Carnal Thoughts. Vivian SobchackЧитать онлайн книгу.
Neither pathological nor rare, coenaesthesia names the potential and perception of one's whole sensorial being. Thus, the term is used to describe the general and open sensual condition of the child at birth. The term also refers to a certain prelogical and nonhierarchical unity of the sensorium that exists as the carnal foundation for the later hierarchical arrangement of the senses achieved through cultural immersion and practice. In this regard, Cytowic notes, it has been demonstrated that young children—not yet fully acculturated to a particularly disciplined organization of the sensorium—experience a greater “horizontalization” of the senses and consequently a greater capacity for cross-modal sensorial exchange than do adults (95-96).55 In sum, whereas synaesthesia refers to the exchange and translation between and among the senses, coenaesthesia refers to the way in which equally available senses become variously heightened and diminished, the power of history and culture regulating their boundaries as it arranges them into a normative hierarchy.
There are those instances, however, when we do not have to be clinically diagnosed synaesthetes or very young children to challenge those boundaries and transform those hierarchies. The undoing of regulatory borders and orders among the senses can occur in a variety of situations. For example, Elaine Scarry, pointing to our encounters with something extraordinarily beautiful, writes:
A visual event may reproduce itself in the realm of touch (as when the seen face incites an ache of longing in the hand)…. This crisscrossing of the senses may happen in any direction. Wittgenstein speaks not only about beautiful visual events prompting motions in the hand but…about heard music that later prompts a ghostly sub-anatomical event in his teeth and gums. So, too, an act of touch may reproduce itself as an acoustical event or even an abstract idea, the way whenever Augustine touches something smooth, he begins to think of music and God.56
In other instances involuntary cross-modal sensory exchange often becomes foregrounded in conscious experience through perception-altering substances such as drugs. As Merleau-Ponty notes in Phenomenology of Perception, “A subject under mescalin finds a piece of iron, strikes the window-sill with it and exclaims: ‘This is magic': the trees are growing greener. The barking of a dog is found to attract light in an indescribable way, and is re-echoed in the right foot” (229).
In a critique of objectivist science that well might be applied to objectivist reductions of the film experience, the philosopher goes on to say: “Synaesthetic perception is the rule, and we are unaware of it only because scientific knowledge shifts the centre of gravity of experience, so that we have unlearned how to see, hear, and generally speaking, feel, in order to deduce, from our bodily organization and the world as the physicist conceives it, what are to see, hear and feel” (229). We could add that we are also unaware of synaesthetic perception because it is the rule, and we have become so habituated to the constant cross-modal translations of our sensory experience that they are transparent to us except in their most extreme instances. Exemplary here for its ordinary quality is the common experience of those of us who like to cook—and eat—of tasting a recipe as we read it. This commutative act between the visual comprehension of abstract language and its carnal meaning not only attests to a grounding synaesthesia that enables such translation but also again demonstrates “the subversive force of the body…in its capacity to function both figuratively and literally.” My eyes read and comprehend the recipe cognitively, but they are not abstracted from my body, which can—albeit in a transformed and somewhat diffused act of gustatory sense-making—taste the meal. Why, then, is it not possible that we might partake even more intensely of Babette's Feast (Gabriel Axel, 1987)? And to what extent are we being quite literal as well as figurative when we describe the meals in Like Water for Chocolate (Alfonso Arau, 1994) as “a feast for the eyes”? Here, in a popular review of Big Night (Stanley Tucci and Campbell Scott, 1996), Lisa Schwarzbaum makes some apposite discriminations: “The difference between a movie that makes you admire food and one that makes you love food is the difference between a dinner table posed like a still life in Martin Scorsese's The Age of Innocence [1993] and a clove of garlic sliced so intently you can practically inhale its ornery perfume in Scorsese's Goodfellas [1990]. One engages the eye and the other arouses all five senses.”57
This is not mere rhetoric. Philosophy aside, recent developments in neuroscience have indicated that “the boundaries between the senses are blurred.”58 Furthermore, a series of experiments has shown not only that the brain's visual cortex is activated when subjects—who are blindfolded—touch objects with their fingers but also that when researchers blocked the subjects' visual cortex, their tactile perception was impaired. Apparently, research has also shown that “the olfactory area of the brain also involves vision,” particularly in relation to the perception of color.59 We are, in fact, all synaesthetes—and thus seeing a movie can also be an experience of touching, tasting, and smelling it.
In sum, the cinesthetic subject names the film viewer (and, for that matter, the filmmaker) who, through an embodied vision in-formed by the knowledge of the other senses, “makes sense” of what it is to “see” a movie—both “in the flesh” and as it “matters.” Merleau-Ponty tells us that the sensible-sentient lived body “is a ready-made system of equivalents and transpositions from one sense to another. The senses translate each other without any need of an interpreter, and they are mutually comprehensible without the intervention of any idea” (235). Thus, the cinesthetic subject both touches and is touched by the screen—able to commute seeing to touching and back again without a thought and, through sensual and cross-modal activity, able to experience the movie as both here and there rather than clearly locating the site of cinematic experience as onscreen or offscreen. As a lived body and a film viewer, the cinesthetic subject subverts the prevalent objectification of vision that would reduce sensorial experience at the movies to an impoverished “cinematic sight” or posit anorexic theories of identification that have no flesh on them, that cannot stomach “a feast for the eyes.”
In a particularly relevant—and resonant—passage Merleau-Ponty elaborates on the intercommunication of the senses, not only as they provide us access to the rich structure of perceived things but also as they reveal the simultaneity of sensory cooperation and the carnal knowledge it provides us:
The form of objects is not their geometrical shape: it stands in a certain relation to their specific nature, and appeals to our other senses as well as sight. The form of a fold in linen or cotton shows us the resilience or dryness of the fibre, the coldness or warmth of the material.…In the jerk of the twig from which a bird has just flown, we read its flexibility or elasticity…. One sees the weight of a block of cast iron which sinks in the sand, the fluidity of water and the viscosity of syrup. (229-30)
(Here, citing this passage, I recall The Piano and my own bodily response to the humid heaviness generated by Ada's skirt hem and boots as they are sucked into the viscous mud of the forest, or, later, the drag on my proprioception caused by the weight and volume of her layers of wet skirts and petticoats as she tries to drown herself.)60
Continuing this discussion of the cross-modality of the senses, Merleau-Ponty writes: “If, then, taken as incomparable qualities, the ‘data of the different senses' belong to so many separate worlds, each one in its particular essence being a manner of modulating the thing, they all communicate through their significant core” (230). That significant core is, of course, the lived body: that field of conscious and sensible material being on which experience is gathered, synopsized, and diffused in a form of prelogical meaning that, even as it is diffused, nonetheless “co-heres.” This is because, the philosopher says, “My body is the fabric into which all objects are woven, and it is, at least in relation to the perceived world, the general instrument of my ‘comprehension'” (235). Thus, while the senses each provide discretely structured modes of access to the world, they are always already interactive and “transposable, at least within certain limits, onto each other's domains”—and this because “they are the senses of one and the same subject, operating simultaneously in a single world. ”61 We could say, then, that it is the lived body (as both conscious subject and material object) that provides the (pre)logical premises, the foundational grounds, for the cinesthetic subject, who is constituted at the movies as ambiguously located both