Lectori Salutem

— J. Chr. de Vries

I

And now let’s hope that you receive this letter in good order, as I want to discuss a few issues with you; that is, I speak and you listen. Or not, that’s up to you. I am not responsible for your actions. But it must be said: the issues I want to present to you concern both of us, and are not without consequence.
Do you feel addressed? That is the ultimate question, but let me not get ahead of myself and start with the most concrete issue, that of the meaning of art. I have written about this before, so I will try not to be too repetitive. What matters to me now are two aspects related to art: the artist at work and the way this work is financed; in other words, the artistic and the legal aspect.

I see you walking ahead of me, a slender, tall figure, dressed in a long, burgundy dress, trimmed with two golden stripes from the shoulders down to your buttocks, magnificently accentuating your figure. You remind me of a cello. “C’est de bizarre,” you say as you sit down next to me at the table on the terrace. Judging by your accent, you are German. A waiter places two glasses of white wine in front of us, we toast; I have forgotten the exact words. I do remember asking you what is so strange. “That sometimes I don’t know if I’m dreaming or if I’m in daily reality, those two worlds sometimes blend together in an incomprehensible way,” she answers. It’s a familiar problem, I think. Maybe I’m dreaming now myself. But before I can ask her if we are both in the same dream, she asks a question: “I see you looking at me, do you find me beautiful?”

“That is a complicated issue. If you were a work of art, I would answer the question affirmatively, because then it is human, but if we are both dreaming, then your appearance has a divine (because natural) origin, and I would call you ‘sublime’.”

“And if I rephrase the question: do you find me attractive? Does that make the issue less complex? The question then becomes personal.”

“The beautiful can indeed also be attractive at the same time, but an unfathomably deep abyss can also exert an irresistible attraction on us.”

Her gold-green, almond-shaped eyes look at me with a greedy intensity. A cat-like predator that wants to devour me. There are two kinds of women: cats and dogs. With men, I would call those types princes and farmers. I am a farmer.

I had looked away for a short time, and when I had the courage to look at her again, she was gone. Her glass stands empty on the table. I get up and walk to the small beach by the river. Two swans let themselves be carried along by the current, disappearing out of sight at a dizzying speed. I walk back to my car in thought, and see the waiter hurrying towards me, saying I still need to pay the bill. How could I have forgotten that? Did I meet that cat-like lady or not? The empty glass seems to suggest I did.

“Now that we’re talking about the bill, I thought that was an important aspect of your issue about art…”

“Well, there you are again.” I wonder where she suddenly came from, does she sometimes sneak up on her prey?

“Like you, I admired those swans, what magnificent birds they are.” She takes my arm and leads me to a wooden bench overlooking the river. “This is a beautiful place,” she points to the two bridges that stand perpendicular to each other, both spanning their own river, which merge at the spot where the swans began their journey. “The perfect metaphor for your issue about art, don’t you think?” She looks at me with her inscrutable cat eyes.

“A metaphor is, like beauty, never perfect. It is an abstraction, it leaves something to the imagination, that’s why it works.” I make contact with her eyes for a moment, and I wonder if they are perfect. Would that make her sublime? There is immeasurable mystery in her gaze, but is that perfection? She does not respond, not even a blink, so I continue: “Whether this metaphor of the two rivers works, I don’t know. There is something to be said for it, both the artistic and the financial aspects can be considered as streams, but is the place where both streams converge comparable to an expression of art? Is the financial stream contained in that expression? In other words, is it fundamentally important, from the perspective of the artistic stream? Of course, you could argue that it could not have been realized without that money.”

“That sounds like the conclusion you once drew about the issue of form and content, when there is content, form and content dissolve into each other. The two rivers dissolve into each other. So, the metaphor is valid.”

Her knowledge of that text surprises me. Is she omniscient? “Let’s start from the other side. An artist creates a work, a novel, a painting, a sculpture, or an orchestral piece, it doesn’t matter. The novel is not published, the painting and sculpture remain in the artist’s studio, and the orchestral piece is not performed. Is it then considered art?”

“That sounds like that parable you wrote, about a flock of flamingos on an uninhabited island in the Pacific during a sunset, where no one is there to watch. Your conclusion was that there is no beauty because there is no one to admire it. In that sense, the examples you mention do not generate beauty. Is it then considered art? Not if creating beauty is a prerequisite for something to be considered art.”

“Then it is at least art in potential. All artistic conditions are met. There is only a bag of money needed to reveal that beauty. Just as a suitable space, musical instruments, music stands, tables, chairs, musicians, receptionists, paper, and printing ink are needed. But let’s be clear, I have never seen a bag of money create beauty.”

“But that bag of money is apparently a necessary condition to bring about the creation of beauty.”
She disappears as quickly as she appeared. I look around, but see no trace of her. I think about what we have achieved in our little quest for art and its financing. Not very much yet. I also don’t understand why she keeps disappearing, that doesn’t help. Or is this all just a product of my imagination? Am I dreaming? Are dreams a form of imagination? I decide to continue my quest on my own, I am not dependent on her. And you are still here, aren’t you? We are not alone.

A problem with granting subsidies to art arises from the conditions attached to that financing. These can be of different kinds, but they are all, in essence, legal interests. There is not much wrong with that, any institution that donates money must account for it, especially when it comes to governments. A private philanthropist may only have to deal with his accountant, but can ultimately decide what to do with his money. And finally, there are the conditions associated with criminal law. The freedom of the artist is always bound to certain limits. That is timeless.

It is up to the artist whether he wants to meet those conditions. He can decide to keep his work in the private sphere, as Gesualdo di Venosa did. He had enough bags of money at his disposal, could compose whatever he wanted, and was provided with excellent singers to perform it. But without those bags of money, it becomes difficult for that artist.

Ultimately, the question is what conditions the subsidy provider wants to impose, and to what extent those conditions affect artistic expression. In recent decades, those conditions have increasingly taken on a political tone; the government more and more demands that the granting of funds promotes or at least addresses social emancipation. Additionally, the art must appeal to a larger and broader audience. This requirement obviously relates to the need for politicians to justify the subsidies ‘to the voters’.

“So, the real question is: Why should the government subsidize art at all?” She is suddenly next to me again.

Her unexpected appearances increase her attractiveness, I think. Because she does this of her own free will, she seeks me out. It is a form of teasing. And I fall for it. Before I can answer, I hear the voice of a man:

“The government shouldn’t do that at all! Let art support itself, like I do.”

I had seen the man step out of his flashy snow-white Mercedes with half an eye, undoubtedly an entrepreneur who thinks that artworks can be traded like detergents or snake oil. The man sits down at our table and orders a beer.

“Art is not created with profit in mind; it is purely about artistic quality, and we cannot leave that to the market,” I try to argue against his blunt opinion. Which is utterly pointless, I realize. I have no desire for this discussion but don’t know how to avoid it. Ignorance is hard to combat.

“A lot of high-quality art is made that earns itself back precisely because of that quality,” the man argues. “Take those paintings by Rembrandt or Van Gogh; they fetch a fortune when sold. Or the CDs of The Beatles or Madonna, they sell like hotcakes! Also, Hollywood blockbusters, or even ‘Bollywood’. The thrillers by Dan Brown, Karin Slaughter, that English couple, what are their names again, Nicci French, those sell like crazy.”

I realize it would be pointless to explain the difference between high art and popular art to the man, as he has no idea. This problem is bigger, by the way, because even in so-called progressive circles, the difference between ‘high and low art’ is dismissed as a bourgeois instrument to protect their own culture. Everything is thought of in terms of ‘power’ by them. Beethoven became famous because he was a white man. The same ignorance, only from a different perspective.

Meanwhile, the man is flirting with the cat-woman, making sexually suggestive comments and reaching out to touch her arm, but she recoils, clearly not pleased with this. Whether it’s because of these unwanted advances or because she agrees with me on the matter, she snaps at the man that true art is not about objects that you can buy or sell or even touch at will. “True art comes from an exemplary artistic act. It is subjectwise, unlike your business practice, which is objectwise. You do not understand this difference, and you never will.”

Whether the man is deterred by her response or if I somehow managed to drive him away, I don’t know, but I see that he, along with his flashy car, has disappeared. The enigmatic lady is also gone. Maybe I imagined it all. When I pay the bill, I see that there is also half a liter of beer on the tab. However, I do not remember drinking it. I decide to sit back on the bench in front of the two rivers.

I hear a loud rushing sound approaching, from somewhere diagonally above me. Suddenly, I see the two swans appear just above the water and land with violent force on the water, moving their legs over the water to slow down. Then they float calmly between the two bridges, occasionally dipping their heads underwater in search of their lunch.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” She’s sitting next to me again.

“Well, an old problem,” I say, “is it beautiful or sublime? I think sublime.”

She only nods. Then she says, “That man was a boor, but the problem he — however foolishly — raised is relevant enough: why should the government subsidize art? The argument that the quality of that art cannot otherwise be guaranteed is problematic; Van Gogh’s example is, of course, evident, but Rembrandt earned well from his work. Let’s set aside the differences between various artists and art disciplines; I understand that maintaining a symphony orchestra involves different financial obligations than writing a novel. But it’s about the principle now.”

“Art that only has a right to exist if there is enough audience for it misses an essential aspect: art that directly and immediately satisfies the needs of the audience, making it popular, merely meets an expectation and is thus nothing more than an object to satisfy that. It lacks an important human element; it is merely a reproduction of an empty, futureless desire. The essence of the human, and thus the crucial distinction from raw nature, is its imagination, which makes the unthinkable conceivable and expresses the ability to transcend the banal. Any society that wants to celebrate this unique human essence will support true art, the art that does not reproduce what already exists, but truly creates.”

You undoubtedly want to know who this mysterious cat-woman is, who appears at moments of her choosing. I must leave you without an answer; I can only guess. It could be one of the muses of the arts, that seems obvious; maybe too obvious. It could also be Frau Âventiure, the woman who personifies adventure in the poetry of the Minnesänger. To paraphrase Agamben (I know you have read his texts): This woman is not the omniscient narrator who announces at the beginning that she will tell the ‘true’ story, a truth that exists before there is a story; she is not the deity who gives the poet the word, she appears halfway through the story, she is the word that takes place; she is not given to us by the story, she is the story itself.

II

When I finished paying and left the restaurant, I was approached by an unfamiliar man, around forty years old. He had a stylishly trimmed beard and wore sunglasses high on his forehead instead of over his eyes. He mentioned he had overheard parts of my conversation “with that intriguing lady.” He introduced himself as “Lucide Potis, but everyone calls me Luc.” He extended his hand. I didn’t recall seeing him on the terrace. Hesitantly, I shook his hand. He asked if I would like to discuss the concept of ‘truth’ further with him, “over a cigar by the river.” Seeing my continued hesitation, he insisted, “In my line of work, it’s about power; truth is merely an unsuspecting, or even naive, spectator.” I couldn’t ignore such a challenge.

He smoked small, thin cigars with a mouthpiece, that smelled of caramel. Not a good sign. I lit my ‘senoritas natural’. The swans also seemed interested; they swam against the current right in front of us, struggling to move forward.

“I heard you talking about ‘true art’, but when art is considered ‘true’, that judgment results from a power structure. The public domain determines the value of art, not the artwork itself. The value judgment is always based on power.”

“And what is this profession you mentioned? In other words, from what capacity or expertise do you feel you can have a suitable opinion here? I suspect it has something to do with politics, the quintessential domain of public power.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’ve been a parliamentary assistant for a political party in the city council and worked as a policy advisor on a report regarding cultural subsidies. I am now a councilor in The Hague, responsible for finance and culture”

“Finance and culture, that explains a lot.”

“It may seem so, but I do have the best interests of culture at heart.”

“At least it explains your view on power; its meaning is closely related to money, and thus power. It’s telling that the term ‘culture’ is used; the term ‘art’ has been absent for decades.”

“That’s because the concept of ‘art’ hasn’t garnered much sympathy from the majority of the population in recent decades. If we truly care about the arts, and I do, sometimes it’s necessary to be pragmatic. As a politician, you may think you’re right, but you still have to earn that right. That requires a compelling narrative for the people. And that’s what I stand for.”

“We can’t afford to lack a compelling narrative for the people,” I murmured softly to myself.

“What did you say? I didn’t catch that.”

“You need a ‘good story’ to explain that 1 + 1 = 2.”

“Yes, indeed, that hits the nail on the head. With logical truths like those of the numerical system, it’s not problematic. But when it comes to existential issues like art, or even religion or love, it’s much more complicated.”

A white Mercedes drove past behind us on the terrace; I recognized the show-off. Luc noticed my dissaproving look and said, “That’s René Modderen, a successful entrepreneur who has a second home here. I don’t understand your disapproval; without such people, paid art would not be possible, our economy depends on it. They need that good story. It’s a matter of education.”

“Education,” I said, “is indeed necessary, but that’s not the same as a ‘good story’. You don’t need a ‘good story’ to explain that 1 + 1 = 2. For that, you need something else: a good method of teaching. A story is fiction, and to make the public believe that story requires charm and trust. Learning how to do arithmetic is not about charm or trust; it’s a technique that needs to be learned. That leads to knowledge, and knowledge is always based on experience. That’s the difference with the concept of ‘information’, which can only become knowledge when it’s internalized.”

“Let’s return to our starting point: truth. With logical constructs like the numerical system, that truth is easily established. But in the case of art, it’s not. That’s where a story, or context if you prefer that term, is needed.”

“There’s no fundamental difference between mathematical and artistic knowledge. Kant distinguishes between analytic and synthetic judgments. These judgments are necessary to arrive at knowledge. In an analytic judgment, the statement is contained within the subject; in a synthetic judgment, it isn’t because it’s based on sensory perception. ‘A ball is round’ is analytic, and ‘this ball is red’ is synthetic.”

Politician Luc looked at me as if I were talking gibberish; this was way over his head. Well, you know I bring up Kant from time to time, for you it’s second nature. It took me at least half an hour to explain to him what Kant meant by that distinction. Even referencing Kant’s own examples didn’t help. Kant gives the following example of an analytic judgment: ‘all bodies have extension’ [alle Körper sind ausgedehnt]. This ‘extension’ is contained within the body itself. Then Kant gives the example of a synthetic judgment: ‘all bodies have weight’ [alle Körper sind schwer], then another predicate is added, that lies outside the original predicate. This turns the synthetic judgment into an experiential judgment. That, to me, is the crux. Furthermore, Kant explains that all mathematical judgments are synthetic, based on empirical knowledge. He uses the example of a simple arithmetic problem: 7 + 5 = 12. The only way to understand this sum is through experience. The number 12 is not contained within the sum of 7 and 5; we have to connect that sum with some kind of arithmetic system, like the fingers on your hands. Children learn this in elementary school, and by practicing these sums frequently, they quickly learn the outcomes. I’ve noticed this form of knowledge is rapidly diminishing lately. Everyone uses calculator apps on their laptops or phones. All knowledge is based on some form of repetition and practice. This applies to music just as it does to arithmetic. Luc isn’t convinced.

“Music is mainly a feeling that is experienced, not a simple arithmetic problem,” he says. “We immerse ourselves in the sounds, melodies, and harmonies.”

“Then you must familiarize yourself with the musical principles behind those sounds, melodies, and harmonies; otherwise, you’ll only hear gibberish. And that requires practice. This practice takes place in playing, singing, and listening, not so much in reading. You can delve into dozens of theoretical writings about the ‘leading tone’, but the only way to truly understand it is to sing it. Then you’ll feel what happens with your body. Music education has been drastically cut back in high schools. Subsidies to music schools have been withdrawn. It’s no wonder there’s less and less societal support for classical music.”

“That can partly be blamed on the music world itself. In the previous century, new music became so abstract that you indeed need dozens of theoretical writings to understand anything about it. It’s no wonder the audience turned away from that music. And I’m talking about the audience interested in classical music.”

“That’s a common complaint, but I doubt if that analysis is correct. Throughout history, there has always been music that instantly captivates, and music that requires effort to appreciate and understand. The ‘ars subtilior’ from the fourteenth century, the puzzle canons from the Renaissance, Bach’s ‘Art of Fugue’, Beethoven’s ‘Grosse Fuge’, Liszt’s late piano works, to name a few examples. This music doesn’t seduce; it demands conquest.”

“That may be true, but music from the second half of the previous century really takes the cake. By far, most people, even true music lovers, feel and experience nothing with that music. That’s something to think about.”

“It’s strange then that when such ‘misunderstood’ works are used in a film, those objections suddenly disappear. Think of Ligeti’s ‘Lux Aeterna’, used by Kubrick in his famous ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’. It’s a typical example of the music you’re referring to, and nobody had a problem with it in that film. Now you could argue that the film provides the ‘story’ you mentioned, but that’s too easy for me. Even without that film, people could appreciate that music; they just have to make an effort. Just as Goethe had to make an effort to appreciate Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, something he initially didn’t do. ‘Too much noise’. I think, for reasons we should investigate, people are less inclined to make that effort. They want quick satisfaction of their needs, with as little effort as possible.”

“Even then, the ‘truth’ of that music is determined by the audience. So, the context determines that truth.”

“I’ve just tried to explain that artistic judgment fundamentally doesn’t differ from a judgment about an arithmetic problem. If the public context is irrelevant for the latter judgment, then mutatis mutandis it is also for the artistic judgment.”

“Perhaps in your experience, but not in the political reality I deal with. I have no other choice.”
As you can see, this discussion led to a repetition of the debate between Socrates and Protagoras, where they at least changed their positions in the end, but we didn’t. He even rejected my offer to try a ‘senoritas’. Without curiosity, we won’t succeed with art. I admit I’m anything but hopeful about this matter.

Truth is like a sheet of paper; you can cut yourself on it, but it remains a powerless phenomenon. It can be extremely unfriendly, unpleasant, or uncomfortable, but it demands nothing. There’s no imperative. Truth is sublime.

On my way home in my old Peugeot, I was overtaken by René Modderen, well, it was a white Mercedes, but I couldn’t see the driver clearly. At home, in my favorite spot under my red parasol, I realize that ultimately nothing is certain. Did I really go to that place with those swans? There’s nothing wrong with my imagination. In any case, I haven’t gained anything; I can’t formulate any useful conclusions about the issue of truth.

One thing I do realize: if my theory is correct that truth is independent of any public context, and thus of the phenomenon of power, then it doesn’t matter that I’m the only one holding this view; truth occurs regardless of how many people adhere to it. I don’t need to convince anyone; I don’t need to provide proof. I may be alone, but I’m not necessarily lonely. I am one with the truth. Courageously onward!

III

There is one more issue I want to present to you, namely that of imagination. This issue naturally touches upon the previous two issues, those of art and truth. If the encounter with the catwoman was merely imagination, can it still be true? The actual encounter would then be false, but the imagination would nevertheless be true. That is a complex issue.

As you undoubtedly recall, ‘The imagination in power’ was the slogan associated with the first and only left-progressive cabinet in our parliamentary history, the Cabinet Den Uyl, which was appointed in 1973 and governed until it fell two weeks before the new elections in 1977 over a proposal regarding land policy. The cabinet advocated for ‘Dissemination of knowledge, power, and income’, supported democratization processes abroad, but also faced serious issues such as the hostage-taking by Moluccans, the Oil Crisis, the Lockheed affair, and Suriname’s independence process. The Minister of Defense, Henk Vredeling, was not particularly liked by senior military leaders, especially after his statement that he was ‘allergic to uniforms’. Is it a coincidence that his last name starts with the word ’peace’? [‘Vrede’ means peace in Dutch.] Certainly not a coincidence is that the cabinet was appointed during a time when Johan Cruijff was making waves with Ajax and the Dutch national team, profoundly transforming football through his contributions; but also the tremendous flourishing of ensemble culture in contemporary music is a striking phenomenon. Imagination had indeed come to power, not only in the government. But what was that power actually?

On balance, not much, at least not for Den Uyl. After the fall of his cabinet, new elections followed, which he won resoundingly, gaining ten seats. His party became the largest in the House of Representatives, but despite this, he couldn’t convert that gain into a second Cabinet Den Uyl. The confessional parties, united under one flag, the CDA, proved more adept at playing the power game. Primarily focusing on your ideals apparently makes you more vulnerable than when you prioritize the power game. This also makes artists who primarily focus on artistic quality more vulnerable than practitioners of the entertainment industry.

I see a squirrel climbing a tree, at the edge of the garden; it dashes upwards, pauses briefly, then dashes onward, and once at the top, it waits for a few moments. Then it begins an elegant dance through the branches of the trees, swiftly moving from tree to tree, covering a distance of about thirty meters in the blink of an eye, after which it disappears from sight, leaving the swaying branches as its trail. Probably because the squirrel is quite large, the largest I’ve ever seen, it reminds me of a study on guenons that I read about in Yuval Harari’s intriguing book ‘Sapiens’. If you haven’t read it, I recommend acquiring it immediately!

These guenons [sort of monkey] have been found to possess (primitive) language skills. The research revealed that they have a word for ‘eagle, danger!’ When they hear it, they quickly disappear into the bushes. With the word ‘careful, lion!’ they flee up a tree.

But it gets more interesting! They are also capable of lying. The researchers observed two guenons, one holding a banana in its paws. The other guenon makes the sound of ‘careful, lion!’ to which the guenon holding the banana immediately drops it and swiftly climbs a tree. The other guenon then picks up the banana and happily devours it.

So, guenons possess imagination, because lying requires the ability to imagine. Similarly, other animals such as chimpanzees have been found to imagine certain things, such as learning to use a stick as a tool to obtain food, something they couldn’t achieve without that stick; they improvise on the spot. That’s what I call imagination.

Now, you might say, and I suspect you would indeed, that the conclusion is clear: there’s no difference between humans and animals when it comes to the power of imagination. Both possess this ability; the difference lies only in its strength. However, I believe there’s still an essential difference between human and animal imagination. I’m not a biologist, but I dare defend the proposition that animal imagination is exclusively focused on direct utility: acquiring food or self-protection. In humans, this form can also be present, but in addition, there exists the capacity for fantasy that serves nothing but itself. I’m referring to a form that isn’t aimed at any utility whatsoever, not even entertainment, which you might also consider a form of utility. Fantasy purely for the sake of fantasy.

Now I recall a peculiar dream from which I woke up early this morning. A train emerged from a light blue-greenish substance, a liquid that wasn’t wet. The train consisted of a single motorized car, wider than usual, as it was running on what’s known as ‘broad gauge’ track, similar to that used in Russia after Napoleon’s failed invasion. The idea was that this would hinder any potential new invasion because the enemy would struggle more with resupply due to the wider tracks. However, in practice, this didn’t work out, as the Germans replaced the broad gauge with standard gauge tracks after their invasion in 1941. There was also mention of another train, a model train from the Märklin brand, with which I spent many hours playing as a child. In reality, the model train is, of course, smaller, but not in my dream. The difference between the two trains played no role there. Actually, everything was unclear — where the trains came from, where they were going — it all led nowhere. The dream repeated itself continually. Again and again, the motor car emerged from the mist, or whatever it was, and again and again, the toy train appeared, in a constant repetition, like in a fever dream, until I finally woke up. But it wasn’t a fever dream.

This brings me back to an earlier question: is a dream the product of imagination? Or are there simply chemical or physical processes at work? On the internet, I read that there are multiple theories about dreams, but no definitive one yet.

The memory of this dream leads me to another memory. Years ago, I watched a documentary at the archive of the Dutch Broadcasting Foundation about a sixteen-hour train journey from Moscow to Grozny in Chechnya. I no longer remember why I went to see that film there. The journey to Grozny was not without danger, due to the fighting between the Russian army and Chechen fighters. The journey sometimes had to be interrupted with a break. In the wagons where the filmmaker filmed, curtains were drawn at the sides behind which the little children had to sleep. In the middle of the wagon, several tables were set up with stoves on them, and a meal was prepared. Bottles of strong liquor were constantly circulating, songs were sung, and stories were told. The wagon was like a traveling living room. What a difference from the dull train journeys on the Dutch tracks, people dozing off staring out the window, listening to boring music on their headphones, drinking coffee from a plastic cup bought from a man with a trolley walking through the train. Do dangerous times stimulate our imagination?

Whether this second memory is a result of the first, I do not know. Nor do I know if memories are products of imagination. However, I now believe I know the answer to my earlier question about dreams being a product of imagination; I believe not. In my experience, dreams lack dialectic. The fact that I had no issue with the combination of those two trains, the ‘real’ one and the toy train, should make this clear. Without contradiction, there is no imagination, it seems to me.

There is a theory about dreaming that compares it to writing the RAM memory to the hard drive when a computer is shut down. Our memory is thus written to our ‘hard drive’ in our dreams. This is a useful action, but not an articulation of imagination, no matter how surreal and fantastical our dreams may seem. In dreams, there is no dialectic; only a certain process is taking place, like an automaton.

Like beauty, imagination must be imperfect, something missing, incomplete, forgotten, or to be guessed. An absolute memory will never yield imagination. But imagination strives for perfection, which makes it excellent in the best case, and thereby exemplary.

This brings us back to an earlier issue: what is the meaning of ‘power’ in imagination? When imagination is not aimed at any utility, then there is no question of a power relationship. In that form of imagination, it is solely about articulating that imagination; it is aimed exclusively at itself, and so it can become excellent and exemplary; it takes place in the action. This selfless imagination represents the humane at its finest and underscores the meaning of art.

I wonder if you agree with my next step: the selflessness of (pure) imagination touches on the selflessness of (pure) truth. Both pure imagination and truth are not concerned with any benefit, and thus not with power. An articulation of pure imagination is then, it seems to me, an articulation of truth. Both that imagination and that truth take place in an action.

The final step we now have to take is to distinguish between the truth born of a pure action: where does that truth remain, does it leave a trace? A possible answer to this question could be the following distinction: truth can be open or closed. The earlier example of the proposition 1 + 1 = 2 is an example of a closed truth. The proposition has become an object that can be known and used at all times. The truth of an imagination, taking place in an action, is then an open truth. A closed truth is objectwise, an open truth is subjectwise. When an open, subjectwise truth gets a name, it becomes closed and therefore objectwise. Not every open truth can be closed. Logical propositions can, but artistic actions not simply. A score that is the product of a pure action can, for example, be made true again through a new pure action. As long as it is not played, it represents a closed truth, which in potential can become open again, namely in an execution. Its (temporarily closed) truth lies in its potential.

“Are you interested?” I wrote at the beginning of this letter. I think writing it is a true action; the question is whether this is also true for reading. That will determine if you feel addressed. The truth of this letter is closed with the end of its writing. It has become an object. It is up to you to open it again. This is not a matter of power, but it does require your imagination. Farewell.

— J. Chr. de Vries, Bonnemort, May 14, 2024

Post Scriptum

This morning I woke up from a dream. I was leaving the supermarket, pushing a fully loaded shopping cart ahead of me. About ten meters in front of me was the Cat Woman, also with a cart, this time wearing a long green-colored dress, a deep, dark shade of green, like that of a wine bottle. The silver trims accentuated her swaying hips. I quickened my pace and saw her walking towards a Citroën 2CV; I almost caught up with her and noticed there was a sticker on the back of this ‘Ugly Duckling’ depicting two swans. She glanced back, but she didn’t recognize me; she looked right through me. Then she opened the hatch of a white Mercedes parked behind the 2CV, retrieved her groceries from her cart, returned the cart, got into her car, and drove away without looking at me even once. I woke up hopelessly in love.

I drank espresso in the garden and smoked a cigar. I tried to figure out if this dream was a repetition of a real event. Have I seen that woman in reality before, there at that supermarket? I’m not sure. I rack my brain; it could be; the dream could be a repetition or processing of a memory, but when would this have been? I review the last times I went grocery shopping there. Did I see that 2CV? Including that swan sticker?

Is it possible to fall in love with a dreamed person? Someone who doesn’t exist in reality? If this isn’t possible, then this is the answer to my doubt: the dream must be based on a real event.

But what if it is possible to fall in love in a dream with someone who doesn’t or has never existed in reality? Love, in any case, is the product of imagination, and perhaps this could also be possible in a dream. In that case, the lady from the dream I fell in love with could be a completely imaginary person. The lady in question is, as is the case with all infatuations, an object of desire. This desire is crucial, but also the fact that this desire can never be fulfilled. It’s about a longing that can only exist as longing, where the object of desire is nothing more than an instrument to manifest this desire.

I hear you saying: this reminds me of Jacques Lacan’s concept of L’objet petit a. The desire for desire, directed at an object that can never be possessed or fulfilled; intangible, untouchable, La douce dame sans merci. Dr. Zeele once jokingly referred to it as ‘object @‘, pronouncing that @ symbol as ‘apestaartje’ [monkey-tail]. Zeele actually had some sympathy for Lacan’s ideas, which, as you’ll understand, was probably mainly due to Lacan’s preoccupations with Freud, Zeele’s great hero.

The next question is inevitable: Should we see imagination, and in its wake, art, as an articulation of l’objet petit a? According to me, this would mean that the artworks based on that imagination can never ever fulfill the desire underlying that imagination. Those works would then be pseudo-artworks, a form of compensation for an unattainable debt.

When it comes to artworks connected to an interest, whether it’s a financial interest, a political interest, or the desire for immortal fame, I think we’ll unconditionally answer the question affirmatively. I didn’t use the word ‘debt’ for nothing. After all, the interests connected to the artworks are a form of desire, a desire that cannot ultimately be fulfilled. Even if immortal fame were to be reached, it would still in the end be nothing more than an illusion, one that doesn’t intrinsically form part of the (artistic) essence of the artist.

However, it’s different for pure art. That’s namely not concerned with a desire, or with lust. This form of art is, as I earlier argued, solely concerned with itself, in other words with the realization of an artistic act that’s excellent and therefore exemplary. This has nothing to do with an attempt to settle an unattainable desire. Pure art isn’t an answer to an unattainable desire. At best it can be interpreted as a counterpoint, an expression that in the most genuine sense can best be understood as an act that’s to be placed next to l’objet petit a; in other words, without its being in direct relation to it. Pure art is, just like truth, free from desire and usefulness. It’s not an answer to anything, not anywhere; at best it’s a question, like music that doesn’t take away death during the commemoration of a beloved one, but instead serves as a counterpoint. Death takes, art gives.

— JCdV, May 16, 2024