It is difficult to comprehend humanity’s position within our vibrant ecology, particularly when that environment—traditionally seen as such a stable property, is so clearly susceptible to human influence. Mark Payne, author of Theocritus and the Invention of Fiction (2007) and The Animal Part: Human and Other Animals in the Poetic Imagination (2010) tracks the reciprocal relationship between myths, narrative patterns, and poetry, and the types of awareness that emerge around ecology. Mark Payne is a Classics Professor, teaching at the University of Chicago’s Committee on Social Thought. He also runs an incredible poetry series at U of C’s Gray Center during the school year.
Caroline Picard: In your book, The Animal Part: Human and Other Animals in the Poetic Imagination (University of Chicago Press, 2010), you begin with how hunting narratives often center around the human realizing that he—usually a he—is seen by the animal he is about to kill. At the risk of starting out with too grand a beginning, I started wondering if perhaps our awareness of the Anthropocene parallels that hunter’s awareness somehow, where the human suddenly sees itself within a larger, collective, and conscious environment?
Mark Payne: I see the question of time and how to make sense of ourselves in a dislocated narrative. One kind of dislocated narrative is a conversion narrative where two parts of a life lie on either side of a traumatic break. Are we there yet? Are we nearly there yet? Doubtful I think.
CP: What do you mean by a dislocated narrative? In what way or why is it dislocated?
MP: I mean it like a dislocated joint. The two parts don’t work together any more. Understanding that we were in the Anthropocene ought to feel something like that I imagine.
CP: This makes me think about a later section of the book about metamorphosis, and maybe especially a part in Ovid where you describe humanity’s confused origin story—whether we were “made by God from his own substance, or whether Prometheus scooped some leftovers from the sky that were mingled with the earth,” making us into the image of a god as one might a dumpling (or at least that’s what came to my mind). “This passage speaks of a kind of homelessness in the world on the part of human beings,” you say, “separated from animals by their later birth and stance, but unsure of their kinship with higher beings. Every transformation in the poem underlines the futility of their efforts to close the gap between themselves and the gods by widening the one between themselves and the animals.” (125) On the one hand, I feel like the predicament you describe here—perhaps especially in the context of animal/human hybridity the chapter lays out (almost as a way of illustrating one’s own alien-ness as it appears in one’s self, spouse, a neighbor, or an encounter with a stranger)—seems exactly the same now as it was then; in other words, this same confusion or homelessness is just as relevant to ancient Roman society as it is in the Anthropocene. On the other hand, I wonder if we might need different narratives, myths, poems, and fairy tales in framing otherness and contextualizing humanity?
MP: Why is it that we have this capacity for ecstasis? But then maybe the animals are no more captivated by where they are than we are. Once I spent some time with a Gila monster at an oasis in Arizona. We both seemed equally out of sorts with the desert despite our different adaptations. But we do not trust ourselves when we go along with the other animals, as Heidegger puts it. I think it’s more about trusting what we already have than always needing to innovate. I guess I don’t really trust that impulse of always needing to move on from what’s there already.
CP: That makes sense, though I sometimes feel like humanity has been in this multi-generational conversation with environment, and its tone has recently changed; it’s less predictable, maybe, noisier. More direct. Maybe instead of thinking about needing some new approach, we need to adapt or evolve? I have a hard time understanding how to take on the violence that’s been enacted on our world thus far, especially when the future seems so dark. What would the ancients say about that? How would/do you approach teaching landscape today?
MP: I think the loss of Nature and the loss of the past are the same thing – a loss of shared life. Hölderlin talks about gleaning – going over the ground again for what we didn’t realize was there. Adaptive mutation is an open question I guess, but I doubt that we can will it into being for ourselves. I feel more hopeful about endurance in being possessed. If we could stay with the remains I think it might have more lasting consequences as a possibility of transformation. That’s how I would teach an ancient landscape, as trying to stay with it, now that it has come all this way to be with us.
CP: In an essay you wrote about trees, you spend some time describing how Christopher Stone’s proposition, whereby trees’ rights would be incorporated into our human legal system. I love the way you describe the awkwardness of that endeavor—how we might then have arbitrate between sometimes conflicting desires of a grove of trees, a paper corporation, a beetle infestation, and it’s local rabbit, robin, human, or bee populations. I feel like you set that exercise up in contrast to the lyric poet who seems better equipped, somehow, to bridge human and nonhuman experience. I was wondering if you could say more about the way poetry specifically assists the imagination? What kind of attention can we find there that we may not find in legal computations of equivalence?
MP: I feel like the poet’s role, or poetry’s role, anyway is to disequilibriate, that is to say, to throw everything out of balance with disharmonious attachments. I think poetry is really good at that. Disequilibriation might be the beginning of liberation. Stone begins with disproportionate attachment as the beginning of ecological concern but then wants expert panels to make the decisions. I would like it if we could linger some more with the kinds of discomforts that poetry provokes.
CP: At present, I understand you are working on a new book about shared life, or choral life. I got the sense that you were proposing that shared life illustrates how landscape—something we have traditionally relegated to a silent backdrop—is something that steps forward and participates, perhaps the way a Greek chorus does in a play. I’m wondering how you see that chorality, and what narrative it is attuned to? Would rhythm be an important factor here as well?
MP: It’s the uncanniness of it that I’m trying to get at. That there’s not just this tree here and this tree there as we typically encounter animals as singularities but that these trees have a shared life together that is also part of our shared life together with them. It’s like the way the chorus comes forward and retreats. I think that’s what you mean by rhythm, except that rhythm to me suggests a kind of regularity whereas the coming into awareness of shared life is more aleatory. It has the structure of attention drift even though it is bringing something to us.
James Turrell‘s work has been everywhere recently. A retrospective of his at the Guggenheim just came down last month. A major retrospective of his work, James Turrell: A Retrospective is up at LACMA.Â Other exhibitions include:Â James Turrell: The Light Inside at Museum of Fine Arts, Houston; Sooner Than Later, Roden Crater at Kayne Griffin Corcoran Gallery in LA; James Turrell at Almine Rech Gallery in Paris; James Turrell Perspectives at the Art Academy Museum, Easton Maryland; and Roden Crater and Autonomous Structures at Pace Gallery in New York – these are all from 2013. The year prior, the exhibition Phenomenal: California Light, Space, Surface was up at Museum Contemporary Art San Diego. This enormous retrospective spanning 3 major institutions (Guggenheim, LACMA, and Museum of Fine Arts Houston) and 92,000 sq. feetÂ may have arrived at a fitting time.  What can we say about the experiences he creates for us and what does that mean for our world?
Martin Heidegger, the enormously influential 20th century continental philosopher, writes in his essay â€œThe Origin of the Work of Art,â€ that â€œto be a work means to set up a world.â€  At first blush, this statement seems to coincide with the work that Turrell provides for us as viewer. Then, the question becomes: what is a world, the world? For Heidegger, world is not just an accumulation of objects that exist in the world, a totality of beings, nor is it merely the â€œregionâ€ where these beings exist. Rather, Heidegger defines world as where a being whose being is of concern for it, Dasein, lives as Dasein. This world has various possibilities including that of â€œpublicâ€ world and oneâ€™s â€œownâ€ world.  These questions of world are significant to Turrellâ€™s works. How do his installations world a world for us? Further, what is the relationship of his works to truth? Do his works enable us to gain access to truth of this world?
It may seem dry to delve into an examination of Turrellâ€™s installation work in terms of Heidegger, but that this may be a moment where the particular issues surrounding worldliness and truth should be addressed instead of the oft discussed perception, reality, and illusion themes. Turrellâ€™s work, whose material is that of light, space, and perception, can be easily read as illusion, that the works merely play with the frailty or faultiness of human perception. However, this cannot and should not be the main theme we grasp onto. Experiencing his work opens up the perceptual space that allows us to examine our being-in-the-world and our relational condition. What Iâ€™d like to argue briefly is that Turrellâ€™s works, particularly the early Projection Pieces, create situations of veiling and unveiling, which for Heidegger are tantamount to discovering and truth. These pieces, in their perceptual complexities, point to our relational nature, our being as Dasein.
Light Explained Away
In a general survey of the literature on Turrell, there are multiple mentions of perceptual psychology and phenomenology, with perceptual psychology, considered as science, taking precedence. When phenomenology is referenced, only Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Edmund Husserl are addressed. Martin Heidegger, a student of Husserl and a major figure in philosophical phenomenology is generally left out of these discussions.Â Instead of grounding Turrellâ€™s work in the ontological foundation of Being, his work seems to be merely referenced as influenced by phenomenology, particularly of Merleau-Ponty. Turrellâ€™s work, however, canâ€™t just be taken as a product of phenomenology influence; his work participates in theÂ exploration of this philosophy as it relates to our existential being, our being-in-the-world as Dasein, translated literally as being there.
In Heideggerâ€™s Being and Time, he attempts to tackle the problem of being, of ontology. He says that in order to address this question, we first need to establish who is asking the question. This being is Dasein, the being whose being is of concern for her. Closing Division I of the book â€” â€œThe Preparatory Fundamental Analysis of Daseinâ€ â€” is Â§44, â€œDasein, Disclosedness, and Truth.â€ In this section, he lays out the traditional concept of truth, which relies on the statementâ€™s being in agreement with the object in the world that is external to us, and proposes a more primordial theory of truth which is unconcealing, or in Greek, á¼€Î»Î®Î¸ÎµÎ¹Î±. This formulation of truth as an unveiling, uncovering, unconcealing, depends upon Dasein; fundamentally, truth depends on the being whose being is of concern for it. He does warn, though, that this is not an arbitrary subjectivism. 
Before analyzing Turrellâ€™s work, especially Afrum (White), 1967 in relation to Heideggerâ€™s theory of truth, allow me to briefly outline a couple of terms: phenomenon, semblance, appearance.
Heidegger describes phenomenon as â€œwhat shows itself in itself,â€ which is distinct from both semblance (the possibility of beings showing themselves as not themselves) and appearance (â€œsomething which does not show itself announces itself through something that does show itselfâ€).  These are all made possible, however, by light, illumination: â€œâ€˜phenomena,â€™ are thus the totality of what lies in the light of day or can be brought to light.â€ 
In Being and Time, the figure of light takes on the meaning of Daseinâ€™s coming into disclosedness. Heidegger states that
â€œTo say that it is â€œilluminatedâ€ means that it is cleared in itself as being-in-the-world, not by another being, but in such a way that it is itself the clearing [Lichtung]. Only for a being thus cleared existentially do objectively present things become possible in the light or concealed in darkness.â€ 
In his marginal notes, the first â€œclearedâ€ is marked with an asterisk, which adds â€œá¼€Î»Î®Î¸ÎµÎ¹Î± â€” openness â€” clearing, light, shining.â€ Â Important to this discussion of light is the notion of â€œradianceâ€ which figures prominently in Heideggerâ€™s essay that appeared ten years after Being and Time, â€œThe Origin of the Work of Art.â€ Radiance here entails a shining forth or an emanation, something in excess. Â Taken in relation to Turrellâ€™s work, his light becomes excessive; it points to its own immaterial limitations, a gesture that pushes us to consider the betweenness and limitations of being. Andrew Mitchell discusses this betweenness that arises in Heideggerâ€™s examinations of Ernst Barlachâ€™s sculpture: â€œBeing takes place between presence and absence, at the surface where the being extends beyond itself and enters the world. Being takes place at the limit of the thing â€” understanding limit as Heidegger does, not as where something ends but where it begins.â€ 
In the case of Turrellâ€™s Afrum (White), how do these terms of phenomenon, semblance, and appearance function? Where does illusion factor in? What of the truth in the perceptual experience? What about the spatial relations of the between and the limit? Many of these questions that Turrellâ€™s work poses get addressed through phenomenology, but, as mentioned above, it is normally that of Merleau-Ponty and Husserl. There is an easy case for these two phenomenologists, particularly Merleau-Ponty because of his explicit focus on the corporeality of perception and experience, which can easily address the structure of perceiving Turrellâ€™s installations. Merleau-Pontyâ€™s Phenomenology of Perception allows for the human body to actively participate in our experience and knowledge of the world. This sentiment echoes in Turrellâ€™s reply to the question: â€œAre your works primarily visual experiences for the person who visits the space, not translations of your experiences?â€:
â€œYes. Of course, it takes somebody’s vision to have set that up, so the artist does create and limit the universe of possibilities, and within that you’re on your own. In that sense it is like any other art. But it does demand a certain decision to deal with it, which is this art’s price of admission. But every art, I feel, has a price of admission, and often many people don’t pay it.Â They end up looking at the work rather than into it. I think that’s the biggest problem with contemporary art for a large portion of America. America hasn’t learned it has to pay the price of admission, to look into it rather than just at it.â€ 
Something more may need to be accounted for, however. Is it a matter of what we can know about our experience or what we can discover about our being? Heideggerâ€™s ontological project, which may always be on the verge of falling into a metaphysics, should still remain an important aspect of our questions about art and experience. What we may need to consider when experiencing these installations is that they create conditions for Daseinâ€™s disclosedness. The installations donâ€™t just make us aware of the mechanics of perception, they make us aware of our being-in-the-world. The method of phenomenology leads us to ontological distinctions, and these distinctions shouldnâ€™t be ignored.
The Truth in Illusion
Dawna Schuld, along with many other critics, talk about Turrellâ€™s Afrum (White) as illusion; Schuld even juxtaposes the piece to the famous Necker Cube, the line drawing of a cube that switches orientations. In her essay for Phenomenal: California Light, Space, Surface, â€œPractically Nothing: Light, Space, and the Pragmatics of Phenomenology,â€ she describes the perceptual experiences Turrell creates for the viewer in Acton (1976) and Afrum (White):
â€œWhat follows is the delightful awareness that one can return to the illusion simply by repositioning oneâ€™s body vis-Ã -vis the sensing space. This ability to consciously hold perception in flux is also a characteristic of many of Turrellâ€™s projection pieces, notably the Afrum â€œcube,â€ which like a Necker illusion can be cognitively manipulated to invert into its corner or revert into a projected cube that juts out toward us, while with a step to the left or the right it â€œrotates.â€ Not one interpretation achieves primacy.â€ 
Further, she claims that â€œ[t]he intentional object is no longer the image on the wall but rather the ways in which we can manipulate our own perceptual mechanisms, within given circumstances.â€ Â Though operative in the works, these claims keep us with the intentional structure of perception Husserl develops, which differ for Heidegger. In viewing Turrellâ€™s work, it is a being-toward, not necessarily a manipulation. Manipulation brings with it the structure of power and control, which isnâ€™t the same thing as unconcealing through the disclosedness of Dasein.
Nancy Marmerâ€™s 1981 review of Turrellâ€™s exhibition at the Whitney, James Turrell: Light and Space, focuses on the â€œchilling art of deceptionâ€ which is Turrellâ€™s â€œmore rigorous, even didactic, aspect to [his work] that tends to be ignored.â€ Â This attention to illusion or deception isnâ€™t specific to Marmer. From that same year, Wolfgang Zimmerâ€™s review in ARTnews is titled â€œNow You See It, Now You…â€ Â This is important. Questions about being and truth are glossed over when the work is only described as illusion and deception, simple plays of perception. This is too simplistic to fully describe Turrellâ€™s work. Rather, it is the interplay of appearance, semblance, and phenomenon (in Heideggerâ€™s sense: of something showing itself from itself in itself). It is not a simple either/or situation, where you either see the illusion, or the â€œtrueâ€ material conditions of the piece. The totality of this situation of being-with the piece is the truth of the work, its unconcealedness in the disclosure of Dasein, our being as being-in-the-world.
Turrell claims that â€œhe is not trying to fool the viewer.â€ Â Craig Adcock references Turrellâ€™s rejection of â€œillusionâ€ to describe his work quoting Turrell: â€œPeople have talked about illusion in my work, but I donâ€™t feel it is an illusion because what you see alludes to what in fact it really is â€” a space where the light is markedly different.â€  This statement may coincide with one of Heideggerâ€™s from the work of art essay, that the â€œwork lets the earth be earth,â€ earth here meaning foundation of world that is not merely matter. Â Afrum (White) doesnâ€™t merely point to the way our perception may trick us, it instead opens up world as worldliness. In the measurement or, shall I say, rational description of Turrellâ€™s works, the work disappears. Only in remaining concealed as a totality can it allow for the disclosure of Dasein as being-in-the-world: â€œColor shines and wants only to shine. When we analyze it in rational terms by measuring its wavelengths, it is gone. It shows itself only when it remains undisclosed and unexplained.â€ 
In a world where government shuts down and the NSA surveils our telecommunications because everyone is dissembling as a terrorist, what does it mean for us to consider the unveiling of the world? What is the relationship between surveil and unveil? The surveil, the on top of the veil, still maintains the veil of concealedness. Information-gathering does not get us any closer to truth. Maybe itâ€™s time to think of other ways to be in the world. Dancing with the projected light in the corner of the gallery allows me to experience the work of Afrum (White), with work meaning the â€œsetting forth,â€ which entails a setting to work of truth. I move around the piece, seeing it this way, seeing it that way. It clears the space for my being as a being in this space with this light and with these others that are also in this space with me. I am in this gallery, in this museum, in this city, in this country, in this world, choosing to move with this lighted corner that has unveiled itself as a work of art. Is this choice a narcissism or a solipsism? A nihilism? I would argue no; my perceptual experience with this work has to involve all others that participated in its making and those that are viewing it alongside me.
In the atrium of the Guggenheim, Turrellâ€™s Aten Reign, encourages us to sit together and decide upon the truth of what we are experiencing. This work has drawn some highly critical reception, comparing it poorly to the collective experience of Olafur Eliassonâ€™s The weather project for example. What both of these projects offer us is the sun, the ability to sit and stare at the sun, the light that burns us. â€œAtenâ€ of Aten Reign, is Aten, or Aton, the highly controversial Egyptian god of the sun and refers to the disk/orb of the sun itself. This reference to the sun brings us to another important aspect of Turrellâ€™s work: his references to the Allegory of the Cave in Platoâ€™s Republic. In this allegory, prisoners are trapped in a cave and can only see objects of the world as shadows on the cave wall â€” puppets backlit by fire controlled by puppeteers. If a prisoner is set free, her first experience of the true sun beyond the darkness of the cave is so overpowering and blinding that â€œhe [sic] will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress [him], and he [sic] will be unable to see the realities of which in his [sic] former state he [sic] had seen the shadow.â€  This pain makes the prisoner turn away and seek refuge back in the cave where the shadows are more familiar.
What Aten Reign may give us is the space to look into the light without pain. It is a foggy light and may dissemble with its changing colors, but it shows itself in such a way that maybe we can spend the necessary time with it in order to let in unveil itself. Turrell may, in a sense, occupy the position of the puppeteer, but he also opens the opportunity for us to look at the blinding light. One could argue that his skyspaces do this better, and that may be true, but they are also indirect gazes at the sun.
I secretly took a photograph of the installation (I know I wasnâ€™t supposed to). Only later did I realize that a thin veneer of dust and grime had covered the camera lens on my phone. The image that I have of this experience of mine is blurry, foggy, a hazy memory that prompts me to consider what it was that I really experienced.
 Wil S. Hilton, â€œHow James Turrell Knocked the Art World Off Its Feet,â€ New York Times, (June 13, 2013), 1: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/16/magazine/how-james-turrell-knocked-the-art-world-off-its-feet.html
Â Martin Heidegger, â€œThe Origin of the Work of Art,â€ in Basic Writings, ed. David Farrell Krell (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1993), 170.
Â Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. Joan Stambaugh with revisions by Dennis J. Schmidt (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2010), 65.
Â Ibid., 227.
Â Ibid., 28-29.
Â Ibid., 28.
Â Ibid., 133.
Â Andrew Mitchell, Heidegger Among the Sculptors: Body, Space, and the Art of Dwelling (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010),10.
Â Ibid., 23.
Â Richard Andrews, James Turrell: Sensing Space (Seattle: Henry Gallery Association, 1992), 37.
Â Dawna Schuld, â€œPractically Nothing: Light, Space, and the Pragmatics of Phenomenology,â€ in Robin Clark (ed.), Phenomenal: California Light, Space, Surface (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2011), 116-118.
Â Ibid., 118.
Â Nancy Marmer, â€œJames Turrell: The Art of Deception,â€ Art in America, vol. 69 (May 1981), 97.
Â Wolfgang Zimmer, â€œNow you see it, Now you…,â€ ARTnews, vol. 80 (Feb 1981): 225.
Â Craig Adcock, James Turrell: The Art of Light and Space (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990), 12.
Â Turrell interview with Julia Brown in Occluded Front, James Turrell, quoted in Adcock, 13.
Â Heidegger, â€œWork of Art,â€ 172.
Â Ibid., 172.
Â Plato, Republic, BookÂ VII, lines 515