An Introduction to Aesthetics

PH2750 : An Introduction to Aesthetics

Prologue

This short story is based on an actual episode. Only the names have have been changed. It is different from my usual material in that there is no gratuitous sex. There are no bodies rolling around in bed and there are no screaming orgasms rattling the windows. I am an exhibitionist and this missive is an exploration of Exhibitionism, and of the pleasures and perils that go with showing yourself to others. Enjoy!

It begins with the essay...

The essay was quite straightforward. Two thousand words reflecting upon the nature and value of art, both in the past and in a modern contemporary setting. Additional credits for specific examples and personal contributions would be awarded.

What I was looking for was the ability to critique an image or images - lighting, colour, mood - as well as messages, both intentional and unintentional. Politics, motives, feelings and emotions should all be considered.

Alas, my class found the task a little difficult. Engagement was poor. Attendance was marginal at best. The issue came to a head at one of our usual Thursday morning seminars.

"We need more help!" the group screamed in unison.

"What sort of help?" I asked.

"Everything, really! Everything!"

"Okay," I said. "Then let's schedule an additional session and we'll explore what we're talking about."

This approach is not unusual. Students these days need to be spoon fed more than any other generation. They don't appear to have the critical or analytical skills required to judge for themselves. They need help. They need influencers. They need to be told what to think by a Youtube mouthpiece, which sort of puts me out of a job but given the quality and academic credentials of so many influencers, I think my position is safe for the time being!

Anyway, let's not get into that. This isn't the time or the place. Let's get to the naughty, shall we? That's why we're here, after all.

I organised an extra session for a Friday afternoon. This was not a popular move because extra sessions on a Friday afternoon cut into the length of time my charges can spend, either individually or as a group, in the Hotspur Public House on Percy Street. They're Philosophers. Getting blind drunk whilst manically depressed is part of the job description. Similarly, I too have better things to do on a Friday afternoon. For instance, I would far rather spend my free time up at my house in the outskirts tending to my garden and wearing nothing but a pair of flip-flops and a smile. Try it. It's fun.

So, the appointed hour soon rolled around and about half of the class turned up. The others? No idea where they were. I didn't care either. My classes are for those who turn up. End of.

"In this session, I want to concentrate on just a handful of images," I began. "We'll go through them one by one, talk about how they make us feel, what they make you feel. We'll look at the language we can use to describe these images and how to develop the ideas we're exploring. Are we inspired or disgusted? What emotions does the image inspire? What was the motive of the artist?"

So far, so good. They seemed interested.

"The first image is an old familiar friend," I said. "Rene Magritte's famous 'Pipe' image."

We talked at length about Magritte and symbolism, the use of repeated motifs, the colour palette, the tone, the ideas.

I was immediately interrupted by one of the Usual Suspects:

"'His depictions of familiar objects in unfamiliar, unexpected contexts, which often provoked questions about the nature and boundaries of reality and representation,'" she barked.

And then "We can get all of this stuff from Wikipedia!"

That one caught me off guard. I nearly swore. I really did. It's such a bloody ignorant and arrogant response. I turned to the lady in question and smiled.

"Then do so," I replied. "Please. Do. Feel free. I won't mind. In fact, you don't even need to attend this class anymore. Or indeed, any classes. You have the internet. But then, think about how you just wasted all that money on course fees and accommodation? And will you get a bit of paper at the end of it all?"

Silence.

"But I can guarantee one outcome if you don't attend!"

Silence.

I didn't need to say another word. They all knew what I was thinking.

F.

F for "Fail".

You don't want an F, Little Miss Cleverpants. You're twenty years old! You shouldn't be behaving like a petulant child at your age!

I let Magritte finish this segment on my behalf.

"Art for me is not an end in itself, but a means of evoking that mystery which, as long as I live, I will never be able to understand." 

"'The Pipe' challenges the viewer's assumptions about representation and reality, reminding us that an image is not the same as the thing it represents."

There you go, Rene. Couldn't have said it better myself.

"The next image, I would consider a difficult image. But what makes an image 'difficult'? Define 'difficult'".

The image in question is an oil painting by Caravaggio, namely 'Salome receives the Head of John the Baptist', and dates from somewhere between 1609 - 1610. Does it still have the capacity to shock? Why? What was the message? What was the artist's intention?

Some discussion followed but the exchanges were not particularly enlightening. The class were not engaging or, indeed, engaged.

Okay, try again. Another image, a still of Tyler Durden from the movie 'Fight Club', clad in a scruffy leather jacket against a hideous green wallpaper backdrop. Being more contemporary, the image proved more interesting than 'John the Baptist'. The resulting discussion carried the familiar themes explored by the film, the nature of reality, what constitutes reality. Almost everyone agreed that the wallpaper behind Mr. Durden was genuinely hideous, and it was.

Another image. Let's see if this gets them talking.

The image is of a naked female. She's tall, about my height, slim and in her mid thirties. She is standing against a red wall, her face covered by an African tribal mask. Behind her is a hanging decoration depicting a Sun feature with a myriad of radiating arms.

What does the group make of this?

Silence.

I throw them a couple of bones. "What's the purpose of the mask? Anonymity? Why bother with anonymity in this day and age of identity cards? What is the image saying?"

"The woman is mature," said Chloe. "She's developed and not some skinny waif."

Alicia jumps in. "She has curves. The boobs are large but not especially so. She wears no jewellery and has no tattoos, which is perhaps a personal statement. Is she afraid of commitment? She is not shaved. It's as nature intended. She defies popular convention by sporting a healthy growth of pubes."

'Quite a mouthful', I thought, but they were certainly thinking for themselves.

"The image is neither sexual nor provocative," said another.

"It's a striking image," says another.

"She has a lovely bush!" whispers one of the guys near the back. "Makes a change."

"The red wall is perhaps emblematic of blood, sacrifice, pain," says another.

"Why the mask? Why the need to hide her face?"

That kicked off a discussion about anonymity and the need to disguise oneself against the intrusions of the state.

"Again, why is she naked? Why pose naked in the first instance? Is she trying to say something? Is she trying to display herself for an audience? Is she looking for a reaction?"

A discussion about the abundance of nude images on the net followed and that led into an exchange about Exhibitionism. Are models exhibitionists?

Grace chimed in. "Why does she bother hiding her face? It's just a body. There's so much nudity out there that going bare assed is hardly a thing these days."

"Have you gone bare arsed on the net, Gracie?" asked one of the girls.

"Anybody got any nudies of Grace?" said one of the boys. "Cos I've got loads."

Grace went very red in the face and then started laughing.

And so on. The general consensus was that the image was pleasant though not overly demanding. The model was merely there. She was passive. She was naked, Big deal.

The conversation then became a little more energetic. The males in the room admitted that they found the image arousing. The females were largely ambivalent.

"It's just a photograph of a woman with a hairy chuff!" said one of the girls, plainly irritated by the less than mature attitude from the men. "Big deal."

There's that 'Big deal'. meme again.

I asked about how going nude violates society's taboos.

"Why is there such a taboo about going nude in public. Plenty do it?" I asked.

No response.

"How many of you attended last month's Skinny Dip up at Druridge Bay?"

Two hands went up.

"Why did you do it?" I asked.

"Because it was fun!" said one. "Because it was positive! Life affirming!"

"Did you feel empowered?" I asked.

Both ladies agreed that they did.

"Did it bother you that there were countless men around you?"

"Not in the slightest!" said the first. "They were nearly all dirty old perverts anyway!"

"Were they? Really?"

Silence.

"Did you use the fact that everyone was naked as a shield?"

"I guess so," came the response.

"Group nudity, with the approval of your peers is okay but solo nudity is wrong? Discuss."

"Have you ever done the Skinny Dip?" asked one of the males, perhaps deflecting the question.

"I have, actually!" I replied. "Several times!"

That generated quite a response of the 'snigger, snigger' variety.

The questions continue. "Does she feel empowered? Does she feel bare? Does she feel exploited? Does it even matter?"

"She wants the world to see her. That much is clear!" said one of the ladies, Amelia. "She wants to be noticed but also wishes to remain anonymous. Why? I find that puzzling."

"Does she want to be regarded as a person in her own right or is she just a lump of meat?" asked Hannah with a H.

"Does she have a message for the viewer beyond mild titillation?" asked Chloe.

And so on.

The discussion continued for the next twenty minutes and followed the usual ebb and flow. In time, the group became polarised between extremes. Whilst the majority saw little harm in posing nude, a minority felt that the model had been coerced, perhaps pressed into posing either by a need to earn money or by someone else's need to display her most intimate regions to the world purely for titillation. A few others said that they felt uncomfortable.

"What about if she wanted to do it for herself?" I asked.

Silence.

"For her own pleasure? To satisfy her own needs?"

Silence.

I reasoned that we'd spent more than enough time on that one image and so jumped to another image, this time more graphic.

The images was a scene from the closing stages of the Vietnam war where a man is shot in the street in front of a crowd of journalists. The image is extreme. The man is in pain, his last moments broadcast around the world on prime time news. His defeat is public. The cruelty is there for all to see.

What followed was a very vigorous decision regarding morality and war and power and violence. This is why we're here. This is why we do Philosophy, to discuss attitudes to art and image as history, as beauty, as culture. Does this image constitute art? Or is it photojournalism? Where do the two meet?

"A couple more images," I said as we approached the final ten minutes.

"Can we have some more tits, please?" shouted one of the less than mature males near the back. He was doubtless missing out on his preferred Pub time.

"As you wish," I said before I popped up an image of 'Hylas and the Nymphs' by John William Waterhouse. Tits aplenty.

"This was painted in 1896 and it's a personal favourite," I said. "It's also available to view in the Laing Art Gallery around the corner."

No response.

"Should we organise a visit to the Laing?" I asked. "Maybe this time next week?"

The majority said "Yes!"

The usual troublemakers either made no comment or mumbled something incoherent under their breath.

We talked about Waterhouse and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, and their attitude to their work, and the result was largely positive. Maybe I was making a breakthrough.

"This final image is modified, " I said. "A computer enhanced version of Waterhouse's 'Echo and Narcissus'. Alas, I couldn't find a high quality version."

Nobody said a word.

"This image, it's been a favourite of mine for years," I added. "The colours, the realism, the models. The skin textures. The faces and the physique. It's about sexuality at a time when society was just breaking free from years of religious restrictions."

Some discussion followed but, by then, the class was bored and tired, and the clock was very close to four. I let them go, and most wandered off without further comment. One or two remained to discuss further but we'd covered all of the required ground and I had a need to get back to my office ahead of the rush.

I put my slide show away, switched off the projector and smiled to myself.

"Well, that went well," I whispered to nobody in particular.

I pulled out my phone, jumped to my Photos folder and then pulled up the image of the naked woman standing against the red wall and wearing the tribal mask.

I smiled, pressed "Share" and sent a text message to Juno, my girlfriend. 

"You were right!" I typed. "They didn't even notice!"

Juno texted back almost immediately. "Ha! Ha! Ha! I said they wouldn't!"

Another text. "What about Hylas and his Nymphs? Did anyone say anything?"

I laughed. "Not a word!"

"ChatGPT has its uses after all. Did they even look?"

"Looked but didn't see."

"Such is the way of modern education!"

Silence.

Another text. "Do you feel better now?"

"Better?"

"Now that you've gotten that out of your system?"

"Not quite."

A pause.

"There's always next week!" said Juno.

"And the week after, And the week after that!"

Time to go home.

"See you later!" I typed.

And then added "When do you want your mask back?"

Silence.

Part II

Skip forward two weeks. The deadline for the first essay was upon us. The rules state that submissions must be handed in electronically, as a PDF, and via the official course portal using a verified e-mail address. However, one or two of my students have not been able to set up an account - some won't, other's can't - so I also accept documents via my main University account or, if the need arises, my emergency Google account.

A fair number of essays arrived well before the deadline. A gentle trickle began around one o'clock in the afternoon with the remainder arriving safe and sound by the three o'clock cut-off. All good.

There were, of course, three missing submissions for which I received one apology and a Doctor's note. The other two? No idea. What's more, those two accounts were not the 'usual suspects'.

I packed up my stuff at five and cleared my desk. Deadline days are always fraught but, thank mercy, rare. I checked the portal one last time and was pleased to see that all of the outstanding essays were now sitting in my repository, ready for review. I award marks on the quality of the writing. Tardiness is another matter entirely.

I checked my Google account as a matter of habit and, well, colour me purple but, sitting there in my In-Box, was one final submission. However, this essay was a strange one. Anonymous. No name. No number. A return address to an Gmail account that didn't look real.

Weird.

I checked my list of students. Apart from the one medical emergency, every essay was accounted for.

As a precaution, I ran a virus check and, when the document seemed clear, I opened up the attachment and read on.

Olga Desmond: The Art of Being Naked

"In 1907, Annette Kellerman was arrested simply for wearing a one-piece bathing suit [see previous]. The garment, which covered considerably more of her body than the costumes worn by many performers on the London stage, was apparently sufficient to cause public alarm. In the same year, a seventeen-year-old German dancer named Olga Sellin was appearing naked before London audiences."

I've edited a big chunk of this out... but the conclusion had a resonance of its own.

"All I can hope is that, in the difficult years that followed, she never entirely forgot what that felt like: to stand on stage, not ashamed or embarrassed, but beautiful and graceful."

The document was certainly well in excess of the required word count but amounted to an intriguing read, all the same. Quite a haul. Quite arousing, too.

I was entirely unfamiliar with Olga Desmond so I looked her up. I found a few images in general circulation and one or two more in private collections, and yes, there was quite a bit of nudity involved. Scratch that. There's a lot of nudity, some of it full frontal. Okay, you have my attention, whoever you are.

I read the submission a second time and noted that it was quite well written for a Year Two student, which immediately set my alarm bells ringing. Was this just another AI-generated essay?

I ran the text through our usual tool set and, as I expected, the software concluded that there was a good chance that certain sections of this missive were written by a bot. Most of it was original. Some of it was not.

Then I looked at the images and they too set my alarm bells ringing. They were plainly not the same as the images on the web. For a start, they'd been upscaled quite a bit, to the point where some of the features were no longer realistic. In addition, the colours were slightly more saturated and the focus a little too precise for an image captured nearly one hundred years ago.

I went to the embedded EXIF data, which should provide details about the creation date, software systems, locations, camera but, alas, the record had been scrubbed.

Completely.

That's when the obvious hit me in the face like a flying custard pie.

The head and shoulders in these images were almost certainly Olga Desmond or at least modified versions but the torso and the lower regions were most definitely not. Olga Desmond had quite modest boobs and narrow hips and this model was altogether more curvy. Olga Desmond was quite short, roughly five foot one inch tall and this model was quite a bit taller. Olga Desmond shaved her pudenda, as was required for public displays. However, these images featured quite a bit of pubic hair.

And then there was the dead giveaway. Olga Desmond almost certainly did not have pierced nipples.

Given the quality of the final renders, I immediately thought "Yup! ChatGPT!"

But no, ChatGPT doesn't allow such images. Grok? Again, no. Not since Elon clamped down on smut? Krea? I've used Krea myself for any number of naughty jobs - mostly face swaps - so that was a good candidate. Did it fit? Yes, it did.

I tried a reverse image search and that produced a list of the original images from a variety of sources. (Sherlock Holmes never had a case like this, did he?)

I sat down at my desk and wondered what to do next.

First and foremost, this had been a surprise. At last, an essay worth thinking about. I wondered if I should tell Leonardo, my boss. I decided not to. Instead, I packed up my stuff and went home.

What did I conclude?

There are a number of possibilities. Firstly, someone in my class is a closet exhibitionist. That much is obvious. She'd picked up on the themes of public nudity and anonymity, and the need to hide one's true identity lest one find oneself cancelled, so to speak and decided to show herself off.

Secondly, it's someone in the class playing a gag. This happens quite a bit. The culprit is typically male and a bit immature.

Thirdly, it's entirely possible that someone in my class had discovered my naughty little secret and was playing with me. Who though? This is something of a double-edged sword. What if this secret of mine goes further? What if I decide I don't want to play ball with this particular individual? Will they out me? I'm clearly playing with fire here. I can always claim plausible deniability.

One to ponder in the small hours, I think.