On the Future of Art by Pablo Helguera

47:01 | Published on August 15, 2014 | 60 Views

In this video, artist Pablo Helguera reprises the 1969 lecture series On the Future of Art organized by former Guggenheim curator Edward Fry, pondering the effects of place, time, and personal experience on ideas about art. As part of the exhibition Under the Same Sun: Art from Latin America Today, Helguera interweaves the original dialogues with other stories, including the life of Guggenheim archivist Ward Jackson and his investigation into the Guggenheim brothers’ Chuquicamata mine in Chile.

For more information about this program, please visit On the Future of Art.

Download the Transcript (PDF)

1969 RECORDING: “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the sixth in our series of lectures on the general subject of the future of art.”

TOYNBEE: Should the artist work primarily for the community or primarily for himself? There is at least one other alternative: he may work for a coterie, within his community, that shares the artist’s feelings, thoughts, and general outlook on life with the artist.

KAHN: What nature makes, it makes without man, and what man makes, nature cannot make without him.

BURNHAM: In the next decade, two-way public television, household computer systems linked to data banks, and voting by telephone will become technically feasible. Is there any reason, however, to believe that these systems will be used with any more wisdom than public television is now?

TOYNBEE: The would-be missionary is behaving socially. He is not seeking to keep his new knowledge or insight or power as a private reserve for himself or an inner circle of cronies; he is seeking to make it common property.
BURNHAM: Wealth and ownership might cease to be the prerequisites of power as access to and control of information take their place.

MICHELSON: It is, then, the business of structuralist analysis to reveal the extraordinary propensity of the human mind to organize, through symbolic sign systems, its experience of the world.

SKINNER: There are many reasons why we may want to give art a more important place in our culture. But our reasons, whatever they may be, are by no means as important as our prospects.

TOYNBEE: Communication, direct or indirect, is the necessary requirement for leading a social life. But there can be no communication without means of communication, and social animals need the greatest possible number, variety, and range of means of communication with each other.

SEAWRIGHT: The necessity of organizing in a cyclical way certainly takes away some element of development, some element of drama, perhaps, in beginning with something and building into something else, so it’s very hard to say where form stops and idea begins.



BURNHAM: Art continues to intrigue us because it deals with ambiguous and often obscure levels of information.

MARCUSE: But the meaning of this reality to those who experience it can no longer be communicated in the established language and images—in the available forms of expression, no matter how new, how radical they may be.



SEAWRIGHT: Art is, after all, only a record of people in a time.



BURNHAM: The continued evolution of both communications and control technology bode a new type of aesthetic relationship, very different form the one-way communication of traditional art appreciation as we know it.



MICHELSON: Art, in questioning mimesis, redefines and loosens its relation to the signified, aspiring, however, as if by compensation, to the most radical and most enveloping signification of all, to that of an absolute presence.



BURNHAM: Gradually we may realize that the conditions of art are contingent upon our understanding of human communication.

MICHELSON: We must, if we wish to discover the basic, common properties of things, begin by observing the differences between them.

KAHN: Nature does not make a house. It cannot make a room. How marvelous that when I am in a room with another the mountains, trees, wind and rain leave us for the mind, and the room becomes a world in and of itself. Dissension stems from desire – desire for what is not yet made, not yet expressed. Need comes from the known. Supplying only what is lacking brings no lasting joy.



HELGUERA: To those of you here tonight: welcome. To those of you listening on the 18th of June of 2059: Tonight is the 18th of June, 2014, exactly 45 years ago from your time. And my message to you all pertains to invisibility. I will first take you all to a past that is past for the both of us a hundred years ago for us.

KAHN: What nature makes, it makes without man, and what man makes, nature cannot make without him.

HELGUERA: May 18, 1915. A train departs from the station in Antofagasta, in Chile, going into the mountain range in the northeast. The windows to the left of the train reveal the vast expanse of the green blue sea. The train goes through the Salar del Carmen fault, starting then a slow ascent through the Cordillera Oriente at 3,696 meters above sea level on the border of Bolivia; after that, the trains continue through the Mantos Blancos area and it, finally, enters into the Atacama Desert. It crosses mountains full of gold, silver, copper, mineralized bodies under thousands of miles of rock. There is sand, lots of very thin sand, and the heat is unbearable, asphyxiating. This is the most inhospitable part of the world, not a single tree, not a single bird can be seen. Every object—a rock, the skeleton of an animal, sometimes even a human—can be seen perfectly polished by the wind, becoming the basis for a new mound of sand.  

On the final turn, the train starts revealing the view of the vast and majestic red mountain of Chuquicamata, also known as Chuqui measuring 4.5 kilometers wide and with mineral compound 4.5 kilometers in depth. It is the largest open copper pit mine in the world.

At five o’clock the heat finally starts to dissipate, and the passengers are finally relieved from drinking rice water all day. They arrive to the town of Calama, which sits at the foothills of the Chuquicamata mountain.

It’s a very simple station with one stationmaster who also plays the role of mailman. A number of very strong, rough men emerge from the station, some of them wearing scarves as the cold of the desert would quickly start to set in. They start unloading barrels of water, which is more valuable than gold there, and start loading large bags of red metal.  

An elegant car is awaiting a group of American men. As they enter into the car, they go through the town of La Placilla, a small village that sits in the mineral capital of the world, with two intercrossing streets, wooden houses, sink, roofs, two bars which here in the south they call restaurants, a “luxury” goods store, if you can call luxury anything like that in this miserable town. This is the village where the Chilean workers live. There’s no one in sight, only the wind and sand. There’s no women in this town they say, only those who live at the end of the road in a brothel. Everybody’s fate is dark in here; if someone passes away, usually it is believed because of arsenic in their blood.

TOYNBEE: If man is right in holding that he is the highest form of social animal that has made its appearance on this planet so far, his pretension is justified by the superiority of his means of communication. Though most people may not be aware of this, and many are reluctant to recognize it, it is probable that, when human beings talk to each other either individually or collectively, a good deal more passes between them than is conveyed by the words that are spoken and heard.

KAHN: In man is the record of man. Man through his consciousness feels this record, which sparks his desire to learn what nature has given him and what choices he has made to protect himself and his desires in the odyssey of his emergence. How much more would we comprehend if we were to uncover the secrets of the rose, the microbe, the leaf?  For then a wider sense of commonness would enter expressions in art, giving the artist greater insight in presenting his offerings answering to the prevalence of order, the prevalence of commonness.



SKINNER: When hungry, we are dominated by behavior that has been reinforced by food. When under threat, we are absorbed in avoidance or escape. But when free of powerful reinforcers, we are simply more vulnerable to weak ones.



MARCUSE: Very real are the young who have no more patience, who have, with their own bodies and minds, experienced the horrors and the oppressive comforts of the given reality; real are the ghettos and their spokespeople; real are the forces of liberation all over the globe, east and west, first, second and third world. But the meaning of this reality to those who experience it can no longer be communicated in the established language and images, in the available forms of expression, no matter how new, how radical they may be.

HELGUERA: The car eventually arrives at the American Encampment, an oasis of lights. Standing there, one could imagine that he is not in the driest part of the world.  Standing in the Plaza del Campamento Nuevo one can see the Chilex Club, an elegant church, a number of businesses, a theater. You can hear music, conversations, the clinging of dishes.

The Guggenheim brothers, Daniel and Solomon R. Guggenheim, made their fortune in mining, following the work of the patriarch of the family, their father, Meyer Guggenheim. In 1891, the Guggenheims bought the Compañía de la Gran Fundición Nacional Mexicana, in Monterrey, one of the first metallurgic companies in Mexico, thanks to the tax breaks of the government of Porfirio Diaz, they were able to raise their revenues very highly. By 1902 the company was worth 3 million dollars, or 83 billion dollars in today’s money. However, with the event of the Mexican Revolution, the Guggenheim family started to invest elsewhere in Latin America.

That was when Albert C. Burrage, an American industrialist, offered the sale of the Chuquicamata mine in Chile to the Guggenheims for 25 million dollars in stock of their new company they created, the Chile Exploration Company, or Chilex.

KAHN: A shape is an expression of form. Form follows desire as a realization of a dream or belief.

HELGUERA; The car arrives at the Casa de Huéspedes and the American investors descend. The Guggenheims had adapted the mine with steam shovels to construct the Panama Canal, capable of removing 35,000 tons of mineral a day. In addition, they developed a technology known as “the Guggenheim Process,” which was a technique that consisted in isolating the mineral in centrifugal force in concrete tanks.

SEAWRIGHT: More significant than the use of mechanisms to control phenomena is the fact that one can take advantage of the mechanisms ability to control itself; in other words, one can use automatic or self-regulating mechanisms, which have properties both like and both very unlike what human beings consider to be organization and order.

HELGUERA: The process brought billions of dollars in revenue, triggering the mining fever that constructed modern Chile, also bringing half of the revenue of the entire country, but with a poor taxation system, that resulted in social inequalities that still persist to this day.  

MARCUSE: Very real are the young who have no more patience, who have, with their own bodies and minds, experienced the horrors and the oppressive comforts of the given reality; real are the ghettos and their spokespeople; real are the forces of liberation all over the globe, east and west, first, second and third world. But the meaning of this reality to those who experience it can no longer be communicated in the established language and images, in the available forms of expression, no matter how new, no matter how radical they may be.

HELGUERA: It is sunset now at the mine. Looking ahead one can see the image of Chuquicamata majestically like a sleeping serpent, in tints of black and red. One can also see on the horizon the chimney from the foundation protruding out, with bloodlike smoke.

The investors are sitting in the Casa de Huéspedes, waiting, night is ascending. You can hear only the sound of the wind and the grandfather clock ticking. Finally, a car arrives from the mine. A number of miners in dirty garments descend, carrying a large object wrapped in black cloth. They enter the room, place it on the table, and they unwrap a perfect bar of red metal—the first pure bar of copper produced by the mine.

By this moment, the wind is hitting violently on the windows and doors of the houses. But the men are celebratory, looking ahead to a bright future.

SEAWRIGHT: I feel that the ideas themselves and the way that they are presented have grown out of knowing or at least thinking about, the processes or the techniques that interested me at the time.

MICHELSON: Criticism and aesthetics, art itself, can no longer proceed without the recognition of continuity between the real as experienced and the real as knowable, of meaning as radically immanent in non-symbolic signs.

SKINNER: There are many reasons why we might want to give art a more important place in our culture. But our reasons, whatever they may be, are by no means more important than our prospects.



SEAWRIGHT: The more I work, the more I believe that the best ideas grow out of an understanding of the processes being used, rather than out of a preconceived notion of the effects to be achieved.

MICHELSON: Our perception of the work of art informs us of the nature of consciousness itself.

SKINNER: The serious, dedicated artist must do what he does as earnestly and as compellingly as other men struggle for food, shelter, safety. The difference is in the conspicuousness of the causes.

MARCUSE: What constitutes the unique and enduring identity of an oeuvre, and what turns a work into a work of art—this entity is the form.

HELGUERA: An 18-year old in Virginia dreams about painting. The year is 1946, and he’s been reading in a newspaper about this museum of non-objective art in New York City, and how the director of this museum has commissioned an exciting new building to the famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright.

He then decides to the director, listed as Hilla Rebay, asking about her the museum and telling her about his art. Perhaps amused by the naïve forwardness of this kid, Rebay answers him, starting a conversation in which he sends her drawings and other comments, and she always replies with her advice.  

There’s very little left of that conversation in the museum’s archives, however we can find some materials related to it. At that time, Rebay had been writing about the space of in between, the rhythm of in between in forms, the meeting place of line and form, in contrast to a more calm or harmonious unit. The student had sent her a poem that he had found in a newspaper that read “The Days of in Between,” that ended with the lines: “tomorrow the days of gay renewing; today the silence of in-between.”

MARCUSE: What is at stake is the vision, the experience of a reality that is so fundamentally different, so antagonistic to the prevailing reality that any correspondence in the established means seems to reduce this difference, to vitiate this experience.

HELGUERA: In 1955, the student, whose name was Ward Jackson, came to work at the museum and to become an artist in New York City, first joining the mailroom, then the museum’s registrar department, and then finally the archives, where he became the longest serving staff member in the history of the museum as well as institutional memory.

I met Ward 43 years later, in 1998, when I came to work here at this museum when I was hired in the education department. We were working in this very strange building, the Liederkranz, it was a German Lieder society on 87th street, but the museum was leasing its offices for education and archives. It was this old-fashioned, anachronistic, uncomfortable lobby with upholstered chairs and these strange portraits of generations of society members.

Ward would come in every morning, quietly slipping behind a wallpapered wall where his office was. Nobody ever bothered him, he was some kind of a modern-day Bartleby. I never knew what he was doing. One day I was working late and I peeked into his office, and I was surprised at what I saw: enormous amounts of piles of paper, garbage, a typewriter, a rotary phone, dirty dishes, dirty pants, old shoes. The living quarters of another era.

One day I found Ward defeated in front of a Xerox machine, struggling, trying to make a copy. I helped him, realizing he was trying to make a copy of a typewritten memo to the American Association of Abstract Artists, of which he was a member, as a good abstract artist.

And then our conversation, our communication became much more open. It evolved mainly in the elevator, as we entered or left the office.  He was very shy, but slowly started telling me about the famous American artists he had met, his relationships and friendships with them, the classes he took with Hans Hoffmann, spaghetti dinners he had with de Kooning, and particularly his friendship with Dan Flavin, which was very special. Flavin had also worked at this museum, and they had become colleagues and friends. In fact, when Flavin received an exhibition here at the Guggenheim, in his main installation, he dedicated to Ward in the title as well, which went: “To Ward Jackson, a good friend and colleague who, in the fall of 1957 when I came from Washington to New York to work with him in this museum, he kindly communicated.” Flavin was a big advocate of Ward’s work, he wanted him to be more out there. But was a deeply self-effacing man. He did not seem to like the limelight very much. In fact, as an archivist, he did not even bother to include after fifty a file for himself in the archives. He remained in obscurity while these other artists—Lewitt, Flavin, and Judd—friends of his, became well-known, he remained in that place, behind that wallpapered wall.

BURNHAM: All art, whether abstract or representational, is in fact anthropomorphic if one considers art not in terms of appearances but in terms of its function and relation to human activity.

HELGUERA: The last time I saw Ward, shortly before he died, he had already retired, it was also again in the elevator in the museum, here. He asked me how I was doing. He kept wandering around the building; he could not seem to detach anymore from this place. In any case, I remember, as I stepped out of the elevator having said something perhaps cynical about work, pressures of the office. But Ward did not seem to appreciate my comment. He looked at me and said: “This is a temple of the spirit. It is a privilege to work here; you should always remember that.”  

As I was perplexed, registering what he had said to me, the doors of the elevator closed in front of Ward, and that’s the last image I retain of him.

SEAWRIGHT: The more I work, the more I believe that the best ideas grow out of an understanding of the processes being used, rather than out of a preconceived notion of the effects to be achieved.

MARCUSE: Harmonization of the beautiful and the true—what was supposed to make up the essential unity of a work of art—has turned out to be an increasingly impossible unification of opposites, for the true has appeared as increasingly incompatible with the beautiful.


SEAWRIGHT: Art is, after all, only a record of people in a time, and this is the time of technology.

1969 FRIED RECORDING: The truth, or at least, the truth as I see it, is that the present is at least as hard to make out as the past, and can be even harder, because we have no further perspective to view it from. We don’t have a kind of present that’s in any way secure to view the past from. Moreover, we have no body of events or works whose importance has emerged as unquestionable against which we can see it.    

[ . . . ] One might even say that throughout the history of modern art, and with the new explicitness in recent years, there’s been a struggle for the present. And that means a number of things. Perhaps most obviously, it means a struggle for certain rewards, commissions, big shows in museums, so on and so forth. But it’s also a struggle waged both by artists and critics for the right to speak for the present, to express its needs, its imperatives, its values, its priorities, and its aspirations. Finally, nothing less than this right, this prerogative, to speak for the present, is at stake in critical disagreements and controversies.

[ . . . ] Now, having said this, however obscurely and at whatever length, I now want to try to put as simply as I can what seems to me the most important, the central artistic issue of the present moment. Now, obviously, I’ll be putting it somewhat schematically, and I know perfectly well that my views will strike many as dogmatic; they’ve already…

W:    [woman in the audience]

MF:    Excuse me? Sorry?

M:    [man in the audience] Right.

W:    __

MF:    Right.

MF:    Now, do I take that as agreement that they’re dogmatic?

M:    [man in the audience] __

MF:    Okay. I want you all to appreciate the deep diffidence and sense of relativity with which that point of view was just put forward. [laughter]

[ . . . ] Now, almost two years ago, I wrote an essay called, “Art and Objecthood,” which was published in Artforum. And, what I want to do is partly just to restate some of the conclusions that I came to in that essay because, obviously, I can’t expect more than a very few people to have read it. Anyway, I argued that the modernist arts, and in particular painting and sculpture, are today at war with a pervasive and deep founded condition which I called “theater.” I closed that essay by putting forward three related propositions:
    1. The success, even the survival of the major arts has come increasingly to depend on their ability to defeat theater;
    2. Art degenerates as it approaches the condition of theater; and
    3. The concepts of quality or value, and to the extent that these are central to art, the concept of art itself, are fully meaningful only within the individual arts, for what lies between the arts (and you can take that to refer to things like mixed media) is theater.

HELGUERA: Mrs. Wilson, a character in Robert Altman’s film Gosford Park, says the following words, she’s the head housekeeper in an English mansion, and she says these words in this climatic moment of the film:

What gift do you think a good servant has that separates them from the others? It’s the gift of anticipation. And I’m a good servant. I’m better than good. I’m the best. I’m the perfect servant. I know when they’ll be hungry and the food is ready. I know when they’ll be tired and the bed is turned down. I know it before they know it themselves.

When we say that an artist is ahead of his or her time, we’re making a series of assumptions about art and the future. Mainly that the artist can capture the zeitgeist of the time and be able to anticipate what will be felt or thought at a given time.

Artists, in fact, are operating intuitively, with the circumstantial present and the immediate past, trying to, in fact, learn the gift of anticipation, becoming a good servant of futurity, and then try to help writing that next chapter in the conversation of art.

SKINNER: There are many reasons why we might want to give art a more important place in our culture. But our reasons, whatever they may be, are far less important than our prospects.

MARCUSE: From the position of today’s rebellion and refusal, art itself appears as part and force of the tradition that perpetuates what is and prevents the realization of what can and ought to be.

HELGUERA: In 1969, curator Edward Fry here at the Guggenheim organized a series of lectures entitled “On the Future of Art.” The series was advertised in language such as: “A look at the changing ways of the interpretation and the understanding of art and communication from the standpoint of the artist, the art critic, the art historian, the psychologist, the architect, the historian, and the sociologist.”

For that series he invited some of the brightest minds of the moment from different disciplines, including the philosopher Herbert Marcuse, the behavioral scientist and psychologist Frederick Burrhus Skinner, the theorist and writer Annette Michelson, the sculptor Jack Burnham, the architect Louis Kahn, and the young writer James Seawright.  The series was later translated or first published as a book entitled On the Future of Art, which was translated in various languages. 

It was translated in Spanish, by a publisher known as Extemporáneos, or in English “extemporaneous,” or “out of time.” The edition was a limited print run, which soon was out of print.

In 1985, there was a violent earthquake in Mexico City. This propelled a young teenager to help out in the relief efforts downtown and thus to start discovering his city. He is an aspiring writer and artist, and he wants to learn about art, and he enters into one of these bookstores and finds a little book with the title Sobre el futuro del arte.

MICHELSON: Years ago, when I was a student, I happened to see an entry in a booksellers catalogue for an edition of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason described as  “illustrated” and “beautiful.” That entry caught my fancy, produced a sort of mental cramp, and intrigued me so that I eventually made the trip down to Fourth Avenue to have a look at the book. But not, of course, before I’d spent some time trying to relax that cramp, speculating upon the order and imagining the style of those illustrations.

HELGUERA: The teenager is looking at the book and he is fascinated by the images he sees, images of contemporary art, land art that he has not seen ever before, names of artists he has never really ever read, Donald Judd and Hans Haacke. He is particularly interested in the work of and artist named Dennis Oppenheim, a piece from 1968 titled Pennsylvania Wheat Field. He sees a picture in poor reproduction and he doesn’t understand the context. What is the artwork? Is it a photograph, is it a landscape? What is to be read in that landscape?

MICHELSON: The formal strategy of the distancing or alienation effect suggests itself as a powerful instance.

SKINNER: Art continues to intrigue us because it deals with ambiguous and often obscure levels of information. 

HELGUERA: It is unclear, but in history it’s never clear what becomes the definitive cause of whether that geological shift of that earthquake in 1985 had any effect on the events that followed, events for the most part completely relevant to anyone but to that teenager and his life, and yet somehow representative of what we deem the future of art to be and what it actually becomes, when we think of an event and how it becomes translated, or mistranslated.

MICHELSON: Art, in questioning mimesis, redefines and loosens its relation to the signified, aspiring, however, as if by compensation, to the most radical and most enveloping signification of all, to that of an absolute presence.

HELGUERA: The teenager holds on to the book and many years go by. He travels far and due to the usual serendipities of events in life, he moves to Chicago, becomes an artist, becomes a museum educator, and eventually lands a job at the Guggenheim Museum in New York organizing its public programs, and he meets an archivist named Ward Jackson. One night when he is doing research in the museum’s library, he encounters a book entitled On the Future of Art. He recognizes it, but has forgotten what it was. As he recollects, and looks, and rereads the introduction to the book, a chill goes through his body as he then realizes that the book is a series of lectures organized by somebody whose job was to organize lectures, the job that he now has. Therefore, enclosing a circle, indirectly fulfilling a future implicated him in the future of the book, like a box with the sound of its own making.

MICHELSON: It should have occurred to me but it did not, I should have anticipated it but I did not, and it occurs to me that I probably did not want to, because the imagining formed a sort of game, a primitive exercise in sign theory or semiology.

BURNHAM: Up to now, the fine-art object has been a self-contained and finite source of information: once the art object has been created, it can only impart its own presence. Its messages are received gradually, only after personal revelation, and they are the delights of connoisseurship.

HELGUERA: Interestingly, one of the speakers from the series, a young writer and critic named Michael Fried, was not included in the book. And interestingly as well, Fried’s lecture is the only one that happens to survive as a recording in the museum’s archives. Therefore, Michael Fried becomes, 45 years later, the invisible lecturer that materializes to us the future of art that these speakers were speaking about.

So we are the future of that past, we are the fulfilled or unfulfilled expectations that that past had of us; the negation or the affirmation of things that those speakers were imagining when thinking about the future. But, at the same time, we are also, of course, the past of a yet undefined future, a future under which most of us might be invisible, most of the things what we might say or think will not be heard or resonate.

And this is why I have been speaking to you, to the audience of 45 years from now, in the same way that we have been listening to the voices of 45 years ago. I am speaking to whomever might be listening on the 18th of June of 2059, not knowing if I shall still be alive then, or in the conditions to speak, or with the desire to speak, or whether these records shall survive, or if whoever finds it might actually want to listen to it.

What brings us together is our mutual intangibility. The way in which we are invisible to you and that you are invisible to us. For the future of art might include some objects, phrases, artworks, images, but for the most part, it’s forgetfulness. It’s forgetfulness that includes most of us in this room, most of the things that we said, even though we actively contribute to construct the future of art with that gift of anticipation, and yet, we disappear as that perfect servant. We are like that unseen lecturer, we are like that archivist who spends his life compiling the lives of others but neglecting to compile his own, like that worker in an institution who is later forgotten, like the artist who was not included in the exhibition, like the anonymous miner who extracts that perfect bar of red metal.

SKINNER: The history of art is to a large extent the history of what artists and viewers have found reinforcing. A universality is a universality of reinforcing effects.

HELGUERA: The future of art is nothing other than a succession of invisibilities, a vast desert of intangible images and large landscapes that have not seen or thought about by anyone, who lost their chance to be pointed at and be brought into memory.

KAHN: Let us go back to the building of the pyramids. Hear the din of industry in a cloud of dust marking their place. Now we see the pyramids in full presence. There prevails the feeling of silence, in which is felt man’s desire to express. This existed before the first stone was laid.

MICHELSON: The domain of rule is culture; that of universal law is nature.

SEAWRIGHT: The possibility of control over the physical world, of extending our personal attitudes into active behavior of works . . .

TOYNBEE: Though most people may not be aware of this, and many are reluctant to recognize it, it is probable that, when human beings talk to each other either individually or collectively, a good deal more passes between them than is conveyed by the words that are spoken and heard.

KAHN: But in the phenomena of individual realizations of spirit there are only new images of that same spirit. So that in nature the diversity of forms evolves from universal order.

SEAWRIGHT: Art is, after all, only a record of people in a time—

MARCUSE: —in the available forms of expression, no matter how new, how radical they may be.

BURNHAM: Because it deals with ambiguous and often obscure levels of information—

SEAWRIGHT: —some element of drama, perhaps, in beginning with something and building into something else.

TOYNBEE: Though most people may not be aware of this, and many are reluctant to recognize it—

KAHN: —there prevails the feeling of silence.