Showing posts with label Gestalt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gestalt. Show all posts

29 Aug 2016

Bickhard and Richie (1.2) On the Nature of Representation, Ch.1.2, “A Historical Summary of [James] Gibson’s Theory,” summary

 

by Corry Shores

 

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[The following is summary. All boldface and bracketed commentary are my own. I apologize in advance for my typos. Proofreading is incomplete.]

 

 

 

Summary of

 

Mark Bickhard and D. Richie

 

On the Nature of Representation:

A Case Study of James Gibson’s Theory of Perception

 

Ch.1 Foundations

 

1.2 A Historical Summary of Gibson’s Theory

 

 

 

Very brief summary:

The important information about the world we perceive is not something our minds place into our perceptions by organizing and processing them one way or another. Rather, that information is built into the world (the “ecology”) itself and especially in the patterns, structures, and ways we perceive it when we actively interact with it. And we directly, without further processing, discern these significances in our perceived world when our perceptual interactions tell us the possible uses of (or potential further interactions with) the perceived things, which are called their “affordances”.

 

 

Brief summary:

Gibson rejected two predominate views of perception of his time and proposed a new theory. The first predominate view are the sensation-based theories (of for example Berkeley, Müller, and Helmholtz) which say that our eyes directly receive and encode our fragmented visual data and secondarily we construct full perceptions on their basis by applying to them processes of memory, inference, and judgment. The other view is the Gestalt one, which sees the process of perception as a relatively spontaneous sensory organization that also involves some reconstructive work on the part of the perceiver. But Gibson’s own scientific studies showed that humans and animals react to their environment in a way that is too accurate and immediate for there to be additional acts of processing of the data, as in these two theories. Instead of the important information being encoded into the perceptual data by means of perceptual and mental processes, Gibson instead came to hold that the important information about the environment was fully given in the sensory data already and directly discerned without further processing of it. His work with motion parallax illustrates his thinking. (Motion parallax is the visual experience that we have when we are moving, and the things further away from us pass through our field of vision slower compared with nearer things.)  The two existing models would say that on the basis of a static impression of what is given to our vision while we remain passive observers, we process that data to obtain knowledge of the properties of depth in the scene before us. However, motion parallax shows us that we are not passive observers, because we actively make decisions about how we position ourselves in the world, and in that way we in fact interact with our surroundings. And also, what we perceive is not a static image, because it requires that we see a flow of information and we recognize certain patterns in it. But it was not so clear in his early theories that he can avoid what he called the homunculus problem, which plagued the other theories. The idea is that because an interpretative sort of process was needed to “encode” the raw data with other important significances, like depth relations, there needed to be an internal agency that receives that data and interprets it, like a miniature human living in our brain. This leads to an infinite regress, because that homunculus would need some internal interpretative agent of its own as well, and so on. Gibson, thus, needs to explain the nature of the discerned significant information and the way it is obtained in a manner that shows how it does not involve an interpretative component. This danger arises on account of his notion that schematic perception is based on literal perception. Our literal perceptions give us data about the physical spatial properties of things in our perceived world, while our schematic perceptions tell us about the perceived things’ potential uses and significances. Schematic perception is in some sense obtained from literal  perceptions secondarily, and this leaves open the possibility that Gibson’s theory falls to the homunculus problem (for, it could be that there needs to be an additional process that “reads” the literal perceptions to interpret their schematic significances). What he says instead is that humans and animals, by perceiving the physical features of things, in that same act thereby perceive their potential uses or interactive possibilities, called their affordances, of that perceived thing.  Thus there is no ‘encoding’ or processing to obtain knowledge of the perceived thing’s significance; it is perceived and recognized directly when seeing its physical features. Given that this interactive element with the environment directly contains the important information about it, Gibson moved the locus of perception away from the passive perceiver’s internal workings and relocated it in the surrounding “ecology” of interwoven environmental elements that are also interactively interwoven with the observer. [For this reason, it is called “ecological psychology,” as Gibson argued that] perception is a “process that can only be understood in terms of its natural ecology” (Bickhard & Richie 10).

 

 

 

 

Summary

 

Bickhard and Richie (henceforth written as BR) will discuss James Gibson’s theory of perception by first examining its historic context and then its conceptual development (BR 8).

 

BR begin by noting the basic context of Gibson’s original studies:

Gibson (1950) points out that the study of perception had long been dominated by the problem of how the mind can generate our full experienced perceptual knowledge from the inadequate data provided by the senses, with vision and the eyes always the primary focus. The major approaches to this problem were based on the works of Berkeley (1709/1922), Müller (1838/1948), and Helmholtz (1896/1952), who proposed that the eyes directly receive and encode certain basic sensations, such as patches of color, lines, points, and so on, and that full visual perceptions are then constructed on the basis of such sensations through various processes of comparisons with memory, inferences based on cues within the sensations, and, ultimately, judgments concerning the nature of the external stimulus.

(BR 8)

Although there were disagreements on the nature of the sensations and of their processing, “all such models, including a slight variant in which the retinal image served in the role of sensations, assume that perceptions must be generated out of primitive sensations or retinal images. They assume that the senses receive fragmented or incomplete information about the world that must be enriched by mental processing (Gibson & Gibson, 1955)” (BR 9a).

 

Gestaltists “objected to this approach,” because they thought that “the sensory elements seemed impossible to specify” and also that this approach at best tells how we make judgements about the world but does not explain how we actually see the world [in a more encompassing sense] (9). Rather, “Gestaltists argued that ‘experience is not reducible to elements or additive units’ and proposed instead that the process of perception ‘was one of a relatively spontaneous sensory organization’ (Gibson, 1950, p. 22)” (9). This notion of sensory organization applied well to the perception of form, but not so well to the perception of space. And in both cases it was difficult to specify [what the nature of the sensory organization is]. What interested Gibson with regard to the Gestaltists was that they “formulated genuinely relevant problems for space perception, problems concerning the characteristics of the actual experienced visual world rather than the flat geometric visual field (Gibson, 1950, p. 23)” (9).

 

With these two theories in mind, Gibson conducted his own experiments in depth perception during the second World War (9). What he found was that “depth perception was more accurate than could be explained by any model based on depth cues” (9). This meant specifically that the sensation models failed but also the Gestalt theories proved inadequate [for some reason] as well (9).

 

In 1950, Gibson writes The Perception of the Visual World, and here he goes beyond both theories. BR assesses the role of these alternative theories in this way:

From the Gestaltists, he accepted and adapted the idea that the most basic problems of visual perception were those regarding the experienced three-dimensional visual world, not the flat geometric visual field, but he rejected the proposed process of sensory organization. From the sensation-based approaches, he accepted very little, neither their basic problems nor their basic solutions.

(BR 9)

 

[I am not certain, but perhaps we can say the following about Gibson’s critique. He will say that humans and animals react to the spatial environment in a way that shows they have a very precise understanding of its spatial features. This means that the two theories fail. The sensation-based approaches perhaps do not explain this, because this theory might say that people’s and animal’s understanding of the spatial environment is based on just what they sense. But too little is sensed to support such a detailed knowledge of the environment. The Gestalt approach does not work, because this would say that the mind constructs a lot of its knowledge of the environment artificially. But were that so, there would be more errors in that construction than are actually there. Let me quote, as that was just a guess.]

Gibson argued that people and animals “appear to react to the spatial environment with an accuracy and precision too great for any known theory of space perception to be able to explain. ... If the solid visual world is a contribution of the mind, if the mind constructs the world for itself, where do the data for this construction come from, and why does it agree so well with the environment in which we actually move and get about” (p. 14). This basic rejection of mental constructivism, of mental processing was one of the most fundamental moves in the development of Gibson’s own theory. Consistent with this rejection, Gibson also rejected the premise that made such processing necessary and the particular distinctions and processes by which it was presumed to occur.

(BR 9-10, citing Gibson 1950)

 

Gibson especially “rejected the basic premise that the data available to the senses were inadequate to perception” (10). [I am not sure, but this notion might work against both theories. The Gestaltists seem to be saying that there are additional constructions and organizations on the basis of what is given, and the sensation-based approaches discuss certain unconscious cognitive processes that formulate inferences and judgements on the basis of what is given. But if what we perceive is already adequate, none of this additional work is needed to develop a sufficient understanding of the world around us.]

In particular, and most fundamentally, Gibson rejected the basic premise that the data available to the senses were inadequate to perception: “Even complex perceptual qualities must have stimuli” (p. 8); “If the total stimulation contains all that is needed to account for visual perception, the hypothesis of sensory organization is unnecessary” (p. 25). Clearly, if the total stimulation contains all that is necessary to account for visual perception, then the (unconscious) inferences, comparisons with memory, and judgments – the mental processing – of the sensation-based models are also unnecessary. If we ask the right question, Gibson suggests, if we ask about the experienced visual world based on surfaces and edges, rather than about the flat geometric visual field, then we find that the information available to the visual senses is sufficient to perception, and information enhancement via mental processing is a superfluous and flawed postulate.

(BR 10, citing Gibson 1950)

 

Because Gibson rejected this sense of mental processing as involving enhancements, he thereby also rejected “the classical distinction between sensations and perceptions;” for, “that distinction is based on the assumptions that sensations are informationally impoverished and that mental processing enriches them into perceptions” (10). [In other words, according to this view that Gibson rejects, we have raw sensations that are inadequate possibly because they are fragmented and/or disorganized, and thus perception is the process by which these sensations are made adequate perhaps by organizing them and/or by completing them where they leave informational gaps.]

 

Sensation-based models often see the perceiver as passively and statically receiving sensations on the basis of which she forms perceptions. Gibson rejects this idea, because human perceivers are very active while perceiving, making spontaneous decisions like changing where to look and how to orient themselves in their environment in order to perceive it better. Gibson also argued that perception is a “process that can only be understood in terms of its natural ecology” (BR 10). [Perhaps by this is meant that perception is always bound up with the conditions of the environment and one’s interactions with it, but I am not sure.] One way that Gibson supported this notion was by noting ways that changes the perceiver makes in their motion within their setting can enhance their perception, which can in fact even “modify the retinal images in a quite specific way”, as when for example certain physical movements provide “powerful information for depth perception in the form of motion parallax” (10).

 

[I am not very familiar with this notion of motion parallax. I found this helpful diagram.

parallax%20motion%20auto_zpsik5ce1lx

Motion parallax seems to be that very familiar phenomenon where when we are moving, objects in the distance seem to pass through our field of vision slower in comparison to things nearer to us. We might normally notice this when looking out of a train or automobile window. Until I read the source text by Gibson, I will not know what to say about this. But perhaps we might note at least that here depth perception is attained by moving around interactively in an environment, rather than simply taking in some sensory information passively, processing it, and then discerning the depth afterward.]

 

Gibson had yet another strong argument against the sensation-based models of perception, namely, the “homunculus problem” (10). To understand this issue, we should first take note of “retinal-image theories,” which say that it is necessary for people to process the stimulation on the eye’s retina. Gibson argues against this. He first observes that this view thinks that an image forms on the retina like an image projected onto a screen, and thus “the retinal image is something to be seen” (BR 11, quoting from Gibson, 1979, p. 60). [The idea here is that there is a sort of second act of seeing, that is, seeing the image on the “screen” of the eye.] Gibson considers this then a matter of a homunculus problem, because it is, as he calls it, “the little man in the brain theory” of the retinal image (BR 11, citing Gibson 1966, p. 226), “which conceives the eye as a camera at the end of a nerve cable that transmits the image to the brain. Then there has to be a little man, a homunculus, seated in the brain who looks at the physiological image. The little man would have to have an eye to see it with, of course, a little eye with a little retinal image connected to a little brain, and so we have explained nothing by this theory” (11 again from quotation). In fact, this theory only makes the matter worse, because it entails an endless series of little perceivers inside little perceivers (11). As BR explain, there other versions of this argument, but they all have in common “that something, or someone, must ultimately do the perceiving, and that is what was to be accounted for in the first place” (BR 20). They say that this homunculus problem is found in “any form of inputs-followed-by-processing-followed-by-perception model” (11).

 

Sensation-based models posit constructions by means of perceptual processes in order to account for “the problem of how full perceptions are derived from impoverished sense data” (11). But Gibson’s “assertion that the total stimulation is informationally adequate to perception” rejects the assumptions underlying that problem (11). “Gibson continued to develop his arguments against sensation-processing and other input-processing models” (11).

 

Gibson, seeing the shortcomings of sensation-based and Gestalt models of perception, offered his own model that BR describe as “an ecological direct-encoding model” (11). [The notion of an ecological model of perception is not very well defined for me yet, but perhaps that becomes clearer as we continue. It might mean a model in which the perceiver takes an active role in interacting with the perceived world while perceiving it. In this sense it might be something like Merleau-Ponty’s notion of how the perceiver is integrated with the world they perceive, forming one flesh. The fact that it is encoded seems to mean that the information is still discerned by placing it into what is perceived, but this is somehow done directly. But I am not sure. From what is said later, the notion of direct encoding might be related to the idea of resonance. So maybe our mind encodes the information into the sense data by resonating with the information that is already in a sense encoded in the way the data is given to us. But that is wild guessing on my part.] BR continue,

Gibson rejected the sensation-based conception of the perceiver as a passive individual confronting a flat visual field in favor of an active perceiver confronting an ecologically structured visual world – thus, | an ecological model. He also rejected both the mental constructivism of the sensation-based models and the sensory organization of the Gestaltists in favor of a direct correspondence between stimulation and perception  thus, a direct encoding model.

(11-12)

 

BR then note how “The direct encoding aspect of Gibson’s 1950 model was both a methodological move and a theoretical move” (12). The methodological component is his locating the basic problem of perception as being the problem of “establishing an empirical correspondence between the stimulus and its conscious resultant,” and this means that he proposes a sort of ecological psychophysics (BR 12, quoting Gibson 1950, p. 52). The theoretical component lies in the fact that he “rejected any intermediate processing of encoded sensations between the stimulation and the perception and in his corresponding rejection of the sensation-perception distinction” (12).

 

BR acknowledge that “It is not entirely clear that Gibson would have agreed with the ‘encoding’ part of our designation of his model as an ‘ecological direct-encoding’, especially in his late career” (BR 12). [Our summaries so far have skipped over BR’s own way of using Gibson’s thinking.] But, his 1950 model “seems committed to some form of a direct encoding model” (12).

 

If we adopt an encoding model, then we then have to explain how these encodings occur (12). As we will see, his “conceptualization of an ecologically active perceiver contains the germ of his later answers to that question and, we argue, the germ of interactive insights that allowed him to largely transcend the encoding approach altogether” (12). BR will now discuss the later development of his model.

 

The later model develops the “internal implications” of the 1950 model (12).

 

In the 1950 model was a sort of retinal-image-based model of perception, and “He described his psychophysics program as involving a ‘jump from the retinal image directly to the perceptual experience’ (p. 51)” (BR p. 12, qtg. Gibson 1950).

 

But as Gibson came more to an “ecological emphasis on the importance of the active perceiver,” this retinal-image focus proved inadequate (12d). For, “The retinal image of an active perceiver changes too much, too fast, and too continuously, in contrast with relatively stable perception, to be the primary locus of perception” (BR 13a). Gibson writes, “The active observer [however] gets invariant perception despite varying sensations” (BR p. 13, qtg. Gibson 1966, p. 3, bracketed insertion is BR’s).

 

So Gibson needed to find a “different locus of perception information” (13). It would need on the one hand to remain stable like how our perceptions are, while at the same time be “adequate to those perceptions” (13). [I am not sure what is meant by them being adequate to the perceptions. Perhaps the idea is that his model would need to juggle both the fact that sensory information is highly variable and thus not similar to perceptions, which are stable, while at the same time needing to somehow have this stability that perceptions have. So if we say that the sensory information is directly perceived but is variable, then it is not adequate to the perceptions, which are less variable. I am not certain however.] [The notion of a “perceptual locus” is important here, but I am not entirely sure I grasp what is meant by it. It seems to me that BR are saying that for Gibson, the locus of perception is actually somehow in the environment. But I am not exactly sure what is meant by that yet. They will refer again to motion parallax, and they write, “Motion parallax is a phenomenon of the structure of the ambient light through which the eye moves. The clear suggestion is that the broader spatial and temporal patterns in the ambient light might well be the actual locus of visual perception.” So the idea here might be the following: the structures by which depth is discerned are found not in the way the visual information is processed in the perceiver’s mind but rather it is located within the structures of the visual data itself as it is already in its raw givenness. So contained within the visual data hitting our eyes when we pass through the fields of light beams found in the space along our train ride, there is already the far away items “moving” slowly relative to the faster moving things nearer and nearer to us. Gibson might then be saying we thus perceive the depth directly, because that depth is already built into the way the light beams are structured in their patterns of givenness. Thus, we have a direct perception of depth on the basis of whatever visual data we get in whatever way it is given, without needed to process it.]

A different locus of perceptual information was required, one that maintained a stability comparable to that of perceptions and one that was adequate to those perceptions. A new perceptual locus was required by Gibson’s recognition of the importance of the active perceiver; such a locus was suggested by that same recognition. Gibson’s original emphasis on the active perceiver stemmed in part from the motion parallax information concerning depth that was thereby derived. Motion parallax is a phenomenon of the structure of the ambient light through which the eye moves. The clear suggestion is that the broader spatial and temporal patterns in the ambient light might well be the actual locus of visual perception.1 Certainly, on the one hand, there is no information available in the retinal image that is not available in the ambient light, and, on the other hand, it is difficult to conceive what alternative external locus for visual perception might be possible. Furthermore, very encouraging success was obtained in investigating the information that was in fact available in the ambient light. Correspondingly, “In my book, The Perception of the Visual World (1950), I took the retinal image to be the stimulus for an eye. In this book I will assume that it is only the stimulus for a retina and that ambient light is the stimulus for the visual system”  (1966, p. 155).

(BR 13)

[Endnote 1 on page 85 (quoting):

1. Such a shift to patterns in the ambient light as the locus of perception is clearly prefigured by his 1950 point that patterns of stimulation could themselves be stimuli (p. 9), even though at that time he was referring to retinal patterns. The shift is also consistent with his general ecological emphasis, but neither of these points is sufficient to force that shift – the active observer is sufficient.]

 

RB note two revisions that are called for in light of Gibson’s discovery. The first revision shifts the “postulated locus of visual perception from the retinal image to the ambient light” (13). [I might not follow the second revision. It seems to be that as a result of the first revision, we now need to change our view of the perceiver as someone who simply interprets the visual data given on the retina to instead be an active participant in the perceptual process by making spatial modifications in order to find patterns in the resulting changes in the visual data. Let me quote.]

Thus, consideration of the fact and necessity of the active perceiver forced a shift in the postulated locus of visual perception from the retinal image to the ambient light. Consideration of the ambient light as the locus of perception forced, in its turn, a reciprocal revision of the conception of the perceiver. The logic of the second revision derives from the fact that such broader spatial and temporal patterns in the ambient light cannot simply be sought by the visual system, then, when found, statically, retinally perceived. They are, by definition, too big for that. They must be scanned, sampled, or otherwise interacted with in such a way as to detect and identify - to pick up – an encounter with a discriminable pattern.

The detection and differentiation of such a broader pattern, a variant or invariant in the ambient light-the pickup of such information – is intrinsically interactive. The active perceiver of 1950 had to become a truly interactive perceiver: |

There is a loop from response to stimulus to response again (1966, p. 31).

An explanation of constant perception ... should be sought in the neural loop of an active perceptual system that includes the adjustments of the perceptual organ. Instead of supposing that the brain constructs or computes the objective information from a kaleidoscopic inflow of sensations, we may suppose that the orienting of the organs of perception is governed by the brain so that the whole system of input and output resonates to the external information, (1966, p. 5).

The process of pick up is postulated to depend on the input-output loop of a perceptual system (1979, p. 250)

The process is circular, not a one way transmission (1979, p. 61)

The course of the whole interaction can be critical. It is the course of the interaction by the visual system, for example, the scanning, both input and output and the relationships between them, that differentiates the pattern interacted with; it is not the ‘final’, static, retinal image that ‘completes’ the interaction that picks up such a pattern, nor even the ‘succession of images’ or, better, the flow of retinal stimulation that accompanies the interaction. Retinal stimulation is relegated to the input side of an overall interactive visual system that engages in such interactions and discriminates such patterns. It is the pattern of the interaction that differentiates and, thus, identifies the pattern interacted with; it is not any piece or component of the interaction.

(BR pp. 13-14, block qtg. Gibson)

 

[The next point reminds me very strongly of what Merleau-Ponty writes in section 1.2.1 of The Structure of Behavior. He describes the dynamic process of responding to a stimulus. Humans and animals do not know at the very start of a stimulus the correct response to it, because what needs to be recognized in the stimulus is a pattern that unfolds over time. And, while that pattern is unfolding, the responding creature modifies its receptivity in real time so to better sense the stimulus and respond appropriately. One example is how the ear of a cat responds to different sorts of touches:

Five different reflex responses can be obtained by stimulating the ear of a cat depending on the structure of the excitant employed. The pinna of the ear flattens out when it is bent, but responds to tickling with a few rapid twitches. The character of the response is completely modified depending on the form of electrical excitation (faradic or galvanic) or its strength; for example, weak strengths evoke rhythmic responses; strong ones evoke tonic reflexes. [...] (Sherrington and Miller). [qtd in Merleau-Ponty English translation p.11 /  French p.9]

He also seems to have a view of the perceiver not being passive, as it interacts with the stimuli in order to perceive it in such a way as to respond to it properly.

The organism cannot properly be compared to a keyboard on which the external stimuli would play and in which their proper form would be delineated for the simple reason that the organism contributes to the constitution of that form. (Merleau-Ponty 13 / 11)

And he has the example of holding an animal in an instrument and adjusting one’s hold in response to the creature’s movements. The idea here seems to be that if the animal changed its body shape so to escape the instrument, then we lose the ability to feel its movements. However, if we sense its body changing its shape and immediately respond by changing our hold on it, then we can continue sensing it. In other words, perception involves self-modification in immediate interactive response to what we are perceiving.

When my hand follows each effort of a struggling animal while holding an instrument for capturing it, it is clear that each of my movements responds to an external stimulation; but it is also clear that these stimulations could not be received without the movements by which I expose my receptors to their influence. “... The properties of the object and the intentions of the subject ... are not only intermingled; they also constitute a new whole.” (Merleau Ponty 13 / 11; the quotation is cited as “Weizsäcker, Reflexgesetze, p.45. “L’organisme est, dit Weizsäcker, Reizgestalter.” [Note: Reizgestalter is misspelled as Reizgestaller in the English translation.])

And he illustrates the real-time modifications to receptivity with how telephones seemed to work at that time. Apparently you dialed the receiving person’s name. After dialing the first letter, the connecting station then becomes sensitive to only those sets of letters that it knows can come after that first letter, and so on. (But I am not sure exactly how these phones worked.)

The model of the automatic telephone appears more satisfactory. Here indeed we find an apparatus which itself elaborates the stimuli. | In virtue of the devices installed in the automatic central, the same external action will have a variable effect according to the context of the preceding and following actions. An "O" marked on the automatic dial will have a different value depending on whether it comes at the beginning, as when I dial the exchange "Oberkampf," for example, or second, as in dialing "Botzaris." Here, as in the organism, it can be said that the excitant — that which puts the apparatus in operation and determines the nature of its responses — is not a sum of partial stimuli, because a sum is indifferent to the order of its factors; rather it is a constellation, an order, a whole, which gives its momentary meaning to each of the local excitations. The manipulation “B” always has the same immediate effect, but it exercises different functions at the automatic central depending on whether it precedes or follows the manipulation “O,” just as the same painted panel takes on two qualitatively distinct aspects depending on whether I see a blue disc on a rose-colored ground or, on the contrary, a rose-colored ring in the middle of which would appear a blue ground. In the simple case of an automatic telephone constructed for a limited number of manipulations, or in that of an elementary reflex, the central organization of the excitations can itself be conceived as a functioning of pre-established devices: the first manipulation would have the effect of making accessible to subsequent ones only a certain keyboard where the latter would be registered.

(Merleau-Ponty 13|14 / 12)

Gibson’s point of course is not identical to Merleau-Ponty’s, but let us note what seems to be two important similarities. In both cases, what is being perceived is something dynamic, and its unity is to be understood in terms of a pattern of variation. The second similarity is the interactive nature of the perception. The perceiver cannot simply remain in the same mode of receptivity. Rather, they need to adjust or modify themselves (in relation to their environment in general or to the external stimulus specifically) in one way or another in order to properly perceive the important patterns of the stimulus’ dynamic variations.]

 

BR next discuss the parallax example in terms of information. The light patterns are the information itself, found in the field of ambient light. BR also characterize the perceptive act by which the depth is discerned as involving information-extracting interactions as a means of picking up information. [But I would suppose this is not a matter of processing the information but rather of picking out the information already given immediately.] But Gibson does not mean for “information” to have its normal sense of “knowledge communicated to a receiver,” because Gibson does not want to imply necessarily that the information needs to be encoded and communicated to the perceiver [rather than being completely apparent from the beginning and immediately available as such to the perceiver (without further ‘encoding’ or ‘decoding’)] (BR 14).

 

Gibson does still think that retinal stimulation plays a role in visual perception. His emphasis however is on the nature of that role they play [I am not entirely certain, but it seems Gibson thinks the role is the following (and then I will quote so you can check). The role of the retinal stimulation is to provide the information in its physiological form, and perhaps we are to think of it as nervous signals. But Gibson emphasizes that the information about depth for example does not need to be acquired by further processing that visual information; for, it is already built into the structure of that information and it can be directly (without mediation) discerned by the perceiver.]

Gibson was also well aware that retinal stimulation does occur, that it plays a central role in visual perception, and that it is involved in (interactive) processes. The issue is the nature of that involvement: “The inputs of the receptors have to be processed, of course, because they in themselves do not specify anything more than the anatomical units that are triggered” (1979, p. 251). Information, however, “is not something that has to be processed” (1979), p. 251). “Information is conceivable as available in the ambient energy flux, not as signals in a bundle of nerve fibers” (1979, p. 263). Information is extracted by the interactions of sensory systems, not | encoded and transmitted by sensory organs. The eye and its stimulations participate in information-extracting patterns of interactions; they do not encode that information.

(BR 14-15)

 

Gibson’s interactive theories of perception involve the criticism of the notion of encoding and decoding in perception (BR 15).

 

The information in ambient light [with regard to parallax motion] does not need to be encoded, but there still needs to be a “process of pickup,” which he explained using the metaphor of resonance:

The perceiver interactively resonates with the available information (for example, 1966, p. 5; 1979, p. 246). Consistent with this suggestive metaphor, he also referred to the process of becoming able to extract information, of learning to resonate to available information, with a metaphor of “tuning.”

(BR 15)

 

But resonance is not the only way “energy patterns can be picked up without intermediate enhancement of encoded information” (15). Another problem with these metaphors is that “resonance requires periodicities in patterns to resonate to, and those are not necessarily available in information to be perceived” (15). A third problem is that “even if such periodicities were available, it is neither at all clear what it is about the interactive loop that would resonate to them nor how it would do so” (16). And a final problem with these metaphors, and also the most important one,  is that “that which resonates generally resonates at the same (or a directly related) frequency as that which is resonated to. The resonant frequency is a copy, a duplicate, of the original frequency. Such vestiges of picture, of image, of encoding conceptualizations are regretfully distortive of Gibson’s basic interactive insight in his concept of information extraction. The pattern of an interaction need not have any particular structural correspondence whatsoever with the pattern of ambient light that it differentiates” (15).

 

[So this metaphor of resonance is not entirely helpful for understanding the process of picking up information by means of interactive perceptions of the patterns in the environment’s dynamics. This also means that, without other explanations, we might have difficulty conceiving how this pick up process works.] But despite these problems with the metaphors, “the basic direction of the evolution of Gibson’s theory seems clear” BR explain (15). And in fact, that development continued even after his discovery of “interactive information extraction” (15). But Gibson’s model could involve the homunculus problem, [because the nature of the extraction has not been specified] so he needed to make a further step in the theory’s development, and that step “involved the problem of meaningful perception” (15).

 

Gibson already in his 1950 book The Perception of the Visual World worked with a notion of meaningful perception. There he “made a distinction between ‘The perception of the substantial or spatial world and ... the perception of the world of useful and significant things to which we ordinarily attend’ (p. 10 italics omitted)” (BR 15). Gibson’s term for the perception of the substantial or spatial world is literal perception, and the perception of the world of useful and significant things to which we ordinarily attend is called schematic perception. BR explain that “Schematic perception was presumed to be based on literal perception because literal perception ‘provides the fundamental repertory of impressions for an experience’ (p. 10), and the two forms of perception were presumed to have importantly different properties. Meanings were presumed to be attached to, and detachable from, the spatial impressions of literal perception” (BR 16).

 

BR then explain how this relates to the homunculus problem. For there to be meaningful perception, it would seem to require a homunculus to receive the literal spatial impressions and interpret them as having their appropriate meanings (16). And thus “Literal spatial impressions must be enhanced, presumably via some kind of processing with meanings” (16).

 

BR trace Gibson’s solution to this problem to beginning steps in his work of 1950, where he tied the usefulness of objects to their spatial features [and perhaps thus also our literal perceptions were tied to our schematic ones.] Gibson calls this squeezability: “He recognized [...] that ‘squeezableness is something which seems to be located in the object, not in the hand.... Visual objects appear to have soaked up such qualities and to be fairly saturated with them, the use of the object and the shape of the object being almost indistinguishable’ (pp. 203, 204). The idea that needs to be avoided still is that “the perception of the functional nature is dependent on the perception of the spatial nature” (16).

 

BR then have us look at Gibson’s model in a light that does not necessarily lead to this idea. We know already that when [for example in the case of parallax motion] we directly perceive the information [about depth], what we perceive are patterns that result from interactions. And furthermore, the information that we obtain indicates “potentialities for further actions and interactions” (BR 16). In other words, “what are most directly perceived are functional potentialities, potential usefulnesses” (16). [So when for example we interact with the environment by moving around it in order to obtain data that directly tells us of its spatial feature of depth, what that tells us are the different sorts of spatial ways that we may further interact with that space by moving through it in all its available dimensions.] Thus these “patterns of interactions [...] are simply functional indicators” (BR 16). [BR continue in the endnote to this passage: “From this perspective, in fact, the spatial is subsidiary to the functional. Surfaces, objects, and the like are constructed as patterns of potential interactions, including further perceptual interactions, that may be indicated by particular perceptual interactions, that is that may be perceived. Such construction of the physical and spatial out of the functional is in the general spirit of Piaget” (BR, endnote 2, p.85).] [I am not exactly sure what is meant here by “functional indicators”. Perhaps they are indications of ways that certain interactions with the environment can produce certain types of possible results. So for example, knowledge of how far a mountain is away from us, along with its relative height in comparison with its surroundings, can indicate the sorts of views we might have were we to climb it and the approximate amounts of time and effort it would take to accomplish that.]

 

What he previously called squeezability he later refines into his notion of affordance. [An affordance seems to be the directly apparent uses of things we perceive. So in the same act by which we observe the physical features of something, we thereby perceive its usability for certain purposes. But this usability is observed directly, because it is directly evident in the thing’s physical features.]

Such an imbuing of perception with direct, functional, ecological meaning, already hinted at in his 1950s discussion of squeezability, yield Gibson's concept of affordance. “The affordance of anything is a specific combination of the properties of its substance and its surfaces taken with reference to an animal” (1977, p. 67, italics omitted). Affordances are those things the environment “offers the animal, what it provides or furnishes either for good or ill" (1979, p. 127).3 And such affordances are intrinsic to perception:4

The composition and layout of surfaces constitute what afford ... to perceive them is to perceive what they [surfaces] afford ... it implies that the “values” and “meanings” of things in the environment can be directly perceived (1979, p. 127).

The perceiving of an affordance is not a process of perceiving a value-free physical object to which meaning is somehow added in a way that no | one has yet been able to agree upon; it is a process of perceiving a value-rich ecological object (1979, p. 140).

(BR 16-17)

[Endnotes 3 and 4 from page 85 (qtg.):

3. Affordances, of course, are therefore “relative to the animal. They are unique for that animal. They are not just abstract physical properties” (Gibson, 1979, p. 127). “Knee-high [therefore affording the potentiality of sitting on] for a child is not the same as knee-high for an adult” (Gibson, 1979, p. 128). Horizontal support for water bugs is different than for heavy terrestrial animals (Gibson, 1979, p. 127).

4. Gibson’s discussion, however, still suggests too much independence of the spatial from the functional; there is an incomplete recognition of the construction of physical and spatial representation out of functional representation. (Such construction would be a part of Gibson’s tuning, not his information extraction.) Gibson still wants to go “from surfaces to affordances,” he does so by having “the composition and layout of surfaces constitute what they afford” (1979, p. 127), but such constitution still leaves the question of what representation of a surface is as logically prior, though no longer temporally prior, to a representation of an affordance. Yet infants can perceive affordances without necessarily perceiving the surfaces, edges, and full objects that provide, or constitute, those affordances.]

 

 

BR’s final point seems to be that originally Gibson had a notion of ecological direct encoding, where we directly perceive the information because our minds somehow resonate with it [and in that way “encode” it in the sense of endowing its internal form with an informational value that was already there in its external form, but I am guessing]. But on account of there needing still to be some process encoding that information, it was abandoned later for this notion of affordance and interactive information extraction, where the meaning or information to be discerned in something perceived is given by interacting with it, which gives us its important physical features that thereby directly informs us of its possible uses. In other words, the significance of a perceived thing is its potential uses, and that is directly perceived by interaction with it and its environment rather than by some cognitive process whereby that information about its significance is decoded from our static perceptions of it. [Note, I might be missing the idea, because BR are using the term “encoding” rather than “decoding”. I am a little confused how it all works. Apparently according to some models, somehow at the site of sensations there is an encoding of information, and perhaps, but I am not sure, these models would have to say there later is a process that decodes this information (as if by a homunculus). The model is not very obvious to me yet. I wonder by the way if the encoding is anything like Lotze’s “local signs”.]

 

Interactive information extraction and affordances were the culminations of Gibson’s major moves away from his early ecological direct encoding. Although we later argue that those moves were nontrivially incomplete, nevertheless they transcended that early encoding model by constructing an intrinsically interactive mode of perception. Essentially, Gibson started with ecological direct encoding, then filled in the detection-differentiation-identification process, the process of ‘transducing’ the encodings, with so much interactive activity – extraction, resonance, pickup, affordance – so as to make it clear that whatever ultimate perceptual encoding, if any, occurred it was not primary nor necessary nor independent, but, rather, subsidiary to interactive extraction. Gibson’s basic insight was that it is possible to derive information about an environment from interactions with that environment without encoding anything from that environment.

(BR 17)

 

 

 

From:

 

Bickhard, Mark, & D. Richie. On the Nature of Representation: A Case Study of James Gibson’s Theory of Perception. New York [and other cities]: Praeger, 1983.

 

 

Bickhard and Richie cited a number of Gibson sources:

 

Gibson, J. J. The ecological approach to visual perception. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1979.

 

Gibson, J. J. The perception of the visual world. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1950.

 

Gibson, J. J., & Gibson, E. J. Perceptual learning: Differentiation or enrichment? Psychological Review, 1955, 62, 32–41.

 

Gibson, J. J. The senses considered as perceptual systems. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1966.

 

 

Or if otherwise noted:


Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. The Structure of Behavior. Transl. Alden L. Fisher. Boston: Beacon Press, 1963.


Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. La structure du comportement. Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1942 / 1967.

 

 

Image credits:

Automobile parallax motion diagram:

Travis Schirner, ¨Mission Possible?¨
https://travisschirner.wordpress.com/2013/06/08/mission-possible/

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22 Aug 2016

Groensteen (2.4) The System of Comics, ‘To the Research of the Gutter’, summary


by Corry Shores

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[The following is summary. Boldface and bracketed commentary are my own. Proofreading is incomplete, so please excuse my distracting typos.]



Summary of
 
Thierry Groensteen
 
The System of Comics
 
Chapter 2:
Restrained Arthrology: The Sequence
 
2.4
To the Research of the Gutter



Brief summary:
The gutter is not an absence that the reader needs to fill-in by imagining what transpires temporally speaking or intervenes spatially speaking between comics panels. The gap of the gutter (or of the single line functioning like a gutter) is something absolute and self-sufficient in its emptiness. However, it serves as a flexible joint which may make logical narrative coherence connections with any of the other panels. And as the reader proceeds through the comics work and further considers what is being portrayed, those connections are continually under revision and modification.
 


Summary
 
[Groensteen begins by quoting from an article by Claude-Françoise Brunon on the comics gutter, it seems, which makes the point that “the essence of the story frequently passes ‘outside of the image ... between images’”. Groensteen then quotes from Benoît Peeters where the intericonic gutter contains at least as much meaning as in the images themselves. Groensteen also references McCloud’s chapter 3 on closure in Understanding Comics.]
“It requires less to make one see than to say, less to describe than to tell,” remarked Claude-Françoise Brunon.12 And to highlight, following others, the essence of the story frequently passes “outside of the image . . . between images.” Certain authors even strive to produce work in a way so that the reader’s look, “deprived by principle episodes,” will be “carried out from one absence to the next,” even if “the text compensates for what the image refused to expose” on a frequent basis.
 
To conclude that meaning is produced by the intericonic gutter (the “entr’image”) at least as much as is produced by the images themselves, there is but one step, one that some people have been tempted to cross. Thus Benoît Peeters: “The true magic of comics operates between the images, the tension that binds them. . . . In Hergé these are memorable ‘gutters’ that we must analyze, these intervals between two panels lavished with accuracy and audacity.”13
(Groensteen 112)
[Endnotes 12–13 from p. 175 (quoting, except for curly brackets):
12 {Claude-Françoise Brunon.} “L’entr’images,” Europe, no. 720: La bande dessinée, Paris, Messidor, April 1989, pp. 37–46.
13 {Benoît Peeters.} Case, planche, récit, op. cit., p. 27. Scott McCloud also makes the ellipse (closure) a founding concept in his theory of comics, distinguishing six “types of linkage” between two panels. Cf. Understanding Comics (Kitchen Sink Press, 1993), chap. 3.
 
 
Groensteen then notes that a gutter as an empty space does not always appear. There could simply be a single line separating panels, as for example with Bretécher and Töpffer [see section 1.7.2]. For, “the semantic relations between the images is the same” regardless of whether there is an empty space or a line (Groensteen 112). Thus, we should not suppose there is some kind of a void between images when none are shown. [The idea seems to be that there is the semantic function of the break between images, and it does not matter whether or not it is constituted by a gap, visible or invisible, or not. It will have the same semantic function either way.] Hence “the gutter in and of itself (that is to say, an empty space) does not merit fetishization” (112).
 
Groensteen then addresses an objection. One might argue that the gutter is to be understood metaphorically as that between images which demands the reader fill-in unshown story content, and thus in that sense is a gap even if unseen.
Maybe, you will say to me, but the term “gutter” (blanc) lends itself metaphorically. We use it to designate “that-which-is-not-represented-but-which-the-reader-cannot-help-but-to-infer.” It is therefore a virtual, and take note that this virtual is not abandoned to the fantasy of each reader: it is a forced virtual, an | identifiable absence. The gutter is simply the symbolic site of this absence. More than a zone on the paper, it is the interior screen on which every reader projects the missing image (or images).
(Groensteen 112-113. Note: this is not Groensteen’s position)
 
[Groensteen then construes this missing narrative material in terms of Benoît Peeters’ notion of ghost panels (cases fantôme). In the footnotes he does not cite a source, but refers to an example Peeters gives. I cannot at the moment figure out Peeters’ argument and reasoning for it. If I had to guess, I would suppose that Peeters shows some panels (maybe two consecutive ones) and demonstrates that for the procession to work, the reader must in their imagination formulate a third additional panel intervening between them. Groensteen counter-argues that this only applies in very limited cases, and it cannot be said to express the functioning of the gutter in general. So in other words, perhaps, when the viewer sees for example the movement of an object that is shown in one relative location in a first frame and a more distant location in a second frame, we do not, Groensteen seems to be saying, imagine other panels in between the two showing the intermediary positions. Since I do not know what the argument really is here, I should not comment. But I think there is an interpretation, a phenomenological sort rather than a semiotic one, that is missing here. I do not think that the closure function requires that we explicitly imagine all the intermediary events or actions in between panels. I think they can be implicitly realized. In other words, in the case of motion for example, we can have the sense (not just the interpretation, but the perceptual sense) that the object has moved, even without imagining all the phases of that movement. Or in the case of events or characters’ actions, we can have the impression of those activities in their effects, as sort of compressed phenomenal impressional data. (I discussed this notion of phenomenal compression in bracketed commentary for the summary of chapter 3 of McCloud’s Understanding Comics.) So in other words, when we go from one panel to the next, packed into the next one are all the implicit phenomenal variations that are given indirectly by means of the noticeable differences between the two. At any rate, Groensteen makes a second point in this paragraph, and I may not summarize this one properly either. He says that these examples of ghost panels never involve only two panels. I am not sure if he means there are always at least three visible panels required for an additional invisible ghost panel, or if he means that there are two visible ones plus the additional ghost as the third. His point is that the threshold of narrative significance is the syntagmatic triad he described in section 2.3.]
I certainly do not believe that the comics reader has to mentally construct “ghost panels” (cases fantôme; the expression is from Peeters), except maybe in extremely rare examples identified by theorists to prove a point. These examples are a little too well-selected to permit the construction of general conclusions. By looking at it closely, we cannot help but be struck by an apparent paradox: these famous examples never relate to segments composed of only two panels — a necessary amplitude but sufficient to the exhibition of a gutter. A third panel is almost always implicated,14 and this confirms that it is indeed at the minimum a compound syntagm, or even a much longer sequence, that is at the major level of significance, the threshold where one can elaborate pertinent logical inferences.
(Groensteen 113)
[Endnote 14 on p. 175 (quoting):
14. Thus, in the famous example chosen by Peeters in Tintin in Tibet, that of Captain Haddock’s fall in the New Delhi airport, it is remarkable that Hergé interpolates a third panel representing Tintin (which is not directly concerned with the gag) at the location where there would most likely be a “ghost panel,” and that within this supplementary image the link between the two other panels of the syntagm would have been much less happy.]
 
[Groensteen’s next point is very interesting, but I am not sure it is clearly formulated in my mind yet. Groensteen seems to be expressing two important related ideas here. The first is that the gutter is not something that is filled in. It is a gap that never ceases to be such. It is an void whose emptiness is its own value and status of being, rather than a receptacle into which story content gets filled. Thus “an intermediate state between the two panels does not exist”. The second idea is that each successive panel at least at first nullifies all that come before them. Then, presumably, it can be placed in relation to them in sequence or whatever. I have the vague sense that he is saying that there is an ultimate value or authority placed on whatever panel is the present one being read. And that authority is stripped away and given to the next panel when we turn toward it.]
We would be mistaken to want to reduce the “silences” between two consecutive panels by assimilating the ellipse to a virtual image. On the contrary, this silence often speaks volumes. It has nothing to introduce, no gap to suture. It is in this sense that Henri Van Lier spoke of the “null blank” (blanc nul) in which the multiframe floats like a falling leaf. This blank, “the annulment of all continuity,”15 is the opposite of the “relay-gutter” (un blanc-relais). It is the Mallarmean blank of Coup de dés, the void of the music of Webern and that of quantum physics. Reading a comic, I am here, then I am there, and this jump from one panel to the next (an optical and mental leap) is the equivalent of an electron that changes orbit. In other words, an intermediate state between the two panels does not exist. The comics image is not a form that, subjected to a continual metamorphosis, would be modified by investing successive frames (between which it would be permissible to reconstitute the missing moments). It is necessary, in contrast, that the gutter (provisionally) cancels the already read panel in order to allow the next panel to exist in its own right, in terms of a complete and compact form.
(113)
[Endnote 15 on p.175 (quoting, except for curly brackets): {Henri Van Lier.} “La bande dessinée, une cosmogonie dure,” op. cit. {in Bande dessinée, récit et modernité, ed. Thierry Groensteen (Colloque de Cerisy, Paris: Futuropolis-CNBDI, 1988)}, p. 8.]
 
[I may not be able to summarize the next paragraph properly. The sentence I do not know how to interpret is “Following this logical fallacy, all panels inevitably intervene apropos”. I did not understand what the logical fallacy is supposed to be. Is it logically fallacious to hypothesize a coherent narrative? Or is the logically fallacy the one of inferring that we fill the gaps? The paragraph minus that term I think can be summarized in the following way. The links between panels are not ones where there is a filling in of their gaps. Nonetheless, each one is placed into some meaningful relation with the others. He calls this ‘iconic solidarity’. What might also be suggested here is that every panel is linked to every other panel, in a more or less prominent or obvious way.]
Panels belonging to the same sequence are assuredly in debt to each other. On the semantic plane, this iconic solidarity, in which we have recognized the very foundation of the comics system, is programmed by the author at the breakdown stage, and, at the time of reception, postulated by the reader in the form of hypothesizing a coherent narrative. Following this logical fallacy, all panels inevitably intervene apropos. For the comics reader, the fact of presupposing that there is a meaning necessarily leads him to search for the way that the panel that he “reads” is linked to the others, and how it re-reads in light of others.
(113)
 
Comics, on account of the sequential panel format, are structured with “discontinuous enunciation” and “intermittent monstration”. [Perhaps enunciation and monstration refer to the “saying” and “showing” functions we have examined. What is important here of course is the strobe-like pattern in the way the material is given, that is, by discrete units with insufficient connections between them to make it a continuous structure or perhaps even to make it a continuous experience. Groensteen characterizes the gutter as being the place where logical conversions happen. Those conversions seem to be variations in the explanatory relations between the panels that change as new information is added. We saw how that works in the Alack Sinner example he gave in the prior section 2.3. My overall impression is that for Groensteen, the gutter is not to be seen as a “gap” but rather as a flexible “joint.” For, it is a connection that can vary, but it is not a hole that is filled in with additional material.]
Comics exist only as a satisfying narrative form under the condition that, despite the discontinuous enunciation and the intermittent monstration, the resultant story forms an uninterrupted and intelligible totality. The “gutter” between the two panels is therefore not the seat of a virtual image; it is the site of a semantic articulation, a logical conversion, that of a series of utterables (the panels) in a statement that is unique and coherent (the story). The Alack Sinner page taught us that this conversion is sometimes passed in stages. The first statement, issued from a dialogue between two or three juxtaposed panels — and naturally, forged under the control of the preceding ones — may be nothing but a provisory one that must undergo, under a stroke of unforeseeable retroactive determination, a correction in moving toward the adoption of a new, more inclusive statement.
(114)
 
[Groensteen now continues with this notion of the flexibility of the interpretation, and he elaborates it using quotation from Wolfgang Iser. At this point I think we should be careful. Iser has been used for explaining the filling-in of the gutter. For example, Hannah Miodrag writes in her Comics and Language: “This ‘filling in,’ especially as described by McCloud, is no more than the comics version of the ‘intentional sentences correlatives’ [sic] that Wolfgang Iser describes in prose fiction, which ‘disclose subtle connections’ between the ‘component parts’ of the text that together create ‘the world of the work’ (Iser 1980: 52)” (Miodrag 66). We should distinguish two sorts of “filling-in”. One is the sort that Groensteen is against with regard to what happens in the gutter, namely, filling in what transpired (or is located spatially) between what is shown in successive panels, by explicitly imagining it. The other sort, which Groensteen thinks is really how the gutter functions, is perhaps not even a filling-in, but rather a forming of logical narrative connections between parts, whether successive or not. So to make the difference clear, let me return to an example I used for section 2 of Iser’s “The Reading Process”. We are concerned especially with panels 2-4.
00016
Were one to use the first type of filling-in, they would imagine the brush falling on the peeper’s head, even though it is not shown. Groensteen does not think that readers actually go through such a task. Rather, they would do the second sort of filling-in, which is really not a filling in but rather the creation of logical ties between panels. So Groensteen might say that upon seeing the peeper on the ground unconscious, fallen beneath the broken brush in the woman’s hand, we simply make a narrative connection between this and the panel just two prior to this one, and we note conceptually in our minds that the woman hit the man with the brush, all without picturing it in our minds. Groensteen’s point in this next paragraph seems to be that these logical narrative relations are according to Iser something that is flexible, on account of the horizonal structure of temporal consciousness. There is always an openness for new connections and for old connections to be retroactively revised. (For more discussion on the ideas from these quoted passages from Iser’s The Act of Reading, see the summary of section 5.2.1 of this book by Iser.)
Clearly, this progressive construction of meaning is not exclusive to comics. Rather, as Wolfgang Iser has notably demonstrated, it is analogous to the process that structures the reading of a literary text. The “wandering viewpoint” constitutes, he says, “the basic hermeneutic structure of reading.” In a sequence of sentences, new correlations frequently “lead not so much to the fulfillment of expectations as to their continual modification. . . . Each individual sentence correlate prefigures a particular horizon, but this is immediately transformed into the background for the next correlate and must therefore necessarily be modified. Since each sentence correlate aims at things to come, the prefigured horizon will offer a view which — however concrete it may be — must contain indeterminacies, and so arouse expectations as to the manner in which these are to be resolved.”16
(Groensteen 114)
[Endnote 16 from p.175 (quoting, except for curley brackets):

16. {Wolfgang Iser,} The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response, trans. from German by David Henry Wilson (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), p. 111.]

 
[As I am not familiar with the concept of something being “polysyntactic,” I will not be able to summarize the last part of this section properly. So I will simply quote it for now.]
The comics image, whose meaning often remains open when it is presented as isolated (and without verbal anchorage), finds its truth in the sequence. Inversely, the gutter, insignificant in itself, is invested with an arthrologic function that can only be deciphered in light of the singular images that it separates and unites. Therefore, the intericonic gutter can be qualified as “polysyntactic,” following what Anne-Marie Christin has said about “pictorial emptiness” (that which separates the figures in the interior of an image, in the space of the picture). Anne- Marie Christin suggests that the function of narrative is that which pictorial emptiness assumes with the greatest difficulty:
[T]he clear and immediate designation of the roles of the represented figures does not raise the space that mutually isolates them from each other but the codes that are individually charged, codes of dress, gestural codes especially, as shown in genre paintings, for example those of Greuze. If the emptiness is necessary to constitute a storia between the painted figures, as preconceived by Alberti, it is because it is foremost a mark of intelligibility, the clue to a co-presence.17 |
The intericonic gutter also marks the semantic solidarity of contiguous panels above all, both working through the codes of narrative and sequential drawings. Between the polysemic images, the polysyntactic gutter is the site of a reciprocal determination, and it is in this dialectic interaction that meaning is constructed, not without the active participation of the reader.
(Groensteen 114-115)
[From endnote 17 on page 175 (quoting).
17. Anne-Marie Christin, L’Image écrite (Paris, Flammarion “Idées et Recherches,” 1995), p. 18.]
 
 
 
Groensteen, Thierry. The System of Comics. Translated from French to English by Bart Beaty and Nick Nguyen. Jackson, Mississippi: University Press of Mississippi, 2007. Originally published as Systém de la bande desinée. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1999.
 
 
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17 Aug 2016

Hatfield (3) “The Art of Tensions”, ‘3. Single Image vs. Image-in-Sequence', summary


by Corry Shores

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[The following is summary. All boldface and bracketed commentary are my own. Proofreading is incomplete, so I apologize for any distracting typos.]




Summary of

Charles Hatfield

“The Art of Tensions”

3. Single Image vs. Image-in-Sequence


Brief summary:
Comics begin as more or less continuous and coherent imagined sequences in the creators’ minds. This imagined sequence is then crafted by means of division and selection (and thus by omission) into a discrete series of less continuous fragments, constituted by the visual series of panels and called the ‘breakdown’. The reader, by means of closure, then reconstructs the story’s imagined sequence. This element of closure brings cohesion between panels and constructs an overall coherent imagined sequence. This process of construction can be relatively straightforward, especially when the creators make obvious and continuous transitions between panels within an overall coherent and consistent narrative. But the creators can also place challenges upon the reader’s ability to find closure by introducing discontinuities in the fabric of the presentation. For example, the images can insist on their own independence from one another on account of their individual traits that resist synthesis with the other panels, or this challenge to closure can come from an overall lack of obvious coherence in the overarching narrative sequence. This is the tension between single image vs. image-in-sequence. In cases where there is visual discontinuity, the dialogue can serve as a closure device, even when the dialogue itself is meandering or iconic.


Summary

Hatfield notes the importance of time in understanding comics and also in how comics narratives are structured. He defines breakdown as the process of producing and selecting images for a narrative sequence (which involves omitting certain ones).
Most definitions of comics stress the representation of time, that is, of temporal sequence, through multiple images in series. The process of dividing a narrative into such images — a process that necessarily entails omitting as well as including — can be called breakdown, a word derived from “breakdowns,” a term of art that refers to the rough drawings made in the process of planning out a comics story (Harvey, 14–15).
[Hatfield 135. Citing Harvey, R. C., The Art of the Funnies: An Aesthetic History (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1994).]
[We will need to think of the reverse process of the breakdown. So maybe the ideas is the following, but I am not sure. The breakdown would be the comics creator’s activity of taking the story as a whole (existing in her mind) and breaking it down into the fragments that make up the comics work. The reverse process is the reader starting with those fragments and building back up the story that started as whole in the creator’s mind. We discussed this when we examined chapter 3, on closure, in Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics, in light of Wolfgang’s Iser’s text, “The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach.” Hatfield then makes a terminological distinction between sequence and series. But I am not sure that I grasp it well. Perhaps these are conventional terms in this field, but they seem conceptually almost identical to me. As far as I can tell, the “imagined sequence” is something that occurs in the imagination of either the creator or the reader, but the “visual series” is the breakdown (the set of more or less ordered panels). I am really not sure, but perhaps we use the word ‘sequence’ in this way because it might suggest more of the relatively continuous unfolding of the story, while ‘series’ somehow implies a linear arrangement of discrete parts. But I am not certain.]
The reverse process [of a breakdown], that of reading through such images and inferring connections between them, has been dubbed (borrowing from gestalt psychology) “closure” by McCloud, in keeping with the reader-response emphasis of his Understanding Comics. In fact “breakdown” and “closure” are complementary terms, both describing the relationship between sequence and series: the author’s task is to evoke an imagined sequence by creating a visual series (a breakdown), whereas the reader’s task is to translate the given series into a narrative sequence by achieving closure. Again, the reader’s role is crucial, and requires the invocation of learned competencies; the relationships between pictures are a matter of convention, not inherent connectedness.
(Hatfield 135, bracketed insertion is mine)
Hatfield first says that this process of closure can happen in an unproblematic way. He cites a scene from Julie Doucet’s “The Artist” where after stripping off her close, she begins cutting apart her body. [This story can be seen here, at what might be a webpage for one of Hatfield’s classes.] [Hatfield’s point with this demonstration might be that we use our normal pattern of closure at the beginning, where we imagine the motions that transpire between panels, but then we are committed to that pattern when we arrive at the end when she begins doing things we might not want to imagine. Or perhaps he is not talking about the gutter closures individually but rather about the ongoing construction of a whole story that we commit to at the beginning and must finish at the end, even if we do not like the way the story turns.]

[So this case of Doucet’s “The Artist” seems to be one where the closure operation is automatic and fluent.] But there are cases where closure can “require more active effort on the part of the reader” (135). Hatfield illustrates with a couple pages in Jason Lutes Jar of Fools, and he notes a few ways that the reader needs to expend more effort to achieve closure in this panel series. The first thing he notes is that it does not begin with an establishing shot. So spatially speaking, there is no initial sort of holistic view of the location. That comes only after four panels.
 photo Lutes. Jar of Fools.36_zpsmcvy5pkz.jpg
Hatfield describes this scene in the following way: “Lutes frames the entire day from Esther’s point of view, sticking close to the minutiae of her clockwork routine. The repeated use of close-ups throughout the sequence reinforces the repetitive yet discontinuous nature of her work” (135). [One point here Hatfield might be making is that closure may be more difficult to accomplish since the nature of her work is discontinuous, but I am not sure.] We see the repetitiveness in Ester’s mechanical repetition of the question, “Can I help you?” (135). Hatfield then notes a moment that presents a challenge for the reader to attain closure. When a customer offends Ester, we see her punching the customer in the face. At first, our process of closure might regard this as reality. But in the next panels we see that nothing has happened in reality, so we know retroactively that this was a dream. We might also notice that the panel border became rounded, which also suggests a switch to a different mode of reality. [Hatfield writes, “That she imagines this, but does not do it, is something the reader must figure out for herself: Lutes suggests this both by the unvarying rhythm of the sequence and by the subtle variation in panel bordering around the imagined punch (the latter a technique used previously by Lutes to set off dreams and memories — by this point the reader presumably knows the code).” But I was confused how the unvarying rhythm of the sequence would suggest there was a shift in modes of reality. Would not an invariance in the rhythm suggest a maintenance in the mode of reality? His point might be that the invariance tells us real time has been pacing as normal, while the punch action was a daydream superimposed on that steady flow of real time.]  So here is another case where achieving closure is not absolutely automatic, as it required the reader to do some revision: “Yet the moment comes as a shock nonetheless, due in part to the repeated use of a single, unvarying image — Esther’s taciturn face — to pace the sequence. We see her land a blow, yet nothing about her or around her changes to match this unexpected outburst. The reader must negotiate the larger context of Lutes’s narrative to make this key distinction” (136).

Hatfield then notes that this pattern continues to the next page, and he writes, “To follow this sequence, the reader must be mindful of Lutes’s previously established habits as a storyteller — his approach to panel bordering, his interpolations of dream and fantasy into mundane reality, and so on — and take an active part in constructing a flow of events from discontinuous images” (137).
 photo Lutes. Jar of Fools.37_zpsq2tqexbh.jpg
Hatfield then gives examples where “achieving closure can be quite difficult, as when images seem radically disjointed and verbal cues are scant.” The first example is from Spiegelman’s “drawn over two weeks while on the phone” [which can be seen again at Hatfield’s class site here.] [Hatfield’s point here seems to be that were it not for certain genre conventions or design elements that carry over from panel to panel, we would perhaps be unable to see this as a single comic. And in fact, the real continuity is simply the author’s playful irregularity.]
At times achieving closure can be quite difficult, as when images seem radically disjointed and verbal cues are scant. For example, Art Spiegelman’s wordless “drawn over two weeks while on the phone” (Raw 1) presents a series of disconnected panels with recurrent character types and situations but no narrative per se. Generic conventions — nods to film noir, for instance — are repeatedly invoked but without a linear rationale; motific repetition suggests at best a vague connection between otherwise disjunct panels. Certain characters and symbols are repeated: geometric symbols, for instance, which serve as pictographic dialogue, as decorative effects, and, in a droll reversal, even as characters. But the sought-for unity of the piece, finally, rests on the reader’s recognition of the author’s formal playfulness rather than on any coherent narrative. It takes much knowledge and careful attention to read Spiegelman’s series as a sequence.
(137)
Hatfield’s next point is that McCloud’s Understanding Comics may be missing one important closure device, namely the interaction between word and image. [Perhaps here he is referring to the shapes in the speech bubbles of Spiegelman’s “drawn over two weeks while on the phone” (again, viewable here). Even though we cannot discern any textual meaning to them, their common visual appearance lends some sense of continuity to the sequence.]
The tension between single image and image-in-series is bound up with other formal issues, and therefore hard to codify. McCloud’s Understanding Comics remains the strongest theoretical treatment (in English, that is) of comics sequencing; yet McCloud, perhaps because he does not consider visual/verbal interplay crucial to the form, neglects just | how much the interaction of image and word can inform, indeed enable, the reading of sequences. Verbal cues do help to bridge the gaps within a sequence, as seen in common transitional captions such as “Later” or “Meanwhile” (devices that have fallen from favor as readers become more versed in reading comics, just as title cards, fades, irises, and other such transitional devices fell from favor in cinema). In fact verbal continuity can impose structure on even the most radically disjointed series. Witness, for instance, Spiegelman’s oft-reprinted “Ace Hole, Midget Detective,” in which the hero’s nonstop narration (a spoof of hard-boiled fiction) serves to structure an otherwise nonlinear barrage of non sequiturs, visual gags, and stylistic swipes.
(137-138)
 
 photo Ace detective p.5_zpsm7owbt3f.jpg

 
 
Hatfield notes that one way closure is achieved is through the interplay of successive images [as with Doucet’s “The Artist” and perhaps the Jar of Fools sequence. Here, the continuity or rhythm of the panels facilitates the closure process.] Also, closure can be attained through the “interplay of different codes of signification: the verbal as well as the visual” (138) [as we saw with the Spiegelman examples. Here we had verbal codes of signification, in the balloons, which had either a visual or a genre sort of consistency, and the visual codes of signification, which may not have been obviously related to the dialogue but which had their own sort of associative logic.] [Now, recall McCloud’s categories of transition from chapter 3 of Understanding Comics, like moment-to-moment, action-to-action, and so on. Here McCloud does not include something like what Hatfield has in mind. I am not sure how to name it, but maybe something like, “dialogue-to-dialogue”.] But there is a certain sort of transition that does not fit within McCloud’s six types.
Verbal/visual interplay often muddies the pristine categories of transition that McCloud tries to establish in Understanding Comics (moment to moment, action to action, scene to scene, and so on). Words can smooth over transitions and unobtrusively establish a dramatic continuity that belies the discontinuity of the images.
(138)
[I think Hatfield’s point here with regard to McCloud’s transition types is that dialogue can serve as the coherence device in any of the six types. And thus we cannot clearly distinguish them. But I am not sure that this criticism lands so well, or perhaps I misunderstand it. I do not think that McCloud’s distinctions disallow for dialogue to assist the closure. Granted, the emphasis in each type is on the visual contents of the panel, almost as if dialogue is irrelevant to the classification. But perhaps the dialogue really is irrelevant to the classifications. The types are not classified on the basis of the closure mechanism, but rather on the type of change in each case. In other words, whether or not there is dialogue that bridges the panels should not matter in his classification system. Hatfield’s point might still be that for example the non-sequitur type, where there is no visual coherence, is not really a non-sequitur, when for example the dialogue bridges the visual incongruities. However, there is no category in McCloud’s system for when panel transitions are visually discontinuous but textually continuous. And thus, as Hatfield observes, McCloud misses the importance of the interplay between text and image in this classification system.]
 
To show how “Words can smooth over transitions and unobtrusively establish a dramatic continuity that belies the discontinuity of the images,” Hatfield will contrast Harvey Pekar’s (and Robert Crumb’s) “The Harvey Pekar Name Story” and “Hypothetical Quandary”. [I might be mistaken, but Hatfield’s procedure seems to be the following. First he shows a case where visually the closure is achieved quite easily, because the panels are all quite similar. This also has the effect of allowing us to focus on the text. Then Hatfield shows an example where the monologue is similarly continuous, but the image sequence lacks an overall sense of a unifying element to give it closure (although I would note that there seems to be a temporal continuity implied in the visual sequence that gives it its own coherence). So now we recall the first two kinds of tension. In section 2 we discussed code vs. code tension. Here we noted that pictorial codes and textual codes can have a tense interplay of some sort. This is especially obvious when pictures or icons are used in dialogue bubbles. Then in this section we have discussed single image vs. image-in-series tension. I am not sure I follow what that tension is, but I think it might be the tension between the individuality and conceptual independence of each panel with the fact that it inevitably becomes a participating unit in a larger sequential structure. Now Hatfield says that there is another tension between these two layers of tension. I suppose the idea is that there is a tension between image and image-in-series resulting from the discontinuity of the panels, and there is also somehow a tension between codes, but I do not know what that is. It might be the relative discontinuity of Pekar’s discourse, which explores “all the twists and turns of Harvey’s thinking”. So now there is a tension between these tensions. (I am not sure at this point why we need the concept of tension. I guess we use it because it both implies a bond while also suggesting a non-reducibility of the bonded things, as they act in resistance to one another. But I am not sure why we are not simply using the term “relation”. The “tense” element only seems to come to light in the exceptional cases that Hatfield gives rather than being obvious in most cases. I think the idea is that we see it in these exception cases where it is obvious, and then we can better detect it in the normal cases, where it is less apparent but still an important factor.)]
Propelled as much by Pekar’s text as by the subtle authority of Crumb’s pictures, “Hypothetical Quandary” moves Harvey (and the reader) over a great distance, telescoping his Sunday morning expedition into three pages. Like the above example from Lutes’s Jar of Fools, this story relies on words as well as common visual cues for its pacing. Driving, walking, buying bread, walking again — all of these happen while Harvey’s internal dialogue carries on without interruption, until the last two panels find him savoring the bread’s fresh smell, his quandary forgotten. The continuity of the verbal text disguises the discontinuity of the visual: Pekar’s ongoing words, exploring all the twists and turns of Harvey’s thinking, elide the gaps in the visual sequence, making this stylized evocation of his world seem naturalistic and unforced. Whereas “The Harvey Pekar Name Story” weds the author’s text to deliberately repetitive breakdowns and a single, static composition, “Hypothetical Quandary” uses text to carry the reader from one locale to the next without ever losing continuity of thought. These contrasting examples point up the possibility that breakdown may depend on mixing the verbal and the visual. Thus the two tensions named so far, code vs. code and single image vs. image-in-series, interact to create a yet more complex tension, soliciting the reader’s active efforts at resolution.
(139)

 photo Pekar. American Splendor 2. Name Story.p1_zpsmtm7ncxm.jpg

 photo Pekar. American Splendor 9. Hypothetical.p3_zpsqdtg8ije.jpg




From:

Hatfield, Charles. “The Art of Tensions.” In A Comics Studies Reader, pp.132–148. Edited by Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester. Jackson, Mississippi: University Press of Mississippi,  2009.


Image sources:

Lutes, Jason. Jar of Fools.  ©1997 Jason Lutes. Montreal: Black Eye Books [Originally published 1994 Penny Dreadful Press.]

Pekar, Harvey. “The Harvey Pekar Name Story.” In American Splendor #2. ©1977 Harvey Pekar.

Pekar, Harvey. “Hypothetical Quandary” In American Splendor #9. ©1984 Harvey Pekar.
 
Spiegelman, Art. “Ace Hole: Midget Detective.” ©1974 Art Spiegelman. In Breakdowns: Portrait of the Artist as a Young %@$*! ©2008 Art Spiegelman. Penguin.