Of Nakedness and Children's Books Perry Nodelman In Ways of Seeing, John Berger modestly quotes a conventionally-minded art professor's huffy comment about how "John Berger manages to interpose himself . . . between us and the visible meaning of a good picture" (107). Berger proves to my satifaction that the professor is wrong about the painting in question; but the professor is right about Berger. After reading Berger's discussions of pictures, I can't see them the way I did before. And while I don't particularly like seeing the aspects of pictures that Berger points out to me, I believe that they are there to see, and that being able to see them is important. Pictures are things to look at, whenever we feel like looking at them. Looking at them should give us pleasure, and if it doesn't, we have every right to dismiss them. These are truisms; but after reading Berger's Way of Seeing, I find myself unable to take them for granted. Instead, I am tempted to consider the implications of my own language. What if, in these sentences that so accurately describe pictures, I assumed that pictures were people? I would have to conclude that the kind of people they are is the kind called prostitutes. If I did, I would be noticing something interesting about the act of looking at a picture. It is always an act of supremacy-of having power over something. The viewer is always making use of the picture on his own terms and for his own pleasure; the picture is always being used, and it is only satisfactory to a viewer if it gives him what he wants or likes. Those are facts, but not necessarily significant ones; they are equally true of most of the physical objects in our lives. But Berger makes use of these simple facts to develop a persuasive theory of seeing. For people interested in children's picture books, it's particularly significant that Berger's theory begins with the idea that all art is illustration. There is always a vast gulf between what we see and what we can say about what we see: "each evening we see the sun set. We know that the earth is turning away from it. Yet the knowledge, the explanation, never quite fits the sight" (7). Consequently, pictures, which are records of what people see or have seen, always make sense only in terms of the words used to explain them. In this way, all pictures demand and depend on words-the words of their names or their captions, the words the artist used as he tried to formulate his theory of art, the words evoked by conventional images like death's heads and naked little boys with wings. Berger's fear is that we often attach the wrong words to pictures, particularly pictures from other periods: If we "saw" the art of the past, we would situate ourselves in history. When we are prevented from seeing it, we are being deprived of the history which belongs to us. Who benefits from this deprivation? In the end, the art of the past is being mystified because a privileged minority is striving to invent a history which can retrospectively justify the role of the ruling classes, and such a justification can no longer make sense in modern terms (11). As this quotation makes clear, Berger's position is radically political; he wants to make us see implications of pictures that we would otherwise take for granted, lest they co-opt our values and attitudes without our even being conscious that they are doing so. To be conscious of those meanings is to be radicalized in the truest sense of the word-to recognize how ideas and values that we might prefer to despise become rooted in our unconscious. The best example of the insidious means by which pictures communicate attitudes we might not want to share is Berger's discussion of the sort of [End Page 25] traditional European painting that we think of as being realistic. This sort of realism assumes that reality is what one can see from one fixed point in space...
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