Art, like nature, is “realized” through those who observe it. Human beings create reality because they can turn something that is intuited spiritually into something perceptible in the sensory world.
No artwork without an observer. This insight has become programmatic for modern art. Cézanne spoke of “making real” and “realizing” to make it clear that the creative process of the artist and the observer does not consist in depicting a given reality but in creating a new reality.
What applies to the created product of art also applies to nature as it’s perceived. In Cézanne’s case, this means that both Montagne Sainte-Victoire and the painting are realities only to the degree that they are brought forth through the act of seeing. Both first become real in the eye of the viewer.
Through and throughout the human being, reality births itself—through the human ability to make something that is intuited spiritually into something perceptible in the sensory world. A spiritual being descends, step-by-step, into sensory appearance; it “incarnates,” as it were. Or to put it another way: we can become witnesses to a metamorphosis in which a heavenly being of the periphery transforms into a centric, earthly form of existence that, ultimately, I can point to with my finger. Ideally, this process of realization passes through four stages: from pure spiritual intuition, through inspiration (related to hearing), to pictorial imagination (related to seeing), flowing out finally into an objective, thing-like comprehension of the subject.
In encounters with the world of birds, these four stages can unfold in an almost archetypal manner. For example, when walking through a landscape or during a particular season, a specific bird species may occasionally come to mind. Around early April, while gazing at the spring-blue sky above the old city in Bern, it might be the Alpine Swift: “Yes, it could already be back from its winter quarters.” Or, at a secluded fishing pond, the Kingfisher: “It could be here right now!” Such premonitions often arise more or less intuitively from within, work their way up into consciousness, and knock on the inner door—at first without any sensory manifestation at all. This first stage of the encounter resembles a quiet intuition in which, by awakening to it, one finds oneself.
One can purposively engage with such intuitions, for example, by actively beginning to weigh the conditions required for the respective bird species. In doing so, we cultivate a receptivity to the being in question. When this leads to a harmonious overall picture—one with which we can reach an inner agreement while keeping the kingfisher in mind—then we become convinced of its presence. The kingfisher is certainly present in this way, no matter whether it will go through the further stages of its “incarnation” or not.
The next moment, we may consider that we’ve heard something of the bird with our outer senses. Was it just my imagination, or did I actually hear something? “Yes, there in the distance! Listen!” Barely audible to the ear, one hears the call of the kingfisher both inwardly and outwardly—like an inspiration: “I’m here! Seek me, hear me! Try to grasp me!” At this inspirational stage, the manifestation-body of a bird is only voice. A “vocal” being makes itself heard from the surroundings.
In a third step, the appearance—often fleeting at first—manifests for sight. “There, look there, there it is!” But, like a shooting star, this image was granted to me alone. No other human eyes were given this view. Brief yet unmistakable, the kingfisher appeared in a colorful image, reflecting on the water’s surface, darting across it. A sparkling moment—and already the image is gone again. What remains is a remembered mental image that refers back to the imagination we experienced.
The fourth and final step consists, finally, in corporeal objectification, in thing-ness, reification, fixation—in sensory sensation. “Behold, there he sits upon the branch!” For this step, we nowadays mostly use binoculars and a field guide: we capture the bird in the viewfinder of our optical magnifiers, classify it taxonomically, and identify it as a specific species—even though this means that we avoid catching it by hand. It’s rare these days to see a bird catcher striding through the meadows with a net. Today, it’s only the research-oriented bird catchers with trackers and transmitters or the incorrigible Mediterranean bird catchers, who—both just as much—“arrest” the bird’s original peripheral nature in the physical act of grasping it in the hand.
But a captured bird is a miserable picture. The bird’s essence belongs to the beauty of its plumage as it appears in flight, the soulful resonance of its song, and the freedom of the intangible vastness of the sky. To discover the bird even before it appears sensorially; to pay attention to it when it calls out to me; indeed, to renounce its objective fixation and leave it as a fleeting visual apparition—all of this restores its freedom and its connection to its spiritual origin—and thus its dignity.
Translation Joshua Kelberman
Photo Moe/Unsplash
