond itself, and itself hints at something spiritual of which it is to give us an idea, whereas immediate appearance does not present itself as deceptive but rather as the real and the true … [T]he hard shell of nature and the ordinary world make it more difficult for the spirit to penetrate through them to the Idea than works of art do. ( Ä:I , 23/9)

Art, then, breaks through the hard shell of the ordinary, making us alive to the unity and interdependence at the heart of reality. Art offers us this insight in a way no other medium can and therefore maintains its status as an expression of our deepest interests and highest truths.

Hegel’s philosophy of art presupposes a metaphysics and a systematicity likely unpalatable to many contemporary readers. His jarring generalizations about civilizations and insistence on ‘paradigmatic’ instances of art forms cast doubt on his openness to the richness of art or the societies that produce it. Despite these limitations, Hegel seems to have been remarkably prescient regarding the revolutionary changes in art that took place after his lifetime. He was certainly correct about beauty’s decreasing relevance in art. His prediction that art would become ever more intertwined with philosophy is borne out by theorists such as Arthur Danto, who, inspired by Hegel, argue for the inseparability of philosophical theory and contemporary art. 25 Although not even his acknowledgment of tooth extractions as a possible subject matter for art could have prepared him for urinals in museums or colossal balloon poodles, Hegel does seem correctly to have predicted contemporary art’s inexhaustible subject matter. The cult of the contemporary artist would also not have surprised him: already Jean Paul’s subjective humor risked suggesting that something is art only because a famous-enough artist claims it is. As to Hegel’s description of romantic art’s dissolution into either subjective humor or artless objectivity: television’s too-frequent celebration of content-free nonsense, on the one hand, and ostensibly unreconstructed reality, on the other, gives long-term vindication of Hegel’s fear that art, succumbing to the pressures of subjectivity, will someday disintegrate.

But in asserting art’s ability to assist us in understanding the human condition, Hegel also correctly predicted its continued importance. The development of subjectivity means that art can never reflect our condition with the seamless beauty that characterized the sculptures of ancient Greece. But art that can express “imperishable humanity in its many-sided significance and endless all-round development” ( Ä:II , 239/608) continues to move and inspire us. In so doing, art fulfills its role within absolute spirit of prompting reflection on the normative sphere and articulating, in sensuous form, the truth of the Idea.

Works Cited

Primary texts.

Anonymous. “The Oldest Systematic Program of German Idealism,” in The Early Political Writings of the German Romantics , edited by Frederick C. Beiser . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996 , 3–5.

Google Scholar

Google Preview

Hegel, G. W. F.   Enzyklopädie der philosophischen Wissenschaften im Grundrisse (1830) [E]. Hamburg: Meiner Verlag, 1959 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Hegel’s Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art [ Ä , followed by German volume and page number, then English page number], translated by T. M. Knox . Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Hegel’s Science of Logic [SL], translated by A. V. Miller . London: George Allen and Unwin, 1969 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Lectures on the Philosophy of Art: The Hotho Transcript of the 1823 Berlin Lectures , translated by Robert F. Brown . Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Lectures on the Philosophy of World History: Introduction: Reason in History . Translated by H. B. Nisbet . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Philosophie der Kunst (Mitschrift von der Pfordten 1826) , edited by Annemarie Gethmann-Siefert , Jeong-Im Kwon , and Karsten Berr . Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2004 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Philosophie der Kunst oder Ästhetik (Mitschrift von Kehler 1826) , edited by Annemarie Gethmann-Siefert and Bernadette Collenberg-Plotnikov . Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2004 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Philosophy of Mind , translated by A. V. Miller . and William Wallace . Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Vorlesung über Ästhetik: Berlin 1820/21: eine Nachschrift , edited by Helmut Schneider . New York: Lang, 1995 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik I–III [ Ä ], edited by Eva Moldenhauer and Karl Markus Michel . Vol. 13–15, Werke in 20 Bänden . Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1970 .

Hegel, G. W. F. . Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Kunst (Mitschrift Hotho 1823) , edited by Annemarie Gethmann-Siefert . Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag, 2003 .

Secondary Literature

Danto, Arthur C.   Unnatural Wonders: Essays from the Gap between Art and Life . New York: Columbia University Press, 2005 .

Donougho, Martin. “Art and History: Hegel on the End, the Beginning, and the Future of Art,” in Hegel and the Arts , edited by Stephen Houlgate . Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 2007 , 179–215.

Donougho, Martin. “ Remarks on ‘Humanus heisst der Heilige.’ ” Hegel-Studien 17 ( 1982 ): 214–225.

Eldridge, Richard. “Hegel on Music,” in Hegel and the Arts , edited by Stephen Houlgate . Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 2007 , 119–145.

Gethmann-Siefert, Annemarie.   Einführung in Hegels Ästhetik . Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2005 .

Gethmann-Siefert, Annemarie.   Ist die Kunst tot und zu Ende?: Überlegungen zu Hegels Ästhetik, Jenaer philosophische Vorträge und Studien 7 . Erlangen: Palm & Enke, 1994 .

James, David.   Art, Myth and Society in Hegel’s Aesthetics . New York: Continuum, 2009 .

Kolb, David. “Hegel’s Architecture,” in Hegel and the Arts , edited by Stephen Houlgate . Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 2007 , 29–55.

MacDonald, Sara.   Finding Freedom: Hegel’s Philosophy and the Emancipation of Women . Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2008 .

Moland, Lydia L. “An Unrelieved Heart: Hegel, Tragedy, and Schiller’s Wallenstein .” New German Critique 113, no. 38 ( 2011 ): 1–23.

Moland, Lydia L. “‘ And Why Not?’ Hegel, Comedy, and the End of Art. ” Verifiche: Rivista di scienze umane ( forthcoming ).

Pillow, Kirk.   Sublime Understanding: Aesthetic Reflection in Kant and Hegel . Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2000 .

Pinkard, Terry. “Symbolic, Classical, and Romantic Art,” in Hegel and the Arts , edited by Stephen Houlgate . Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 2007 , 3–28.

Pippin, Robert.   After the Beautiful: Hegel and the Philosophy of Pictorial Modernism . Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014 .

Pippin, Robert. “The Absence of Aesthetics in Hegel’s Aesthetics,” in Hegel and Nineteenth-Century Philosophy , edited by Frederick C. Beiser . Cambridge Cambridge University Press, 2008 , 394–418.

Rutter, Benjamin.   Hegel on the Modern Arts . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010 .

Sallis, John. “Carnation and the Eccentricity of Painting,” in Hegel and the Arts , edited by Stephen Houlgate . Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 2007 , 90–118.

Walker, John. “Art, Religion, and the Modernity of Hegel,” in Hegel and the Arts , edited by Stephen Houlgate . Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 2007 , 296–309.

Further Reading

Desmond, William.   Art and the Absolute . Albany: State University of New York Press, 1986 .

Gethmann-Siefert, Annemarie.   Die Funktion der Kunst in der Geschichte: Untersuchungen zu Hegels Ästhetik . Bonn: Bouvier Verlag, 1984 .

Gethmann-Siefert, Annemarie.   Phänomen versus system: zum Verhältnis von philosophischer Systematik und Kunsturteil in Hegels Berliner Vorlesungen über Ästhetik oder Philosophie der Kunst. Hegel-Studien . Bonn: Bouvier, 1992 .

Henrich, Dieter. “The Contemporary Relevance of Hegel ’s Aesthetics,” in Hegel , edited by Michael Inwood . Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985 , 199–207.

Hilmer, Brigitte. “ Being Hegelian after Danto. ” History and Theory 37, no. 4 ( 1998 ): 71–86.

Houlgate, Stephen. “ Hegel and the ‘End’ of Art. ” The Owl of Minerva 29, no. 1 ( 1997 ): 1–21.

Maker, William , ed. Hegel and Aesthetics . Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000 .

McCumber, John.   Poetic Interaction: Language, Freedom, Reason . Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989 .

Speight, Allen.   Hegel, Literature, and the Problem of Agency . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001 .

Winfield, Richard Dien.   Stylistics: Rethinking the Artforms after Hegel . Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995 .

Anonymous, “The Oldest Systematic Program of German Idealism,” 4.

See James, Art, Myth and Society in Hegel’s Aesthetics , 79; Kolb, “Hegel’s Architecture,” 40; Sallis, “Carnation and the Eccentricity of Painting,” 107.

G. W. F. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik I , ed. Eva Moldenhauer and Karl Markus Michel, vol. 13–15, Werke in 20 Bänden (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1970). The English translation is Hegel’s Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art , trans. T. M. Knox (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975). Abbreviated Ä , followed by the volume and page number of the Suhrkamp edition, then by the page number of the English translation.

Even this brief synopsis of his views makes Hegel’s path-breaking approach to art evident. He rejects imitation as art’s basis, denies that beauty is a necessary characteristic for art, repudiates the ancient quarrel between poetry and philosophy, and virtually ignores art’s pedagogical or political potential. Most strikingly, Hegel essentially neglects to discuss aesthetic experience, a topic that had dominated philosophical conversations about art in the eighteenth century ( Ä : I, 13/1).

Donougho lists several possible interpretations in “Art and History: Hegel on the End, the Beginning, and the Future of Art.” See also Gethmann-Siefert, Ist die Kunst tot und zu Ende?

Gethmann-Siefert details this history in Einführung in Hegels Ästhetik , 17–18. Gethmann-Siefert’s extensive scholarship generally is essential reading on the topic of Hegel’s philosophy of art.

See Gethmann-Siefert’s discussion of this issue in her introduction to G. W. F. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Kunst (Mitschrift Hotho 1823) , xxii.

Vorlesung über Ästhetik: Berlin 1820/21: eine Nachschrift; Vorlesung über die Philosophie der Kunst (Mitschrift Hotho 1823); Philosophie der Kunst oder Ästhetik (Mitschrift von Kehler 1826); Philosophie der Kunst (Mitschrift von der Pfordten 1826). The edition of Hotho’s 1823 lecture notes (not to be confused with his 1835 compendium) has recently been translated into English: see Lectures on the Philosophy of Art: The Hotho Transcript of the 1823 Berlin Lectures . The 1828/1829 student lecture notes are still in preparation.

Hegel’s Science of Logic , trans. A. V. Miller, 824. Quoted in Pippin, After the Beautiful , 6.

Pinkard gives a more detailed summary of this range of terms in “Symbolic, Classical, and Romantic Art,” 8–13.

Hegel’s use of art to isolate and explain a culture’s commitments has led some to call him the ‘father of art history’. Pippin discusses this claim in After the Beautiful , 17–18. After the Beautiful is itself an extended argument for using Hegel’s claims about art’s historical nature and normative essence to explore an art form Hegel could not have foreseen, namely modernist painting.

In 1826, for instance, Hegel concludes that “[w]‌ith humor art runs out [ Beim Humoristischen also geht es mit der Kunst aus ] … . This is the disintegration [ Zerfallen ] of art” ( Philosophie der Kunst oder Ästhetik (Mitschrift von Kehler 1826) , 153).

See Donougho, “Remarks on ‘Humanus heißt der Heilige’.”

See Rutter, Hegel on the Modern Arts , 49.

Pillow suggests that some modern art fits this description as well: see Sublime Understanding , 228.

See also Sallis, “Carnation and the Eccentricity of Painting,” 104–107.

See Eldridge, “Hegel on Music,” 133.

See Moland, “An Unrelieved Heart: Hegel, Tragedy, and Schiller’s Wallenstein ,” 9.

See Moland, “ ‘And Why Not?’ Hegel, Comedy, and the End of Art.”

There is unfortunately no indication in the available lecture editions that Hegel mentions Shakespeare in this context.

See MacDonald, Finding Freedom .

See again Rutter, Hegel on the Modern Arts , for instance 265–266.

G. W. F. Hegel, Lectures on the Philosophy of World History , 54.

See for instance Walker, “Art, Religion, and the Modernity of Hegel,” 275.

For an example of Danto’s influential claims about Hegel, see Danto, Unnatural Wonders , 5–18.

• About Oxford Academic
• Publish journals with us
• University press partners
• What we publish
• New features  
• Open access
• Institutional account management
• Rights and permissions
• Get help with access
• Accessibility
• Advertising
• Media enquiries
• Oxford University Press
• Oxford Languages
• University of Oxford

Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University's objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide

• Copyright © 2024 Oxford University Press
• Cookie settings
• Cookie policy
• Privacy policy
• Legal notice

This Feature Is Available To Subscribers Only

Sign In or Create an Account

This PDF is available to Subscribers Only

For full access to this pdf, sign in to an existing account, or purchase an annual subscription.

Want to create or adapt books like this? Learn more about how Pressbooks supports open publishing practices.

1 Prehistory: Art before the Written Record

Learning Objectives

By the end of this chapter, you will be able to:

• Identify key works of art and differentiate between the arts of Prehistoric Europe.
• Describe the changes in prehistoric art and architecture that resulted from the social and cultural changes of the Neolithic Period.

Looking Forward

The term Prehistory refers to all of human history that precedes the invention of writing systems (c. 3100 B.C.E.) and the keeping of written records, and it is an immensely long period of time, some ten million years according to current theories. For the purposes of an art history survey, we split our study of Prehistory into two camps: Paleolithic and Neolithic (from the Greek “ palaios ” (old) / “ neos ” (new) and “ lithos ” (stone), as these peoples worked with stone tools). The timeline covered in this area of the survey is vast —c. 32,000 B.C.E. (Chauvet Caves) to 7,000 B.C.E. (Neolithic settlements)—but the question that unites this vast chronology is simple and compelling: what can we find out about objects from so long ago, and how do they connect to our contemporary experiences today?

Common questions about dates

B.c. or b.c.e..

Many people use the abbreviations B.C. and A.D. with a year (for example, A.D. 2012). B.C. refers to “Before Christ,” and the initials, A.D., stand for  Anno Domini , which is Latin for “In the year of our Lord.” This system was devised by a monk in the year 525.

A more recent system uses B.C.E. which stands for “Before the Common Era” and C.E. for “Common Era.” This newer system is now widely used as a way of expressing the same periods as B.C. and A.D., but without the Christian reference. According to these systems, we count time backwards Before the Common Era (B.C.E.) and forwards in the Common Era (C.E.).

Often dates will be preceded with a “c.” or a “ca.” These are abbreviations of the Latin word “circa” which means around, or approximately. We use this before a date to indicate that we do not know exactly when something happened, so c. 400 B.C.E. means approximately 400 years Before the Common Era.

content here.

Paleolithic Art

To describe the global origins of humans’ artistic achievement, upon which the succeeding history of art may be laid, is an encyclopedic enterprise. The account of the origins of art is a very long one marked less by change than consistency. The first human artistic representations, markings with ground red ocher, seem to have occurred about 100,000 B.C.E. in African rock art. This chronology may be more an artifact of the limitations of archaeological evidence than a true picture of when humans first created art. However, with new technologies, research methods, and archaeological discoveries, we are able to view the history of human artistic achievement in a greater focus than ever before.

Art , as the product of human creativity and imagination, includes poetry, music, dance, and the material arts such as painting, sculpture, drawing, pottery, and bodily adornment. The diverse examples of prehistoric objects and archaeological sites from across the globe were all created in the period before the invention of formal writing when human populations were migrating and expanding across the world. The earliest human (homo sapiens) occupation occurs in Africa, and it is there that we assume art to have originated. African rock art from the Apollo 11 and Wonderwerk Caves in modern-day Namibia and South Africa contain examples of geometric and animal representations engraved and painted on stone. By 20,000 B.C.E., humans had settled on every continent except Antarctica. In Europe, the record of Paleolithic art is beautifully illustrated with the magnificent painted caves of Lascaux and Chauvet, both in France. Scores of painted caves exist in western Europe, mostly in France and Spain, and hundreds of sculptures and engravings depicting humans, animals, and fantastic creatures have been found across Europe and Asia alike. Rock art in Australia represents the longest continuously practiced artistic tradition in the world [1] . The site of Ubirr in northern Australia contains exceptional examples of Aboriginal rock art repainted for millennia beginning perhaps as early as 40,000 B.C.E.

Humans make art. We do this for many reasons and with whatever technologies are available to us. Extremely old, non-representational ornamentation has been found across Africa. The oldest firmly-dated example is a collection of 82,000 year old Nassarius snail shells found in Morocco that are pierced and covered with red ochre. Wear patterns suggest that they may have been strung beads. Nassarius shell beads found in Israel may be more than 100,000 years old and in the Blombos cave in South Africa, pierced shells and small pieces of ochre (red Haematite) etched with simple geometric patterns have been found in a 75,000-year-old layer of sediment.

The oldest known representational imagery comes from the Aurignacian culture of the Upper Paleolithic period [2] . Archeological discoveries across a broad swath of Europe (especially Southern France, Northern Spain, and Swabia, in Germany) include over two hundred caves with spectacular Aurignacian paintings, drawings and sculpture that are among the earliest undisputed examples of representational image-making. The oldest of these is a 2.4-inch tall female figure carved out of mammoth ivory that was found in six fragments in the Hohle Fels cave near Schelklingen in southern Germany. It dates to 35,000 B.C.E.

What can we really know about the creators of these objects and what they originally meant? These are questions that are difficult enough when we study art made only 500 years ago. It is much more perilous to assert meaning for the art of people who shared our anatomy but had not yet developed the cultures or linguistic structures that shaped who we have become. Do the tools of art history even apply? Here is evidence of a visual language that collapses the more than 1,000 generations that separate us, but we must be cautious. This is especially so if we want to understand the people that made this art as a way to understand ourselves. The desire to speculate based on what we see is wildly seductive, but we must remain cautious.

What does it even mean to be a work of art? The Oxford English Dictionary, perhaps the authority on the English language, defines the word “art” as

the application of skill to the arts of imitation and design, painting, engraving, sculpture, architecture; the cultivation of these in its principles, practice, and results; the skillful production of the beautiful in visible forms.

Some of the words and phrases that stand out within this definition include “application of skill,” “imitation,” and “beautiful.” By this definition, the concept of “art” involves the use of skill to create an object that contains some appreciation of aesthetics. The object is not only made, but it is made with an attempt of creating something that contains elements of beauty.

In contrast, the same Oxford English Dictionary defines the word “artifact” as, “ anything made by human art and workmanship, an artificial product. In Archaeology applied to the rude products of aboriginal workmanship as distinguished from natural remains .” Again, some key words and phrases are important: “anything made by human art,” and “rude products.” Clearly, an artifact is any object created by humankind regardless of the “skill” of its creator or the absence of “beauty.”

An  artifact , then, is anything created by humankind, and art is a particular kind of artifact, a group of objects under the broad umbrella of artifact, in which beauty has been achieved through the application of skills. Think of the average plastic spoon: a uniform white color, mass produced, and unremarkable in just about every way. While it serves a function—say, for example, to stir your hot chocolate—the person who designed it likely did so without any real dedication or commitment to making this utilitarian object beautiful. You have likely never lovingly gazed at a plastic spoon and remarked, “Wow! Now that’s a beautiful spoon!” This is in contrast to a silver spoon you might purchase at Tiffany & Co. While their spoon could just as well stir cream into your morning coffee, it was skillfully designed by a person who attempted to make it aesthetically pleasing; note the elegant bend of the handle, the gentle luster of the metal, the graceful slope of the bowl.

These terms are important to bear in mind when analyzing prehistoric art.  While it is unlikely people from the Upper Paleolithic period cared to conceptualize what it meant to make art or to be an artist, it cannot be denied that the objects they created were made with skill, were often made as a way of imitating the world around them and were made with a particular care to create something beautiful. They likely represent, for the Paleolithic peoples who created them, objects made with great competence and with a particular interest in aesthetics.

Lascaux Cave

Two main types of Upper Paleolithic art have survived. The first we can classify as permanently located works found on the walls within caves, or  parietal art . Mostly unknown prior to the final decades of the nineteenth century, many such sites have now been discovered throughout much of southern Europe and have provided historians and archaeologists new insights into humankind millennia prior to the creation of writing. The subjects of these works vary: we may observe a variety of geometric motifs, many types of flora and fauna, and the occasional human figure. They also fluctuate in size; ranging from several inches to large-scale compositions that span many feet in length.

We are as likely to communicate using easily interpretable pictures as we are text. Portable handheld devices enable us to tell others via social media what we are doing and thinking. Approximately 15,000 years ago, we also communicated in pictures—but with no written language.

There may be no one single “function” for these works—they changed over generations, over many thousands of years, so while some of their functions may have been passed down orally, these changed and mutated too over time. We can’t even be sure if the works are about the act of painting, or the finished images. Even within one generation, or a short period of a few generations, the cave paintings would mean different things to different people depending on their age, experience, and, perhaps, their gender. We can only make educated guesses about what they were used for. However, the difficulty and time required to make the works meant they weren’t just for aesthetic pleasure alone. They could have been used for clan rites, as an initiation for younger (male) clan members. They may have believed to have had magical powers (i.e., showing a successful hunt could prefigure that happening in real life), the precursor to modern systems of belief and religion. However, as some art historians have noted, this theory has since been somewhat dismissed as further archaeological evidence suggests that the animals portrayed are not the ones that were hunted.

The cave of Lascaux, France is one of almost 350 similar sites that are known to exist—most of which are isolated to a region of southern France and northern Spain. Both Neanderthals (named after the site in which their bones were first discovered—the Neander Valley in Germany) and Modern Humans (early  Homo sapiens ) coexisted in this region 30,000 years ago. Life was short and very difficult; resources were scarce, and the climate was very cold.

It was in the valley of Vèzére in southwestern France, approximately 15,000 years later, where modern humans lived and witnessed the migratory patterns of a vast range of wildlife. They discovered a cave in a tall hill overlooking the valley. Inside, an unknown number of these people drew and painted images that, once discovered in 1940, have excited the imaginations of both researchers and the general public.

After struggling through small openings and narrow passages to access the larger rooms beyond, prehistoric people discovered that the cave wall surfaces functioned as the perfect, blank “canvas” upon which to draw and paint [3] . White calcite, roofed by nonporous rock, provides a uniquely dry place to feature art. To paint, these early artists used charcoal and ocher . We find images of horses, deer, bison, elk, a few lions, a rhinoceros and a bear—almost as an encyclopedia of the area’s large prehistoric wildlife. Among these images are abstract marks—dots and lines in a variety of configurations.

The animals are rendered in what has come to be called  twisted perspective , in which their bodies are depicted in profile while we see the horns from a more frontal viewpoint. The images are sometimes entirely linear — line drawn to define the animal’s contour. In many other cases, the animals are described in solid and blended colors blown by mouth onto the wall. Given the large scale of many of the animal images, we can presume that the artists worked deliberately—carefully plotting out a particular form before completing outlines and adding color. Some researchers believe that “master” artists enlisted the help of assistants who mixed pigments and held animal fat lamps to illuminate the space. Alternatively, in the case of the “rooms” containing mostly engraved and overlapping forms, it seems that the pure process of drawing and repetitive re-drawing held serious (perhaps ritual) significance for the makers.

Many scholars have speculated about why prehistoric people painted and engraved the walls at Lascaux and other caves like it. Perhaps the most famous theory was put forth by a priest named Henri Breuil, who spent considerable time in many of the caves meticulously recording the images in drawings when the paintings were too challenging to photograph. Relying primarily on a field of study known as  ethnography , Breuil believed that the images played a role in “hunting magic.” The theory suggests that the prehistoric people who used the cave may have believed that a way to overpower their prey involved creating images of it during rituals designed to ensure a successful hunt. This seems plausible when we remember that survival was entirely dependent on successful foraging and hunting though it is also important to remember how little we actually know about these people.

Hunting Magic Hypothesis and Lascaux Caves

The hunting magic hypothesis, (also known as sympathetic magic ) in the archaeology of rock art, is one of the functionalist approaches to explaining why rock art was created in ancient cultures. It originated from ethnographies of modern hunter-gatherers, who used their rock art in the hopes that it would improve their prowess on the hunt. Henri Breuil interpreted the Paleolithic cave paintings as hunting magic, meant to increase the number of animals.

The theory is that the paintings were made by magic practitioners, who could potentially be described as shamans, who would retreat into the darkness of the caves, enter into a trance state and then paint images of their visions, perhaps with some notion of drawing power out of the cave walls themselves. This goes some way towards explaining the remoteness of some of the paintings (which often occur in deep or small caves) and the variety of subject matter (from prey animals to predators and human hand-prints).

However, as with all prehistory, it is impossible to be certain due to the limited evidence and the many pitfalls associated with trying to understand the prehistoric mindset with a modern mind.

Another theory suggests that the images communicate  narrative content . While a number of the depictions can be seen to do this, one particular image in Lascaux more directly supports this theory. A bison, drawn in strong, black lines, bristles with energy, as the fur on the back of its neck stands up and the head is radically turned to face us.

A form drawn under the bison’s abdomen is interpreted as internal organs, spilling out from a wound. A more crudely drawn form, positioned below and to the left of the bison, may represent a humanoid figure with the head of a bird. Nearby, a thin line is topped with another bird and there is also an arrow with barbs. Further below and to the far left the partial outline of a rhinoceros can be identified.

Interpreters of this image tend to agree that some sort of interaction has taken place among these animals and the bird-headed human figure—in which the bison has sustained injury either from a weapon or from the horn of the rhinoceros. Why the person in the image has the rudimentary head of a bird, and why a bird form sits atop a stick very close to him is a mystery. Some suggest that the person is a  shaman . Regardless, this image appears to depict action and reaction, although many aspects of it are difficult to piece together. Many mysteries continue to surround Lascaux, but there is one certainty. The very human need to communicate in the form of pictures—for whatever purpose—has persisted since our earliest beginnings.

The Woman of Willendorf

The second category of Paleolithic art may be called portable since these works are generally of a small-scale—a logical size given the nomadic nature of Paleolithic peoples. Despite their often-diminutive size, the creation of these portable objects signifies a remarkable allocation of time and effort. As such, these figurines were significant enough to take along during the nomadic wanderings of their Paleolithic creators.

The  Venus of Willendorf  is a perfect example of this. Josef Szombathy, an Austro-Hungarian archaeologist, discovered this work in 1908 outside the small Austrian village of Willendorf. Although generally projected in art history classrooms to be several feet tall, this limestone figurine is petite in size—measuring just under 4½-inches high and able fit comfortably in the palm of your hand.

Clearly, the Paleolithic sculptor who made this small figurine would never have named it the  Venus of Willendorf . Venus was the name of the Roman goddess of love and ideal beauty. When discovered outside the Austrian village of Willendorf, scholars mistakenly assumed that this figure was likewise a goddess of love and beauty, but there is absolutely no evidence though that the  Venus of Willendorf  shared a function similar to its classically inspired namesake. However incorrect the name may be, it has endured, and tells us more about those who found her than those who made her.

Dating the object (and others like it) can be a problem, especially since Prehistoric art, by definition, has  no written record . Stone artifacts present a special problem since we are interested in the date that the stone was carved, not the date of the material itself. Despite these hurdles, art historians and archaeologist attempt to establish dates for prehistoric finds through two processes.

The first method, known as relative dating, involves stylistically comparing an object whose date is uncertain to other objects whose dates have been firmly established. By correctly fitting the unknown object into this stylistic chronology, scholars can find a very general chronological date for an object.

The second way scholars that date the  Venus of Willendorf  is through an analysis of where it was found. Generally, the deeper an object is recovered from the earth, the longer that object has been buried. Because of the depth at which these objects are found, we can infer that they are very old indeed.

In the absence of writing, art historians rely on the objects themselves to learn about ancient peoples. The  form  of the  Venus of Willendorf  may inform what it originally meant. The most conspicuous elements of her anatomy are those that deal with the process of reproduction and child rearing. The artist took particular care to emphasize her breasts, which some scholars suggest indicates that she is able to nurse a child. The artist also brought deliberate attention to her pubic region. Traces of a pigment—red ochre—can still be seen on parts of the figurine.

In contrast, the sculptor placed little attention on the non-reproductive parts of her body. This is particularly noticeable in the figure’s limbs, where there is little emphasis placed on musculature or anatomical accuracy. We may also infer from the small size of her feet that she was not meant to be free-standing and was either meant to be carried or placed lying down. The artist carved the figure’s upper arms along her upper torso, and her lower arms are only barely visible resting upon the top of her breasts. As enigmatic as the lack of attention to her limbs is, the absence of attention to the face is even more striking. No eyes, nose, ears, or mouth remain visible. Instead, our attention is drawn to seven horizontal bands that wrap in concentric circles from the crown of her head. Some scholars have suggested her head is obscured by a knit cap pulled downward, others suggest that these forms may represent braided or beaded hair and that her face, perhaps once painted, is angled downward.

If the face was purposefully obscured, the Paleolithic sculptor may have created, not a portrait of a particular person, but rather a representation of the reproductive and child rearing aspects of a woman. In combination with the emphasis on the breasts and pubic area, it seems likely that the  Venus of Willendorf  had a function that related to fertility.

Nude Woman (Venus of Willendorf)

The Neolithic Revolution

The  Neolithic  followed the  Paleolithic Era , and it began in the Ancient Near East about 10,000 B.C.E. Not long afterwards, Neolithic settlements appeared in Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Western Hemisphere. During the next 3,500 years, men and women all over the world radically transformed their relationship to nature, from a dependent one to more independent one. This is a slow change—it didn’t happen overnight by any means. Human beings learned to manipulate nature, they invented agriculture which allowed production of a food surplus, they manufactured new types of tools, and they domesticated animals like dogs, sheep, goats, cattle, pigs, and so on.

When people think of the Neolithic era, they often think of Stonehenge, the iconic image of this early era. Dating to approximately 3000 B.C.E. and set on Salisbury Plain in England, it is a structure larger and more complex than anything built before it in Europe.  Stonehenge is an example of the cultural advances brought about by the Neolithic revolution—the most important development in human history. The way we live today, settled in homes, close to other people in towns and cities, protected by laws, eating food grown on farms, and with leisure time to learn, explore and invent is all a result of the Neolithic revolution.

Before the Neolithic revolution, it’s likely you would have lived with your extended family as a nomad, never staying anywhere for more than a few months, always living in temporary shelters, always searching for food and never owning anything you couldn’t easily pack in a pocket or a sack. The change to the Neolithic way of life was huge and led to many of the pleasures (lots of food, friends and a comfortable home) that we still enjoy today.

The massive changes in the way people lived also changed the types of art they made. Neolithic sculpture became bigger, in part, because people didn’t have to carry it around anymore; pottery became more widespread and was used to store food harvested from farms. This is when  megalithic  architecture, and interior and exterior decoration, first appears.

Stonehenge, Avebury and Associated Sites

​One of the most recognizable monuments of the Neolithic world, and one of the most popular with over one million visitors a year, Stonehenge is so impossibly big and so impossibly old. The people living in the fourth millennium BC who began work on Stonehenge were contemporary with the first dynasties of Ancient Egypt, and their efforts predate the building of the Pyramids. What they created has endured millennia and still intrigues us today.

The monument we see today is the result of at least three phases of construction, although there is still a lot of controversy among archaeologists about exactly how and when these phases occurred. It is generally agreed that the first phase of construction at Stonehenge occurred around 3100 B.C.E., when a great circular ditch about six feet deep was dug with a bank of dirt within it about 360 feet in diameter, with a large entrance to the northeast and a smaller one to the south—this circular ditch and bank is collectively called a  henge .  Within the henge were dug 56  pits , each slightly more than three feet in diameter. These holes, it is thought, were either originally filled with upright bluestones (mined from the Preseli Hills, about 250 miles away in Wale) or upright wooden beams.

The second phase of work at Stonehenge occurred approximately 100-200 years later and involved the setting up of upright wooden posts, possibly of a roofed structure, in the center of the henge, as well as more upright posts near the northeast and southern entrances. Surprisingly, it is also during this second phase at Stonehenge that it was used for burial. At least 25 of the Aubrey holes were emptied and reused to hold cremation burials and another 30 cremation burial pits were dug into the ditch of the henge and in the eastern portion within the henge enclosure.

The third phase of construction at Stonehenge happened approximately 400-500 years later and likely lasted a long time. In this phase the remaining blue stones or wooden beams which had been placed in the Aubrey holes were pulled and a circle 108 feet in diameter of 30 huge and very hard sarsen stones were erected within the henge, quarried from nearby Marlborough Downs, and capped with 30 lintel stones.

This ring of stones enclosed five sarsen trilithons (a pair of upright stones with a lintel stone spanning their tops) set up in a horseshoe shape 45 feet across. These huge stones, ten uprights and five lintels, weigh up to 50 tons each. Bluestones, either reinstalled or freshly quarried, were erected in a circle, half in the outer sarsen circle and half within the sarsen horseshoe. At the end of the phase there is some rearrangement of the bluestones as well as the construction of a long processional avenue, consisting of parallel banks with exterior ditches approximately 34 meters across, leading from the northeast entrance to Stonehenge, dipping to the south and eventually to the banks of the Avon river.

All three phases of the construction of Stonehenge pose fascinating questions. The first phase of work required precise planning and a massive amount of labor. Who planned the henge and who organized whom to work together in its construction? Unfortunately, remains of Neolithic villages, which would provide information about who built Stonehenge, are few, possibly because so many lie underneath later Bronze Age, Roman, Medieval and modern cities. The few villages that have been explored show simple farming hamlets with very little evidence of widely differing social status. If there were leaders or a social class who convinced or forced people to work together to build the first phase of Stonehenge, we haven’t found them. It also probably means the first phase of Stonehenge’s construction was an  egalitarian  endeavor, highly unusual for the ancient world.

Who were the people buried at Stonehenge during its second phase? Recent analysis of these bones has revealed that nearly all the burials were of adult males, aged 25-40 years, in good health and with little sign of hard labor or disease. No doubt, to be interred at Stonehenge was a mark of elite status and show us that in this era, some means of social distinction must have been desirable.

The work achieved in the long third phase of Stonehenge’s construction, however, is the one which is most remarkable and enduring. Like the first phase of Stonehenge, except on a much larger scale, the third phase involved tremendous planning and organization of labor.  But it also entailed an entirely new level of technical sophistication, specifically in the working of very hard stone. For instance, the horizontal lintel stones which topped the exterior ring of sarsen stones were fitted to them using a tongue and groove joint and then fitted to each other using a mortise and tenon joint, methods used in modern woodworking.

Each of the upright sarsens were dressed differently on each side, with the inward facing side more smoothly finished than the outer. Moreover, the stones of the outer ring of sarsens were subtly modified to accommodate the way the human eye observes the massive stones against the bright shades of the Salisbury plain: upright stones were gently widened toward the top which makes their mass constant when viewed from the ground.

The lintel stones also curve slightly to echo the circular outer henge. The stones in the horseshoe of trilithons are arranged by size; the smallest pair of trilithons are around 20 feet tall, the next pair a little higher and the largest, single trilithon in the southwest corner would have been 24 feet tall. This effect creates a kind of pull inward to the monument, and dramatizes the outward Northeast facing of the horseshoe. Although there are many theories, it is still not known how or why these subtle refinements were made to Stonehenge, but their existence is sure proof of a sophisticated society with organized leadership and a lot of free time.

Of course, the most famous aspect of Stonehenge is its relationship with the solar and lunar calendar. This idea was first proposed by scholars in the 18th century, who noted that the sunrise of the midsummer solstice is exactly framed by the end of the horseshoe of trilithons at the interior of the monument, and exactly opposite that point, at the center of the bend of the horseshoe, at the midwinter sunset, the sun is also aligned. These dates, the longest and shortest days of the year, are the turning point of the two great seasonal episodes of the annual calendar. Since this discovery, several other theories about astronomical observation have been offered but few stand up to scrutiny together with the physical details of the monument.

Once a food surplus was produced, human beings began to live in fixed village settlements like   Çatalhöyük, in Turkey (7400–6200 B.C.E.). Humans began to develop more lasting ties to specific sites and places. Innovations of the Neolithic era included a division and specialization of labor, the emergence of an artisan class, such as weavers or potters, the development of trade, the invention of private property, and the development of basic political and social institutions.

Çatalhöyük is not the oldest site of the Neolithic era or the largest, but it is extremely important to the beginning of art. Located near the modern city of Konya in south central Turkey, it was inhabited 9000 years ago by up to 8000 people who lived together in a large town. Çatalhöyük, across its history, witnesses the transition from exclusively hunting and gathering subsistence to increasing skill in plant and animal domestication. We might see Çatalhöyük as a site whose history is about one of man’s most important transformations: from nomad to settler. It is also a site at which we see art, both painting and sculpture, appear to play a newly important role in the lives of settled people.

Çatalhöyük had no streets or foot paths; the houses were built right up against each other and the people who lived in them traveled over the town’s rooftops and entered their homes through holes in the roofs, climbing down a ladder. Communal ovens were built above the homes of Çatalhöyük and we can assume group activities were performed in this elevated space as well.

Like at other Neolithic sites, the deceased were placed under the floors or platforms in houses and sometimes the skulls were removed and plastered to resemble live faces.  The burials at Çatalhöyük show no significant variations, either based on wealth or gender; the only bodies which were treated differently, decorated with beads and covered with ochre, were those of children. The excavator of Çatalhöyük believes that this special concern for youths at the site may be a reflection of the society becoming more sedentary and required larger numbers of children because of increased labor, exchange and inheritance needs.

Art is everywhere among the remains of Çatalhöyük, geometric designs as well as representations of animals and people. Repeated lozenges and zigzags dance across smooth plaster walls, people are sculpted in clay, pairs of leopards are formed in relief facing one another at the sides of rooms, hunting parties are painted baiting a wild bull. The volume and variety of art at Çatalhöyük is immense and must be understood as a vital, functional part of the everyday lives of its ancient inhabitants.

Many figurines have been found at the site, the most famous of which illustrates a large woman seated on or between two large felines. The figurines, which illustrate both humans and animals, are made from a variety of materials but the largest proportion are quite small and made of barely fired clay. These casual figurines are found most frequently in garbage pits, but also in oven walls, house walls, floors and left in abandoned structures. The figurines often show evidence of having been poked, scratched or broken, and it is generally believed that they functioned as wish tokens or to ward off bad spirits.

Nearly every house excavated at Çatalhöyük was found to contain decorations on its walls and platforms, most often in the main room of the house. Moreover, this work was constantly being renewed; the plaster of the main room of a house seems to have been redone as frequently as every month or season. Both geometric and figural images were popular in two-dimensional wall painting and the excavator of the site believes that geometric wall painting was particularly associated with adjacent buried youths. Figural paintings show the animal world alone, such as, for instance, two cranes facing each other standing behind a fox, or in interaction with people, such as a vulture pecking at a human corpse or hunting scenes. Wall reliefs are found at Çatalhöyük with some frequency, most often representing animals, such as pairs of animals facing each other and human-like creatures. These latter reliefs, alternatively thought to be bears, goddesses or regular humans, are always represented splayed, with their heads, hands and feet removed, presumably at the time the house was abandoned.

The most remarkable art found at Çatalhöyük, however, are the installation of animal remains and among these the most striking are the bull  bucrania . In many houses the main room was decorated with several plastered skulls of bulls set into the walls (most common on East or West walls) or platforms, the pointed horns thrust out into the communal space. Often the  bucrania  would be painted ochre red. In addition to these, the remains of other animals’ skulls, teeth, beaks, tusks or horns were set into the walls and platforms, plastered and painted.  It would appear that the ancient residents of Çatalhöyük were only interested in taking the pointy parts of the animals back to their homes!

How can we possibly understand this practice of interior decoration with the remains of animals?  A clue might be in the types of creatures found and represented. Most of the animals represented in the art of Çatalhöyük were not domesticated; wild animals dominate the art at the site.  Interestingly, examination of bone refuse shows that the majority of the meat which was consumed was of wild animals, especially bulls. The excavator believes this selection in art and cuisine had to do with the contemporary era of increased domestication of animals and what is being celebrated are the animals which are part of the memory of the recent cultural past, when hunting was much more important for survival.

• The earliest known rock art in Australia predates European painted caves by as much as 10,000 years. ↵
• The Paleolithic is the oldest of three stone-age periods (Paleolithic, Mesolithic, and Neolithic). The word itself is made of two parts: " paleo ", which means old, and " lithic ", which means stone. Upper Paleolithic refers to the period between approximately 40,000 and 10,000 years ago and is the most recent period of the old stone age ("Upper" is the most recent of three sub-divisions of the Paleolithic period: Lower, Middle, and Upper). ↵
• To better visualize the layout of the passageways and scale of the artworks, please visit the Lascaux Cave website for a virtual tour and additional information . ↵

a kind of pigmented, earthen material, that is soft and can be mixed with liquids, and comes in a range of colors like brown, red, yellow and white.

Also known as composite perspective; a pose that combines two or more viewpoints in a single representation. A figure in twisted perspective usually appears in profile with feet, legs, hips and head turned to the side but the torso facing forward.

a branch of anthropology; the descriptive study of a particular human society or the process of making such a study.

ritual using objects or actions resembling or symbolically associated with the event or person over which influence is sought.

stories or account of events, experiences, or the like, whether true or fictitious.

a person regarded as having access to, and influence in, the world of good and evil spirits. Typically such people enter a trance state during a ritual, and practice divination and healing.

the way that a shape or physical configuration occupies space.

A megalith is a large stone that has been used to construct a prehistoric structure or monument, either alone or together with other stones. There are over 35,000 in Europe alone, located widely from Sweden to the Mediterranean sea.

a prehistoric monument consisting of a circle of stone or wooden uprights.

called Aubrey holes, after John Aubrey, the 17th century English archaeologist who first found them

relating to or believing in the principle that all people are equal and deserve equal rights and opportunities

referring to the skull of an ox; a form of carved decoration commonly used in Classical architecture. The name is generally considered to originate with the practice of displaying garlanded, sacrificial oxen, whose heads were displayed on the walls of temples, a practice dating back to the sophisticated Neolithic site of Çatalhöyük in eastern Anatolia, where cattle skulls were overlaid with white plaster.

Palo Alto College Art History Copyright © by Aaron Smith is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License , except where otherwise noted.

Share This Book

• Survey 1: Prehistory to Gothic
• Survey 2: Renaissance to Modern & Contemporary
• Thematic Lesson Plans
• AP Art History
• Books We Love
• CAA Conversations Podcasts
• SoTL Resources
• Teaching Writing About Art
• VISITING THE MUSEUM Learning Resource
• AHTR Weekly
• Digital Art History/Humanities
• Open Educational Resources (OERs)

Survey 1 See all→

• Prehistory and Prehistoric Art in Europe
• Art of the Ancient Near East
• Art of Ancient Egypt
• Jewish and Early Christian Art
• Byzantine Art and Architecture
• Islamic Art
• Buddhist Art and Architecture Before 1200
• Hindu Art and Architecture Before 1300
• Chinese Art Before 1300
• Japanese Art Before 1392
• Art of the Americas Before 1300
• Early Medieval Art

Survey 2 See all→

• Rapa Nui: Thematic and Narrative Shifts in Curriculum
• Proto-Renaissance in Italy (1200–1400)
• Northern Renaissance Art (1400–1600)
• Sixteenth-Century Northern Europe and Iberia
• Italian Renaissance Art (1400–1600)
• Southern Baroque: Italy and Spain
• Buddhist Art and Architecture in Southeast Asia After 1200
• Chinese Art After 1279
• Japanese Art After 1392
• Art of the Americas After 1300
• Art of the South Pacific: Polynesia
• African Art
• West African Art: Liberia and Sierra Leone
• European and American Architecture (1750–1900)
• Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth-Century Art in Europe and North America
• Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century Sculpture
• Realism to Post-Impressionism
• Nineteenth-Century Photography
• Architecture Since 1900
• Twentieth-Century Photography
• Modern Art (1900–50)
• Mexican Muralism
• Art Since 1950 (Part I)
• Art Since 1950 (Part II)

Thematic Lesson Plans See all→

• Art and Cultural Heritage Looting and Destruction
• Art and Labor in the Nineteenth Century
• Art and Political Commitment
• Art History as Civic Engagement
• Comics: Newspaper Comics in the United States
• Comics: Underground and Alternative Comics in the United States
• Disability in Art History
• Educating Artists
• Feminism & Art
• Gender in Nineteenth-Century Art
• Globalism and Transnationalism
• Playing “Indian”: Manifest Destiny, Whiteness, and the Depiction of Native Americans
• Queer Art: 1960s to the Present
• Race and Identity
• Race-ing Art History: Contemporary Reflections on the Art Historical Canon
• Sacred Spaces
• Sexuality in Art

Hypothes.is

Gabriel Alkon

June 6, 2019

AHTR Weekly Categories

• Announcement
• Digital Humanities
• Equity in Education
• Lesson Plan
• Online Teaching
• Student Voices
• Teaching Strategies
• Uncategorized
• Writing About Art

Recent Posts

• Re-Teaching Rapa Nui
• Revealing Museums — Together
• Baptism by Fire: Tips and Tactics from My First Time Teaching Remotely
• Can COVID-19 Reinvigorate our Teaching? Employing Digital Tools for Spatial Learning

To become active and insightful interpreters of literary or scholarly texts, students must learn to attend to and trust in their own thoughtful responses to what they read.  Instructors can help students to acquire this self-awareness by encouraging them to makes notes – as most experienced readers do habitually – on the texts that they are examining.

Collaborative assignments using the open-source program Hypothes.is ( https://web.hypothes.is/ ) can help students to develop the habit of textual annotation.  The Hypothes.is software “wraps” an unobtrusive and easy-to-use annotation apparatus around publicly available web pages.  When the Hypothes.is Chrome extension is installed, the browser shows all web pages with the annotation overlay.  Groups of students can also, without installing the extension, work on linked proxy versions of web pages bordered with the Hypothes.is apparatus, which consists of a collapsible sidebar in which notes can be written.  Notes can be shared with fellow group members or kept for the private reference of the individual student.  Hypothes.is users always have the option of collapsing the sidebar and viewing web pages without annotations, which only appear when corresponding highlighted portions of primary texts are engaged. (At the following link are directions for setting up the Hypothes.is software:  https://web.hypothes.is/quick-start-guide/ )

To help students as they read and prepare notes, instructors can present assigned texts with their own preliminary annotations, which may include contextual and background explanations, highlights of key details, and guiding interpretive questions (as in the image below).

Lines of poetry by Walt Whitman appear as published at The Walt Whitman Archive , with highlighted phrases keyed to instructor’s questions in the Hypothes.is annotation sidebar.

  The Walt Whitman Archive , eds. Folsom and Price, Center for Digital Research in the Humanities at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln (Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 unported license.)

As they make their own annotations, students can also see and respond to the contributions of their classmates; as the notes accumulate, they take the form of an ongoing collaboration.  Whereas responses to online discussion questions on programs like Blackboard are about the text, annotation-mediated discussion unfolds upon the text, in visible relation to the author’s words. Viewing the text and the notes of peers on a common webpage, students are encouraged to think of how literary texts, as objects of shared attention, draw readers together in a collective exploratory enterprise.

Instructors assigning literary texts for annotation are likely aware that many works of English literature, from the Renaissance to the early 20 th century, are publicly available at Project Gutenberg (www.gutenberg.org) and elsewhere.  (Pre-20 th -century translations of ancient and classical texts are also publicly available, but more recent translations of these texts into contemporary English are usually under copyright.)

I try to help my students appreciate that they are free to make notes about any words, images, or references that seem worthy of special notice, exploration, or interpretation.  The open-endedness of annotation work can intimidate students, but the lack of “right answers” can also be liberating – students can respond to anything in the text that they find interesting or provocative.  My one requirement is that annotations make points about specific words and phrases that, when further considered, lead to a better understanding of larger portions of the text.  Annotations, I tell my students, should make focused points or observations and then say something about their broader significance – what these observations imply, what questions they might raise, or how they might be linked to other textual elements.

Students are often encouraged when they realize that they can turn the difficulties that they experience as readers into useful annotations.  If they attend to their own experience, and register what gives them pause, students will likely find textual details – strange diction, surprising images, obscure references, etc. – that raise questions of general interest.  Even without clear answers, the posing of precise questions – pointing out what needs further consideration or explaining why specific phrases are hard to understand – can reveal the depth and complexity of textual passages to other readers.

Though I urge students to make annotations about any word or phrase in the literary text that stands out to them, I also emphasize the importance of more straightforward, targeted research.

If students do not know the meaning of a word, either because the word itself is not recognized or because it is used in an unusual or archaic manner, then they should consult their dictionaries – though they should also examine the way the word is used in the text under consideration. A useful annotation might suggest what a word means and how knowing this helps one to understand what is happening in the surrounding sentences or paragraphs.  References to real-world places, to historical people and events, and to cultural or religious practices are similarly worthy of annotation.  I tell students that a note incorporating research into this kind of reference should not only explain what it means but also discuss how this explanation helps them to understand the portion of the text where the reference occurs.

For students who are in the habit of annotating texts, the process of reading can naturally unfold into interpretation and critical writing.  Insightful analysis often begins with spontaneously written marginal notes.  Such notes make it easier to remember and re-examine key features of texts when drawing together ideas in order to develop an argument. Regularly preparing annotations can thus show students the interrelationship of reading, thinking, and writing.  Students can put this awareness more completely into practice if asked to develop some of their annotations into formal papers.  Sample assignments, along with tutorials on various uses of the Hypothes.is software, are available in this guide for instructors:  https://web.hypothes.is/teacher-resource-guide/ ).

Previous Post

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed .

• More from M-W
• To save this word, you'll need to log in. Log In

Definition of hypothesis

Did you know.

The Difference Between Hypothesis and Theory

A hypothesis is an assumption, an idea that is proposed for the sake of argument so that it can be tested to see if it might be true.

In the scientific method, the hypothesis is constructed before any applicable research has been done, apart from a basic background review. You ask a question, read up on what has been studied before, and then form a hypothesis.

A hypothesis is usually tentative; it's an assumption or suggestion made strictly for the objective of being tested.

A theory , in contrast, is a principle that has been formed as an attempt to explain things that have already been substantiated by data. It is used in the names of a number of principles accepted in the scientific community, such as the Big Bang Theory . Because of the rigors of experimentation and control, it is understood to be more likely to be true than a hypothesis is.

In non-scientific use, however, hypothesis and theory are often used interchangeably to mean simply an idea, speculation, or hunch, with theory being the more common choice.

Since this casual use does away with the distinctions upheld by the scientific community, hypothesis and theory are prone to being wrongly interpreted even when they are encountered in scientific contexts—or at least, contexts that allude to scientific study without making the critical distinction that scientists employ when weighing hypotheses and theories.

The most common occurrence is when theory is interpreted—and sometimes even gleefully seized upon—to mean something having less truth value than other scientific principles. (The word law applies to principles so firmly established that they are almost never questioned, such as the law of gravity.)

This mistake is one of projection: since we use theory in general to mean something lightly speculated, then it's implied that scientists must be talking about the same level of uncertainty when they use theory to refer to their well-tested and reasoned principles.

The distinction has come to the forefront particularly on occasions when the content of science curricula in schools has been challenged—notably, when a school board in Georgia put stickers on textbooks stating that evolution was "a theory, not a fact, regarding the origin of living things." As Kenneth R. Miller, a cell biologist at Brown University, has said , a theory "doesn’t mean a hunch or a guess. A theory is a system of explanations that ties together a whole bunch of facts. It not only explains those facts, but predicts what you ought to find from other observations and experiments.”

While theories are never completely infallible, they form the basis of scientific reasoning because, as Miller said "to the best of our ability, we’ve tested them, and they’ve held up."

• proposition
• supposition

hypothesis , theory , law mean a formula derived by inference from scientific data that explains a principle operating in nature.

hypothesis implies insufficient evidence to provide more than a tentative explanation.

theory implies a greater range of evidence and greater likelihood of truth.

law implies a statement of order and relation in nature that has been found to be invariable under the same conditions.

Examples of hypothesis in a Sentence

These examples are programmatically compiled from various online sources to illustrate current usage of the word 'hypothesis.' Any opinions expressed in the examples do not represent those of Merriam-Webster or its editors. Send us feedback about these examples.

Word History

Greek, from hypotithenai to put under, suppose, from hypo- + tithenai to put — more at do

1641, in the meaning defined at sense 1a

Phrases Containing hypothesis

• counter - hypothesis
• nebular hypothesis
• null hypothesis
• planetesimal hypothesis
• Whorfian hypothesis

Articles Related to hypothesis

This is the Difference Between a...

This is the Difference Between a Hypothesis and a Theory

In scientific reasoning, they're two completely different things

Dictionary Entries Near hypothesis

hypothermia

hypothesize

Cite this Entry

“Hypothesis.” Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary , Merriam-Webster, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/hypothesis. Accessed 25 Apr. 2024.

Kids Definition

Kids definition of hypothesis, medical definition, medical definition of hypothesis, more from merriam-webster on hypothesis.

Nglish: Translation of hypothesis for Spanish Speakers

Britannica English: Translation of hypothesis for Arabic Speakers

Britannica.com: Encyclopedia article about hypothesis

Subscribe to America's largest dictionary and get thousands more definitions and advanced search—ad free!

Can you solve 4 words at once?

Word of the day, tendentious.

See Definitions and Examples »

Get Word of the Day daily email!

Popular in Grammar & Usage

More commonly misspelled words, commonly misspelled words, how to use em dashes (—), en dashes (–) , and hyphens (-), absent letters that are heard anyway, how to use accents and diacritical marks, popular in wordplay, the words of the week - apr. 19, 10 words from taylor swift songs (merriam's version), 9 superb owl words, 10 words for lesser-known games and sports, your favorite band is in the dictionary, games & quizzes.

• Researching
• 7. Hypothesis

How to write a hypothesis

Once you have created your three topic sentences , you are ready to create your hypothesis.

What is a 'hypothesis'?

A hypothesis is a single sentence answer to the Key Inquiry Question  that clearly states what your entire essay is going to argue.

It contains both the argument and the main reasons in support of your argument. Each hypothesis should clearly state the ‘answer’ to the question, followed by a ‘why’.

For Example:  

The Indigenous people of Australia were treated as second-class citizens until the 1960’s (answer) by the denial of basic political rights by State and Federal governments (why) .

How do you create a hypothesis?

Back in Step 3 of the research process, you split your Key Inquiry Question into three sub-questions .

Then at Step 6 you used the quotes from your Source Research to create answers to each of the sub-questions. These answers became your three Topic Sentences .

To create your hypothesis, you need to combine the three Topic Sentences into a single sentence answer.

By combining your three answers to the sub-questions , you are ultimately providing a complete answer to the original Key Inquiry Question .

For example:

What's next?

Need a digital Research Journal?

Additional resources

What do you need help with, download ready-to-use digital learning resources.

Copyright © History Skills 2014-2024.

Contact  via email