The Gesture of Photographing

Nancy Ann Roth

Does the world impress ideas on us, or do we project ideas on to it? In 17th century Britain, it was a question that separated empiricists from rationalists – those who insisted that knowledge comes from sense perception and experience from those who thought knowledge to be inherent or embedded in tradition. Neither side exactly won or lost, for many people found both positions to have merit. In this essay, Flusser proposes that photography offered a technical resolution to the philosophical problem, even though it came too late to enter into the actual debates. For photography always does both: it allows the world to ‘inscribe’ itself on a surface; at the same time, it imposes ‘rules’ on how this can be done, principles of physics and optics, chemistry and perspective that determine how the world can appear photographically. On the one hand, it seems to almost leave the photographer out of the picture; on the other, it demands continual decisions from him or her about time, space, frame, focus – decisions that add up to taking a position in the world. ‘[S]ince photography was invented’, Flusser writes: ‘it is possible to philosophize not only in the medium of words, but also in that of photographs’ (Flusser, 1991b:135).

Flusser is one of very few theorists to have developed a comprehensive view of human communication, one that stretches from speech, drawing, carving and modelling, through writing and print to synthetic imaging and instantaneous global transmission. He is not the only one to recognize the invention of writing as one of the most significant events in this history, in fact as the condition of history’s possibility. But he may be the only one to designate the invention of photography as a second momentous event with at least equal, if not greater impact. For he understood photography as the first ‘technical image’. The term refers to technologies that allow human beings to engage a universe of ‘whirling particles’ – imperceptible molecules, sub-atomic particles, magnetic charges – and to make something intelligible from it. Technical images make it possible for people to confer meaning on an inherently meaningless universe.

Photography was soon followed by other technical images: film, sound recording, video, digital technologies of imaging and transmission. All ‘technical images’, that is, rely on a technical apparatus, but not all construct or transmit images. For Flusser understands images primarily in contrast to writing. He sees writing at its inception as intentionally destructive of prehistoric, magical consciousness; in the present, the difference is bound up with mathematical, in contrast to linguistic codes. He understands the kind of consciousness that is shaped in and through technical images as ‘visual’, in that it is profoundly different from literate, historical consciousness shaped in and through alphabetic writing. At one point he gives the helpful example of a scientific article in which mathematical equation sits, like an island, in a flowing linear text. The equation must be grasped with a different – a structurally visual – form of consciousness. It will never ‘flow’ (Flusser, 2011: 24).

Flusser’s considerable enthusiasm for technical images is therefore tempered by a keen sense of loss, for he sees the new technologies steadily and inevitably undermining all those achievements – history, literature, law, critical thought, to name a few, that depend on alphabetic writing.

Flusser’s account of the rise of a new culture and consciousness, the ‘universe of technical images’, appears in a series of books first published in the mid-1980s (Flusser, 1983, 1985, 1987), with two additional relevant volumes appearing after his death in 1991. (Flusser, 1996, 2008). These books identify photography at a historical watershed, a point where culture began to become increasingly ‘visual’ and decreasingly literate or historical. They locate photography with respect to other media – in relation to film, telegraphy, and sound recording, in opposition to writing. They identify photography as in some ways the model for a broad and anonymous tendency toward increasingly tight integration between human beings and their technologies. But the books do not attempt to characterize photography’s distinctive features, to show how a technical image could displace language as our primary means of exchanging information, of orienting ourselves in time and space. This project, it seems, was left for ‘The Gesture of Photographing’.

Flusser may have begun to write the essay in 1982 or 1983, for there is a chapter in Towards a Philosophy of Photography (Flusser, 1983; 2000) that bears the same title. But ‘Die Geste des Fotografierens’, was first published as an independent essay in 1991 — much changed from the book chapter. It forms part of a volume entitled Gesten (Gestures) (Flusser 1991), which includes ‘The Gesture of Writing’, ‘The Gesture of Filming’, ‘The Gesture of Painting’. The list suggests established ‘media’. But the volume also includes such exceptions as ‘The Gesture of Smoking a Pipe’, or ‘The Gesture of Searching’. The unifying feature is rather the framing of a type of communication as a physical movement, ‘. . . a movement of the body or of a tool linked to it for which there is no satisfying causal explanation’ (1991a, 8). In keeping with Flusser’s phenomenological approach, the Gestures essays explicitly reject ‘common sense’ knowledge of their objects. There is no assumption about the movement’s cause or effect, or how its component elements – the photographer, the camera and the subject being photographed, and we, the observers of it all, might be related to one another. The deliberate circumventing of what everyone knows about photography, namely that it involves looking, may seem at one level rather forced or even a bit silly. But it gives Flusser a framework for identifying the movements of the photographer with the thought process of a philosopher. He is able to notice a parallel alternation between periods of reflection and moments of action, all within the ongoing project of situating oneself in the world. The approach lets Flusser – and us with him – step away from what we know (e.g. photography as a technology or as an ideology or as a vast set of objects). It allows him to recognize the gesture as theoria, a gesture of seeing, and to identify that gesture as one that ‘. . . translates the philosophical attitude into a new context’ (p. 9).

Although it could hardly be clear from reading of ‘The Gesture of Photographing’ in isolation, the idea of translation is central to Flusser’s larger theory of communication (Guldin, 2005). A native of Prague, having grown up speaking Czech and German (as well as learning Hebrew), studying English and French in school, and mastering Portuguese as a long-term resident in Brazil, Flusser spoke five languages and wrote for publication in four of them. He developed a pattern of translating his own texts between languages, starting by ‘translating’ the initial thought (he describes it as an image) into the language that best suited it, then moving into another and sometimes back again, mining the thought for further implications, ‘exhausting’ it. The most complete description of this process appears in ‘The Gesture of Writing’ (Flusser, 1991c), an essay that itself exists in seven different versions in four languages (Guldin, 2005: 280). What follows is my translation from German into English, for although French and Portuguese versions exist, it seems Flusser never translated this particular essay into English (Becker, 2011).

Even within ‘The Gesture of Photographing’, in any case, translation has implications well beyond a move between natural human languages. Here, the prospect of a translation between written texts and technical images is implied, lightly. Towards the end of the book Does Writing Have a Future? (Flusser, 1987), it takes on a critical urgency. For Flusser fears that without such translation from language into image, we will eventually lose, permanently, all experience stored in writing, ‘… everything we treasure in the Western legacy’ (2011, 53). ‘The Gesture of Photographing’, arguing that a technical image can support thought as complex, precise, abstract as philosophy is, in short, critical to Flusser’s overall theory of communication. It is also among his most radical and thought-provoking statements.

Vilém Flusser

There is no doubt that the invention of photography should be called revolutionary, for it is a method that seeks to fix subjects that exist in four-dimensional time and space onto a two-dimensional surface. This method is revolutionary in that it, in contrast to painting, permits the subjects themselves to be imprinted on a surface. A photograph is a kind of ‘fingerprint’ that the subject leaves on a surface, and not a depiction, as in painting. The subject is the cause of the photograph and the meaning of painting. The photographic revolution reverses the traditional relationship between a concrete phenomenon and our idea of the phenomenon. In painting, according to this tradition, we ourselves form an ‘idea’ in order to fix the phenomenon on the surface. In photography, by contrast, the phenomenon itself generates its own idea for us on the surface. In fact the invention of photography is a delayed technical resolution of the theoretical conflict between the rationalistic and empirical idealism.

The English Empiricists of the 17th century thought that ideas imprinted themselves on us like photographs, while their Rationalist contemporaries believed that ideas, like paintings, were designed by us. Photography offered proof that ideas function in ways that confirm both ways of thinking. The discovery came too late to affect the philosophical discussion – given the fact that in the 19th century the multiple implications of the prevailing views on both sides were generally more or less accepted. That is an example of technology following along behind theory. At the same time, the invention is revolutionary in that it permits the discussion of the difference between ‘objective’ and ‘ideological’ thinking only at the level of technology. Photographs qualify as the ‘objective’ and paintings as the ‘subjective’ or ‘ideological’ ideas we have in relation to the concrete phenomenon that surround us. That is an example of technology producing theory. In fact only now, more than a hundred years after the invention of photography, are we beginning to confirm the theoretical possibilities that arise from the comparison between photography and painting.

If we recognize that photographs are caused by phenomena, whereas paintings point phenomena out (that is, they mean phenomena), we can analyse the difference between causal and semiotic explanation. So, photographs are explained when we know the electromagnetic, chemical and other processes through which they were produced, and paintings are explained if we are able to see in them the ‘intentionality’ that is being expressed. But this essay is not about to enter into a discussion of this problem, fascinating as it is. The reason is the following: both photography and painting come from very complex and contradictory movements. There are objective phases in the act of painting and subjective phases in the act of photographing, in fact to an extent that makes the distinction between objectivity and subjectivity more than problematic. If we want to distinguish between painting and photography – and we must do this if we want to understand our relationship to the world – we must first of all examine the two gestures photography and painting elicit.

The study of the gesture of photographing seems to be a preparatory step, essential both for the study of photography itself and its comparison with painting. And that is exactly the intention of this essay.

But the moment we try to describe the gesture of photographing in order to study it, we are startled by a strange phenomenon. What we are doing seems to be an attempt, if in a metaphorical sense, to ‘photograph’ the gesture. Inasmuch as we understand ‘description’ to be a translation from one context into another, a photograph is a two-dimensional ‘description’ of a gesture. A photograph of a man smoking a pipe is a description of his gesture of smoking in that it transfers the gesture from four to two dimensions. Its elements are ‘manipulated’ through the gesture itself (to put it more simply, through the light reflected by objects that move in the act of smoking). A typed description of a photograph, by contrast, is assembled from elements (the letters on the typewriter) that have no causal relationship whatsoever to those of the described gesture. We are therefore mistaken if we allow ourselves to believe that when we write about the subject of the photographic gesture we are in some sense, if only a metaphorical one, photographing it. Photography must be discarded as a model for our description of the gesture of photographing. That is worth noting, for it is an example of the way tools threaten to shape our thinking. First we invent photography as a tool for seeing ‘objectively’. Then we try to observe photography itself by looking photographically. The tool exerts an inhibiting force on our thoughts at many levels, some less obvious than others. We should not allow the tools to sit in the saddle and ride us. In the case under consideration here, we should not try to regard the gesture of photographing as though we were photographing it. If we want to find out what is ‘really’ going on, we must instead observe the gesture naively, as though we knew nothing about it and were seeing it for the first time.

Although this appears to be very simple, it is difficult. We have before us an ambiguous situation. Let’s say it’s a social event. A man is sitting in a chair smoking a pipe. There is another man in the room holding an apparatus. Both are behaving in an unusual way, if by ‘usual’ we mean appropriate to the event. The man smoking the pipe seems not to be doing so in order to smoke, but for some other reason. Although we might find it difficult to say why, it still seems to us that he’s ‘playing’ at smoking. The man with the apparatus, on the other hand, is moving around the area in a most peculiar way. If we set out to describe his path, then for us he becomes the main point of the scene and the smoker becomes the explanation for the way he is circling around the middle of the picture. That is noteworthy, for it shows that the situation is determined not so much by the relationships among the constituent elements as by the observer’s intentions. So this is not an ‘objective’ description in the sense of being independent of the observer’s point of view. Quite the contrary, the situation described here is ‘set up’ by the observer. But ‘set up’ is of course a photographic concept, which proves how difficult it is to leave the photographic model out of the observation. That implies that photographs are not ‘objective’ descriptions. Let’s try to remember this image and to forget the photographic model once again.

The centre of this situation is the man with the apparatus. He is moving. Still, it’s awkward to say of a centre that it is moving in relation to its own periphery. When a centre moves, it does so with respect to the observer, and the whole situation then moves as well. We must therefore concede that what we are seeing when we watch the man with the apparatus is a movement of the whole situation, including the man sitting on his chair. It is difficult to admit this because we’re accustomed to believing that someone who is sitting is not moving. Because we believe it, we think we’re seeing it.

In fact when we turn our attention to the man on his chair, we see that the situation is still and the man with the apparatus moves within it; should we turn our attention to the man with the apparatus, on the other hand, the situation begins to move and the man on his chair becomes the fixed element in a changing situation. This suggests, among other things, that the Copernican revolution was the result of a change of viewpoint and not a ‘truer’ vision than the Ptolemaic system offered. In other words, the man with the apparatus doesn’t move in order to find the best standpoint from which to photograph a fixed situation (although that may be what he thinks he’s doing). In reality he is looking for the position that best corresponds to his intention to fix a changing situation.

Nevertheless, the following problem appears: the man with his apparatus is the centre of the situation only for us, watching him, not for himself. He believes himself to be outside the situation, for he is watching it. For him the man on the chair, at the centre of his attention, is the centre of the situation. And we, too, located in the space, watching the man with the apparatus, we are part of the situation for him. That could mislead us into supposing that there are two different situations, one in which the man with his apparatus, whom we transcend, is at the centre and another in which the man on his chair is at the centre and in which we are involved. The two situations are different, yet bound up with one another. But there is actually only one situation. We can confirm this because we are able to step away from our observer role and look at the situation from within it, which the man with the apparatus can do as well. By looking at his gestures, we can actually notice that he himself is not aware of some of his movements.

This view of ourselves in a situation (this ‘reflexive’ or ‘critical’ vision) is characteristic of our being-in-the-world: we are in the world and we see it, we ‘know’ about it. But to say it once more: there is nothing ‘objective’ about this. The gesture with which we release ourselves from a particular role and which is just as available to the man with the apparatus, remains bound to a ‘place’ from which we can assert that we are experiencing the same situation twice. This ‘place’ is the basis for a consensus, for inter-subjective recognition. If we ourselves and the man with the apparatus encounter one another on this basis, we see the situation not ‘better’, but only inter-subjectively, and we see ourselves inter-subjectively.

The man with the apparatus is a human being, which means that he not only is in the situation, but also is apart from it, reflecting. We know that we are dealing with a human being, not only because we see a form we can identify as a human body. We can tell as well, and more specifically, because we see gestures that very clearly show signs of attention directed towards the man on the chair, but also a reflective distance from that attention. We recognize ourselves in this gesture, because it is our own way of being in the world. We know that we are dealing with a human being because we recognize ourselves in him. Our identification of a human body is a secondary element of this direct and concrete recognition. If we trusted in this identification alone, we could be wrong. We could be seeing a cybernetic machine simulating human gestures. But we can’t be wrong about recognizing a gesture, just because recognizing ourselves in it is a human gesture.

Because the man with the apparatus is a human being and there are no instances of ‘naive human beings’ (a contradiction in itself), it follows that there can be no ‘naive photography’. The man with his apparatus knows what he is doing, and we can tell this from watching his gestures. That is why it is necessary to describe his gestures in philosophical (reflexive) terms. Any other manner of description would be useless because it would not grasp the reflective and self-conscious essence of the gesture. That is the case for any human gesture, but for the photographer’s gesture in particular. The gesture of photographing is a philosophical gesture, or to put it differently: since photography was invented, it is possible to philosophize not only in the medium of words, but also in that of photographs. The reason is that the gesture of photographing is a gesture of seeing, and so engages in what the antique thinkers called ‘theoria’, producing a picture that these thinkers called ‘idea’. In contrast to the majority of other gestures, the point of the photographic gesture is not primarily to change the world or to communicate with others. Rather it aims to observe something and fix the observation, to ‘formalize’ it. The oft-quoted Marxist argument that philosophers have restricted themselves to explaining the world (it should be to observe it and chat about it), whereas the point is to change it – this argument is not very persuasive when applied to the gesture of photography. Photography is the result of something new – a look at the world and simultaneously a change in the world. The same is true of traditional philosophy, although the ideas that arose from it are not so easily grasped as photographs are. Photography’s comprehensibility gives it an indisputable advantage over the results of traditional methods of philosophy.

What the man with the apparatus is doing is probably too complex a gesture to be dissected into its separate aspects. This is not at all my intention in any case, since for my purposes it is enough to say that three aspects can be distinguished, but cannot be separated from one another. A first aspect is the search for a place, a position from which to observe the situation. A second aspect is the manipulating of the situation, adapting it to the chosen position. The third aspect concerns critical distance that makes it possible to see the success or failure of this adaptation. Obviously there is a fourth aspect: the release of the shutter. But this process lies in some sense outside the actual gesture, for it proceeds mechanically. Beyond this, there are complex electromagnetic, chemical and mechanical technologies inside the apparatus and the whole process of developing, enlarging and retouching, that together culminate in a picture. But although these technologies have a decisive influence on the result of the gesture and are fascinating to analyse, they lie outside the situation we are currently observing. We did not set out to analyse photography, for which an analysis of those technologies would be indispensable. Rather we are concerned with observing the gesture of photographing as it appears at a social event.

The three aspects of the gesture just mentioned are not manifest in the same way and do not have the same meaning within the gesture. The first aspect of the gesture, the search for a place, is the most obvious. It could seem as though the other two aspects were subordinate to it. But an attentive examination shows that the second aspect, the manipulation of the situation under consideration, is more characteristic as a gesture. Although it is not so obvious as the first aspect and not so readily acknowledged by the photographer, it is the manipulation that governs the search for the position. As for the third, the self-critical aspect, it can’t appear critical to the observer, and yet the ‘quality of the image’ is judged by criteria based on this aspect.

What has just been said about the gesture of photographing can, with a few adjustments, be said just as well about the gesture of philosophizing. Were we to examine this gesture, we would probably discover the same three aspects, related to one another in a similar way. This is to say that photographing is a gesture that translates the philosophical attitude into a new context. In philosophy, as in photography, the search for a position is the obvious aspect. The manipulation of the scene to be illuminated is not always readily admitted, but nevertheless characterizes the various movements of philosophy, and the self-critical aspect is the one that allows us to judge whether the manipulation has been successful or not. We get an even stronger impression that the gesture of photographing is a philosophical development in the context of the industrial age when we observe the three aspects as precisely as possible.

The search for the position is apparent in the body movements of the photographer. But in watching the way he manipulates the apparatus, another, less obvious dimension appears. The place the photographer is looking for is a point within the time-space continuum. The photographer asks himself, from what point and for how long he must illuminate the subject he is trying to fix on a surface. In our example, that subject is a man sitting in a chair smoking a pipe at a social gathering. This sentence is itself a description of the situation as seen from a certain point of view, namely that of an observer held over the space and out of the time in which the event is taking place by means of some metaphysical crane. The gestures of the photographer show that he doesn’t believe such a position to be attainable, and even if it were, it would take some clandestine evidence to show it to be superior to any other position. In fact these gestures show that he does not know the best position with respect to this situation and thinks that each situation permits a variety of positions whose ‘quality’ depends as much on the situation itself as on the intention of the observer. If I am intent on the photographic moment, given that smoke from the pipe is rising, one particular angle of vision must stand out, impressing itself on me through the ‘gestalt’ of the pipe. On the other hand if I want to fix the impression of enjoyment the taste of the tobacco produces on the face of the smoker, there must be a different ideal angle, although it too, would be determined by the ‘gestalt’ of the situation. Before he can look for a good position, the photographer must therefore have a goal so that he can perceive the situation. Of course it can be seen from his gestures that this view is theoretical, for in the course of his search he can change his goal at any moment. He sets out to photograph the smoke rising from the pipe, and as he is looking for a suitable angle, is surprised by the face of the smoker. In fact there is a double dialectic in play: first between goal and situation and then among the various perspectives on the situation. The gesture of the photographer shows the tension between these intervening dialectics. In other words, the gesture of photographing is a movement in search of a position that reveals both an internal and an external tension driving the search forward: this gesture is the movement of doubt. To observe the photographer’s gesture with this in mind is to watch the unfolding of methodical doubt. And this is the philosophical gesture par excellence.

The movement continues in what we normally call the four dimensions of time and space. In the first dimension the photographer approaches the situation and distances himself from it. In the second dimension the photographer observes the situation among various horizontal and in a third among various vertical angles of vision. In a fourth dimension the photographer wields his apparatus to grasp the situation in various levels of illumination. The four dimensions overlap one another in very complex ways; the temporal dimension has a character that holds it apart from the others in that it includes the use of the apparatus.

The four dimensions intersect – the photographer’s search appears to be an indistinct, unfathomable movement in time and space. And yet a detailed observation shows that within this continuum there are such things as barriers the photographer must cross, as if time and space were divided into separate fields, by situation – one of them for birds, another for the frog perspective, one field for looking out of the corner of the eye, one for the completely archaic, wide-eyed observation of things. It looks as though there is no smooth gliding from near to panoramic shot, but rather only a transition from one to another of the separate fields. That separates the photographic gesture completely from that of the cinematographic; the still camera does not ‘travel’. The gesture rather consists of a series of leaps over invisible obstacles and consists of decisions. The photographer’s search is a series of abrupt judgements. The photographer passes through a space-time consisting of diverse areas of vision, that is, of diverse ‘Weltanschauungen’ and the barriers that divide them. The quantum character of the gesture of photographing (the fact that this concerns a ‘clara et distincta perceptio’) gives it the structure of a philosophical gesture, whereas the gesture of filming dissolves this structure. The reason for this difference is apparently technical: just like the philosopher, the photographer looks through a ‘categorical’ apparatus, and in doing so pursues the goal of grasping the world as a series of distinct images (definable concepts). The filmmaker looks through a ‘processual’ apparatus, with the goal of capturing the world as a stream of indistinguishable images (indefinable concepts). This ‘technical’ difference between the two apparatuses is responsible for the difference in the structuring of the two gestures. The assertion that the photo apparatus is an extension and improvement of the human eye is therefore just a figure of speech. In the photographic gesture, the human body is so enmeshed with the apparatus as to make it pointless to assign either one a specific function. If one designates the instrument as a body whose movements depend on those of a human body (if, within the relationship ‘man–tool’, we make the human body the constant and the tool the variable), it becomes almost pointless to define the apparatus as the photographer’s tool. It would be no better to maintain that in the search for a position, the body of the photographer becomes the tool of the photo apparatus. By observing the gesture of photographing, it is possible to actually see the reversibility of this relationship in a specific para-industrial context. In the automobile industry, the worker’s condition as a function of the machine actually implies a loss of self (his value as a free being). With the gesture of photographing, on the other hand, the photographer’s adaptation to the photographic apparatus, for example the need to adjust his position to suit the timing of the apparatus, implies no alienation of self. On the contrary, the photographer is free exactly because of the temporal determinants of the apparatus, rather than in spite of them.

Whoever sets out to name all the tools of ‘culture’ will have to admit that the gesture of a worker in a factory and the gesture of a photographer play out in different contexts. What the socialist revolution should have set as its goal is the removal of all gestures of the worker type from our cultural environment. There is no doubt that the aspect of the photographic gesture examined so far, the search for a position, would require an extremely thorough investigation to be fully grasped. For the present purposes it is enough to say that we are concerned with a series of theoretical decisions in relation to the test situation, that the situation is therefore a movement of methodical doubt, and that its structure is determined as much by the observed situation as by the apparatus as by the photographer, so that any separation of the named factors must be ruled out. We can add that it is about a movement of a freedom, for the gesture is a series of decisions that occur not in spite of, but because of the determining forces that are in play.

In order to examine the second aspect – manipulation – we need to forget any objective knowledge we may have regarding the act of photographing. According to such knowledge, there are objects, among them a man sitting on a chair and smoking a pipe. These objects are ‘phenomena’ in the sense that for the purposes of experiment they can be optically documented, for they reflect the rays of light that fall on them. The man with the apparatus would, then, be trying to catch the light rays in order to effect specific chemical changes in a sensitive film material. Such an objective description, which could be called a ‘scientific observation’, reduces the gesture of photographing to a laboratory operation. It must be forgotten, not because it’s ‘wrong’ but because it does not include what we see in the gesture.

The man with the apparatus is not hunting for reflected light, but rather selecting specific rays of light within the parameters of those available to him. Nor does he select passively, like a filter (although one may doubt whether a filter is passive). He takes an active part in the optical process. He excludes some groups of rays, for example, by closing the curtains a bit. He turns his objects in the light so that they reflect some rays and not others (he says ‘laugh!’ for example). He introduces his own light sources (for example, flash). He immerses the situation in colours of his choice. He manipulates the apparatus with special filters. He chooses a suitable film that accepts some kinds of rays and rejects others. The picture that results from these operations will not be the effect of rays as reflected by the object had the photographer not been there. Still, it will be the effect of rays that were reflected by the objects, and in this sense will be objective. One could ask oneself whether this is the only true meaning of the concept ‘objective’. For all things considered, what is happening in the laboratory operation (during the scientific investigation) is not very different from what is happening in the gesture of photographing, and in this sense we do not doubt the objectivity of photography; we doubt a certain meaning of the concept of objectivity in science.

Of course the problem in photography is more complex than in science (except perhaps in anthropology), especially when we’re concerned with photographs of people. The object reacts to the manipulation, for it isn’t a real object, but someone sharing the same situation with the photographer. A complex mesh of actions and reactions (of dialogue) is established between the photographer and his pictorial motif, although the initiative rests with the photographer and the person photographed is the one who waits patiently (or impatiently). For the one who waits, this doubtful dialogue leads to that mixture of reserve and exhibitionism (produced by an awareness of being the centre of an objectifying attention), resulting in ‘affected behaviour’ (betrayal of the motif). On the active photographer’s side, this leads to that strange sensation of being witness, plaintive, defendant and judge all at once, a sensation of troubled conscience that is reflected in his gestures. He tries to surprise his motif in an unguarded moment, so as to turn it into an object. In consideration of photography as dialogue, he, too, betrays the motif. The gesture of photographing is an art form.

But the fact that the photographer manipulates the situation and betrays the motif does not mean that the photograph cannot be an objective picture. Still less does it mean that the picture would have been more objective if the photographer had refrained from manipulating the situation. Nor does it mean that the objectivity of the photograph is affected in any way if the motif reacts to being manipulated by the photographer. On the contrary, it means that to observe a situation is to manipulate it, or to put it another way, observation changes the observed phenomenon.

It is equally the case that to observe a situation is to be changed by it. Observation changes the observer. Those who observe the gesture of photographing need neither Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle nor psychoanalytic theory. They can actually see it. The photographer cannot help manipulating the situation. His very presence is a manipulation. And he cannot avoid being affected by the situation, he is changed by simply being there. The objectivity of an image (an idea) can only ever be the result of manipulation (observation) of one situation or another. Each idea is false to the extent that it manipulates what it takes into consideration, and in this sense it is ‘art’, which is to say fiction. Nevertheless there are true ideas in another sense, namely when they really grasp what is under consideration. That may be what Nietzsche meant when he said that art is better than truth.

The photographer cannot help manipulating the situation, for his search is tightly bound up with this manipulation. Search and manipulation are two aspects of one and the same gesture. But the photographer does not always readily admit it. He will say that some of his photographs reproduce situations that neither were nor could be manipulated, for example landscapes. He will concede that photographic portraits are always the result of manipulation, because the subject to be photographed senses the presence of the photographer and responds to it (with, at least, surprise, having known nothing of this presence beforehand). He will insist that landscapes don’t notice the photographer’s presence. But he is wrong. Photographs in the field of archaeological research may serve here as an example. It’s perfectly obvious that the use of infrared rays to bring the forms of an archaeological layer into view is a clear and unambiguous manipulation. Yet it is a fact that photographs taken at sunset reveal forms that are imperceptible in the light of midday, and that seems not to be a manipulation. Midday and sunset appear to be components of a given situation. But the decision to favour sunset over midday represents a manipulation of the fact of the landscape, for through this decision the landscape serves a purpose. Every photograph is a portrait in the sense that every situation shows itself to be ‘aware’ of being photographed. From this standpoint too, photography resembles philosophy: one cannot take up a position without manipulating the situation, despite some philosophers’ reluctance to admit it.

The third aspect of the gesture, self-criticism, relates to what is called in philosophy ‘reflection’. That is a concept evidently borrowed from optics and so closely bound to photography. The camera has a mirror, and when the photographer looks into it, he sees how his picture might be. He sees possible pictures and as he looks in this futurological way he chooses his own picture from those available to him. He rejects all the possible pictures except this one and thereby condemns all the other possible pictures, except this one, to the realm of lost virtualities. In this way the gesture of photographing permits us to see, concretely, how choice functions as a projection into the future. This gesture is an example of the dynamic of freedom. For it shows that criticism (the use of standards to measure possibilities) embodies this dynamic of freedom.

But to be a mirror to judge the possibilities of the future is only one of the meanings of the concept ‘reflection’. In another meaning, ‘reflection’ is a mirror for looking at ourselves as we make decisions. I don’t know whether there are cameras with such mirrors, but it would be easy to build them, for some of the photographer’s movements give an impression that he is looking at himself in such a mirror. Using this mirror (whether material or immaterial) he sees himself photographing. In this way he draws himself into the situation.

The gesture of photographing is concrete evidence of what kind of seeing is involved. It is not to be confused with the view obtained by using the timed shutter release. The gesture of photographing does not show the photographer to be a passive object (as in the anthropological sciences). It mirrors an active subject (the goal of some philosophies). Such mirrors must – should they exist – permit monitoring not only of the photographer but also of the gesture of photographing itself. Self-control is another form of freedom.

In the Western tradition, and especially since Kant, we are warned (with good reason) about reflection as pure speculation; for the mirror I’m speaking about permits the construction of other mirrors that reflect one another in an infinite series, a void with no foundation. This void can exert a suicidal attraction, yet would not be able to check the gesture of photographing. The gesture loses its meaning when it loses itself in the void. In contrast to other cultures, and for reasons that have to do with, among other things, the way we set up our mirrors, we Occidentals are interested in photography. So our problem is not continuous reflection; it is about deciding when to stop reflecting so as to be able to switch over to action. Although we know the void (‘nothingness’), we examine it not for itself, but only to be able to photograph better. For us reflection is a strategy and not surrender of self. The moment the photographer stops looking into the reflecting mirror (whether real or imaginary) is the moment that will determine his picture. If he stops too early the picture will be superficial. If he stops too late, the picture will be confused and uninteresting. It will be penetrating and revealing if the photographer has chosen a good moment to stop reflecting. Reflection therefore forms part of the photographer’s search and his manipulation. It is a search for himself and a manipulation of himself. In fact the search for a position belongs to the search for himself and the manipulation of the situation to the manipulation of self. And vice versa. But what is the case for photography is also the case for philosophy, and very simply for life. But in photography it is tangible, clear: we can see it by observing the gesture of photographing.

These considerations are not a detailed phenomenological description of the gesture of photographing. They merely suggest that such a description could be useful. But at least they raise certain questions in a specific context, for example how the ontological and epistemological status of photography differs from that of painting. What effect – if there is one – did the invention of photography have on painting, and what influence will it have in the immediate future? What effect – if there is one – did the invention of photography have on philosophy, and is the movement called ‘hyperrealism’ artistic or philosophical? Couldn’t one actually claim that the distinction between art and philosophy has become blurred, thanks to (but not always) photography? What effect has the invention of photography had on scientific thought (and not just on scientific method)? What sort of relationship does photography have to newer and related methods of seeing (such as slides, films, videotape and holograms). To sum up, the observations stated here are sufficient to formulate those questions about photography that reach the heart of the problem: photography as a gesture of seeing, of ‘theoria’.