Tintoretto's Time
Transcript of Tintoretto's Time
© Association of Art Historians 2014 2
Tintoretto’s TimeKamini Vellodi
The practice of the sixteenth-century Venetian painter Jacopo Tintoretto raises a
challenge for art history’s conception of time. Resistant to temporal categorization,
Tintoretto’s work suggests a certain inadequacy in the conventional idea of time
as chronological and linear – or more specifi cally, of time as the form in which
artistic practices can be placed in the chronological and linear order of their actual
occurrence. This resistance is effected through the artist’s rejection of historically
established values that predate his practice (such as disegno and historia), and an embrace
of experimental procedures which, without precedent, and imperceptible in his own
time, break with the continuity of established values to signal future possibilities for
painting not grounded in painting’s past actualities.1
I call this chronological and linear form of time that Tintoretto challenges
historical, insofar as I understand it to be the temporal mode used to position artistic
practices, in relations of succession or simultaneity, within history – where history
may be understood as the cumulative fi eld of everything that has, and may be
represented as having, actually happened. I propose that Tintoretto’s time, the time of his
difference from established values of painting, is to be distinguished from historical time understood as the homogeneously chronological and linear form in which the
succession of artistic practices can be positioned in intelligible sequences.
This distinction is theoretically developed through an appeal to two contrasting
positions, both based on Kant’s theory of time. The fi rst, held by Erwin Panofsky,
supports the idea of historical time as a homogeneous and unchanging form
(of chronology) through which artistic practices can be assigned meaning and
represented. This position, which persists in art history, and perhaps most evidently
in the method of contextualism – the rendering intelligible of artistic practices
through their situation in the time in which they were actually made – remains
dominant in the Tintoretto scholarship. The second, expressed by Gilles Deleuze,
presents a conception of art’s time as the time of difference that exceeds (historical)
intelligibility.2
Through the concepts of the event, the untimely, and the eternal return,
Deleuzian philosophy supplies a means of attending to the experience of Tintoretto’s
practice as a shock that produces a new sense of time, as transhistorical. What is
‘shocked’ here is thought – the stupor of thought that does not really think, thought
as the form of representation grounded in presuppositions of its image (as ‘natural’,
‘common-sensical’, endowed with a ‘good nature’ and premised on the unity of a
thinking subject) that pre-exist its act. Art history might be said to practice such a
Detail from Jacopo Tintoretto, The Miracle of The Slave, 1548 (plate 2).
DOI: 10.1111/1467-8365.12131Art History | ISSN 0141-6790XX | X | Month XXXX | pages XX-XX
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form of thought not only in its attention to the work of art through reference to what
is already and commonly known of it, but in its perpetuation of given art-historical
methods (where method is a presupposed way of thinking). Against such an image of
thought, Deleuze argues for the possibility of a thought without image, as an event of
creation with no presuppositions, an affi rmation of difference ‘in-itself’ free from the
representational structures – opinions, habits, universals, dogma – that bind it to the
same. Occasioned by the experience of something exceptional that forces its genesis,
thought no longer precedes its act as an image, but is born in the act of thinking.3
Tintoretto’s difference and its ongoing power to intitiate such an imageless
thought is explored with respect to his return in the practice of the seventeenth-
century Flemish painter Adam Elsheimer. Here, it is not the forms of Tintoretto’s
works that serve as a self-same model to be re-presented, but rather an originary
method of experimentation that exceeds the actual forms to which it gives rise,
recurring differently to give birth to new forms. In such a return Tintoretto’s work
acts as a reservoir for a future innovation, a thought of the past that makes the source
return anew.
In this way, this paper at once supplies a new reading of Tintoretto’s practice, and
a putting to work of the Deleuzian philosophy (that traverses this philosophy’s explicit
claims) for a critical attention to problems at the very core of art history’s practice.4
Not of His Time: Vasari’s TintorettoEven in his own time it was felt that Tintoretto was not of his time. Giorgio Vasari’s
verdict on the ‘eccentric painter’ with a manner ‘all of his own and contrary to the
use of other painters’ reveals an intimation of deviancy, one that has accompanied
the artist’s reception ever since. Whilst Vasari is compelled to include such a ‘painter
worthy to be praised’ within his history of the masters, he laments that the artist does
not follow ‘the beautiful manners of his predecessors’. Had he done so, ‘he would
have been one of the greatest painters that Venice has ever had’. Instead, he remains
an eccentric outsider, one whose strength is admired whilst remaining elusive.5
In his resistance to identifi cation with established norms of painting, Tintoretto’s
art challenges the idea of time upheld by the author of the fi rst history of art – that
is, the idea of a time shared with predecessors and contemporaries, a time in which
the continuity of the traditions to which the artist is heir and for which he ought to
be a transmitter unfolds. Vasari heralds a model of historical time that has arguably
dominated the discipline ever since – a chronological and linear time within which
the nexus of infl uences, lineages, and traditions conducts itself, a time within
which the works of the great masters are positioned and related but which, for him
Tintoretto evades.
Thus, of the artist’s ‘awesome and terrible’ Last Judgment (plate 1) Vasari’s attention
is brought to the boat of Charon, which is painted ‘in a manner so different from
that of others, that it is a thing beautiful and strange’. For Vasari, if only ‘this fantastic
invention has been executed with correct and well-ordered drawing’ – the technique
of disegno long upheld as the foundation of artistic practice – and if only ‘diligent
attention to the parts and to each particular detail’ in the manner of his predecessors,
‘it would have been a most stupendous picture’.6 As it is, it remains, whilst
‘astonishing’, as though painted ‘in jest’.
Vasari’s diagnosis does not strike us as unjustifi ed. For Tintoretto does not
conceal his jest with painting’s traditions, here rendering one of the most hallowed
historiae in its history, one whose desired (moralizing) effect depends primarily
upon the clearly expressed distinction between damnation and salvation, almost
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1 Jacopo Tintoretto, The Last Judgement, 1560–62. Oil on canvas 1450 × 590 cm. Venice: Madonna dell’Orto. Photo: © Scala.
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unintelligible.7 A chaotic outpouring of fi gures writhe, whirl and cascade in a space
lacking boundary and orientation. The customary demarcation between the heavenly
sphere and the underworld is obscured by a turbulence in which all, even the fi gures
of ascension, are subjected to the forces of judgment. Unyielding, surging motion,
accentuated by a violent play of tonal contrasts, captures the ‘confusion, turmoil and
terror’ of that terrible day, subverting the form of narrative and the formal clarity
such a regime demands – and which ‘correct and well-ordered drawing’ would
have provided. Only with some struggle can we discern the outlines of the ‘fantastic
invention’ of the aforementioned boat, a feature so central to the subject, but which
Tintoretto squashes into a dark corner almost as an afterthought. Here, then, is the Last Judgment not as a representation of a story that has already taken place but as an event in
its terrible processuality, in the ‘confusion’ before supreme judgment has exercised its
indomitable verdict.
Such jettisoning of the fi nal destination in favour of the capture of process may
be understood as a symptom of what Tintoretto does to the history of art he inherits.
That is, there is in this work the practice of painting as an experimental process
of thinking which displaces painting as an exercise of judgment – in the Kantian
sense of judgment as the application of concepts to the objects of experience –
upon the established forms (in this case, the form of the historia) it receives from its
past.8 Tintoretto’s painting is an experimentation that seems to temporarily forget
its legacy, jettisoning judgment for the disjunctive blindness of the artistic act that
thinks anew. Indeed, Tintoretto’s subversion of judgment is something with which
Vasari regretfully concurs – insofar as for him disegno (which Tintoretto neglects) is
nothing less than an act of judgment, the upholding of which binds the artist to the
continuous history of which he is part.9 In his experimental deviancy, Tintoretto
frees himself from the bondage to the past, and disrupts the continuity that binds
him to that past moment. Defying their judicious placement by an observer within
a history understood as a representation of actual events in linear and chronological
time, his works demand a new concept of time.
And indeed, it appears that, with respect to the question of Tintoretto’s time, art
history is yet to arrive at a consensus. He has been understood as both an end – the end
of the ‘Golden age of Venetian painting’, the end of the Renaissance, and even the end of
painting altogether – and a beginning – the dawn of a new age, ‘the representation of a
new generation’, the ‘birth of later sixteenth-century art’ – at once situated in times other
than his own, and placed squarely within the sixteenth century. Adding to this confusion
is the identifi cation of his practice variously, and sometimes simultaneously, with the
classifi cations (both periodic and stylistic) of the gothic, the Renaissance, the Baroque,
mannerism and the modern.10 Such resistance to chronological placement and to the
continuity of traditions not only invites a model of time other than the chronological and
linear model of historical time that art history customarily, for the sake of constructing a
continuous narrative of historical events, puts to work. It invites too consideration of how
to think the unintelligible as such. The philosophy of Gilles Deleuze attends to both these
demands. Whilst Deleuze’s work has received much attention within the theoretically
inclusive fi eld of ‘visual cultures’, and most especially in writing on twentieth-century art,
the stakes of his philosophy for the thought of pre-twentieth-century art, or conceptual
questions in art-historical ‘methodology’, such as the problem of time, have been little
explored.11 Tintoretto’s subversion of the continuous, linear and chronological time of
history in which thought as judgment on the past conducts itself powerfully embodies
the conviction driving the Deleuzian philosophy in thought as an event of creation that
exposes time in its ‘pure’ state, as the form of difference.
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Panofsky on Historical TimeAs a prelude to this Deleuzian elucidation, I would like to turn briefl y to remarks
made by Erwin Panofsky in a short paper titled ‘Refl ections on Historical time’
(1927).12 This preliminary account is made for two reasons – fi rstly, because Panofsky
presents a conception of historical time that, I would argue, continues to be implicitly
at work within art-historical practice – and therefore any refl ection on art history’s
conception of time needs to consider the claims raised by this essay. Secondly,
Panofsky’s conception of historical time reveals an investment in Kant that in turn
will allow us to better grasp Deleuze’s alternative conception of time – which, whilst
also premised on a reading of Kant, diverges strongly from Panofsky’s conclusions,
and in so doing offers us a means of moving beyond notions of chronology to which
Panofsky, and Panofsky’s legacy in art history, remain indebted.
Panofsky’s conception of historical time is consistent with the underlying
motivation of his project: to render the study of art history ‘scientifi c’. This would
be achieved, he believes, by instilling and conducting art-historical inquiry from an
‘Archimedean point’ given prior to experience.13 In this upholding of a ‘framework
of knowledge’ ‘in the mind’ prior to the experience of objects, we see Panofsky’s debt
to Kant. This debt is given emphasis in Panofsky’s understanding of time as an a priori condition of experience.14 In response to the diffi culty of producing a chronology – and
yet motivated by the desire to produce one nevertheless – for the four master builders
of the cathedral at Reims, due to the presence of disparate styles within the same period
of time, Panofsky observes that historical time, as a construct of the historian, is to be
distinguished from natural (astronomical) time – which is evident, observable time.
That is, whilst the styles are simultaneous according to the measure of natural time,
they are nevertheless different – and it is the historian’s construct of historical time
which may account for this difference of ‘cultural’ times within the same natural time.
Applying Kant’s understanding of time and space as the universal, a priori (that
is, independent of experience) conditions under which objects of experience can
be given to the thinking subject in their phenomenal constitution as appearances,
Panofsky conceives of historical time as an a priori ‘frame of reference’ through which,
together with the historical space that defi nitively accompanies it (a space which,
also being a frame of reference, is irreducible to the question of geography), artistic
practices, as ‘network of phenomena’ can be rendered intelligible and ‘judged’, in the
Kantian sense.15 The Kantian idea of time as the formal and unchanging condition of
our experience is retained; history is understood to unfurl its sequence of meaningful
events within a constant and unchanging form – or rather forms, since there are as
many historical times as there are selected systems of reference.16
Thus, ‘Venetian painting of the sixteenth century’ might function as one such
frame of reference, whereby a particular segment of historical space (Venice) is
conjoined with a particular span of historical time (the sixteenth century) in order to
permit the meaning of the various objects within this frame – including the works of
Tintoretto – to be determined.
However, in this way, Panofsky concedes, art history ends up with an ‘endless
multiplicity’ of heterogeneous frames of intelligibility for its multiplicity of objects.
Consequently, in order to attain ‘unity of meaning’ within the ‘historical whole’ –
in order for example, for us to grasp the Tintoretto of sixteenth-century Venice
in relation to a Giotto or a Delacroix – these ‘smaller frames of reference’ must be
‘re-anchored’ into the ‘larger frame of reference’ supplied by ‘natural’ time and space.
Natural time and space provides ‘the constants to which countless variables can and
must be related again and again’. For Panofsky, it is precisely this temporal duality that:
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. . . determines the essence of a historical phenomenon: that it represents, on
the one hand, an object of knowledge that transcends the scope of natural
space and time but is, on the other hand, fi xed in a very particular moment in
natural time and in a very particular place in natural space.17
Here, ‘natural time and space’ does not therefore refer to the cyclical time of
astronomical phenomena, but rather to the linear chronological time that can be
called a ‘stretch’. In other words, historical time(s) are ‘sections’ of this continuous,
linear, chronological form of time.
Panofsky presents us with a Kantian idea of historical time as an unchanging
form, a condition of possibility within which the multiplicity of its objects of
experience (works of art) may be related within intelligible frameworks, and
judged. And art history – a discourse that, whether it explicitly declares it or not,
retains the Panofskian preoccupation with the intelligibility of its objects – upholds
this idea of historical time in which intelligible ‘frameworks’ are cut out of the
grand sweep of natural time. In the method of contextualization, an approach
reinforced in recent times by Michael Baxandall’s highly infl uential concept of
the ‘period eye’ – which advocates the reconstruction by the art historian of the
‘mental and visual equipment’ that informed the production of a work in its time,
in order to attribute historical sense to the work – we are presented with a potent
expression of this fi delity.18 Context operates here as an a priori spatio-temporal
construct of the historian, retrospectively superimposed onto historical material
in order to provide a framework of intelligibility. But insofar as contextualism
defi nitively undermines the question of an artist’s difference from his historical
present, by grounding that difference in the circumstances from which it deviates,
this approach needs to be reconsidered when faced by the question of artistic
experimentation and innovation that continues to be experienced long after the
historical time of context has passed.19
Contextualization and Historical Time: Ridolfi ’s MottoDespite the intimations of his ‘slipperiness’, Tintoretto has not been exempt from
this predilection to ‘securely moor’ the work of art within its historical context.20
Indeed, in his case, art history provides us with a very precise example: its
reiteration of a ‘motto’, attributed to the artist by his fi rst biographer, Carlo Ridolfi ,
which situates Tintoretto with respect to the two great painting traditions of his
time – the Florentine tradition of disegno as exemplifi ed by Michelangelo, and the
Venetian tradition of colorito as embodied by Titian.21 In his 1642 Life of Tintoretto, Ridolfi tells us that it was as a response to having been cast out of Titian’s studio that
the young Tintoretto realized he could ‘become a painter by studying the canvases
of Titian and the reliefs of Michelangelo Buonarroti, who was recognized as the
father of design’. And ‘thus with the guidance of these two divine lights who have
made painting and sculpture so illustrious in modern times, he started out toward
his longed-for goal….[and] so as not to stray from his proposed aim he inscribed on
the walls of one of his rooms the following work rule: Michelangelo’s design and
Titian’s color.’22
In situating the artist with respect to the two dominant traditions of painting
in his time, Ridolfi makes a case for Tintoretto’s currency. Posited as an artist whose
‘desired goal’ is inherited, and insofar as the value of this heritage has already been
ascertained, Tintoretto is presented as an artist to be esteemed, relevant to painting’s
current value and to its ongoing progress, a progress that is based on what is already
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established. Tintoretto is judged in accordance with a synthesis of established values.
But in placing Tintoretto within the historical time of tradition’s continuity, Ridolfi
downplays the artist’s difference, his status as an outsider who – as Vasari, for
whom Tintoretto in fact neglected the ‘correct and well-ordered drawing’ practised by
Michelangelo, had recognized - did not learn in the customary manner, an artist who,
unbound from the conventions of a studio practice, was free to affi rm his difference.
Instead, the motto redeems a highly divisive artist within what is already deemed
‘illustrious’, grounding his difference within established values. Indeed, the
formulation of an ideal synthesis of Titian’s colorito and Michelangelo’s disegno long
predated its application to Tintoretto’s practice. We fi rst encounter it in the 1548
dialogues of the Venetian writer Paolo Pino, who was responding to a debate, with
a history that has nothing to do directly with Tintoretto’s works, concerning the
relative worth of Florentine and Venetian painting.23 This question of timing strongly
indicates that Ridolfi was making an appeal to already validated discursive terms to
glorify an artist he considered worthy of accolade – rather than necessarily observing
those traits at work in Tintoretto’s paintings.24
Resistance to Contextualization: The Miracle of the SlaveRidolfi ’s motto remains a stubbornly insistent feature of Tintoretto scholarship,
consolidating the contextualization that did not even (necessarily) begin with the
experience of Tintoretto’s works.25 The analysis of The Miracle of the Slave (plate 2), a work
contentious in its own time and which was even returned to the artist as ‘unsuitable’,
is, in this regard, particularly revealing.26 When scholars accredit The Miracle’s ‘radical
nature’ to one of its most orthodox fi gures – the foreshortened nude fi gure of the
slave in the foreground – a fi gure that had been praised by Tintoretto’s contemporary
Pietro Aretino for its mastery of (Michelangelesque) disegno, that is, for its upholding
of a current, established value of painting, we see how even the ‘radical’ is subjected
to the contextualizing terms of intelligibility.27
But The Miracle is also marked by a feature that challenges Tintoretto’s supposed
allegiance to either of his great contemporaries – the violently foreshortened
aerial fi gure of Saint Mark – a feature for which Aretino (and none of Tintoretto’s
contemporaries) does not, and perhaps cannot, account. This strange fi gure,
unprecedented in painting, undermines the historia to which it ostensibly plays
a defi nitive role.28 The work depicts the moment of Saint Mark’s miraculous
intervention in the scene of a slave’s torture. As with The Last Judgment, Tintoretto does
not narrate the story as something that has already happened, but rather presents the
event in its violent eruption. And it is this experience of painting as an arrest of time’s
narratival passage that imparts to the work its startling power.
Hurtling through the sky at extreme speed, the Saint explodes into the scene. The
torturer holds up his broken tools, astonished. Along with the throng of onlookers,
who crowd in upon the scene with visceral astonishment, he is apparently blind
to the agent of this destruction. And why should he not be? For Tintoretto does
everything he can to make Saint Mark unintelligible: contorting and compressing
his fi gure, casting his face into shadow, projecting him within a space that confl icts
abruptly with the lateral planarity of the picture plane to elicit a near-collision with
the torturer. Consider, by way of contrast, Michelangelo’s The Conversion of Saint Paul (plate 3) in the Paolini Chapel of the Vatican, the work said to be the ‘truly relevant
comparison [with Tintoretto’s] for this physical dialogue of salvation’.29 Here the
fi gure of Christ, whilst indeed highly foreshortened, is nevertheless luminous in its
clarity. Frontally positioned, Christ directly faces us, permitting registration of his
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divine identity and of his pivotal role in the narrative. Despite his foreshortening,
Christ occupies the same plane as the other fi gurative compositional elements,
giving rise to the sense of homogeneity and harmony that imparts to the work its
classical poise and command. But Tintoretto’s Saint Mark violently demarcates his
own space, apparently with no desire to relate to others, not even to the slave he is
saving. The ‘direct intimacy’ that the historia demands between slave and his divine
rescuer is denied. Tintoretto’s Saint Mark overpowers the signifi cation of the story
with its dramatic effect, casting the work adrift from the ‘historical mooring’ that
the conventions of the historia – clarity, propriety, decorum and above all ‘correct and
well-ordered drawing’ – install.30
Arguably one of the (unacknowledgable) ‘causes’ of the criticism of the work in
its own time, it is this fi gure – more than the well-drawn fi gure of the foreshortened
Slave – that continues to seize us when the contextual problems of historia, disegno and
colorito have long faded as relevant and urgent. In this way, we grasp Tintoretto’s time not
merely as the time of his historical actuality but as the time of an experimentation
marked by the ongoing experience of difference that his work elicits.
To say that one is not of one’s time does not by that token indicate that one is
of another time.31 Tintoretto does not displace one identifi cation for an alternative
identifi cation. Rather there is in his difference an excess to dating as such, and to
the (Panofskian) deduction of intelligibility within historical time which dating
inscribes. The fi gure of Saint Mark was different in its own time, and it remains different
2 Jacopo Tintoretto, The Miracle of The Slave, 1548. Oil on canvas, 420 × 540 cm. Venice: Galleria dell’Academia. Photo: © www.beniculturali.it
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today. Before it, we realise that we are no longer in the sixteenth century. But we are
aware too that we are neither in the seventeenth nor the twentieth. The fi gure marks
the event of painting that eternally escapes the clutches of historical time – earlier
than the present, and later than the past that has happened, forever between the
discrete times of the date.
Attending to this escape is not straightforward . Even the compelling idea,
presented to us in different ways by Aby Warburg and Henri Focillon, and given fresh
impetus in recent times by Georges Didi-Huberman, that the artwork is a complex
of survivals and anticipations, of ‘slow-moving and belated forms existing alongside
bold and rapid forms’, remains bound to the form of chronology upon which the
work of art’s anachronic deformations and reversals are in fact premised.32 The idea
of anachronism does not in itself deliver us from the form of chronological and linear
time that it sets out to subvert. What is required is a critique of this very form. At this
point, I return to Deleuze.
3 Michelangelo Buonarrotti, The Conversion of Saint Paul, 1542–45. Fresco, 625 × 661 cm. Rome: Cappella Paolina, Vatican Palace. Photo: © Scala.
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Deleuze: The Transhistorical Event, and the Historical State of AffairsLet me begin with a distinction Deleuze makes between the event and the ‘state of
affairs’. The time of the one is irreducible to the time of the other. A state of affairs is
historical, and designates what is actually the case at any particular historical time, or
to put it another way, that which is given to lived experience under the conditions
of a historical present – a defi nition Panofsky himself affi rms and supports.33
A historical context is a state of affairs. The event, in contrast, is the ‘transhistorical’
component of everything that happens – it ‘eludes its own actualization’ as history,
bearing within itself a shadowy, ‘virtual’ element that is continually subtracted from
or added to its place in history.34
We are thus supplied with a distinction between history as the succession of lived
states of affairs in chronological time (in other words, events that are over, actualized
and have become established) and the event, whose becoming is never over, and that
thus can begin again, or recur, when (historical) time has passed. Whereas actual
states of affairs pass, and can be represented as belonging to a past that once was, the
event functions eternally as a reservoir of future potential.
This distinction may be clarifi ed through a return to The Miracle of the Slave. The
historian can reintegrate the strange fi gure of Saint Mark within the historical state
of affairs, by explaining its narratival role in the inherited and established form of
the historia or discussing how Tintoretto manifests a Michelangesque treatment of
disegno. But in its experimentation, the fi gure of Saint Mark evades this imposition of
intelligibility, announcing the future now, and collapsing the form of time according
to which the future is always ‘ahead’ of the present.
In this sense, Eric Newton’s remarks that ‘the key to [Tintoretto’s] art is not to be
found in his motto, which looks back into the past, but in his attention to problems
that belonged to the future, problems that neither Michelangelo nor Titian could have
understood’, strikes us as apt.35 We fi nd such preoccupation with ‘futural’ problems
manifested by Tintoretto’s invention of a new method of composition, a method ‘too
strange and too individual for any biographer to have invented’.36
Futural Experimentation: Tintoretto’s Stage-MethodTintoretto trained himself, Ridolfi tells us:
. . . by concocting in wax and clay small fi gures which he dressed in scraps
of cloth . . . . He also placed some of the fi gures in little houses and in
perspective scenes made of wood and cardboard, and by means of little lamps
he contrived for the windows he introduced therein lights and shadows. He
also hung some models by threads to the roof beams to study the appearance
they made when seen from below, and to get the foreshortenings of fi gures
for ceilings, creating by such methods bizarre effects.37
This unprecedented ‘stage-method’ accounts for the panoply of unorthodox
effects we encounter in Tintoretto’s works: from the aerial fi gures of messengers
and celestial bodies such as Saint Mark catapulting, contorted, through charged
skies, to the ghostly crowds that constitute the strange witnesses of the painting’s
‘stories’; from the extremized diagonal spaces in which the actions are set, to the
exaggerated dimensions, proportions and contrasts of their compositional elements.
Wax maquettes give rise to super-pliable, inhuman poses of fi gures, dominated by
the forces of the actions they bear. The ‘little houses’, adjustable and viewable from
multiple points of view, permit a new artifi cial architectonic of confl icting planes,
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and the heightened, irrational illumination with which they are accompanied.
Defying established traditions of compositional method – including the preparation
of a transferrable design, the application of ‘correct and well-ordered drawing’,
and the ‘direct’ composition of forms in the process of painting on the support –
Tintoretto’s ‘stage-method’, unsurprisingly, goes unmentioned in the appraisals by
his contemporaries.
It is, again unsurprisingly, an aspect of his practice of which contextualizing art
history has found it diffi cult to speak. This is not to say that it has been overlooked –
as Marcia B. Hall states, it is in fact ‘well known’ within the scholarship.38 Rather,
methodological fi delity to contextualism means that the radical nature of such
an extreme method is made intelligible through an appeal to the historical state
of affairs.39 But whilst the motto reveals to us a Tintoretto duly answering to the
requirements of his living present, producing historiae that ostensibly satisfy the
demands of the state of affairs under which he was living and producing, the stage-
method designates the time of a difference that traverses the lived necessities of
answering to these demands.
The Miracle of the Slave powerfully expresses this tension between two registers
of time – with its apparent accession to the demands of the historia in question
accompanied by the irreverent undoing of these demands. The elements of the work
that ‘communicate’ the historia – the fi gure of the slave that Aretino had praised, the
fi gure of the torturer, ready to wield his instruments, and the fi gures of the onlooking
crowd, tense with anticipation – constitute its established elements, insofar as they
serve the historia (a historically established form of painting). In contrast, the fi gure
of Saint Mark, in undermining this historically determined narratival function, and
expressing the innovation of the stage-method, acts as the element of the new that
imparts to the work its ongoing radicalism and provocation. As that which remains unrecognizable and unintelligible, a problem not ‘solved’ by the particular and actual
solutions that answer to it, the difference or newness of Tintoretto’s practice is here
experienced as a shock that produces a new sense of time as transhistorical.
Difference, or the new, Deleuze tells us, ‘with its power of beginning and
beginning again, remains forever new, just as the established was always established
from the outset’. The new ‘calls forth forces in thought which are not the forces of
recognition, today or tomorrow, but the powers of a completely other model’.40 Such
a position is antipodal to Panofsky’s view that an innovation ‘necessarily presupposes
that which is established (whether we call it a tradition, a convention, a style, or a
mode of thought) as a constant in relation to which the innovation is a variable’.41
But Tintoretto’s stage-method is not only new in relation to the established forms
that it subverts (although it is this as well). It remains new even after its chronological
time has passed. The expression of a difference that pre-empts the deviation from
what it effectively negates, it was never simply a reaction against Michelangelo or
Titian as an invention grounded on (in order to challenge) what they have already
done (and here, the fact of the artist’s self-education is not unimportant). Rather, the
method functions as an ‘active’ rather than ‘reactive’ differentiation, an assertion
of difference from which any opposition is effectively produced (and returned into
the narration of history as a succession of events in their actualized forms as states of
affairs) and whose difference persists for a future moment yet to arrive. 42
Deleuze and Panofsky: Two Readings of Kantian TimeA return to Kant – who, not least through Panofsky’s efforts, has functioned as one
of art history’s immanent scaffolds – will help us to clarify the distinction between
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Tintoretto’s Time
the two ideas of time to which we have been attending: historical time conceived
as a homogenous, linear, chronological ‘stretch’ (implicit in Vasari, explicated by
Panofsky and perpetuated by contextualist art history), and artistic time as a shock
effected in the experience of art’s ongoing difference that collapses the continuity of
the stretch.43
Deleuze’s philosophy involves an unusual investment of Kant – for him,
‘the philosopher who truly introduces time into thought’.44 Testifying to their
post-Kantianism, both Deleuze and Panofsky intimate the inseparability of the
problem of time from the problem of thought. For Panofsky, time is the form
through which the subject represents and judges the objects of his experience –
through an act of synthesis. For Deleuze, time is the form that splits the thinking
subject in the act of an exceptional experience (an experience for which no a priori concept can be given), rendering impossible representation and judgment. For
Panofsky, historical time is the form under which a self-same, rational subject
represents to himself the historical objects of his study. But for Deleuze, time
is the ‘pure form of difference’ that endangers the very possibility of this act
of representation premised on the subject’s coherency. Deleuze admits that his
aim is to reveal ‘a precise moment within Kantianism, a furtive and explosive
moment which is not even continued by Kant, much less by post-Kantianism’.45
This moment – where Kant ‘introduces a kind of . . . crack’ in the subject – is, to
be sure, not one that Panofsky recognizes.
But although Deleuze’s reading of Kantian time is, as he admits, hardly a faithful
rendering, neither is Panofsky’s. For whilst Panofsky posits time as the form of
determination of objects, for Kant, time is not a determination of ‘outer appearances’.46
For Kant, time belongs neither to a shape nor a position. Rather, time concerns the
internal process of representation within the subject.47 Whereas for Panofsky, ‘time
is a function of space’, and both (historical) space and time equally concern the
intuition of (historical) objects, Kant, crucially, distinguishes time as the ‘the form
of inner sense, i.e. of the intuition of our self and our inner state’, ‘the immediate
condition of internally intuiting ourselves’, from space as the condition of our (outer)
intuitions of an object.48 That is, although for Kant both time and space are the
conditions of our knowledge of the objects of experience, time alone concerns how
the subject relates to itself in this process of representation.
Panofsky’s confl ation of time and space as ‘equal’ determinants of the object
reveals the predilections of the historian wanting to attain meaning for, pass
judgment upon and come to know the object before him – something that, of course,
is not Kant’s primary concern.49 Panofsky is at once interested in the conditions of
this knowledge and in the object that can be known. Thus, what for Kant is internal to
the subject becomes for the historian a tool for ‘objectivity’, a tool for, and the means
by which, a set of objects may be attended to in a ‘scientifi c’ manner.
Deleuze, on the other hand, affi rms Kant’s crucial distinction between time as the
form of inner sense and space as the form of outer sense. And he intuits something
yet more crucial about the Kantian system – time’s impact on the very coherency of
the thinking subject.
For Kant, our representation of the appearances of objects given in time
demands an act of ‘synthesis’ (the integration of the multiplicity of appearances
into unities) in the subject.50 There is a synthesis between sensible appearances
and concepts provided by the understanding. For this synthesis, there must be a
transcendental ‘I think’, characterized by its ability to synthesize, that accompanies
‘all my representations of appearances’.51 But there is a paradox here – upon whose
© Association of Art Historians 2014 14
Kamini Vellodi
exposure Deleuze will erect his own theory of time. For if inner sense (time) is the
form of all appearance, then even our existent, phenomenal selves are presented to
the ‘I think’ only as we appear to ourselves.52 In this way, time splits the subject’s
phenomenal existence (or my ‘being’) from its thought. My experience of myself
and my thought about that experience cannot collide – they are separated by
time. It is this separation of the self from the I, this splitting of the subject into an
existent part and a thinking part that are never ‘at one’ – that Deleuze refers to as
‘the paradox of inner sense’.53 Kant’s paradox, Deleuze claims, is that we do not
experience ourselves to be identical with our thought. And it is time that is the
‘agent’ of this disidentifi cation.54
In ‘the supreme effort to save the world of representation’, Kant covers over
this fracture.55 But for Deleuze it is precisely in its ‘schizophrenic’ opening
onto difference – the difference between thought and being – that thought
attains ‘its highest power’, as creative.56 Creative thought is thought which is not
‘innate’ (a form given in advance of its activity to a coherent subject), but rather
a thought engendered in its genesis at the site of an originary ‘threshold’. Such
thought is born not as the habitual reproduction of a given image under which it
recognizes itself, but rather out of the pure necessity of its production. In its capture
of ‘difference in its differing’, the work of art not only expresses such a genesis
and thinks, but in its ‘preservation’ of this difference, as form, it forces those who
encounter it to begin thinking. Deleuze is critical of philosophy – including
Kant’s – that poses as ‘critical’ whilst not critiquing the very form of thought itself.
Kant assumes an image of thought as rational, conscious, judgmental. Panofsky
also makes assumptions of this kind. But ‘the highest thought is one that does not
know in advance what form it will take. Such thought is forced by the exceptional
experience which the work of art can supply – and for which pre-given ideas or
concepts are inadequate. It is the ‘extra-ordinary’ experience of difference ‘in-
itself’ that exposes time ‘in its pure state’, a shock of time purifi ed of its ‘empirical’
content – that is, the relations of succession or simultaneity that characterize
objects in time.
Here, Deleuze turns to Nietzsche’s famously obscure doctrine of the eternal return,
which for Deleuze continues the schizophrenic moment within Kantianism to give
expression to its most profound implications.57 The eternal return is not, Deleuze
contends, the thought that the same returns. Rather, it is the return of ‘the different,
the dissimilar, the extreme, the excessive’.58 It is a synthesis of difference (or ‘forces’),
that makes difference happen again – or ‘affi rms’ it. Against the model of a linear time,
in which things happen ‘once and for all’, and within which the past is something that
once was, and to which one must reconcile oneself with (a burdening of thought with
its ‘history’ that Nietzsche abhors), the eternal return uncovers ‘the superior form of
everything that is’, by carrying out a practical selection among differences according to
their capacity to produce, thus giving rise to a ‘deranged circle of time’.59 This is why
Deleuze calls the eternal return the synthesis of the future – for only that returns which
is productive. To this recurring element Nietzsche gives the name ‘untimely’ – that
which is not subject to time’s passage, but which conquers time, ‘acting against its own
time and thereby upon its time for the benefi t of a time to come’.60
It is the work of art – understood not as a form that can be represented, refl ected
upon and judged, but rather as a constructive process of material experimentation
that can enact this practical affi rmation of difference. Tintoretto gives expression to
this possibility.
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Tintoretto’s Time
The Time of Difference and Return: Tintoretto-ElsheimerTintoretto’s time designates the time of his ongoing difference and its untimely return, outside the continuity of historical time. Let us, in conclusion, consider an
instance of this return in the work of the sixteenth-century Flemish painter Adam
Elsheimer.61
Elsheimer’s debt to Tintoretto’s work has often been noted.62 Indeed, the
Flemish painter’s works abound in Tintorettesque motifs, legitimizing the art-
historical discussion of the latter’s ‘infl uence’. The fi gures of Saint John the Baptist
and Christ in Elsheimer’s The Baptism of Christ (plate 4) are, for example, indubitably
borrowed from Tintoretto’s ‘original’ (plate 5). But accompanying this formal
tracery of a motif, this repetition of the same that takes place within the historical
time of chronology within which established values develop in continuous
sequences, a time in which Elsheimer presents himself as Tintoretto’s follower,
is a more profound return – that of the strange, ghostly background fi gures of
4 Adam Elsheimer, The Baptism of Christ, 1599. Oil on copper, 28.1 × 21 cm. London: National Gallery. Photo: © The National Gallery.
© Association of Art Historians 2014 16
Kamini Vellodi
Tintoretto’s Baptism in Elsheimer’s ethereal landscape, that collapses the span of
historical time separating these two practices with the collision of the experiment.
In Elsheimer’s eccentric, silvery foliage, we encounter a return without
resemblance and outside the form of the copy; a return as the affi rmation of
Tintoretto’s difference, and of its experimental impulse. In contrast to the well-
defi ned foreground fi gures of his Baptism, Tintoretto’s ghostly fi gures serve no
immediate function with respect to the inherited, established form of Elsheimer’s
historia. Rather, in their material frisson – which, like the fi gure of Saint Mark in The Miracle of the Slave, resists any signifying or communicative function – these fi gures,
clustering in obscure, spectral masses, impart a force and dynamism to the scene that
subverts the historia’s formal register and narratival intent.
It is these strange fi gures that return, re-formed, in Elsheimer’s supra-
natural landscape – the element that constitutes, in turn, the most experimental
component of his work (and one which, furthermore, projects the disjunction from
the narrative of the Baptism initiated by Tintoretto even further). In this curious
affi rmation of deviancy, Tintoretto’s innovations are revealed to challenge not
5 Jacopo Tintoretto, The Baptism of Christ, 1579–80. Oil on canvas, 538 × 465 cm. Venice: Scuola Grande di San Rocco. Photo: © Scuola di San Rocco.
© Association of Art Historians 2014 17
Tintoretto’s Time
only the conventions of his own historical time, but the conventions of another
(Elsheimer’s).
Whereas the Baptism motif looks backwards to an inherited tradition of the
pictorial depiction of the Baptism, and forwards to an anticipated development of this
motif by a succession of Tintoretto’s ‘followers’, the ghostly staged fi gures and their
return in Elsheimer’s landscape slice through chronological and linear sense with the
eternally prospective gaze of the experiment.
What returns here are not the ghostly fi gures ‘in-themselves’. Rather, it is
the experimental source – the stage-method of which they are expressions –
that we encounter again. And perhaps it is no surprise to learn that Elsheimer
too practised the stage-method, that, ‘like Tintoretto before and Poussin after
him, [Elsheimer] had wax fi gures in his studio which he could move about
like puppets on a stage.’63 In repeating Tintoretto’s method, Elsheimer affi rms
the genetic principle of Tintoretto’s works, the source of an active difference
that exceeds the forms of his actual paintings. It is this excessive element of
Tintoretto’s practice that serves as the virtual reservoir for Elsheimer’s ‘new’
additions to the composition of The Baptism – his eccentric, artifi cial landscape
(this is not a landscape observed from nature). In Elsheimer’s landscape, we
experience the excessive sense of Tintoretto’s stage-method – its constructive
power to generate future forms beyond the actual forms to which it gives rise in
its own historical time.
Insofar as its return gives rise to a new form of painting, namely ‘a new
approach to the depiction of nature, by means of which Elsheimer effected a
lasting change in the vision of landscape in the seventeenth century’, Elsheimer’s
‘incorporation’ of the stage-method acts as an actualization that makes something new of the repetition of difference. Rather than returning it, as does Elsheimer’s repetition
of the Baptism motif, to painting’s established past (the form of the historia), the
return of Tintoretto’s stage-method propels painting towards a future it could
not have predicted in advance, towards a destiny that transcends the lineage of
successions.64
In Tintoretto’s return in Elsheimer, we fi nd that it is not an allegiance
to ‘established’ elements that changes the course of history, but rather the
extraction and affi rmation of the most productive, untimely and current reaches
of a dynamic past.
anthropology’, Oxford Art Journal, 25: 1. 2002, 59. Didi-Huberman
assumes this task through a theorization of anachronism, developed
via a Benjaminian reading of Warburg’s notion of Nachleben, which
is used as a challenge both to art history’s ‘euchronism’ – the
perspective of an artist and his time, that uses the source of the
period to understand a pictorial activity according to the visual
categories of its day – and to the epistemological and signifying
image of thought that accompanies it. Euchronistic consonance is,
he claims, fl awed, for ‘there is no temporal concordance’; rather, the
image is ‘an extraordinary montage of heterogeneous times forming
anachronisms’. ‘Before the image before time: The sovereignty
of anachronism’, in Robert Zijnenberg and Claire Farago, eds, Compelling Visuality: The Work of Art in and Out of History, Minneapolis, MN
and London, 2005, 35–8.
3 Gilles Deleuze, Difference and Repetition, London, New York, 2003, 130–1.
4 Whilst the engagement with art is a constant feature of the
Deleuzian philosophy, nowhere is there an explicit application of
his theory of time to the thought of art history. In Francis Bacon, Logic of Sensation, London, New York, 1981, there is a genealogical reading
of the history of painting that recovers instances of ‘modernity’ in
Notes1 By actuality I mean a reality given to perception. It is contrasted –
by Gilles Deleuze, after Henri Bergson – with the virtual, a reality
that is not actual. ‘Purely actual objects do not exist. Every actual
surrounds itself with a cloud of virtual images.’ Deleuze, ‘The Actual
and the Virtual’, in Dialogues, London, 2002, 148, 208. See also What is Philosophy?, London and New York, 1997, 156– 9. I am not making the
claim that Tintoretto is the only artist that can function in this way –
only that his practice occasions the debate with which I am engaging.
2 In this sense I see my work as a contribution to the problematic
raised and attended to by Georges Didi-Huberman – of
confronting the Panofskian image of thought perpetuated by art
history – in particular, its epistemological and semiotic closure,
and its complicity with a model of time premised on linear and
chronological sense. I concur with Didi-Huberman’s remark that
‘the most urgent task (as untimely and outdated today as it was in
Warburg’s epoch)… is for art history to establish its own theory
of “evolution”, its own theory of time . . . [beyond] habitual
chronologies, eternal “infl uences”, old Vasarian or neo-Vasarian
family myths.’ ‘The surviving image: Aby Warburg and Tylorian
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Kamini Vellodi
the past through a focus on Bacon’s ‘recapitulation’ of the history
of painting, but this reading does not explicitly put to work the
theory of time which he develops in other texts (such as Difference and Repetition).
5 Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors and Architects, trans. G. De Vere, VIII, London and New York, 1914, 101–6, quoted
in Anna Laura Lepschy, Tintoretto Observed: Documentary Survey of Critical Reactions from the 16th to the 20th Century, Ravenna, 1983, 22–3. Tintoretto’s
deviation from the norms of painting in his time is noted by several
contemporary fi gures other than Vasari, including the writers Pietro
Aretino, Francesco Sansovino and Andrea Calmo. See Lepschy,
Tintoretto Observed, 16–20.
6 Lepschy Tintoretto Observed, 23. In Tintoretto’s time, disegno was one of the
most important values of the Italian visual arts, referring both to the
manual activity of drawing through line as well as the idea of design
as the mental conception of the work. For Vasari, it was the ‘parent’
of the three arts of painting, sculpture and architecture. On Technique, New York, 1960, 205.
7 The form of painting as historical narrative, defi ned by Albert as
the ‘highest work of painting’ – a form of which Tintoretto was,
moreover, considered to be a specialist. On Tintoretto as ‘the Venetian
specialist in sacred narratives’ see Marcia B. Hall, The Sacred Image in the Age of Art, New Haven, 2011, 173.
8 Critique of Pure Reason, Cambridge, 1998, A68/B93. In What is Philosophy? Deleuze and Guattari make the claim that art thinks as much as
philosophy or science – for ‘what defi nes thought in its three great
forms – art, science and philosophy – is always confronting chaos’
and making it ‘consistent’. What is Philosophy?, 197. Art thinks through
sensations. It is in the construction of (new) sensations from the
putting into relation of ‘matter-forces’ (the asignifying traits of its
material) – rather than the projection of pre-existing structures
– that it thinks. Drawing on the work of Hubert Damisch,
Deleuze and Guattari distinguish between painting that uses a priori mechanisms such as linear perspective to project sensations
onto its material, and painting that allows the ascension of its
differentiated ground (matter) into sensation. In the former case,
the material includes within itself mechanisms as a result of which
the projected sensations are realized ‘according to a depth’ and
art retains a ‘semblance of transcendence’, where transcendental
refers to that which pre-exists the process of painting. In the
latter case, the material passes into sensation giving it ‘a thickness
independent of any perspective or depth’, as we fi nd in the work of
Jean Dubuffet, Paul Klee, and Francis Bacon. Here art is ‘aesthetic
composition’, ‘the work of sensation’. Hanneke Grootenboer
has recently taken up this problematic of painting as thought,
or what she calls ‘pensive’. See Hanneke Grootenboer, ‘The
pensive image’, Oxford Art Journal, 34: 1, 2011. Here she understands
Deleuze and Guattari to locate painting’s thought within its
‘underneath’, understanding this underneath to be exposed in
modern (including ‘abstract’) painters, rather than in the early
modern painters, who conceal their ‘underneath’. However,
this fails to rigorously uphold Deleuze and Guattari’s distinction
between transcendental depth and immanent thickness – which is
not simply a question of surface and illusory depth, but rather of
painting’s relation of process to code or law. Painting that utilizes
pre-given codes (under the name of ‘technique’ or ‘mechanism’:
whether this is perspective or the formal language of colour
symbolism in the manner of Wassily Kandinsky) subjects itself to
an image of thought given in advance, and remains transcendental.
Thus even optically ‘fl at’ painting can be transcendental. (Logic of Sensation, London and New York, 2003, 109.) Painting thinks when
it abandons such codes for a direct, experimental and ‘accidental’
engagement with its material.
9 Disegno, ‘having its origin in the intellect, draws out from many single
things a general judgment, it is like a form or idea of all the objects in
nature’. On Technique, 205.
10 Bernard Berenson writes that ‘with Tintoretto ends the universal
interest the Venetian school arouses’. The Venetian Painters of the Renaissance, London, 1897, 60; The Italian Painters of the Renaissance, London, 1959, 27.
Peter Humfrey states that Venetian art goes into ‘a rapid decline after
1590’ (the death of Tintoretto). Painting in Renaissance Venice, New Haven
and London, 1995, 266. Ilchman and Echols describe Tintoretto as ‘the
last survivor of what was already coming to be recognized as a golden
age of Venetian painting’. Rivals in Renaissance Venice, Boston, MA, 2009,
227. For Vasari, Tintoretto ends the Renaissance. Lives, 509–10. For the
seventeenth-century painter-theorist, Federico Zuccarro, Tintoretto
brought an end to painting. Quoted in Lepschy Tintoretto Observed, 32–3.
David Rosand, Painting in Cinquecento Venice: Titian, Veronese, Tintoretto, New
Haven and London, 1982. On Tintoretto as the representation of a new
generation, see Detlev von Hadeln, ‘Early works by Tintoretto – II’,
The Burlington Magazine, 41: 237, December 1922, 278. For Tintoretto
as the birth of later sixteenth-century art see David Rosand, Painting in Cinquecento Venice. On Tintoretto as heralding the Baroque, see Eric
Newton, Tintoretto, London, 1952. Peter Schjeldahl writes, ‘The
Baroque, which took hold two decades later, with Caravaggio,
can seem an edited ratifi cation of tendencies already developed by
Tintoretto.’ Let’s See: Writings on Art from the New Yorker, New York, 2008,
121. On Tintoretto as a modern, see Arnold Hauser, Mannerism: The Crisis of the Renaissance and the Origins of Modern Art, London, 1965.
11 There are reasons for this, to do with Deleuze’s work – the fact for
example that his own writings on art focus on twentieth-century
examples, that he proposes an ontology rather than a history of
art, and that he vehemently opposes the practice of philosophy as a
method. The work of Éric Alliez is arguably the most sophisticated
activation of the Deleuzian philosophy for a ‘counter-historical’
analysis of artistic practice. Alliez uses the work of Henri Matisse to
articulate a counter-history of modern painting in terms of a practice
of forces, against the history of the painting-form. Alliez and Jean-
Claude Bonne, La Pensée-Matisse, Paris, 2005.
12 Critical Inquiry, 30, Summer 2004, 691–701. My appeal to Panofsky,
and to Panofsky’s investment of Kant, in no way pretends to be
comprehensive. It is undertaken solely with the aim of developing
a conception of time that I believe to be dominant in art history. For
accounts of Panofsky’s relation to Kant, and to the neo-Kantianism
of Ernst Cassirer, see Mark Cheetham, Kant, Art and Art History: Moments of Discipline, Cambridge, 2001, 68–77; Michael Ann Holly, Panofsky and the Foundations of Art History, Ithaca, NY, 1984; Sylvia Ferretti, Cassirer, Panofsky, Warburg: Symbol, Art, and History, trans. Christopher S. Wood,
New York, 1991; and Michael Podro, The Critical Historians of Art, New
Haven and London, 1982.
13 Panofsky, ‘The concept of artistic volition’, trans. Kenneth J. Northcott
and Joel Snyder, Critical Inquiry, 8, 1981, 92.
14 Kant clarifi es his position on time in a footnote in the Critique of Pure Reason. He asks, ‘Now what are space and time? Are they actual
entities? Are they only determinations or relations of things, yet
ones that would pertain to them even if they were not intuited, or
are they relations that only attach to the form of intuition alone, and
thus to the subjective constitution of our mind?’ Rejecting the fi rst
(Newtonian) suggestion, and the second (Leibnizian) view, Kant
settles on the fi nal view. B38
15 For Kant, objects in-themselves (noumena) cannot be known – we
can only know of our experience of objects as appearances (as
phenomena). Kant writes that ‘simultaneity or succession would not
themselves come into perception if the representation of time
did not ground them a priori. Only under its presupposition can
one represent that several things exist at one and the same time
(simultaneously) or in different times (successively).’ Critique of Pure Reason, B46. Panofsky’s appeal to Kant is reinforced by his reading
of George Simmel’s neo-Kantian project to ‘establish the a priori of
historical knowledge’ and his conception of historical time (in his
‘Das problem der historischen zeit’, 1916, in Brücke und Tür: Essays des Philosophen zur Geschichte, Religion, Kunst und Gesellschaft, ed. Michael
Landmann, Stuttgart, 1957, 3–31. See also The Problems of the Philosophy of History, New York, 1977), and to Ernst Cassirer’s understanding of
space and time as the ‘pillars’ upon which cognition and knowledge
stand, see ‘Mythischer, äesthetischer und theoretischer Raum’, in
Symbol, Technik, Sprache, ed. Ernst Wolfgang Orth and John Michael
Krois, Hamburg, 1985.
16 Note Panofsky’s view that history is ‘a written narrative constituting
a continuous methodical record, in order of time, of important events’.
© Association of Art Historians 2014 19
Tintoretto’s Time
foundation as well as the hallmark of the creations of Tintoretto’s
full maturity’. Painting in Cinquecento Venice, 183. Rosand reiterates
this position in a second text, written for a symposium given to
accompany the 2006 Tintoretto retrospective at the Prado, where
speaking of the same painting, he states that ‘whether or not
he actually inscribed the formula above the door to his studio,
Tintoretto had indeed combined the colorito of Titian and the disegno of Michelangelo.’ ‘Tintoretto and Veronese: Style, personality,
class’, in Falomir, ed., Symposium, 73. Eric Newton thinks that
The Miracle is ‘perhaps the only Tintoretto in which one detects a
full-scale attempt to combine Michelangelo’s sculptural drawing
with Titian’s surface-glow’. Sydney Freedberg writes of the work’s
‘Romanist plasticities and ostentation of foreshortenings with its
Venetian shuttling of lights and colours’. Painting in Italy 1500–1600,
New Haven and London, 1993, 523. For Robert Echols, The Miracle is a painting that can be described in ‘precisely’ the terms of Ridolfi ’s
motto, adding, in a recent catalogue that ‘… it was Tintoretto who
was most fi rmly committed to the Central Italian principle of
disegno and, indeed, sought to present himself as achieving the ideal
combination of disegno and colorito’. Detlev von Hadlen states that
Tintoretto ‘proceeds to achieve the synthesis of Venetian colouring
and Tuscan plastic form’, ‘Early works by Tintoretto II’, 287. Hans
Tietze also refers to ‘a fruitful union between opposing elements’
in a ‘synthesis of form and colour’ that generally characterizes the
artist’s work. Tintoretto, London, 1948, 14, 42.
26 Nichols, Tintoretto, 61.
27 Rosand, in Symposium, 73.
28 Rosand, Painting in Cinquecento Venice, 136.
29 Rosand, Painting in Cinquecento Venice, 36.
30 This link between the historia and good drawing is made by Alberti,
On Painting, Oxford, 2011, 53. I take issue with David Rosand’s view of
this work as a narrative that is ‘absolutely clear in its discourse’. Painting in Cinquecento Venice, 136. Marcia Hall’s analysis that the work replaces
narratival logic (that found for example in the works of Vittore
Carpaccio) with ‘a theatrical event’ seems to me to be closer to the
mark – but it is not at all evident that this theatricalization is used ‘to
incite religious fervor’. 174.
31 As Maria Loh contends in her reading of Tintoretto. For Loh, who
draws upon Mieke Bal’s notion of a ‘preposterous history’ and Didi-
Huberman’s Warburgian notion of survival to substantiate her point,
Tintoretto’s ‘modernity’ consist in his unintelligibility within his
own time, coupled with his intelligibility in the following century.
By comparison, I am arguing that Tintoretto’s difference consists in
that which resists intelligibility as such. Unintelligibility/difference
is not a question of historical relativism (as Loh suggests) because
difference is not historical, even if it is retrospectively made so. Maria
Loh, ‘Huomini della nostra età’: Tintoretto’s preposterous modernity’, in
Falomir, ed., Proceedings of the International Symposium.
32 Explication of these important concepts regrettably goes beyond the
scope of this paper.
33 When he refers to the need to investigate ‘the general state of affairs
in Augsburg book printing before as well as after Jost de Negker’s
appearance on the local scene’ in order to consider the sense of
Negker’s innovations in context. Renaissance and Renascenes, 2.34 See note 1.
35 Newton, Tintoretto, London, 1952, 35.
36 Newton, Tintoretto, 13, 15, 17. Newton emphasizes this withholding
from Tintoretto of the traditional means of learning through
apprenticeship. With respect to his expulsion, he writes, ‘what
matters in the story is not Titian’s motive but the fact that a young
man of genius was left without a master in an age when the craft of
painting could hardly be absorbed without one’, 11.
37 Ridolfi , Tintoretto, 19.
38 Hall, Sacred Image, 180.
39 For example with respect to contemporary interrelations in Venice
between painting and the theatre. The work of Tom Nichols
(Tintoretto: Tradition and Identity) has been important in consolidating this
interpretation, refl ecting the interest amongst painters in early and
mid-sixteenth-century Venice in Sebastiano Serlio’s designs, as well as
Tintoretto’s personal involvement with the Poligrafi the circle of writers
and publishers in sixteenth-century Venice.
The implication is that time itself does not change – only the order of
the events that occur within it. Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art, Stockholm, 1960, 1.
17 Panofsky, ‘Refl ections on historical time’, trans. Johanna Bauman,
Critical Inquiry, 30, Summer 2004, 698. Sylvia Ferreti states it well:
‘the scholar must bring his understanding and intuition to bear on
the possibility of leading the artistic phenomenon back to natural
time, and the two times are part of the same categorical system, as is
space, which is essential to the identifi cation of historical meaning.’
Cassirer, Panofsky and Warburg, New Haven, 1990, 217
18 Baxandall, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth-century Italy, Oxford, 1988, 40.
19 Note Hubert Damisch’s critique of contextualism: ‘The great question
regarding history that never stops attracting me – since it has a
relation to our contemporary situation – is, why do the works of
the quattrocento still concern us? If a work of art truly depends on a
specifi c historical context, as the social historians of art would have it,
then in order to understand it we have to transport ourselves into the
conditions that existed in a specifi c time and place. But all that makes
no sense as far as I am concerned. There is absolutely no way to look at
a work through the “period eye” as Baxandall would have us do. The
issue is that we, in our own time, look at works of the quattrocento,
and the question is, how is it that a historical work of art interests us,
given that we should only be compelled by works of our own time
which belong to the same context as we do?’ Yves-Alain Bois, Denis
Hollier and Rosalind Krauss, ‘A conversation with Hubert Damisch’,
October, 85. 1998, 10.
20 The model that dominates ‘the modern scholarly study of art’ is the
‘model of an artwork securely moored in historical time’. Alexander
Nagel and Christopher S. Wood, Anachronic Renaissance, New York,
2010, 11. The recent collection of papers on Tintoretto published to
accompany the 2007 Prado retrospective of his works indicate that
historical contextualization remains a predominant vector of inquiry.
Miguel Falomir, ed., Jacopo Tintoretto: Proceedings of the International Symposium,
Madrid, 2009. The analysis of David Carrier is, in this regard, an
exception: ‘Tintoretto, always anti-classical, was a highly individual
fi gure’, that none of his works ‘could be confused with the work of
Titian or Paolo Veronese, let alone that of any other Italian artist’,
and that ‘the accompanying paintings [to the exhibition Tintoretto at
the Scuderie del Quirinal, Rome, 2012] by Jacopo Bassano, Giovanni
Demio, Parmiginiano, Lambert Sustris, Titian, Veronese – and
sculptures by Alessandro Vittoria, splendid as they are, don’t really
help in understanding his art’. ‘Lagoon prisoner’, Apollo, June 2012.
21 See footnote 7. Colorito, held to be a defi ning feature of the Venetian
school of painting, refers to the colouring process, in contrast to
colore which refers to colour as quality. David Rosand, ‘Titian and the
eloquence of the brush’, Artibus et Historiae, 2: 3, 1981, 85.
22 Carlo Ridolfi , The Life of Tintoretto and of his Children Domenico and Marietta, trans. Catherine Enggass and Robert Enggass, Paris and
London, 1984, 16.
23 Pino writes that ‘if Titian and Michelangelo were a single person, if
the drawing of Michelangelo were added to the colour of Titian, then
we would have the supreme god of painting’. Quoted in Lepschy,
Tintoretto Observed, 19. For an informative overview of this debate see
Rosand, Painting in Cinquecento Venice, 15 – 26.
24 Raffaello Borghini, Il Riposo, ed. and trans. Lloyd H. Ellis Jr, Toronto,
Buffalo and London, 2007, 261.
25 To illustrate my point I list a selection of such reiterations of
Ridolfi ’s formulation from the art-historical scholarship. In
the most recent English monograph, Tom Nichols tells us that
Tintoretto’s ‘awareness of the particular signifi cance ascribed
to artistic tradition in his day’ is ‘indicated by the report
that he pinned a notice over the door of his studio reading
‘“Michelangelo’s design [disegno] and Titian’s colouring [colorito]”’;
and that, whilst ‘it is unlikely that such a notice ever existed’, ‘it
does seem that the young painter saw himself as an heir to the
great traditions of Renaissance art embodied in the still-living
(but already God-like) fi gures of Michelangelo (d.1564) and
Titian (d.1576).’ Tintoretto: Tradition and Identity, London, 1999, 14.
David Rosand refers, with respect to Tintoretto’s painting of The Miracle of The Slave, to ‘the synthesis of disegno and colorito, an aesthetic
ideal proclaimed in these very years, that would serve as the
© Association of Art Historians 2014 20
Kamini Vellodi
40 Difference and Repetition, 136.
41 Renaissance and Renascenses, 3. See also the remark made by Nagel and
Wood that ‘the new is never truly new’, but only ‘restages the given
and creates an impression of novelty’, and ‘must comply with
conventions in order to be understood at all’. Anachronic Renaissance, 15.
42 ‘In a body, the superior or dominating forces are called active, and the
inferior or dominated forces are called reactive.’ Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy, Columbia, OH, 1983, 81.
43 See Mark Cheetham, ‘Kant has not been perceived as pervasively
infl uential in art history and the visual arts. Yet, for better or worse,
his ideas (or those attributed to him) are immanent to these fi elds.’
Kant, Art and Art History: Moments of Discipline, Cambridge, 2001, 1.
44 Difference and Repetition, 87.
45 Difference and Repetition, 58.
46 Appearances being that which is given of the object.
47 Time and space inhere only in the ‘subjective constitution of our
mind’. Critique of Pure Reason, A14/B28.
48 Panofsky, Renaissance and Renascenes, 3.
49 Which is, rather, to delimit the conditions under which I can attain
knowledge of the objects of my experience.
50 Synthesis is the basis of the Kantian overcoming of empiricism in
which thought copies the sense-impressions given to it in experience,
and rationalism, in which given concepts or ideas logically determine
our experience. For Kant, knowledge is produced through synthesis of
a priori concepts and given appearances. For an insightful explanation
of the function of synthesis in Kant’s system see Roger Scruton, Kant, Oxford, 1982, 17–19.
51 Critique of Pure Reason, B131.
52 Kant himself admits this: ‘I cannot determine my existence as that
of a self-active being, rather I merely represent the spontaneity
of my thought … and my existence always remains only sensibly
determinable.’ Critique of Pure Reason, B158.
53 Difference and Repetition, 86.
54 For a lucid account of Deleuze’s reading of Kantian time see Christian
Kerslake, ‘Transcendental cinema: Deleuze, time and modernity’,
Radical Philosophy, March/April 2005, 130.
55 Kant adds to the passive self, which is ‘defi ned only by receptivity and,
as such, endowed with no power of synthesis’, an active spontaneity
in the understanding. ‘On Four Formulas’, in Essays Critical and Clinical, London, 1998, 34.
56 ‘On Four Formulas’, in Essays Critical and Clinical, London, 1998, 34.
57 This is not the place for an extended discussion of this complex
doctrine, which for the purposes of this paper are highly simplifi ed.
The fullest ‘exposition’ of the Eternal Return given by Nietzsche is
found in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Part III.
58 Deleuze discusses time in terms of three syntheses (Difference and Repetition, chapter II, ‘Repetition in-itself’). The fi rst synthesis is of a
‘foundational’ time, time as the living present, produced through
the ‘contractile’ synthesis of repeated experiences (which Deleuze
articulates through the Humean notion of habit). The second
synthesis (articulated through Henri Bergson’s ontology of time)
produces a ‘pure past’ that acts as the ‘ground’ of all time, a reservoir
into which presents pass, and in which all presents virtually,
coextensively insist.
59 See ‘On the uses and abuses of history for life’, Untimely Meditations, Cambridge, 1997. Against fatalism, the eternal return proposes the
conquest of destiny that redeems things from their servitude to
purpose, and affi rms the creative potency of the chance that ruptures
causal deterministic relations. Difference and Repetition, 54–5, 162.
60 ‘On the uses and abuses of history for life’, 60. It is in this sense that
difference functions in an intensive milieu, or ‘spatium’, outside
(ontologically prior to) both the forms of time and space.
61 That is, this return is only one instance of other possible returns.
We may conceivably speak of a ‘Tintoretto-effect’ consisting of
disjunctive returns that fracture any linear narration of his ‘infl uence’
through historical time.
62 Rudiger Klessmann, Adam Elsheimer 1578–1610, Edinburgh, London and
Frankfurt, 2006, 16, 28. Claire Pace, Lives of Adam Elsheimer, London,
2007, 11.
63 Keith Andrews, Adam Elsheimer Paintings-Drawings-Prints, London, 1977, 28–9.
64 Andrews, Elsheimer, 29; Deleuze, Difference and Repetition, 83.