Idea Creativity

The Idea of Creativity
Philosophy of
History and Culture
Editor
Michael Krausz
Bryn Mawr College
Advisory Board
Annette Baier (University of Pittsburgh)
Purushottama Bilimoria (Deakin University, Australia)
Cora Diamond (University of Virginia)
William Dray (University of Ottawa)
Nancy Fraser (New School for Social Research)
Clifford Geertz† (Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton)
Peter Hacker (St. John’s College, Oxford)
Rom Harré (Linacre College, Oxford)
Bernard Harrison (University of Sussex)
Martha Nussbaum (University of Chicago)
Leon Pompa (University of Birmingham)
Joseph Raz (Balliol College, Oxford)
Amélie Rorty (Harvard University)
VOLUME 28
The Idea of Creativity
Edited by
Michael Krausz, Denis Dutton and Karen Bardsley
LEIDEN • BOSTON
2009
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The idea of creativity / edited by Michael Krausz, Denis Dutton, and Karen Bardsley.
p. cm. -- (Philosophy of history and culture, ISSN 0922-6001 ; v. 28)
Includes index.
ISBN 978-90-04-17444-3 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Creative ability. I. Krausz, Michael. II.
Dutton, Denis. III. Bardsley, Karen. IV. Title. V. Series.
BF408.I36 2009
153.3’5--dc22
2008055174
ISSN 0922-6001
ISBN 978 90 04 17444 3
Copyright 2009 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing,
IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission
from the publisher.
Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by

Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to
The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910,
Danvers, MA 01923, USA.
Fees are subject to change.
printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS
Acknowledgments ....................................................................... ix
Contributors ................................................................................ xi
Introduction ............................................................................... xvii

Michael Krausz
PART ONE
EXPLAINING CREATIVITY:
PERSONS, PROCESSES, AND PRODUCTS
Chapter One Criteria of Creativity ......................................... 3

Carl R. Hausman
Chapter Two Creative Product and Creative Process in

Science and Art ....................................................................... 17
Larry Briskman
Chapter Three The Rationality of Creativity ......................... 43

I. C. Jarvie
Chapter Four Creativity as a Darwinian Phenomenon:

The Blind-Variation and Selective-Retention Model ............. 63
Dean Keith Simonton
Chapter Five Creativity and Skill ............................................. 83

Berys Gaut
Chapter Six On Bringing a Work into Existence ..................... 105

Peter Lamarque
vi contents
PART TWO
CREATIVITY, IMAGINATION, AND SELF
Chapter Seven Poincaré’s ‘Delicate Sieve’: On Creativity

and Constraints in the Arts ..................................................... 129
Paisley Livingston
Chapter Eight The Creative Imagination ................................ 147

Michael Polanyi
Chapter Nine Every Horse has a Mouth:

A Personal Poetics ................................................................... 165
F. E. Sparshott
Chapter Ten Creativity and Self-Transformation ................... 191

Michael Krausz
Chapter Eleven On the Dialectical Phenomenology of

Creativity ............................................................................... 205
Albert Hofstadter
Chapter Twelve The Artistic Relevance of Creativity ............. 213

David Davies
PART THREE
FORMS AND DOMAINS OF CREATIVITY
Chapter Thirteen Creativity: How Does it Work? ................... 237

Margaret Boden
Chapter Fourteen The Three Domains of Creativity ............. 251

Arthur Koestler
Chapter Fifteen Creativity in Science ...................................... 267

Rom Harré
contents vii
Chapter Sixteen Creative Interpretation of Literary Texts ..... 293

Thomas Leddy
Chapter Seventeen Creativity in Philosophy and the Arts ....... 313

John M. Carvalho
Index ........................................................................................... 331

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The editors gratefully acknowledge Margaret Boden, John M. Carv-

alho, David Davies, Berys Gaut, Michael Krausz, Peter Lamarque,
Tomas Leddy, Paisley Livingston, and Dean Keith Simonton, who wrote
new works especially for this volume.
Eight of the essays appeared in an earlier volume, The Idea of Cre-
ativity in Science and Art, edited by Denis Dutton and Michael Krausz,
published in 1981 by Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, The Hague (series
editor, Harold Durfee). Those are the works by Larry Briskman, Rom
Harré, Carl Hausman, Albert Hofstadter, I. C. Jarvie, Arthur Koestler,
Michael Polanyi, and F. E. Sparshott. We thank Harold Durfee who, in
the name of Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, granted the rights to reprint
the Jarvie, Hofstadter, and Harré works. In addition, the following hold-
ers graciously granted copyright permissions as follows:
Briskman’s work originally appeared as “Creative Product and Cre-
ative Process in Science and Art,” Inquiry 23 (1980), 83–106. We wish
to thank Taylor & Francis (UK) Journals for permission to reprint the
work in this volume. Hausman’s work originally appeared as “Criteria
of Creativity,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 40 (1979) 237–249.
We extend thanks to Blackwell Publishing Company for permission
to reprint the work. Koestler’s work originally appeared as “Three
Domains of Creativity,” in Challenges of Humanistic Psychology, edited by
F. T. Bugental (McGraw Hill, 1967), 30–40. No copyright is currently
in force for this work. We express our appreciation to John Polanyi for
his permission to reprint Michael Polanyi, “The Creative Imagination,”
which originally appeared in Chemical and Engineering News 44 (1966):
85–93. Sparshott’s work originally appeared as, “Every Horse Has a
Mouth: A Personal Poetics,” Philosophy and Literature 1 (1977). We thank
Johns Hopkins University Press for the permission to reprint the work
in this volume.
Finally, we could not have produced the volume without the tireless
and expert assistance of Elizabeth D. Boepple. The editors and authors
are extremely grateful to her.
CONTRIBUTORS
Karen Bardsley took the PhD in Philosophy from McGill University

in 2004. She is currently an Assistant Professor of Philosophy at More-
head State University in Kentucky. Her research interests include phi-
losophy of film, philosophy of mind, aesthetics, and ethics. In aesthetics,
she has written on the roles of illusion and imagination in cinematic
experience, the role of perception in the interpretation of visual repre-
sentations, and the value of real world beliefs to the assessment and
categorization of fictional works. In ethics, she has written on the ratio-
nality of feelings of gratitude towards nature.
Margaret Boden is Research Professor of Cognitive Science in the

School of Cognitive and Computing Sciences at the University of Sus-
sex, UK, where she works on the philosophy and history of psychology
and artificial intelligence, with a particular focus on the phenomena of
purpose and creativity. Her notable works include Artificial Intelligence and
Natural Man (1977/1987) and The Creative Mind: Myths and Mechanisms
(1991/2004), which has been translated into many languages world-
wide. In 2002, Boden received an OBE (Order of the British Empire)
for services to cognitive science.
Larry Briskman (1947–2002) took the PhD from University of Edin-

burgh. He studied under Karl Popper, Imre Lakatos, and Paul Feyera-
bend. Popper remained the dominant intellectual influence on Briskman’s
philosophical outlook. Briskman’s academic publications were mostly in
the philosophy of science but included forays into the philosophy of
logic and creativity in science and art. His most signal contribution to
the Popperian tradition was his articulation and development of “the
epistemological bootstrap.” Briskman’s last major publication was
“Rationality, Science, and History” (1990).
John M. Carvalho took the PhD in Philosophy from Duquesne Uni-

versity in 1987. He is currently Associate Professor and Chair of the
Philosophy Department at Villanova University, where he teaches
courses on the philosophy of contemporary music, philosophy of film,
history of philosophy, critical theory, post-structuralism, psychoanalysis,
xii contributors
and aesthetics. Recent publications include, “Dance of Dionysus: The

Body in Nietzsche’s Philosophy of Music” (2003); “Fact and Fiction:
Writing the Difference between Suicide and Death in the Life of Michel
Foucault” (2006); and “Subtle Bodies and the Other Jouissance” (2008).
A book of essays titled Thinking with Images is nearing completion.
David Davies took the PhD in Philosophy from University of Western

Ontario in 1987. He is currently Associate Professor in the Department
of Philosophy at McGill University. He is the author of Art as Performance
(2004) and Aesthetics and Literature (2007), and editor of Terrence Malick:
The Thin Red Line (2008). Davies has published articles on philosophical
issues in the philosophies of film, photography, literature, and the visual
arts, as well as topics in metaphysics, philosophy of mind, philosophy of
language, and philosophy of science. Davies is currently working on a
book on the philosophical foundations of the performing arts.
Denis Dutton is currently Professor of Philosophy at the University of

Canterbury, New Zealand. His areas of specialty include aesthetics and
the philosophy of art. His recent research focuses on Darwinian appli-
cations in aesthetics: the manner in which human interests, pleasures,
and tastes are shaped by the evolution of the human species. He edits
the Journal Philosophy and Literature and the Internet webpage, Arts & Letters
Daily (http://aldaily.com/). He is author of The Art Instinct: Beauty, Pleasure,
and Natural Selection (2008).
Berys Gaut took the PhD from Princeton University in 1991 and is cur-
rently a Senior Lecturer in Moral Philosophy at University of St. Andrews
in Scotland. His research interests include aesthetics, especially its rela-
tion to ethics and to theories of creativity, philosophy of film and film
theory, moral theory, and Kant’s moral philosophy. He is author of Art,
Emotion, and Ethics (2007) and is currently completing A Philosophy of Cin-
ematic Art (forthcoming, 2009). Gaut is co-editor of The Routledge Compan-
ion to Aesthetics, and is Chairman of the Management Committee of The
Philosophical Quarterly.
Rom Harré taught philosophy of science at Oxford University during

1954–1994. He is currently Emeritus Fellow of Linacre College, Oxford.
Harré has published widely on topics in the philosophy of physics and
chemistry. Recently he has turned to studies in discursive psychology.
Harré’s publications include Great Scientific Experiments: 20 Experiments that
contributors xiii
Changed Our View of the World (1981); Personal Being: A Theory for Individual
Psychology (1984); Motives and Mechanisms: An Introduction to the Psychology of
Action (with David D. Clarke and Nicola De Carlo, 1985); Varieties of
Realism (1986); The Discursive Mind (1994); and One Thousand Years of Phi-
losophy: From Ramanuja to Wittgenstein (2000). His most recent book is Witt-
genstein and Psychology: A Practical Guide (with Michael A. Tissaw, 2005). In
1971, Harré, with Paul F. Secord, founded The Journal for the Theory of
Social Behaviour, with which he is still associated. Currently, he teaches at
Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. Harré is also the Director
of the Centre for the Natural and Social Sciences at the London School
of Economics.
Carl R. Hausman took the PhD in philosophy at Northwestern Uni-

versity in 1960 and is Professor Emeritus at Pennsylvania State Univer-
sity. Hausman has published “The Role of Aesthetic Emotion in R. G.
Collingwood’s Conception of Creative Activity” (1992); “Charles S.
Peirce’s Evolutionary Philosophy” (1997); “Aaron Ridley’s Defense
of Collingwood Pursued” (1998); Classical American Pragmatism: Its Con-
temporary Vitality (1999); and “Charles Peirce’s Evolutionary Realism as a
Process” (2004).
Albert Hofstadter (1910–1989) took the PhD in Philosophy at

Columbia University in 1936. He taught at Columbia during 1950–
1967, University of California at Santa Cruz during 1967–1975, and at
New School for Social Research in New York during 1976–1978. He
published Philosophies of Art and Beauty: Selected Readings in Aesthetics from
Plato to Heidegger (edited with Richard Francis Kuhns, 1964); Truth and Art
(1965); Agony and Epitaph: Man, His Art, and His Poetry (1970); and “On the
Interpretation of Works of Art” (1979). He also translated and wrote
introductions for Martin Heidegger’s Poetry, Language, and Thought (1971)
and The Basic Problem of Phenomenology (1982).
I. C. Jarvie took the PhD in Philosophy from the University of London

in 1961. He studied scientific method under Karl Popper, and the arts
under the influence of Ernst Gombrich. His other great intellectual
debt is to Ernest Gellner. These remain his intellectual compasses. A
member of the Royal Society of Canada, Jarvie retired from full-time
teaching at York University in 2003. He continues active contributions
to scholarship, most notably as Managing Editor of the journal Philosophy
of the Social Sciences. He is author of Movies and Society (1970), Philosophy
xiv contributors
and the Film (1987), and numerous other studies in sociology, philosophy,
and film history. Most recently, with Joseph Agassi he co-authored A
Critical Rationalist Aesthetics (2008).
Arthur Koestler (1905–1983) studied science and psychology at the

University of Vienna and settled in Israel. He served as science editor
for Ullstein. Koestler’s publications include Arrow in Blue (1952); The Invis-
ible Writing (1954); The Yogi and the Commissar (1945); The Sleepwalkers
(1959); The Lotus and the Robot (1960); and The Thirteenth Tribe (1976).
Among his many novels, Koestler’s magnum opus was Darkness at Noon
(1940). Koestler received the Sonning Prize from the University of
Copenhagen and an honorary doctorate from Queen’s University,
Ontario, both in 1968. In 1972, Koestler received an OBE (Order of
the British Empire), and in 1974, he was named a Companion of the
Royal Society of Literature.
Michael Krausz took the PhD in Philosophy from the University of

Toronto in 1969. He is currently the Milton C. Nahm Professor of Phi-
losophy at Bryn Mawr College. Since 2002, he has also been on the
Liberal Arts faculty of the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia.
Among Krausz’s publications are Rightness and Reasons: Interpretation in
Cultural Practices (1993); Varieties of Relativism (with Rom Harré, 1995);
Limits of Rightness (2000); and Interpretation and Transformation: Explorations
in Art and the Self (2007). He is editor and contributor to nine other vol-
umes on such topics as relativism, rationality, cultural identity, meta-
physics of culture, creativity, interpretation of music, and the philosophy
of R. G. Collingwood. Andreea Ritivoi (2003) edited a volume dedi-
cated to Krausz’s philosophical work, Interpretation and Its Objects: Studies
in the Philosophy of Michael Krausz. As a visual artist, Krausz has had
twenty-one solo exhibitions in galleries in the United States, Scotland,
and India. As a musician, he has been guest conductor of several profes-
sional symphony orchestras in Bulgaria. Since 2005, Krausz has been
the Artistic Director and Conductor of The Great Hall Chamber
Orchestra at Bryn Mawr.
Peter Lamarque is Professor of Philosophy at the University of York,

UK. During 1995—2008, he was Editor of the British Journal of Aesthet-
ics. He is the author of Fictional Points of View (1996) and The Philosophy
of Literature (2008), and co-author, with Stein Haugom Olsen, of Truth,
Fiction, and Literature: A Philosophical Perspective (1994). He also edited Phi-
contributors xv
losophy and Fiction (1983); Concise Encyclopaedia of Philosophy of Language

(1997); and an anthology (with S. H. Olsen), Aesthetics and the Philosophy of
Art: The Analytic Tradition (2003).
Thomas Leddy took the PhD in Philosophy from Boston University in

1983. He is currently Professor and Associate Chair of the Philosophy
Department at San José State University in California, where he spe-
cializes in aesthetics and the philosophy of art. He has authored an
article on John Dewey’s aesthetics in the on-line Stanford Encyclopedia
of Philosophy. Other publications include, “The Socratic Quest in Art
and Philosophy” (1993) and “Everyday Surface Aesthetic Qualities:
‘Neat,’ ‘Messy,’ ‘Clean,’ ‘Dirty’ ” (1995). He is a member of the Ameri-
can Society for Aesthetics and is an avid photographer. One of Leddy’s
works is displayed in the collection of the city of San José, California.
Paisley Livingston took his PhD at Johns Hopkins University in 1981.

He is currently Professor and Chair of the Department of Philosophy
at Lingnan University, Hong Kong. He is the author of Ingmar Bergman
and the Rituals of Arts (1982); Literature and Rationality: Ideas of Agency in
Theory and Fiction (1991); Models of Desire: René Girard and the Psychology of
Mimesis (1992); Art and Intention: A Philosophical Study (2005); and Art and
Intention (2005). He also co-edited (with Berys Gaut) The Creation of Art:
New Essays in Philosophical Aesthetics (2003).
Michael Polanyi (1891–1976) completed a medical degree in 1913

and his PhD in physical chemistry in 1917 at the University of Buda-
pest. He moved to Berlin to a position at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute
for Fiber Chemistry in 1920, and in 1923, he became director of the
chemical kinetics research group in Fritz Haber’s Institute for Physical
Chemistry and Electrochemistry. Polanyi’s best-known work was in the
field of chemical kinetics and dynamics. His philosophy of science
argues that scientific knowledge is tacit in character: it cannot be spo-
ken, only demonstrated and imitated. Among his many publications,
his first group of philosophical essays appeared in 1946 under the title
Science, Faith, and Society, followed by Personal Knowledge: Towards a Post-
Critical Philosophy (1958); The Tacit Dimension (1966); and Meaning (1975).
Dean Keith Simonton took the PhD in Social Psychology from Harvard
University in 1975. He is currently Distinguished Professor of Psychology
at the University of California, Davis. His many publications examine
xvi contributors
various aspects of genius, creativity, leadership, talent, and aesthetics.

Among his nine books are, Genius, Creativity, and Leadership (1984); Psychol-
ogy, Science, and History (1990); Greatness (1994); Origins of Genius (1999);
Great Psychologists (2002); Creativity in Science (2004); and Genius 101 (forth-
coming). His awards include the William James Book Award, the
Sir Francis Galton Award for Outstanding Contributions to the Study of
Creativity, the Rudolf Arnheim Award for Outstanding Contributions
to Psychology and the Arts, the George A. Miller Outstanding Article
Award, the Theoretical Innovation Prize in Personality and Social Psy-
chology, the President’s Award from the National Association for Gifted
Children, the Mensa Award for Excellence in Research, and the Robert
S. Daniel Award for Four-Year College/University Teaching.
F. E. Sparshott was educated in Britain at King’s School, Rochester,

and Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where he took the MA in 1950.
He taught philosophy at the University of Toronto during 1950–1991.
He has been a member of the League of Canadian Poets since 1968,
and was its president during 1977–1979. He was awarded the Presi-
dent’s Medal for Best Single Poem by the University of Western Ontario
(1958), and won the first prize for poetry in the CBC Radio Literary
Competition (1981). He has been a Fellow of the Royal Society of Can-
ada since 1977 and Doctor of Laws, honoris causa, University of
Toronto since 2000. He has published nine books of academic prose,
most recently, The Future of Aesthetics (1998), and twelve volumes of verse,
most recently Scoring in Injury Time (2006). Other works include: The Cave
of Trophonius and Other Poems (1983); Storms and Screens (1985); Sculling to
Byzantium (1989); Taking Life Seriously: A Study of the Nicomachean Ethics
(1994); The Hanging Gardens of Etobicoke (2nd ed., 1994); Views from the
Zucchini Gazebo (1994); and Home from the Air (1997). Currently, Sparshott
is University Professor Emeritus, University of Toronto, and Professor
Emeritus of Philosophy, Victoria College of the University of Toronto.
INTRODUCTION
Michael Krausz
This volume collects seventeen essays that address the question, What is
Creativity? This general question encompasses more specific ones that
the authors address in the three parts of the volume. Here, then, are
those specific questions along with abbreviated summaries of the essays
that answer them.
Part One
Explaining Creativity: Persons, Processes, and Products
Part One addresses these questions: What are the criteria for creativity?
Should we assign logical priority to creative persons, creative processes,
or creative products? Is creativity essentially mysterious? Can creativity
be explained? If creativity is explainable, can it be explained naturalisti-
cally? Is creativity unpredictable? Is creativity goal-directed? What role
does skill play in creativity? How does a creative product relate to
medium and work?
Carl Hausman offers the following four criteria of creativity. Cre-
ated outcomes have intelligible structures that are irreducible; created
outcomes are unpredictable; the structures of created outcomes are
inherently and usually instrumentally valuable; and the acts that lead
to created outcomes include an element of spontaneity. In emphasizing
the idea that the intelligibility of a creative outcome is discernible in a
structure that is unprecedented and unpredictable, Hausman resists a
determinism that excludes novelty or newness of intelligibility.
Larry Briskman asserts that, in contrast to creative persons and cre-
ative processes, the creativity of the product is what has logical priority.
We can only identify persons and processes as creative via our prior
identification of products as creative. A scientific or artistic product, for
example, is not creative because a creative person or a creative process
produced it. Instead, we deem persons to be creative persons and their
processes to be creative process only in light of the prior evaluation of
the product as a creative product. We deem the person involved and the
xviii introduction
psychological process involved as being creative because they succeed in

producing a product that we deem to be creative.
I. C. Jarvie holds that creativity is interesting precisely because and
to the extent that it is uniquely mysterious. Only with repeatable events
is explanatory progress made. Yet creative achievements are unique
events. They are not repeatable. Hence, creativity has something inex-
plicable about it. Jarvie’s view contrasts with the thought that nothing is
mysterious, or inexplicable.
In contrast, Dean Simonton argues that we should bring the study of
creativity into the scientific mainstream. Rather than representing some
mysterious process, we should examine creativity from a naturalistic
perspective. He suggests that creative processes function analogously to
those that govern the evolution of species. Accordingly, Darwin’s theory
can be considered an implicit theory of creativity.
Berys Gaut affirms that an act is creative insofar as it produces some-
thing innovative and valuable. Further, as long as one merely follows a
routine, one is not being creative. A brute, mechanical search does not
require insight, imaginative leaps, or anything other than persistence.
At the same time, we should allow a role for the skillful exploitation of
chance. Gaut asserts that the creative process can but need not be goal-
directed. He opposes anti-teleological models of creativity.
Peter Lamarque is concerned with the relation between medium and
created work. He asks whether a literary work, for example, is identical
to its text. Lamarque affirms that the work a maker undertakes to cre-
ate involves the manipulation of a vehicular medium constrained by
an artistic medium. Completed works possess intentional properties of
an aesthetic, artistic, or representational kind. Further, the possession
of those properties is possible only in an appropriate cultural context.
Established practices must exist to make possible the existence of works,
be they paintings, sculptures, or symphonies. In short, a work must be
a cultural entity.
Part Two
Creativity, Imagination, and Self
Part Two addresses these questions: Is creativity essentially inspirational

or rationalistic? How do intuition and awareness relate to creativity?
What is the relation between creativity and habits of attention? How
does creativity relate to self-transformation? How does creativity relate
introduction xix
to our sense of place in the world? How does our knowledge of the
circumstances of creativity effect our appreciation of its products?
Paisley Livingston explores the conceptual space defined by two
extreme theses—the inspirationist idea that artistic creativity is a sud-
den, involuntary, and ultimately inexplicable event, and the rationalistic
counterthesis, which characterizes artistic creation as a deliberate selec-
tion from amongst an array of previously known options. Livingston
adduces Henri Poincaré’s surmisal that while unconscious mental pro-
cess blindly generates combinations, the aesthetic sensibility scans the
results. That sensibility singles out those results that are especially pleas-
ing, elegant, harmonious, or well proportioned. Livingston also suggests
that in moments of incubation, when artists or scientists have set aside
their work and have taken up some unrelated pastime, their minds are
not idle.
Michael Polanyi calls all thoughts of things that are not yet present,
acts of the imagination. In turn, intuition integrates those acts. The
final sanction of discovery lies in the recognition of a coherence that
intuition detects and accepts as real. Intuition informs the imagination,
which in its turn releases the powers of intuition. Accordingly, Polanyi
recognizes two kinds of awareness: awareness of the object at which we
are looking, and awareness of innumerable clues that we integrate to
the sight of the object. We have a subsidiary awareness of the clues that
bear upon the object of our focus. Intuitive powers integrate the largely
unspecifiable clues, and the process of integration is not fully definable.
Francis Sparshott suggests that poets develop a uniquely personal
way of finding themes and ways of working them. Poets are known
for their sustained habit of attention. As they scrutinize the world for
themes, they look ceaselessly for ways of proceeding. Their style is a
style of search, not a habit of acceptance. Their minds are restless scan-
ners. Though poets cannot describe it fully, they know nothing better
than their way of proceeding. They know what to do next. The style of
truly original and creative poets determines their way of changing and
developing. Innovators astonish us by the total development of their
practice, not by each work taken singly.
Michael Krausz outlines the personal program that motivates his
artistic production and self-transformation. His personal program val-
ues process over product, and accommodates nondualistic experiences
as benchmarks of his creative life journey. He regards self-transfor-
mation as a creative product. This program resists any sharp distinc-
tion between creative process and creative product. Creative persons,
xx introduction
processes, and products are not fundamentally independent. Krausz

suggests, therefore, that we should substitute the idea of a creative work
for the idea of a creative product. For the idea of work incorporates pro-
cesses and products. ‘Work’ is a verb and a noun: a doing and that which
is done. A work or a ‘life-work’ provides the normative context in which
thingly products may have meaning and significance. Accordingly, a self
and its transformation may be a creative work.
Albert Hofstadter holds that underlying the creative process is the
passion to be free: to find selfhood in, and with, what is not self, to find
self-recognition in the other. Hofstadter allies this suggestion to Martin
Heidegger’s phrase, ‘gathered in the appropriation.’ Hofstadter suggests
that the creative artist—the photographer, for example—seeks a form-
content unity to which he can give himself and which will give itself to
him. The creative artist searches for a new reconciliation of oppositions
in a living and non-mechanical unity.
David Davies argues that our knowledge of the history of the mak-
ing of an artwork can bear upon our appreciation and evaluation of it.
In that sense, such knowledge can be artistically relevant. Davies urges
that an action or process is creative only if it manifests novelty that we
view as valuable in the context of practice. It does so according to the
intentional and imaginative agency of the individual concerned. Our
characterization of the artist’s engagement with the artistic medium will
locate that activity in an artistic context to which various moves can be
seen as responses. Creativity itself and ascriptions of creativity make
sense only against the background of a tradition. So, creativity itself is
a characteristic of the process, not of the product, despite its being only
by virtue of merits of the product as embedded in its context of genera-
tion that the process is properly so viewed.
Part Three
Forms and Domains of Creativity
Part Three addresses these questions: What forms of creativity are

there? How do forms of creativity relate to different domains of human
activity? How do creative scientists make phenomena intelligible? Can
a reader of a creative literary work, for example, also be a creator of it?
Rather than adding something to the world, does creativity involve sub-
tracting something from the world?
introduction xxi
Margaret Boden distinguishes between historical creativity (H-cre-

ativity)—involving new ideas not already known by other people—from
psychological or personal creativity (P-creativity)—involving ideas that
are new for the individual concerned. An idea that is H-creative must
also be P-creative, but not vice versa. Boden also distinguishes among
three types of creativity: combinational, exploratory, and transforma-
tional. Combinational creativity involves the generation of unfamiliar
combinations of familiar ideas. In exploratory creativity, the existing
stylistic rules or conventions are used to generate novel structures.
Transformational creativity involves an alternation in a style of thinking
or conceptual space. Here structures can now be generated which could
not be generated before. Transformationally creative thinkers may vary
old rules, or they may drop or add new ones.
Arthur Koestler believes that all creative activity falls into one of
three categories or some combination of them. These three catego-
ries of creativity are artistic originality, scientific discovery, and comic
inspiration. Yet no sharp break separates them. The creative act is for
the scientist, as it is for the artist, a leap into the dark, where both are
equally dependent upon fallible intuitions. Conscious and unconscious
processes enter into all three forms of creative activity. Conscious think-
ing generally plays only a subordinate part in the brief, decisive phase of
the creative act itself. Significant elements of irrationality are embedded
in the creative process. The creative act consists in combining previously
unrelated structures such that the emergent whole contains more than
its constituent parts. Scientific discovery and artistic inspiration share an
underlying pattern, which is a temporary regression, culminating in the
bisociative act that combines previously separate frames of perception
or universes of discourse.
Rom Harré affirms that the intelligibility of scientific theory derives
from the intelligibility of the novel entities and forms conceived in the
creative scientific imagination. Science is produced by the existence of
an organizing conception that is brought to the phenomena. The con-
ception creates the possibility of perceiving similarities that bring the
phenomena into the same class and supplies generalities. Harré empha-
sizes the explanatory power of a designating icon and its power to make
our experience of the world intelligible. Creativity in science is found in
the icons of the reality beyond yet productive of our experience. Our
scientific icons are depictions of the processes that bring the patterns
of phenomena into being. Further, a great scientist cites supporting
xxii introduction
evidence, not as premises or as evidence, but as anecdotes illustrative

of the power of the theory to make certain widely selected phenomena
intelligible.
Thomas Leddy claims that the many interpretations of a text are
generated by the interaction of the text with its readers. Each reading
of a text is a construction insofar as it creates an understanding of it.
Leddy holds that creativity is a process that is continuous—from the ini-
tiation of the work through to its so-called completion, and then on into
the work of different readers and critics. The reader does not replace
the writer as the creative artist, yet the reader should not be excluded
from the creative process. Rather, readers continue the creative process
begun by the writer through their interpretation of the work. Leddy
affirms further that when we interpret a literary work, we interpret our
worlds and ourselves. Accordingly, the understanding of creativity in
such cases requires these layers of dialectical confrontation: between
originating writer and interpreting reader, between interpreting readers,
and among various forces within the culture. Differing interpretations
may reflect different and competing general attitudes and philosophies
of life.
Guided by the works of French philosopher Gilles Deleuze, John
Carvalho compares creativity in philosophy with creativity in art. Cre-
ativity in art cannot add something of interest to the world by merely
repeating or modifying what is already in it. Rather, creativity in art
should tear away what obscures something exceptional. Creativity in art
strips away the distracting, reductive, and mundane elements that popu-
late the Whole, toward a creation that stands out in its singularity. This
singularity may appear new and original in our experience. Yet, while
overlooked, it was always there. The same point applies to creativity in
philosophy. For Deleuze, a ‘universal thought flow’ already exists and is
replete with everything that has been thought. The creative philosopher
extracts a concept from this universal thought flow by subtracting from
it everything that is distracting, idle, and common. The philosopher sub-
tracts the noise, babble, and nonsense in this flow and draws it toward a
concept that opens onto what is singular, irregular, and different.
These abbreviated summaries serve as an invitation to reflect upon
the challenging question, What is creativity? The essays discuss a range
of interrelated issues. They propound differing views, urge contrasting
emphases, and reflect diverse philosophical idioms. The aim of this col-
lection will have been served if its reader gleans the rich and varied
ways of understanding the idea of creativity.
PART ONE
EXPLAINING CREATIVITY:
PERSONS, PROCESSES, AND PRODUCTS
CHAPTER ONE
CRITERIA OF CREATIVITY1
Carl R. Hausman
In The Courage to Create,2 Rollo May defines creativity, in its ‘authentic’

form, as “the process of bringing something new into being.”3 In the course
of his discussion, he considers several kinds of experiences, which he
claims to be essential moments of the creative process: ‘encounter,’
‘courage,’ and a ‘drive toward form,’ among others. Beyond this, there
is little attempt to explore the presuppositions and the complexities of
the concept of bringing something new into being.
I do not cite May’s book in order to criticize it or to minimize its
potential value for the layman and perhaps for some psychologists and
psychiatrists. Without question, the book offers an interesting perspec-
tive on some of the problems connected with the creative process.
However, as in so much of the literature on the subject, the book dis-
plays a conspicuous lack of attention to the task of providing a con-
ceptual framework within which creativity is to be discussed.
The purpose of the following remarks is to suggest what I believe
are the most obvious, basic expectations without which neither an
activity nor its outcome would be regarded as an example of creativity.
My account of these expectations attempts to specify criteria or neces-
sary conditions of creativity based upon a characterization of newness.
These criteria should serve as the fundamental limits of a conceptual
framework, which must be presupposed in a discussion of creative
acts. But let me emphasize at the outset that I do not intend to write
‘creatively’ about creativity. Nor do I intend to rest my case on a series
1
The following discussion is a version of a paper presented at a session of The
Society for the Philosophy of Creativity, Pacific Division, in conjunction with the
American Philosophical Association meetings, Berkeley, California, 26 March 1976.
Reprinted from Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 40 (1979): 237–249.
2
Rollo May, The Courage to Create (New York: Norton, 1975).
3
Ibid., 39.
4 carl r. hausman
of examples, which are assumed to be instances of creativity. To the

contrary, what is needed at the beginning of a study of creativity is a
sober, straightforward structural account—an account that avoids as
much as possible metaphorically couched expressions of praise for what
is creative, and which postpones claims to provide immediate ‘insight’
into the nature of creativity. Thus, in what follows, I shall attempt to
lay out a bare conceptual skeleton, leaving for other discussions the
attempt to fill out the flesh for the skeleton.4 My approach is phenom-
enological in its basic orientation, but phenomenological primarily in
the sense that I intend to focus on the most general, necessary ingre-
dients in creative achievement.
An attempt to find criteria can be undertaken in one or more of
three possible ways. We can proceed inductively with no preconceptions
about which things are viewed as examples of creativity. Thus, we can
simply begin with an enumeration and a description of processes that
have been called ‘creative’ and outcomes that have been called ‘cre-
ations.’ Or, we can begin by stipulating which instances are to be
included and which excluded. Finally, we can combine these approaches.
If we were to proceed inductively and rely on the way the term ‘cre-
ativity’ has occurred in all its uses, we would have to include such
examples as home-making, salesmanship, and beautiful scenes in nature,
as well as the work of Giott, Shakespeare, Beethoven, and Albert Ein-
stein. This approach, I think, includes too much and spreads the refer-
ence of creativity too thin. On the other hand, if we stipulate the
exclusion of such things as creative salesmanship, nature, etc., the
approach, unless justified, is open to the charge of arbitrariness.
The third approach, which I have in fact adopted, is to proceed descrip-
tively under the constraints of the premise that there is a select range
of phenomena, which are most clearly and unquestionably examples
of creative acts and of outcomes, that are creations. The examples of
creativity, which will serve as a basis for the criteria, are selected from
the most dramatic and renowned instances of those outcomes that have
been called creations.
It will be noticed that I have referred here to the outcome of creative
acts. The term ‘outcome’ is not used to refer to results or effects of
necessary and sufficient conditions. This usage would belie my view
4
I have tried to take a step in this direction in A Discourse on Novelty and Creation (The
Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1975). This book also develops at greater length, but with
different emphases, the criteria suggested in this paper.
criteria of creativity 5
that creativity is not fully amenable to rational explanation. Outcome

here refers only to the terminus of an activity, to whatever an activity
articulates and to what is publicly accessible. Attention is directed to
such outcomes because I see no way to distinguish one act from another
without reference to what the act manifests—to something discriminable
in the form in which the act reaches completion. And the form in which
an act reaches completion can be found only in the outcome.
The most striking or eminent outcomes are chosen because these
should show most clearly and sharply what called creativity to our
attention. It is these which have been and are exemplary for other less
dramatic outcomes, such as the results of cooking, or gardening, that
are sometimes called creations. If an inquirer wishes to find some degree
of creativity in hobbies and do-it-yourself projects—in everyone’s activ-
ity—then what he will look for as creative in these activities has been
drawn from encounters with dramatic cases.
II
The criteria of creativity which I shall consider are telescoped in the

following claim: creativity occurs on condition that a new and valuable
intelligibility comes into being. We begin, then, with the basis for three
criteria: newness, newness of intelligibility, and newness of valuable
intelligibility. Discussion of the three key terms, ‘new,’ ‘valuable,’ and
‘intelligibility’ will serve as an account of these criteria. I shall begin
with the term new. But it will be seen that examination of this term
cannot be understood apart from the others. As criteria of creativity,
these terms are interdependent.
The outcome of an act, which is considered creative, then, must
seem to be new or novel. We might use other words to suggest this,
such as ‘original,’ ‘fresh,’ or ‘innovative.’ These, however, depend on
the acknowledgment of the fundamental and more common charac-
teristic, newness or novelty. But what is newness?
A minimal condition or common denominator of newness is that it
is present where something is different from its past. A thing that is
new must at least be different from what preceded it. In this sense,
every discriminable item is new, as a singular. It can be regarded as
unique, as a discrete, specific item which is identifiably distinct with
respect to all other items. It may be unique as a single instance of
general, repeatable types or kinds. Each blade of grass, grain of sand,
6 carl r. hausman
and molecule is different from every other blade of grass, grain of sand,
and molecule. Likewise, what is unique may be a general or universal.
Angularity, the quality of hardness, or a law of nature—each has an
identity that is different from all other generals as well as distinctly
relative to its particular instances. And what is unique may be an actual
experience or activity or consciousness, each of which is different from
every other experience or act of consciousness.
The minimal condition of newness has been given priority, either
explicitly or implicitly, by some writers who claim that the world is
everywhere open to creative acts. Some philosophers—such as William
James, or those who adopt one aspect of a Whiteheadian view—suggest
that every activity or occasion is unique. Each experience, event, and
object is new in the sense of being a unique actualized integration of
components. As such, it is new in being different. And all things to this
extent exemplify creativity. Creativity, then, pervades all things.
It seems to me that universalizing creativity in this way makes the
meaning of creativity too broad. The price paid for this democratic
application is that we have no way to distinguish among creations. With
respect to uniqueness in the sense of being different, we do not have
even degrees of creativity. A stone exemplifies creativity as much as a
painting by Giotto. Except perhaps as a metaphysical category, this
universal meaning of creativity does not advance our understanding.
It does not help us understand what the creation of a more special
or striking kind is. The point that some condition other than unique-
ness in the sense of difference is needed can be seen if we notice that
‘uniqueness’ is a term that usually includes more than sheer difference.
There must be some merit in being different, and the attribution
of the term ‘unique’ implies that it is good to be different. However,
the value of being different still is insufficient to justify regarding a
valuable and different outcome of an act as a creation in any other
sense than the universal, thin sense. For one thing, many of the acts
and outcomes which, like all acts and outcomes which in this view are
unique, are different in certain ways that make them unacceptable
candidates as creative or as creations. If this were not so, then the
distinction between creative acts and imitation, routine processes, or
hackwork would be meaningless.
Now, the way singular is unique, which is to say, the way they are
different and therefore valuable, is the key to a second and more radi-
cal sense of newness. This point can be considered in terms of the way
in which what is unique may be regarded as intelligible.
The most widely accepted view of intelligibility requires that what

is intelligible be related to what is familiar. On this view, even if an
outcome of a process is different as a singular, its difference is irrelevant
to its intelligibility, since it is classified or identified with reference to
other things. Thus insofar as it is knowable, the outcome is reducible.
In addition, it may also be reducible if it is treated as an instance of
regularities and is related to antecedent conditions so that predictions
of it are possible. On either alternative, as classified or as an instance
of regularity and as predictable, its difference is denied, overlooked, or
at least construed as trivial for the purposes of knowledge. Its being
different does not contribute to its intelligibility.
Now, according to those who admire uniqueness, the difference
noticed in an outcome may be considered thus reducible. Yet, the dif-
ferences are not denied, overlooked, or viewed as trivial. The outcome
is regarded as an individual rather than a repeatable instance. Thus,
even though the characteristics of the outcome may be found elsewhere,
the outcome is nevertheless significantly different, for the identity of
the outcome is said to resist exhaustive characterization. Something is
left over. Of course, there are many variations of the interpretation of
things as individuals. What is important here, however, is the question
whether, on any such interpretation, the differences that mark the
individual are peculiar to it so that these differences include or exclude
intelligibility. Uniqueness, though not trivial, is regarded as unintelli-
gible because, with respect to uniqueness, the thing is neither describ-
able and sharable through discourse nor predictable, except to the
extent of predicting that some individual exhibiting common traits and
exemplifying regularities will occur if certain conditions prevail. With
respect to what is intelligible, one example will do as well as another.
Insofar as the unique thing is intelligible, its newness vanishes.
The minimal condition of newness—irreducible and unintelligible
difference—however, is not the only order of newness. Nor is intelligi-
bility exclusively dependent on familiarity. There is a radical and intel-
ligible newness that appears in some outcomes. And it is this order
of intelligible newness that is overlooked or left unexamined in so
much of the literature on creativity. Failure to give this order of intel-
ligible newness its due has led to too many views that either reduce
creativity to natural events or treat creativity as wholly unintelligible
and mysterious.
Sometimes there are features of an outcome that do not contribute
to its intelligibility as a classifiable and predictable thing. Yet these
8 carl r. hausman
features contribute to and comprise a complex that constitutes an

irreducible intelligible identity. What is irreducible is not an unintelli-
gible element of the outcome. Nor is what is irreducible the bare
particularity or discreteness of an individual. What is irreducible is an
identity without precedent, an identity not foreseeable in terms of
repeatable data. The outcome is new in the sense of being different as
an intelligibility. This kind of newness is what I have called ‘Novelty
Proper.’ This is to say that the outcome is novel or new in the proper
sense of newness, not in the sense of newness in its lowest common
denominator, as a condition universally present in things, but in the
sense that is expected when an outcome is regarded as a creation in
the radical sense.
New intelligibility is intelligibility that occurs with an identity which
appears as a sort of a ‘Gestalt,’ that is not reducible to its elements or
conditions. The thing regarded as intelligible is an integration of ele-
ments, an ordered cluster or matrix whose identity is discernible in a
complex of coherent, mutually relevant features. Such an identity
appears in what may be called a ‘structure.’ The structure is distinctive,
individual, and unique. And it is unfamiliar in that it is different from
all prior structures. It is irreducible. Yet it is intelligible.
This suggestion, that order or coherence is necessary for unprece-
dented intelligibility, might be challenged on the ground that creations
appear to be incoherent just to the extent that they violate established
standards of coherence. Furthermore, many contemporary works of
art which are creations seem to depend on incoherence for their import,
for they explicitly violate an order that tends toward unity. They thrive
on disunity or disintegration.
With respect to the first point, I must agree that creations are in
crucial respects incoherent. But they are so in relation to their exter-
nal contexts. They are in conflict with the standards of coherence in
their pasts. However, what is at issue is a coherence that is internal,
an order given within the inner context of the creation, within the
boundary and focus that distinguish it from other things in the world.
Admittedly, if this is new, it must contrast with what was coherent
before it appeared.
With respect to the second part of the objection, it should be said
that overlooking the order in the internal constitution of created out-
comes and emphasizing the relation to their external contexts also lead
to the claim that many creations are explicit expressions of disunity.
What is taken to be disunity and incoherence in works of art may well

be dependent on the unfamiliarity of the creation. To be sure, the order
of any outcome that is a creation is elusive. So was the work of Giotto
or of Beethoven at one time. But these and all outcomes that call forth
response and assessment of them as creations must be based on a
recognition of some integrating interaction of their components. There
must be at least some inner connections and recurrent components,
even if they are only subtly manifest. Without this minimal order, there
would be nothing to discriminate. There would be nothing sufficiently
determinate to focus attention. Such discriminable focus is what I mean
by ‘coherence.’
A new intelligibility, then, is not an instance or example of a general
or a universal. Rather, it is a type that is recognizable nowhere else,
under no other conditions than those relevant to itself. Its individuality
is one of contrast rather than sheer difference of singularity. It contrasts
in intelligibility, or in its structural constitution, with all else that was
intelligible before it came into being. Thus, the outcome constitutes its
own context which contrasts with its outer context of the past. At the
same time, the external context is essential to the recognition of new-
ness, for if the outcome were isolated and not seen within a larger
context, it would just be itself and not regarded as different, much less
a creation.
I hope that my point can be illustrated briefly. Beethoven’s Ninth
Symphony exhibits a structure that contrasts with his own previously
created symphonies. The introduction of the human voice into this
orchestral form marks a break with the past. But this break would have
been connected with an outcome that is unintelligible if the voice parts
were not interwoven with orchestral parts, all contributing to a new
focus that makes the qualities of the composition mutually relevant. A
new biological species that evolves in nature exhibits a structure that
contrasts with structures in its past. The features that sustain it interact
with themselves as well as established features so that a different type
is established. Over a period of time the new type passes on its struc-
ture to offspring and a new kind is established and functions in a
continuing evolutionary process. But the initial occurrence of what
becomes a species, even if this occurrence appears gradually, is an
occurrence manifest in an outcome that exhibits a contrasting structure.
10 carl r. hausman
III
The reason for examining the term new in the initial characterization
of creativity was to draw out and elaborate criteria of creativity. The
first criterion of creativity thus far suggested is that an instance of
creativity is found in an outcome that must exhibit a structure which
is different from all precedent structures. This formulation of the main
criterion has three consequences, consideration of which will indicate
further criteria.
First, with respect to the outcome, we should notice that since its
intelligibility is unprecedented, it is underived and is something that
was not predicted. But also, its intelligibility is discernible in a structure
that could not have been predicted. If the structure were predictable in
principle, it would be wholly dependent on prior intelligibility for its
own intelligibility. And the structure then would have precedence. It
would be derived and prefigured, traceable to antecedents and classified
as an instance of general and repeatable conceptualizable items. It
would have been known, anticipated, and describable, if sufficient
knowledge had been available. To interpret creations this way would
be to presuppose some form of determinism, and a determinism which
excludes Novelty Proper or newness of intelligibility from the intelli-
gible world. A creation in the radical sense, then, must exhibit structure
that is both unprecedented and unpredictable.
The second consequence of the requirement that a criterion must
exhibit a structure which is not derived from prior structures was sug-
gested earlier in the observation that those who find newness wherever
there is uniqueness seem to include value in their conception of what
it is to be unique. Uniqueness is considered good, good aesthetically,
morally, or in some ontological or metaphysical sense. What has been
said about the coherence that must be present in the ordering of com-
ponents of the creation similarly suggests value: an epistemological
value. Coherence contributes to making the creation recognizable and
knowable. It contributes to intelligibility, since it is the basis for the
definiteness required for recognizability.
However, the value of coherence pervades all intelligible things. Like
the value of uniqueness, this value is too broad. Something more than
epistemological value is at stake. If it were not, eccentricities would be
admitted as creations. For these exemplify what I am calling Novelty
Proper, possessing some coherence as recognizable structure. But as
merely eccentric, they do not merit being considered creations. Being
different as a different intelligibility is not sufficient. The outcome

must be intelligible in some definite respect which is valuable. Its intel-
ligibility must constitute the creation as a model, as an exemplary
outcome. This value must initially be inherent. The outcome of a
creation is valuable for its own sake. It must exhibit an intelligibility
that is good in and for itself. Yet if it contributes to its future, it also
has instrumental value. In this connection, it should be acknowledged
that not all creations seem to contribute to their futures, at least directly.
Bach culminated a tradition, for example. His creations were new
structures which, though new, perfected their pasts. On the other hand,
El Greco’s work awaited a later time to serve the tradition of painting.
Some of Picasso’s experimental innovations appear to have terminated
in strands within a tradition, which was not advanced by them. Finally,
judgments about the presence of value change. When this happens,
either outcomes that were not deemed creations come to be seen as
creations, or formerly recognized creations are forgotten or denied
status as examples of creativity. They no longer are viewed as contrib-
uting to traditions. Yet whenever an outcome is regarded as a creation,
it must be regarded as manifesting at least inherent value. It must show
itself to be intelligible, as exhibiting structure that is intelligible in some
respect that is inherently valuable. Only then could it be exemplary
and instrumentally valuable.
The third consequence of the first criterion pertains to the activity
that leads to a creation—that is, the creative act. What has been said
about outcomes or creations suggests that there is an element of ser-
endipity in creative acts. Such activity is not governed by rules that
require, or are required by, the end. As Kant says in The Critique of
Judgment, the rules are given to art through the talent of the genius. If
they were not, the creation would already be complete in principle.
The design of the end would be prefigured. And a creative act would
be comparable to the process by which an acorn grows into an oak. If
one assumes some form of determinism, it might be claimed that cre-
ating is simply conforming to a pattern and an envisaged form or
structure. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is said to have constructed whole
musical compositions without working in any external medium. Thus,
if we view the symphony as a mental thing, we might say that it is an
envisaged end and that writing a score for it is an act of creation that
conforms to its antecedently known structure. But if we say that cre-
ations are sometimes completed in the mind of the creator in this way,
we do not thereby avoid acknowledging serendipity or the presence of
12 carl r. hausman
spontaneity in the act. We have simply shifted its locus. We still have
before us an act, now ‘internal,’ ‘in the mind,’ in which the rules con-
stituting it were introduced for the first time and in which an unprec-
edented structure came to be envisaged by the creator.
The creative act, then, is a transforming act. It proceeds in accord
with constraints that are given not only by the personality and environ-
ment of the creator and by the medium in which he works, but also
in the spontaneity of the act itself. The requirements of the developing
structure are themselves developed. The creator does not set out with
a pre-envisaged target. The creative artist does not know till he has
said it what he wants to say or how he will say it. He constitutes his
target as he discovers how to aim at it. Thus, the creative act is dis-
continuous. It includes at one or more of its stages a break with the
constraints that prior intelligibility imposed on the creator. Further, it
includes a break in continuities connecting intelligibilities, or structures
by which things are duplicable and known before creation takes place.
At the same time, the creative act is not wholly uncontrolled. If there
is serendipity, it is not sheer accident. The creator must not only exer-
cise critical judgment in deciding what to accept and reject when pos-
sibilities occur to him, but he must also form, refine, and integrate
these, even though he knows only with a degree of imprecision what
the final integration will be. And most important, he must assume
responsibility for what he brings into being. Even automatic writers
and the most romantic interpreters of their own creative acts must
accept responsibility for the outcome that they believe has its source
beyond them.
The responsibility indicates once more the role of value in the cre-
ation. For if creators bring their outcomes into being responsibly, they
are offered as what ought to be. Moreover, the responsibility of form-
ing an intelligibility which represents a repudiation of what was before
acceptable is conducive to the anguish frequently reported by artists.
It also confirms why writers like Rollo May speak of the need for cour-
age to create.
With the initial statement of the criteria of creativity and these
consequences in mind, the criteria can now be formulated: (1) a creation
must manifest what I have termed Novelty Proper, or a structure that
is different and un-derived from past structures and is thus unpredict-
able; (2) a creation must be inherently and often instrumentally valuable;
(3) the act that leads to the creation includes spontaneity as well as
directed control.
IV
The adequacy of the criteria I have offered is determined not only by

the acceptability of the assumptions and observations that suggest them,
but also by their application and their resistance to the challenge of
counterexamples. It will be helpful to sketch briefly several applications
and possible objections.
First, it might be asked how the criteria apply to Egyptian art.
Examples of Egyptian art seem to be repetitive, stylized, and unchang-
ing with respect to their forms. Their intelligibilities seem to be common
throughout numerous examples. Does not Egyptian art, therefore, fall
outside the criteria? I think it does not. When we regard Egyptian art
as creative, we admire it as a general accomplishment seen from the
perspective of whole periods. And with respect to a whole period, the
form of its examples does contrast with earlier periods. Further, when
examples are appreciated as individual works, there are superadded
variations from one example to another, variations or contrasts within
a common stylized way of depicting, but nevertheless contrasts that
show the mark of Novelty Proper. Artists who work according to for-
mulas are regarded as creative because they do not blindly conform to
these. They vary the formulas in subtle ways for the sake of approxi-
mating or perfecting the formula.
A second application of the criteria suggests that they may be too
broad. Consider the experience, for example, of a child learning the
multiplication tables. Such learning is not ordinarily viewed as creative.
Yet the child’s knowledge certainly is new for him. His knowledge
consists in apprehending identities for the first time. Is not the child’s
learning process therefore creative? It is true that in accord with the
criteria, there is a sense in which the child might be regarded as creative,
though in a very restricted way. He is creative insofar as the novelty in
question is severely bounded and personal and insofar as there is
directed, deliberate effort coupled with discovery. But the child is hardly
creative in the way Poincaré or Newton was. And the criteria do account
for this difference. For the child’s learning does not introduce spontane-
ity, the origin of constraints and requirements within the activity of
learning; nor does his learning issue in an unprecedented structure.
The child’s experience can be said to be unprecedented only in the
sense of universal all-pervasive novelty according to which each expe-
rience can be construed in terms of its uniqueness. But this is not the
radical newness or the mark of radical creativity which is at issue.
14 carl r. hausman
A third troublesome case for which the criteria are appropriate

already has been mentioned. It concerns eccentricities or mere devia-
tions, and acts which are undertaken with the aim of being different
for the sake of different. Unfortunately, our admiration for creativity
has provoked efforts to be different on the part of would-be creators.
Such persons become obsessed, at best, with contributing to society or
tradition in some field, or at worst, with enhancing their own self-images.
They try deliberately to be different and they offer their eccentricities
as creations. The outcomes of their activities may manifest Novelty
Proper, insofar as they exhibit unprecedented and unpredictable struc-
tures—though they do so less often than their producers would like to
think. However, eccentricities lack the criterion of value. They fail to
serve as exemplary or as possible models for future work, and they fail
to culminate a tradition. A producer of one of them might insist that
our blindness prevents our seeing his work as valuable. He may be
correct. Nevertheless, until the alleged values of the contrasting struc-
tures are recognized, his outcomes will not be deemed creations. But
I think it is doubtful that they ever will be. It has been said that an
artist sets out, not deliberately to make something beautiful, but rather
to express himself. It should also be said that a creative artist sets out
not with the intention expressed as ‘I shall be creative,’ but rather with
the intention to articulate and give form to the elements of a medium.
He does this more out of compulsion to work than from the desire to
conform to a rule that his work be different. He envisages an outcome
that will have determinateness, though it is not yet determined. He
envisages an outcome that will be valuable, but not an outcome whose
specific value is given. He acknowledges that something he will do
ought to be, but he knows not how nor in what respect it ought to be.
There are other applications which further test the criteria of creativ-
ity. I do not have space or time to explore these here. However, before
concluding, I do want to indicate several philosophical problems raised
by acceptance of the criteria. These are problems which need to be
dealt with in a theory of creativity that affirms the proposed criteria.
First, there is an issue raised by the conception of intelligibility which
I have adopted. If intelligibility depends upon the presence of identi-
ties, we may ask whether the identities that make things intelligible are
immanent to those things. Are they identical with the totality of features
relevant to the created outcome? It seems that they must be, since new
identities have no prior being or status. If they are new, they must
appear for the first time within those things which they make intelli-
gible. This is where they are discovered and created. On the other
hand, as identities, they must endure; they must have some constancy
so that they are not exhaustively bound by an instant of time and a
single place. They must be atemporal as well as temporal in their ini-
tial occurrences.
There is a second, related problem. The notion of Novelty Proper
is paradoxical. Novelty Proper is exemplified in outcomes that are
unfamiliar with respect to their intelligibility. Yet, as intelligible, they
must appear as if they were familiar. Moreover, what is both intelligible
and unfamiliar, though manifest as if it were familiar, is not convertible
into something already identifiable that makes the new intelligibility
predictable. If it were, newness would be denied in favor of deriving
the unfamiliar from what is prefigured.
Now, it should be pointed out that the paradox here is not peculiar
to the notion of Novelty Proper. The paradox is simply made evident
most sharply and dramatically in the case of creative acts which are
instances of Novelty Proper. All learning includes recognition of some-
thing not before familiar to the learner. One may insist that such learn-
ing is possible because what appears to be unfamiliar is learned because
it is referred to the familiar, to a fund of experience that was gradually
acquired. But this answer does not account for the first instance of
learning, or the encounter with what begins the fund of experience.
Something must initially be unfamiliar without a ready-made set of
familiar experiences to which it can be traced. Furthermore, the initial
recognition of the connection that holds between unfamiliar experience
to be learned and what is already acquired is itself a recognition of a
formerly unknown connection that must occur for the first time.
It should be noted, however, that creative experience is also like
learning experience, in that it concerns something unfamiliar initially
but which can grow familiar. Unless this was so, our vision of the intel-
ligible world could not grow; what is intelligible could never change.
The third problem to be mentioned centers on the consequence that
the criteria I have proposed seems to preclude the possibility of explain-
ing creativity. Creative acts cannot be explained in accord with the
traditional requirement that explanations show how things to be
explained are predictable. If explanation of creative acts is possible, it
must be of a different kind that meets different requirements.
The suggestion I have made elsewhere is that a different kind of
explanation is appropriate to creativity. I would call this other kind ‘an
account’ rather than ‘explanation,’ since the term account need not
16 carl r. hausman
bring with it the standard criteria of explanation. The term account

is looser in meaning and thus more consonant with what it may accom-
plish in applying to creative acts. The model for this kind of explana-
tion includes the use of metaphorical expression. Metaphors are used
by those who try to speak about creations. Indeed, they seem to be
required in order to point us to new intelligibilities. However, more
important, metaphors are themselves creations. Consequently, examina-
tion of their structure is suggestive of the general character of the
structures exhibited in all creations. And if this is so, then metaphors
will conform to the criteria of the phenomena for which they are
intended to account. Since the purpose of this paper has been to pro-
pose criteria of creativity, I must resist embarking on the further task
of exploring metaphorical expression.
In conclusion, then, let me reformulate these criteria. Creativity is
expected wherever acts in which there is controlled serendipity issue in
valuable Novelty Proper. Consequently, the criteria of creativity are:
(1) created outcomes have intelligible structures that are irreducible;
(2) the structures of created outcomes are unpredictable; (3) the struc-
tures of created outcomes are inherently and usually instrumentally
valuable; (4) and the acts that lead to created outcomes include an
element of spontaneity so that although they are directed and are
controlled, they are discontinuous.
CHAPTER TWO
CREATIVE PRODUCT AND CREATIVE PROCESS IN

SCIENCE AND ART1
Larry Briskman
I Introduction
In the past few decades, creativity has become rather like money:
everyone seems to want more of it. Just as we are living in monetarily
inflationary times, so too the notion of creativity has undergone a
wholesale devaluation. Soon we shall not only be carting away our
weekly salaries in wheelbarrows, but the very act of doing so shall come
to be called a creative one. Yet however lax popular standards may
become, there seems to me to be one aspect of creativity which will
remain constant, and that is that creativity is something valuable, and
that the notion of creativity is permeated with evaluation. To adjudge
something to be ‘creative,’ in other words, is to bestow upon it an
honorific title, to claim that it deserves to be highly valued for one
reason or another.2 Hence, without standards and values, creativity
ceases to exist, just as morality ceases to exist. But as with morality,
how high (or low) we set the standards is partially a matter for our
decision. In this essay, then, I shall adopt a fairly restrictive standard,
and in consequence limit the notion of creativity to Science and Art. I
hope that by doing so I do not prejudge any important issues, except
1
Revised and greatly expanded version of a paper first presented at seminars in
the Universities of Edinburgh and Leeds. I want to thank the participants in those
seminars, and especially Stanley Eveling, Leon Pompa, and Geoffrey Cantor, for their
critical comments and suggestions. In addition, I owe special thanks to Michael Krausz
for a series of stimulating discussions of issues related to this chapter. Reprinted from
Inquiry 23 (1980): 83–106 and The Concept of Creativity in Science and Art, eds. D. Dutton
and M. Krausz (The Hague, Boston, London: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1981),
129–155, all rights reserved.
2
A similar point has been made by Vincent Tomas in his article “Creativity in
Art,” reprinted in Creativity in the Arts, ed. V. Tomas (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall,
1964), 97–109.
18 larry briskman
one upon which I insist: namely, that creativity is something we value,

and that the notion of creativity is an evaluative one.
II Creativity: Possibility or Necessity?
For all our valuing of creativity, it appears to be, not least of all to
creative scientists and artists themselves, a kind of mystery, a kind of
miracle. Thus, Mozart writes of his best musical ideas: “Whence and
how they come I know not; nor can I force them.”3 In a similar vein,
Tchaikovsky writes that “the germ of a future composition comes sud-
denly and unexpectedly”;4 while Helmholtz reports that his ideas often
“arrived suddenly, without any effort on my part, like an inspiration.”5
Equally, Gauss, in referring to an arithmetical theorem which he had
for years tried unsuccessfully to prove, writes: “Finally, two days ago, I
succeeded, not on account of my painful efforts, but by the grace of
God. Like a sudden flash of lightning, the riddle happened to be solved.”6
Such quotations could, in fact, be multiplied almost indefinitely; so
consider finally, and more lightly, Desmond Morris’s recent report that
a journalist once asked Picasso: What is creativity? Picasso answered,
“I don’t know, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”7
Now I certainly do not want to claim to know more about creativity
than does Picasso, but it does seem to me that the mysteriousness and
miraculousness of creativity is, in effect, an important datum about it.
It is, I think, something from which we can learn, and which we should
try to explain. Yet if we do assume that creativity is a mysterious miracle,
then it becomes one of the most mysterious of all miracles—for it is
( pace Hume) a repeatable miracle. How, then, can we make rational sense
of this ‘miracle’? How, in other words, is creativity possible?
3
From a letter, reprinted in Creativity: Selected Readings, ed. P. E. Vernon (Harmond-
sworth: Penguin, 1970), 55 (Italics in the original).
4
Ibid., 57.
5
Quoted in R. S. Woodworth, Experimental Psychology (New York: Holt, 1938).
6
Quoted in Jacques Hadamard, The Psychology of Invention in the Mathematical Field
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1949), 15.
7
In H. A. Krebs and J. H. Shelly, eds., The Creative Process in Science and Medicine
(Amsterdam: Elsevier, 1975), 31. Morris also reports (58) that a journalist asked Picasso:
“What do you think of chimpanzee painting?” and Picasso bit him!
creative product and creative process in science and art 19
It is, I believe, crucial to see that the problem is to explain the pos-
sibility of creativity, not its necessity. For if we were to actually succeed
in explaining the necessity of creativity, or the necessity of specific
creative achievements, then in a sense we would have explained too
much. To see this, consider what would be involved in such an explana-
tion: take some specific creative scientific or artistic achievement C, and
assume that we had some general theory of creativity, or of the creative
process, T according to which C was necessary. This would mean that
given T, and a description of some relevant set of prior circumstances
or initial conditions P, we could actually deduce the attainment of C.
But this implies that anyone in possession of T, and given the descrip-
tion P, would have ipso facto been in a position to himself create C; and
would, moreover be able in principle to simulate the actual creative
process of the creator of C. Thus, a general theory of creativity, or of
the creative process, along the lines of T would provide a kind of
recipe for being creative; it would, in effect, provide a set of explicit
instructions for attaining creative achievements.
This possibility would, I maintain, have a number of untoward
consequences. First, T would rob the actual creator of C of any par-
ticular, or individual, claim to creativity, for on the assumption that
P was publicly available, T would provide a publicly available, quasi-
mechanical, means for creating C. Moreover, T would provide a means
for reaching innumerable creative achievements (C’, C”, . . .) effortlessly,
since all we would have to do would be to enumerate, one after another,
statements describing as yet unrealized sets of relevant initial conditions
(P’, P”, . . .) and then deduce what would be their resultant. By hypoth-
esis, these resultants (C’, C”, . . .) would have to be creative ones, for
otherwise T would not be the type of general theory of the creative
process (as opposed to some other kind of process) which we are here
envisaging. In other words, T would make creativity both too easy and
too cheap, since we could have creative achievements for the asking,
and this would mean that there would no longer be much point in
calling such achievements creative ones. Thirdly, T would turn every
creative achievement into something to be expected, given the relevant
prior conditions. But this means not only that there need be no surprises,
subjectively speaking, but also that there would be no objective novelty. For
the existence of T would entail that the achievement C was, so to speak,
already ‘contained within’ the prior conditions P, and this means that
relative to P, C was no novelty. Since, I take it, the novelty of C relative
20 larry briskman
to what preceded it is at least a necessary condition of C’s creativity, it

follows that T, far from making creativity necessary, would actually
make it impossible.8 In essence, then, a theory such as T would eliminate
all the mystery and miraculousness of creativity, but it would also
eliminate creativity itself.
The above arguments, if correct, go some way towards clearing up
what I take to be one of the main mysteries concerning creativity:
namely, the mystery of why creativity itself seems to be a mystery. That
is, the above arguments against the possibility of a general theory of
creativity along the lines of T yield a kind of meta-expectation to the
effect that creative achievements will seem mysterious and miraculous
even to those who are themselves responsible for them, for in the absence
of something like T, creative artists and scientists will be themselves
surprised by their own creative achievements; even they could not have
foreseen or expected them. Moreover, if a theory of creativity of type
T is impossible, then there can be no complete explanation of, and
hence no explicit set of instructions for, the attainment of creative
achievements. But this means that the creative thinker will himself be
unable to specify, even in a post hoc fashion, precisely how he reached his
achievement. Hence, his own creativeness will remain a mystery to him
in two ways: first, he could not have predicted it; second, he cannot
explain afterwards precisely how he managed it. Small wonder then that
creative thinkers appeal, at the crucial points in their description of
their own creative processes, to inspirations, Divine Grace, and so on.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, for example, was thus a better philosopher
than he knew when he reported that he did not know whence and how
his best musical ideas came, and that he could not force them.
The problem then, as I see it, is emphatically not to remove all the
miraculousness and mystery from creativity, for that would be to remove
creativity itself. Rather, it is to try to explain how creativity is possible,
without making it necessary. To adapt Jacques Monod’s beautiful idea
about the biosphere: we want a theory according to which creative
scientific and artistic achievements have the right to exist, not one
8
I should point out here that, strictly speaking, C would lack novelty relative not
to P alone, but only relative to P together with T. But on the assumption either that
what T describes existed prior to C, or that T itself existed prior to C, if follows that,
since C is deducible from P plus T, C is no novelty relative to what preceded it, to
what existed prior to it.
according to which they are under an obligation to exist.9 Hence, how

is creativity possible? Not, why is creativity necessary?
III Why the Interest?
I turn, in this section, away from the main problem to a more prosaic
aspect of creativity: namely, why have so many thinkers been interested
in it? Undoubtedly, different thinkers have different motivations, differ-
ent reasons for their interest. But it is, I think, instructive to investigate
a few typical reasons for this interest, as this will help to bring to the
surface some false hopes which, I believe, have been raised by research
into creativity. It will emerge, not unexpectedly perhaps, that the phi-
losophers have been on the side of the angels; while the social scientists,
and especially the psychologists, have been the villains of the piece.
Moreover, their very villainy will actually help us to zero in on our
initial problem.
On the whole then, contemporary philosophers have been concerned
with creativity as an aspect of the problem of human freedom. Popper,
for example, has argued10 that no scientific prediction (and hence,
no scientific explanation) of the growth of scientific knowledge is pos-
sible, on the grounds that we cannot come to know today what we
shall only come to know tomorrow. It follows that what Popper calls
the world of ‘objective mind’ (or of ‘theories, arguments, and prob-
lems-in-themselves’) is an essentially open world, in that it cannot
contain a theory which will predict the appearance in that world of
all future theories. But for Popper this world of objective mind (his
World 3) interacts both with the world of mental states (his World 2)
and with the world of physical states (his World 1)—the latter interac-
tion being mediated through the World 2.11 It follows that both the
mental world, and more importantly, the physical world, are also open;
and this both rules out a purely physical determinism and, in turn,
kicks open the door to the possibility of human freedom. In other
9
See J. Monod, Chance and Necessity (New York: Knopf, 1971), especially chap. 2.
10
In his “Indeterminism in Quantum Physics and in Classical Physics,” British Journal
for the Philosophy of Science 1 (1950), and elsewhere.
11
For Popper’s World 3 theory, see his Objective Knowledge (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1972), especially chap. 3, 4, 6. I should say here that my approach in this chapter
has been greatly influenced by Popper’s “objectivist” epistemology.
22 larry briskman
words, for Popper, the creative potentiality of human thought, the

possibility of genuinely creative, unpredictable additions to his World 3,
opens up the door to human freedom.
As a second example, consider the existentialist philosophers. For
them, the notion of human freedom is linked to Jean-Paul Sartre’s idea
of man’s being a ‘being-for-itself,’ a being whose existence precedes its
‘essence’ and who is thus condemned to creating his own essence, rather
than a ‘being-in-itself,’ a being whose essence is already defined for it.
In this way, existentialists too connect the possibility of human freedom
to the possibility of human creativity—man is free precisely because
he both can and must create himself, because his existence precedes
his essence. Thus, Sartre writes: “If existence really does precede
essence, there is no explaining things away by reference to a fixed and
given human nature. In other words, there is no determinism, man is
free, man is freedom.”12
Now although I would not wish to endorse a radical existentialist
view, the point I do wish to stress is that contemporary philosophers
have not, on the whole, seen creativity as something which can be
controlled, manipulated, engineered, or predicted. Quite the contrary,
they have seen in scientific and artistic creativity an essential element
of unpredictability, an area of human thought and action in which
men are capable of breaking out of their temporarily self-imposed (or
externally imposed) ‘prisons’ into roomier and better prisons. And the
man who can break out of his prison demonstrates his relative auton-
omy (or freedom) from it.13
In part, perhaps, these rather ‘heroic’ views of creativity may stem
from the fact that philosophical interest in it has not been pragmatically
oriented. The psychologist, however, has enjoyed no such luxury, for
psychological interest in creativity has, since the early 1950s, been
unabashedly pragmatic in orientation. J. P. Guilford, a highly influential
12
From J. P. Sartre, Existentialism, trans. Bernard Frechtman (New York: The Philo-
sophical Library, 1947).
13
A propos of this, Popper writes, “At any moment we are prisoners caught in the
framework of our theories; our expectations; our past experiences; our language. But
we are prisoners in a Pickwickian sense: if we try, we can break out of our framework
at any time” (“Normal Science and its Dangers,” in Criticism and the Growth of Knowl-
edge, eds. I. Lakatos and A. Musgrave (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970),
56. Popper does, I think, tend to underemphasize the difficulty of such “breakouts.”
In fact, I believe that were such breakouts easy to achieve, we would no longer see
them as creative.
figure in the psychological creativity ‘movement,’ writes, “the most

urgent reason [for studying creativity] is that we are in a mortal
struggle for the survival of our way of life in the world.”14 N. E. Golovin,
writing in 1959, warned that unless the United States either increased
the number of scientists and engineers she was producing or else
enhanced “the average level of creative capabilities of such scientists
and engineers” she was bound to lose out in the struggle with the Soviet
Union.15 While the American psychologist T. A. Razik was even more
explicit, saying, “In the presence of the Russian threat,” he wrote:
‘creativity’ could no longer be left to the chance occurrences of the genius;
neither could it be left in the realm of the wholly mysterious and the
untouchable. Men had to be able to do something about it; creativity had
to be a property in many men; it had to be something identifiable; it had
to be subject to the effects of efforts to gain more of it.16
In other words, creativity could (at least in part) be controlled, manip-
ulated, engineered, and predicted. In fact, it had to be.17
14
J. P. Guilford, “Traits of Creativity,” reprinted in Creativity, ed. P. E. Vernon,
167–188. Quote from 167.
15
N. E. Golovin, “The Creative Person in Science,” in C. W. Taylor and F. Barron,
eds., Scientific Creativity: Its Recognition and Development (New York: Wiley, 1963), 7–23
(Quote on 8). This volume consists of selected papers from three conferences on “The
Identification of Creative Scientific Talent” held at the University of Utah in 1954,
1957, and 1959, and supported by the U.S. National Science Foundation. This latter
fact, together with the fact that Golovin himself served for a time on the White House
staff, indicates both the degree of official U.S. support for the study of creativity and
the extent to which American psychologists encouraged the belief in the great practical
potentialities of their research.
16
T. A. Razik, “Psychometric Measurement of Creativity,” reprinted in Creativity,
ed. 155–166. The quote, with italics in the original, is from 156.
17
What, one wonders, is the reasoning behind such optimism? An instructive analogy
can be drawn between many twentieth century students of creativity and seventeenth
century students of methodology. For seventeenth century thinkers, like Bacon and
Descartes, scientific progress was to be guaranteed by “the man of method” whose
relentless application of the correct methodology would ensure continuous progress.
But we now live in a post-Einsteinian age (in art, a post-Picasso age) and our idea
of scientific (and artistic) progress is a more dramatic, revolutionary one. As a result,
I conjecture, many twentieth century thinkers have come to see ‘the man of creative
imagination’ as the new guarantor of scientific progress. Hence, the idea that creativ-
ity had to be something we could do something about; for otherwise scientific progress
becomes a contingent accident, a matter of fortuitous happenstance. The lesson, I suspect,
has yet to be learned that there is no guarantee of scientific progress, and that the
fact that we have any knowledge worthy of the name at all is itself a miraculously
improbable occurrence.
24 larry briskman
IV Product, Process, or Person?
Thus convinced of the potential practical utility, indeed urgency, of

research into creativity, psychometricians such as Guilford and Razik,
influenced by what could be called ‘the cult of personality,’ set out to
identify (through factor analysis) a set of personality traits which might
be thought to discriminate between creative and non-creative people.18
The idea behind this, one supposes, is that there is some unique con-
catenation of traits, which go to make up ‘the creative personality’ or
‘the creative person.’ Moreover, one assumes, this creative person will
initiate or carry out (or perhaps even ‘undergo’) some specifiable psy-
chological process—‘the creative process”—to reach some creative
outcome, “the creative product.” This, then, suggests the basis for a
kind of psychological research program,19 which offers us the hope that,
via an identification of the creative person and of the creative process,
we will be able to both explain and foster creativity and, at least in
part, predict both who is likely to produce creative products (creative
persons, who else?) and when they are so likely to produce them (when
they are initiating or undergoing a creative process, when else?).
And so it would be—if, that is, it were possible to identify creative
people or a creative process independently of the creative product. In
effect, it is just this possibility which I here wish to deny. Clearly, unless
we can identify a person as creative, or some special process as the
creative process, independently of the product, which is supposed to
be the outcome, we cannot predict the appearance of such a product
on the basis of theories of the creative personality or the creative pro-
cess. My claim, then, is that creative people and creative processes can
only be identified via our prior identification of their scientific or artis-
tic products as themselves creative. That is, the person is a creative one
and the process was a creative process only in the light of our prior
18
The main methodological tools of such studies were the so-called open-ended
tests of creativity. As Liam Hudson has pointed out in his book Contrary Imaginations
(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1967), 126: “Open-ended tests are known throughout the
United States as creativity tests. Yet . . . there is scarcely a shred of factual support for
this.” For the severe problems involved in validating such tests (that is, in showing that
they are actually testing creativity!) see R. J. Shapiro’s, “Criterion Problem,” in Creativ-
ity, ed. P. E. Vernon, 257–269.
19
The notion of a ‘research program’ is due largely to the writings of Popper,
Agassi, and especially Lakatos. For a discussion of psychology’s dominant modern
metaphysical research program—behaviorism—and some suggested reasons for its
current demise, see my “Is a Kuhnian Analysis Applicable to Psychology?” Science
Studies 2 (1972): 87–97. For further reflections on behaviorism, see my “Skinnerism
and Pseudo-Science,” Philosophy of the Social Sciences 9 (1979): 81–103.
evaluation of the product itself as a creative product. If this is correct,

then it follows that a scientific or artistic product is not creative because
it was produced by a creative person or a creative process, but rather
that both the psychological process involved, and the person involved,
are deemed to be creative because they succeed in producing a product
deemed to be creative. It is the creativity of the product which has, so
to speak, logical priority. It also follows that any attempted explanation
of the creativity of the product on the basis of the creativity of the
person, or of his (or her) psychological characteristics or processes,
commits the fallacy of post hoc, ergo propter hoc. This implies that the
psychological research program outlined earlier is an incoherent one.
Now the above account, if accepted, clearly raises a crucial question:
for if we cannot identify or explain the creativity of a product by ref-
erence to the person who produced it, or the process of which it is the
outcome, how can we identify and explain this creativity? The short
answer, I believe, is that we can only identify and explain the creativity
of a scientific or artistic product by reference to prior scientific or artis-
tic products. That is, a work of art or a scientific theory does not, as
it were, wear its creativity on its sleeve (“essentially,” or non-relationally);
but neither does it gain its creativity by being related, as outcome, to
some specific psychological process. Rather, it possesses it in relation
to previous artistic or scientific products; its creativity is to be understood
and explained in terms of its relation to these prior products. Clearly,
such an explanation can never have predictive import, for we shall have
to be already acquainted with the product whose creativity we want to
explain before we can explain why it is a creative product. Thus, even if
we could predict, based on our knowledge of persons’ psychology, that
they will produce certain products, even then we would not have predicted,
on that basis alone, that they will produce a creative product. For the
creativity of the product resides not in its psychological origins, but in
its objective relations to other, previous, products. And this, in effect,
provides one possible clue to the answer to our initial question: How
is creativity possible? For if the creativity of a product resides in its
relations to prior products, then creativity might be possible through
the critical interaction of the creator with those prior products them-
selves. And, as might be expected, that such a critical interaction will
actually yield a creative product is indeterminate and cannot be predicted.
In other words, creativity becomes possible, but not necessary.20
20
At this point, it will be useful to clear up two possible misunderstandings: First,
I am not here assuming that a critical interaction with prior products is the only way
26 larry briskman
V Priority of the Product: An Argument
The skeptic (in this instance, the psychologist) may still be unmoved,
for I have yet to give an argument for the thesis that the creativity of
the product has logical priority over the creativity of the person and
his (or her) psychological characteristics or processes. Nor have I suf-
ficiently argued the view that the creativity of the product cannot reside
in its psychological origins, but only in its objective relation to prior
products. Although these two theses seem to me to be almost obvious,
those who still harbor the hope that creativity must be fundamentally
a property of people and their psychology, and hence something which
we can (at least in part) control, foster, and predict, will rightly demand
an argument. I shall, therefore, have to oblige them.
A first, and crucial, argument seems to me to be this: in attempting
to deal with creativity “scientifically,” psychologists are obliged to assume
that creativity has the status of a fact—that it exists purely naturalisti-
cally, in the way that gravity exists, or the moon exists. Only against
such a background does it make sense to talk of the creative personal-
ity, or of creative “psychological processes,” as objects of scientific
investigation. Now even if there do exist, as facts, certain psychological
processes and personality traits related to creativity, that these are creative
psychological processes or traits of the creative personality is not itself
a fact but an evaluation. That is, although we can study certain per-
sonality traits and certain psychological processes as facts, we cannot
identify these personality traits or psychological processes as creative ones
independently of our standards and values. The reason for this is
simple. As I mentioned at the start of this essay, to adjudge some per-
son, process, or product to be creative is to bestow upon it an honorific
in which creativity might be possible. My point, rather, is that if the creativity of a

product resides in its relations to previous products, then the least mysterious way in
which creativity might be possible is via an interaction of the creator with those prior
products. Second, my point of view does not entail that whenever we adjudge a certain
product X to be creative that we are ipso facto forced into judging the producer of X to
be creative, or the process by which he created X to be a creative process. (Think of
the monkey at his typewriter typing out Hamlet and you will see why we do not want
to be so forced!) In other words, we may very well insist upon additional conditions
which have to be met (additional, that is, to the production of a creative product)
before we will call the producer, or his means of production, creative. In fact, I shall
attempt to spell out some of these additional conditions in Sections V and VII. What
my point of view does entail, however, is that we cannot call a person, or his processes,
creative without reference to his products; not that we must call him, or his processes,
creative given such reference.
title, to claim that it deserves to be highly prized, highly valued, for one
reason or another. The question then is: what do we evaluate, to what
do our standards apply, in the first instance? Do we initially evaluate
people, processes, or products as creative?
As far as I can see, all we have to go on, initially, is a person’s output
(linguistic, scientific, artistic, etc.). For example, would we know anything
of the musical “genius” of a Beethoven, or the scientific “creativity” of
an Einstein, if both had been totally paralyzed, deaf, dumb mutes unable
to externalize that genius in objective scientific or artistic products? Clearly
not. What if Ludwig van Beethoven had written only uninspiring pastiche,
or Einstein had never contributed more to science than a best selling
high school physics textbook? Would they still be the creative giants we
now consider them to be? Again, the answer, I think, is clearly not. In
other words, what we evaluate as creative, that to which our standards
apply in the first instance, are a person’s products. But since creative
psychological processes and traits of the creative personality do not exist
as facts per se, but only as the result of an evaluation, and since our
evaluation must, in the first instance, be applied to a person’s products,
it follows that we cannot identify, independently of such products,
creative persons or creative psychological processes. Moreover, psy-
chologists, insofar as they study such processes and personality traits as
facts per se, independently of all evaluations (that is, insofar as they
study them “scientifically”), simply are not studying creativity. In other
words, a purely “scientific” study of creativity, and a fortiori a purely
psychological (or even sociological) study of creativity, is impossible.21
It is, I think, important to be clear about the above argument. I do
not deny (but nor, for that matter, do I assert) that there may be certain
independently identifiable psychological processes or personality traits
21
Incidentally, a similar argument can be used to show that a purely scientific
psychology or sociology of knowledge is equally impossible. For ‘knowledge,’ like cre-
ativity, is a normative or evaluative notion, which applies, in the first instance, to the
outcomes or products of research and not to the psychological processes or sociological
conditions involved in research. Thus, we cannot identify as facts per se any sociological
conditions of knowledge. In other words, far from replacing epistemology, there cannot
even be a sociology or psychology of knowledge in the absence of epistemology. For
in the absence of epistemology (or ‘the criteriological science of knowledge,’ to adopt
Collingwood’s terminology) there simply is no knowledge, and so clearly no psychology
or sociology of it. Pace H. V. O. Quine, epistemology cannot be naturalized. For some
rather disastrous consequences of ignoring the evaluative aspect of knowledge, and
of blurring the fact/value distinction, see my “Toulmin’s Evolutionary Epistemology,”
Philosophical Quarterly 24 (1974): 60–69.
28 larry briskman
related to creativity. Nor do I deny that these can be studied as facts,

which is to say scientifically. What I do deny is that they exist qua creative
psychological processes, or qua traits of the creative personality, simply
as facts. Rather, that we are dealing with a creative psychological process,
or a trait of the creative personality, is a question of our evaluation, of
our standards. Since we can only apply these standards, in the first
instance, to the generated products, it follows that we cannot identify
the creativity of a psychological process, or of a personality trait, inde-
pendently of the product and of our evaluation of it. In other words,
(1) the creativity of the product has logical priority over (2) the creativ-
ity of persons and their psychological processes, for we cannot identify
(2) independently of (1). This means that we equally cannot explain
(1) by making reference to (2). So if we do want to explain the creativity
of some scientific or artistic product C, we shall, it appears, have to
make reference not to (2), but to C’s objective relation to prior scientific
or artistic achievements. These two theses are those I set out to argue.
VI Priority of the Product: A Further Argument
It might, perhaps, be thought that the above argument is too abstract

or conceptual to carry much conviction. In this section, I shall attempt
to offer a more “concrete” indication of the priority of creative prod-
ucts over any purely psychological account of the creative process
(leaving aside now any consideration of the creative person or traits of
the creative personality). Basically, what I shall attempt to argue here
is that we cannot even describe, let alone understand or explain, the
creative process without reference to the products which are its outcome.
In other words, even if we could, per impossibile, identify some psycho-
logical process as a creative one independently of our identification of
its outcome (or product) as creative, even then we could not describe
this process in the absence of reference to its products, and so could
not conceptualize it as being purely psychological.
Consider, then, some creative artist (a painter, say) who wants to
express some idea, some emotion, some vision; or who desires to solve
some artistic problem (for example, the problem of “painting a dark
object in the dark”);22 or who wants to give the illusion of reality. Con-
22
The Japanese painter, Yasuo Kuniyoshi, reports (in The Creative Process: A Symposium,
ed. B. Ghiselin [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1952], 55) that this was, in
sider, equally, a theoretical physicist trying to explain some recalcitrant

experimental result; or an experimentalist attempting to devise some
method for testing a theoretical prediction. It must, I think, be obvious
that it would be highly unlikely for the artist to have the completed
painting in his mind, all at once, right from the very start; or for the
theoretician to have his complete final explanatory structure before
him, in his mind’s eye, at the very moment he began work on his
problem. Rather, one would expect, the artist must build up his paint-
ing gradually, stroke by stroke; while the theoretician must build up his
conjectural explanation bit by bit (even though he may have got his
explanatory “core idea” in a flash). But if this is the case, then it is
highly likely that the very thought processes of the artist or scientist
will themselves be affected by the work done so far. In other words, the
creator, in his very process of creation, is constantly interacting with
his own prior products; and this interaction is one of genuine feedback,
for the creator is as much influenced by his own initial creations as
these were influenced by him. Thus, for example, the scientist’s own
subjective thinking is itself as much a product of his objective efforts
as these are a product of his thinking. While with respect to art, the
American painter Ben Shahn makes the same point forcefully: “Paint-
ing,” he says, “is both creative and responsive. It is an intimately com-
municative affair between painter and his painting, a conversation back
and forth, the painting telling the painter even as it receives its shape
and form.”23
If all this is correct, then it follows that we shall not be able to
describe, let alone understand, the creative process unless we make
reference to the “intermediary” products which function, so to speak,
as “tools” in the creative process itself. In other words, it once again
seems that we cannot think of the creative process as being a purely
psychological process, for our account of that process shall have to
make reference not only to the psychological processes of the creator
but also to the (intermediary) products which are themselves helping
fact, an artistic problem which he tried to solve. The idea that the artist confronts
objective problems is well known to any reader of Gombrich’s brilliant Art and Illusion
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1960). I should mention that in my view an
artist’s subjective desire to express some idea, emotion, or vision itself constitutes an
objective artistic problem—namely, the problem of how to express it given the means
at his disposal. Such a problem may only be soluble if the artist invents or discovers
new means, not previously at his disposal. We might call this, paraphrasing Lakatos,
a ‘creative problem-shift.’
23
Ben Shahn, “The Biography of a Painting,” in Creativity in the Arts, ed. V. Tomas, 32.
30 larry briskman
to shape these psychological processes. To put it bluntly: not only are

we unable to identify a psychological process as creative in the absence
of an identification (or evaluation) of its resultant product as itself
creative, but we are unable to identify any purely psychological process at all
as the creative process. For any such process which we are likely to call
creative will involve an ineliminable interaction between the creator’s
psychological states and his own products, with the latter having a
genuine feedback upon, and thus themselves actually helping to create,
the former. So once again we can see a kind of priority in the product;
for although we can describe the creativity of the product without
reference to any psychological process (i.e., we can describe it with
reference to prior products), we cannot describe the creativity of some
psychological process without reference to any products. And this is
true for two reasons: first, because the process is a creative one only if
it issues in a product deemed to be a creative one; and second, because
any process worthy of the name creative will involve an ineliminable
interaction with intermediary products which themselves help to create
the psychological states of the creator.24
VII Aspects of Creative Products
So far, I have been arguing for a non-psychological approach to the

problem of creativity. It is, however, time to put a little more meat onto
the anti-psychological bones, and to outline what I hope is a plausible
solution to our main problem: namely, how is creativity possible? As I
have already indicated, we cannot identify a process as creative until
we have identified (or evaluated) its outcome or product to be creative.
So we may say that the creativity of the product will set the job specifi-
24
It might here be objected that the fact that creative people talk of ‘inspiration,’
‘Divine Grace,’ ‘sudden and unexpected ideas,’ ‘bisociation,’ and so on when describ-
ing their own creative work invalidates my argument. I do not agree—such sudden
flashes of ‘illumination’ are invariably preceded by the production of unsuccessful
efforts which themselves help to shape the very illumination in question. Moreover, it
might be said that examples such as Coleridge’s composing of “Kubla Kahn” refutes
my suggestion, in that it seems to have emerged full-blown from Coleridge’s head
without the benefit of any interaction with intermediary products. Again, I am not so
sure—at the very least Coleridge had to critically interact with his ‘finished’ product
before accepting it as finished, and this means that before this conscious acceptance the
product can be thought of as an intermediary one even though it may be identical
to the finished one!
cation for any process which we will deem to be creative. That is, until
we have answered the question, “What aspects of artistic and scientific
products lead us to evaluate them as creative ones?” we cannot answer
the question “What kind of process could possibly result in such pro-
ducts?” and so cannot answer our primary question “How is creativity
possible?” For creativity is only possible insofar as it is possible to pro-
duce creative products. In this section, then, I shall have to concentrate
on the former question, and attempt to outline some aspects of creative
products. Only afterwards will we be in a position to tackle our main
question head on.
One of the most striking—and in way, paradoxical—features of great
creative advances is how often they appear to be, with hindsight, almost
obvious. Einstein puts the point nicely: “In the light of knowledge
attained, the happy achievement seems almost a matter of course, and
any intelligent student can grasp it without too much trouble. But the
years of anxious searching in the dark, with their intense longing, their
alternation of confidence and exhaustion, and the final emergence into
the light—only those who have themselves experienced it can under-
stand that.”25
But if creative achievements often seem obvious, “a matter of course,”
in retrospect, why are they so difficult to achieve? The answer lies,
naturally enough, in Einstein’s telling phrase about “the years of anx-
ious searching in the dark.” That is, great creative advances tend to shed
light where none has been shed before; one thus cannot approach one’s
target clearly, because until one has actually reached it, one cannot say
precisely what it is (or even if it exists).26 Popper makes substantially
the same point when he compares the quest for new knowledge with
the situation of “a blind man who searches in a dark room for a black
hat which is—perhaps—not there.”27 Small wonder, then, that creative
25
Quoted in Banesh Hoffmann and Helen Dukas, Albert Einstein: Creator and Rebel
(New York: Viking, 1972), 124.
26
This fact about creativity calls to mind what could be called ‘Plato’s Paradox’:
namely, that one cannot search for something unless one knows what one is searching
for. But plausibly one cannot know what one is searching for until one has actually found
it. Hence, one cannot search for something until one has found it. In other words, one
cannot search for something! This argument is not simply a sophism, for it indicates
that one must either have some imprecise idea of what one is looking for, or else some
recognitional criteria for saying that one has found what one is looking for. The importance
of such recognitional criteria for creative activity will be discussed in Section VII.
27
Karl Popper, “Replies to my Critics,” in The Philosophy of Karl Popper, ed. P. Schilpp
(LaSalle: Open Court, 1974), vol. 2, 1061.
32 larry briskman
advances may be simultaneously difficult to make and yet, once made,

appear obvious or a “matter of course.” For after the advance, we are
bathing in its reflected light, and some of that light may very well reflect
back onto that very advance itself. Why, then, are creative advances in
science or art the result of such an “anxious searching in the dark”?
What features of the creative scientific, or artistic product are respon-
sible for this? A first step on the way to an answer can, I think, be
taken if we recognize that, as a minimum requirement, a creative
product must be a novel product. Now the notion of novelty requires a
background—what is novel against one background may not be novel
relative to another background. In other words, the notion of absolute
novelty is incoherent; we can only judge the novelty of a product
by comparing it to those previous products which constitute the back-
ground against which it emerged. Thus, at the very least, a creative
product must not be contained within, so to speak, the background of
prior products; this partially accounts for the fact that the creator is
“in the dark.”
But the novelty of a product is clearly only a necessary condition of
its creativity, not a sufficient condition: for the madman who, in Bertrand
Russell’s apt phrase, believes himself to be a poached egg may very
well be uttering a novel thought, but few of us, I imagine, would want
to say that he was producing a creative one. So if novelty is not enough,
what ingredients need be added in order to get creativity? A second
requirement, I maintain, is that the novelty must be put to some good
purpose. It must achieve some desired or desirable result. In short, it
must be valuable novelty. My suggestion is that a scientific or artistic
product is valuable insofar as it constitutes or incorporates a solution to
a problem; and the notion of a problem, like the notion of novelty,
demands a background; what is problematic against one background
may not be problematic against another. But this means that the notion
of a solution to a problem must be relative to a background as well.
Now a genuine problem is always one that cannot be solved simply with
the available means, or on the basis of the background against which
it is a problem. In other words, once we see creative products as solu-
tions to problems, we can understand why they must be novel; for
insofar as a genuine problem only emerges against a background, and
cannot be solved on the basis of that background alone, a solution to
such a problem must constitute a novel addition to that background.
Moreover, it also follows that although the creative product is a novel
one, a kind of “internal connection” must exist between this novel
product and the background of prior products—namely, the internal

connection of a solution to the problem it solves.28
We have thus far reached the following result: a creative scientific or
artistic product constitutes or incorporates a novel solution to a problem,
inherent in a background of prior products, but not soluble based on
these prior products themselves. But this is not yet the whole story, for
novel solutions to problem-solutions may be related to their background
in at least two different ways. First, they may simply go beyond, or
extend, the existing background. Second, and more interestingly, they
may actually conflict with this existing background, or necessitate the
modification of this background. That is, they may improve upon, and
thus supplant, parts of this background. In fact, it seems to me that
when we are thinking of really great creative achievements (especially
in science, although similar considerations can, I think, be applied to
certain aspects of art) we are in the main thinking of this latter case.
For example, having inherited the problem of unifying terrestrial and
celestial physics from the tradition of Galileo and Kepler, Isaac Newton
actually solves the problem in such a way as to force the modification
of that tradition. For his solution conflicts with, and improves upon,
the theories of Galileo and Kepler; it supplants them while at the same
time explaining them (as limiting cases). Equally, Einstein inherits the
problem of reconciling Newtonian mechanics with Maxwellian elec-
trodynamics, and the theory he puts forward solves the problem in such
a way as to supersede and replace Newton’s theory. In other words,
really outstanding creative achievements have a habit of breaking, in
important ways, with the tradition out of which they emerged. They,
so to speak, transcend this tradition. Moreover, insofar as creative prod-
ucts actually conflict with the tradition out of which they emerge,
insofar as they are prohibited by that tradition, creative thinking actu-
ally involves the thinking of forbidden thoughts.29 No wonder then that
28
Interestingly, the idea that a creative product is a novel problem-solution enables
us to explain how even old ideas may qualify as creative products. For the required
novelty is no longer sheer temporal novelty; rather it is the novelty of a solution rela-
tive to a problem. An old idea, invoked in a new problem-situation, could constitute
a novel solution. We might, for example, construe Dalton’s creativity in this light, for
Dalton recognized in the old physical ideas of the atomists the potential solution to a
pressing chemical problem (that of explaining the law of constant proportions) and thus
built his ‘new system of chemical philosophy’ upon an atomistic basis. In other words,
Dalton did not create the idea of atoms, but he used that idea creatively.
29
I owe this way of seeing the thing to Stanley Eveling.
34 larry briskman
the creative process involves not only a searching in the dark but also,
as Einstein put it, an “anxious searching in the dark.”
We are now almost in a position to complete our characterization
of the creative product. Only one important aspect remains—that of
evaluation. For a creative product must not only incorporate a novel
problem-solution conflicting with the tradition out of which it emerged,
it must also be an acceptable problem-solution. That is, it must be
evaluated favorably; it must meet certain standards or certain criteria
of acceptability. Such standards will, of course, differ for different
endeavors, and those applicable in science will quite reasonably diverge
from those applicable to art (although there are, I think, more simi-
larities here than are often imagined). Nevertheless, the point remains
that before a novel problem-solution can be given the honorific title
creative, it must be evaluated positively as meeting certain standards.
Moreover, these standards will normally themselves be incorporated
into the background of prior products, in the tradition, against which
the problem-solution has emerged.30 In other words, from the point of
view of the background itself, the creative product surpasses that back-
ground in a positively evaluated way, in a way meeting certain stringent
requirements or standards already inherent in that background.
To sum up this section: a creative scientific, or artistic, product has,
I suggest, the following characteristics. First, relative to the background
of prior products, it is a novel product. Second, it puts this novelty to
a desirable purpose by solving a problem, such problems being themselves
relative to this background and emerging from it. Third, it does so in
such a way as to actually conflict with parts of this background, to neces-
sitate its partial modification, and to supplant and improve upon parts
of it. Finally, this novel, conflicting, problem-solution must be favorably
evaluated; it must meet certain exacting standards which are themselves
part of the background it partially supplants. I shall call any product,
30
It might be thought that this entails that creative contributions to ‘methodology’
or ‘criteriology’ (i.e., the theory of rational standards) is impossible. This is a mistake:
a novel methodological idea which solves an outstanding problem in our current meth-
odological theories may actually constitute an improvement from the point of view
of the older standards themselves. This, in effect, is how the rational improvement of
rational standards is itself possible. Agassi has christened this view ‘the bootstrap theory
of rationality’ and suggests that of a series of criteria of rationality each can constitute
‘an improvement on its predecessor by its predecessor’s own lights.’ See Joseph Agassi,
“Criteria for Plausible Arguments,” Mind 83 (1974): 406–416. For further elaboration of,
and suggested modifications to, Agassi’s idea of bootstrap rationality, see my “Historicist
Relativism and Bootstrap Rationality,” The Monist 60 (1977): 509–539.
which meets all four of these demands a “transcendent product,” for

it may be said to transcend the background of prior products against
which it emerged. In short, then, the thesis of this section can be sim-
ply stated: creative scientific or artistic products are transcendent prod-
ucts: they transcend the tradition out of which they sprang.31
VIII How Is Creativity Possible?
A creative product, then, is a transcendent product. So the question

“How is creativity possible?” can be significantly reformulated: How,
after all, is it possible to produce transcendent products? In this section
I shall have to canvass, all too briefly, I am afraid, a number of differ-
ent possible answers to this question, and shall use the results of the
previous section as the desiderata with which any successful theory or
model of the creative process will have to cope. In other words, the
transcendent nature of creative products shall constitute the explicandum,
and an acceptable model of the creative process shall have to explain
how it is possible for such products to exist.
As a first possibility, consider what could be called the mechanistic
approach to the creative process. The mechanist tends to see all natu-
ral processes (and hence, for him, the creative process) as occurring
according to law; he believes that if some thing (or state of affairs)
S exists at time t1 then there must have existed prior things (or states of
affairs) at an earlier time t0 which, together with these laws, are respon-
sible for the appearance of S. The mechanist need not necessarily be
a determinist (although he usually is), for some of his laws might
be probabilistic only. But what he insists upon is that one be able to
trace the existence of S back to earlier conditions out of which it arose
according to law. Can such a model account for the appearance of a
transcendent product C? The answer, I think, is pretty clearly “no.”
31
The notion of transcendence here developed is not an absolute one—it admits of
degrees. For differing products may meet the four demands to a greater or lesser extent;
or a product may meet only some of the demands and not others. For example, it
might meet demands 1, 2, and 4, yet fail to meet demand 3 (i.e., it fails to necessitate
any alterations in the background). Thus, from the point of view of this chapter, it is
perfectly sensible to talk of degrees of creativity as well. This seems to me to be a crucially
valuable result. In fact, I would say that any theory, which made creativity into an
‘all-or-nothing’ thing (as Koestler’s ‘bisociative’ theory seems to do) should, for that
very reason, be rejected.
36 larry briskman
First, the arguments presented in Sections I, IV, and V already militate

against the mechanist. Second, it is difficult to see how such a model
could make sense of the novelty of C, for insofar as it tries to explain
the appearance of C based on prior conditions, it is trying to trace
what is new back to that which is old. Moreover, what are the prior
conditions against which a transcendent product appears? Seemingly
these will consist, in the main, of the background of prior products
and especially the problem, emerging out of them, which the transcen-
dent product comes to solve. But this means that the mechanist must
be conceiving of the laws governing the creative process, which trans-
form the prior conditions into C, as a kind of problem-solving algorithm;
that is, a kind of function which “maps” the prior conditions (including
the problem) into a resultant outcome C (incorporating a solution). But
if such a problem-solving algorithm actually exists, then there are in
fact no genuinely open problems (except, perhaps, that of discovering
the algorithm!), and so the very possibility of producing transcendent
products disappears.32 We thus reach a conclusion very much in the
spirit of Section I: mechanism, far from making creativity possible,
would actually rule it out.
Traditionally, at least since the eighteenth century, the only alterna-
tive that philosophers have attributed to mechanism is randomness, or
pure chance. Moreover, as every geneticist knows, randomness can be
a fertile source of novelty. In fact, it almost has to be, since, by defini-
tion, pure randomness can result in virtually anything, including novelty.
So randomness, as a model of the creative process, at least has this in
its favor: it can account for the possibility of novelty. But this is about
all. For one of the most striking facts about transcendent products is
their appropriateness, the internal connection which exists between these
products and the background against which they emerge. This appro-
priateness is shown not only in such products constituting solutions to
problems, but also in the fact that they meet certain exacting standards,
32
One can, I think, go even further and prove that no such problem-solving algo-
rithm (call it F ) can exist. For F would map problems into solutions (i.e., Solution=F
[Problem]). But problems are themselves functions of the background of prior products
(i.e., Problem=f [Background]). Combining these two we get that Solution=F( f [Back-
ground]). But solutions often contradict this background. How can a function map an
x into something inconsistent with x? Only, I suspect, by being itself inconsistent. So
no consistent problem-solving algorithm of the type envisaged can exist and an incon-
sistent one would be of no use whatsoever, since out of it we could get anything as a
solution to anything!
and it would, I think, be a bit too miraculous if products exhibiting

these characteristics were the outcome of pure chance. Moreover,
randomness would, in any case, have to be supplemented by something
like recognition criteria, or selection criteria; otherwise the creator would
either just go on generating products ad infinitum, or else he would
stop by pure chance. So randomness is not enough; it cannot explain
the appropriateness of transcendent products.
The failure of both mechanism and randomness to account for the
possibility of creativity has actually led some philosophers to entertain a
teleological model of the creative process: that is, the idea that somehow
or other the creator is actually being “pulled” into the future by the
transcendent product which he has not yet produced. Apart from
the fact that I find this idea mildly incoherent, in that it insists upon “the
control by the not-yet-there total situation over the present,”33 it has other
weaknesses as well. For in a sense, like mechanism, the teleological account
seems to explain too much: for if the artist or scientist is being pulled into
the future by his final creation, why does he ever fail? Why is the produc-
tion of transcendent products so difficult? Why all the anxious searching
in the dark? Moreover, and it seems to me that this is crucial, if the
creator is being pulled into the future by his final product, how can he
ever fail to recognize it once he has reached it? For he seemingly will no
longer feel any pull. But there are some dramatic examples of creators
actually hitting upon what ultimately turned out to be their final product,
only to reject it. Thus Einstein, in 1913 or 1914, generated and consid-
ered the “actual field equations only to discard them for what at the time
seemed compelling reasons.”34 If these field equations were themselves
actually pulling Einstein towards them, his discarding of them is well
nigh incomprehensible.
But the teleologist does have a point in his favor: the creator is being
influenced by his products, only by the products he has managed to
generate so far and not by some hypothetical product which is not yet
there. Moreover, his activity is goal-directed, purposive, for he is trying
to solve a problem. In addition, the creator will himself normally be
aware of those very standards which his solution will have to meet if
it is to be an acceptable one, and he can thus employ these standards
as part of his solution-recognition apparatus. He can thus accept or
33
E. Vivas, “Naturalism and Creativity,” in Creativity in the Arts, ed. V. Tomas, 90.
34
Banesh Hoffmann and Helen Dukas, 119.
38 larry briskman
reject aspects of what he has done so far on the basis of his knowledge
of the problem he is trying to solve and of the standards which his
solution must meet. In other words, we can say that the creator is under
the “plastic” or “soft” control of his job specification—of the problem,
and of the standards required of a solution.35
We are, I think, finally in a position to outline a plausible answer to
our question. Basically, the answer rests upon the Darwinian idea of
blind variation and selective retention. As should be obvious, Darwin-
ism manages to transcend the limits of a strict mechanism (by recogniz-
ing the fertility of blind variation) while avoiding an out-and-out
teleology (since these variations are selected rather than directed). This
appears to be exactly what we are looking for—namely, a process
combining “blindness” with “control.” In other words, I am suggesting
that we may plausibly view the creative process on a Darwinian model,
as a case of the blind generation of variants coupled with the selective
retention of “successful” variants, all under the plastic control of the
creative job specification.36
To elaborate: we want a process which allows for the production of
novelty but which is not random, for we want to be able to explain the
appropriateness of the creative product. Moreover, we want a process in
which the final product does not itself direct its very production—that
is, we want a process which is blind. However, we also need a process
in which the question of production has, in effect, been controlled
(plastically) by those very factors which will enable the product to be
a transcendent one—in other words, the process, cannot be too blind.
The only way to satisfy all of these desiderata at once, I suggest, is to
see the creator as (1) critically interacting with prior products, with a
tradition, so as to put himself “in touch” with problems and standards
for acceptable solutions; (2) generating blindly, but not randomly, a hope-
fully potential solution or fragments of such a solution—blindly, because
these are generated without foreknowledge of success; not randomly,
35
The notion of plastic control is due to Popper. The reason that the control of
problems and standards is only plastic or soft (as opposed to ‘cast-iron’) is that these
can themselves be modified by the very attempts to solve them or satisfy them.
36
The psychologist Donald Campbell has already suggested a Darwinian model of
the creative process in his paper, “Blind Variation and Selective Retention in Creative
Thought as in Other Knowledge Processes,” Psychological Review 67 (1960): 380–400.
Where my account differs from his, however, is in seeing this Darwinian process as
under the plastic control of the creative job specification. In a sense, from my point
of view, Campbell’s process is just a bit too blind.
because the generation is itself already under the plastic control of the
relevant problem, the background of prior products, and the relevant
standards; (3) critically interacting with this initial, fragmentary product
so as to select or reject it, either in part or in its entirety, such a selec-
tion procedure being again under the plastic control of the problem,
the background, and the relevant standards; (4) generating blindly, but
not randomly, further hopefully potential solutions or fragments, this
time under the plastic control not only of the initial problem, the
background, and the relevant standards, but also under the plastic
control of what he has already done, of his initial effort; (5) repeat step
(3) (that is, critical selection); (6) repeat step (4) (that is, blind, but not
random, generation); etc. until, hopefully, one has managed to generate
or assemble a product which either meets the initial job specification
or else meets some improved job specification—this improved job
specification being itself the outcome of the above process.
It is essential to recognize that if the above schema is to work, the
control which the problem, the relevant standards, and especially the
background of prior products (the background “knowledge,” so to
speak) exercise over the creator must be a plastic control, not a “cast-
iron” one. For the problem, standards, or background knowledge may
themselves have to be modified during the very process itself. This
becomes particularly clear if we remember that often the way to a
solution to a problem is actually blocked by some of the background
knowledge, even though the problem owes its very existence to this
background knowledge. In this event, the creator will not be able to
solve his problem unless he generates a potential solution that actually
conflicts with this background knowledge; and this helps to explain why
our third requirement on transcendent products sometimes must be
fulfilled, if some of the other requirements are also to be fulfilled.
Naturally, however, since the above process is blind—that is, since there
is no foreknowledge of a solution—the creator cannot know (in advance)
that his way will be blocked by a particular aspect of the background.
But he might, through constant frustration, come to suspect that it is
being so blocked, and thus loosen the control that he will allow this
background to have over him; that is, he may be driven into becoming
a potential revolutionary! Equally, however, his frustration might lead
him to suspect that the very problem itself, which he is trying to solve,
is in need of radical reformulation, and in this case he will loosen the
control which his initial formulation has exercised over his generation
and selection of variants. Clearly, if the control of either the background
40 larry briskman
or the problem were cast-iron, it would be impossible for the creator

to loosen their control over his generation and selection of variants. In
other words, the plasticity of the control is crucial to the possibility of
creativity, but so is the control itself. This is, perhaps, singularly para-
doxical and mysterious; but then again, so is what we are trying to
explain with its help.
The above account is, I fear, no more than the sketch of a theory,
not a full-blown one. But it does, I believe, indicate how it might be
possible to produce transcendent products, for it does help us to under-
stand both the novelty and appropriateness of such products, as well
as why they may come to conflict with the tradition out of which they
sprang. Moreover, such a theory does not explain too much, for it clearly
does not guarantee success. Nor does it turn creative achievements into
something to be expected, or a matter of course. Just as evolutionary
theory does not make Homo Sapiens into a necessary being, but does
give him the right to exist, so too the theory of the creative process
which I have presented gives transcendent products the right to exist,
but no existential necessity. It thus leaves ample room for the mystery
and miraculousness of great creative achievements; and for the inspira-
tion, luck, or Divine Grace which great creators appeal to in their
descriptions of their own creative processes.
IX Conclusion: Transcendence and Self-Transcendence
I have been arguing that creative products are what I have termed
transcendent products—that they transcend the tradition out of which
they spring. I have also been arguing that neither mechanism, nor pure
randomness, nor teleology will ever be able to satisfactorily account for
the emergence of such products, and so explain how creativity is pos-
sible. Rather, I have suggested, we must seek the explanation in a
Darwinian process of variation and selection, which is itself under the
plastic control, not of the yet-to-be realized transcendent product, but
of the already realized idea of such products. But I cannot conclude
without a brief mention of what I see to be the implications of all this
for the creator himself; for the person who is, after all, ultimately
responsible for the creative achievement he has produced.
It is well to remember that creative scientists and artists are as much
the inheritors of tradition as they is the transcenders of tradition. In
a sense, the scientist or artist is personally as much the product of a
tradition as the producer of a product, which transcends that tradition.

In other words, creative artists or scientists do not simply produce a
transcendent product; in a sense, they actually transcend themselves. They
produce something that they could not have willed, and which they
could not know they had the ability to produce. As the bearer of tra-
dition, they have not only gone beyond it, they have gone beyond
themselves; they have transcended their Selves. One is reminded of the
beautiful story about Haydn who, listening for the first time to his
Creation, broke into tears and said: “I have not written this.”37
37
Reported in Popper’s Objective Knowledge, 180. The idea of self-transcendence has
been beautifully explored in Gombrich’s paper, “Art and Self-Transcendence,” in The
Palace of Value in a World of Facts, eds. A. Tiselius and S. Nilsson (New York: Wiley
Interscience Division, 1970) 125–133.
CHAPTER THREE
THE RATIONALITY OF CREATIVITY1
I. C. Jarvie
I Introduction
My title links two abstract nouns that are usually set over against each
other, seen as contrasting, if not in opposition. The view that informs
this paper is that what can usefully be said about creativity is very
little, and rather trite; and that it is co-extensive with the rational ele-
ment in creativity. There may or may not be other than rational ele-
ments in creativity; confronted with them, my inclination would be for
the first time to invoke Wittgenstein: “whereof one cannot speak, thereof
one should be silent.” The little I think can be said about the rational-
ity of creativity will be confined to section five. The preceding sections
will offer a general critique of the literature, bringing out its poverty
and its irrationality.
Much of the growing literature on creativity,2 it seems to me, bypasses
several quite decisive arguments. Properly understood, these arguments
vitiate much of the debate in that literature. These arguments are the
following: the problem to be solved by studying creativity is not clearly
specified; creativity is treated as a psychological rather than a logical
issue; that to explain creativity is to explain it away; and, when we
create an explanation that explains creativity, it also, paradoxically, must
explain itself. To each of these arguments I shall devote a section.
1
Reprinted from The Concept of Creativity in Science and Art, eds. D. Dutton and
M. Krausz (The Hague/Boston/London: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1981), 109–128,
all rights reserved.
2
See J. P. Guilford, “Creativity,” American Psychologist 5 (1950): 444–454; Arthur
Koestler, The Act of Creation (London: Hutchinson, 1964); P. E. Vernon, Creativity (Har-
mondsworth: Penguin, 1970); J. W. Getzels and P. W. Jackson, Creativity and Intelligence
(New York: Wiley, 1962); Anthony Storr, The Dynamics of Creation (New York: Atheneum,
1972); Journal of Creative Behaviour (1967).
44 i. c. jarvie
II What Is the Problem?
What problem is it intended that theories of creativity solve? This, to

be sure, is a question rather than an argument. But the absence of a
satisfactory answer to the question can be turned into an argument
against the enterprise. Einstein remarked in several places that formu-
lating the problem clearly constitutes the better part of the solution.
Of course, different writers work on different problems. Were I to set
problems concerning creativity for others to work on, I might instance
the paradox that the originality of an original idea only becomes ‘vis-
ible’ against the background of an intellectual tradition, and those in
an intellectual tradition can become trapped in it and blind to new
ideas. I might ask whether ideas accumulate, or are reached in one
jump. My self-imposed task is not, however, to set problems in this way;
it is to express dissatisfaction with a body of literature.
J. P. Guilford,3 in a paper often cited as initiating the modern litera-
ture on creativity, posed two questions for further research. (1) How
can we discover creative promise in our children and youth? (2) How
can we promote the development of creative personalities? Guilford
was, at the time, President of the American Psychological Association,
and his setting up of the problems for future research deserves close
scrutiny. (1) tells us some children may be creatively promising. (2) implies
that there are ‘creative personalities’ (creatively promising people?),
whose development can be promoted. Creativity, then, is envisaged by
Guilford as some sort of dependent variable, and the idea is to spot it
and get to work on those factors, which affect it, in order to foster it.
But what is creativity that we should be interested in discovering it
and promoting it? Presumably, it is something like the ability to produce
new and original ideas, creations, inventions, and the like. But why
should we want to discover thinkers, artists, and inventors, and promote
their development? Is it because we want to increase the output of
papers, works of art, and patents? Academics, art critics, and patent
offices already complain loudly that they can scarcely keep up with the
flood. And perhaps much of the flood are ideas, works of art, and
inventions that are neither new, nor original, but merely dross. Output
alone, then, I take it, cannot be the object of promoting creativity.
Obviously, it is output of quality that is to be promoted.
3
J. P. Guilford, “Creativity.”
the rationality of creativity 45
This aim is a rather complex one. Should there be an increase in

the output of quality; or that plus a decrease in the output of trash;
or merely a decrease in the output of trash? If the second or third,
then an overall drop in output as such seems likely; if the first, I would
suggest it is impossible—you get more quality only by getting more,
and that includes more trash. At the moment, the rate of trash produc-
tion seems to vary directly with the rate of production. Inverting the
relationship might be very desirable. Its accomplishment strikes me as
very unlikely, as I shall argue below, because part of the price of
maximizing output is a great deal of waste.
Another possible answer to why we want to spot creativity is not
because we want to increase it in general, but because we want urgently
to foster it in particular cases. Think-tanks, brainstorm sessions, game
theory, war games, contingency planning, futurology and economic
model-builders all yearn to be creative in this sense; so do cancer
researchers, unified field theorists, and governments faced with inflation.
All these groups act as though a general theory of creativity might help
them to achieve solutions to their problems, and might also help to
achieve them sooner. These aims are at once absurdly over-ambitious
and perfectly straightforward. It is absurd to imagine us ever being able
to solve such pressing problems in a relatively straightforward or
mechanical way. Our world does not seem to be made like that. If we
routinize a type of problem, as we have in mathematics with tables,
logarithms and calculators, that only transfers our ambition from what
is now ‘routine calculation,’ to deeper and harder problems. The com-
mon sense side of the ambition to crack the pressing problems of
humanity is heuristics and rules of thumb; general advice for analyzing
problems, thinking about them, and so on. These have been forthcom-
ing since intellectual endeavor began. An increase in them looks unlikely,
on the face of it, to help with urgent problems.
So far, I have given two answers to the question of why we should
want to discover and promote creativity. One is to increase quality
output, the other is to facilitate the solution to urgent problems. Both
answers are rather pragmatic; to do with practical social gains. Perhaps
this is because we have implicitly equated creativity with cognition and
technology, rather than with art. We rarely hear cries for an increase
in the bulk quantity of art (even of quality art), unless it be from artists;
artistic output is rarely acknowledged to be socially urgent (although a
case can be made). But for miracle drugs, new sources of energy, even
Polaroid movies, there is social urgency. As regards artistic creativity,
46 i. c. jarvie
then, neither output nor urgency constitutes a good reason for investi-
gation. We need a third answer to the question ‘why research into
creativity at all,’ an answer that is not pragmatic, and that takes account
of works of art as well as cognition and technology. My suggestion
would be: the simple desire to explain the creative achievement, to
understand it better, to get at the truth about it. At the moment, cre-
ativity is in the virtus dormativa phase: ‘creativity’ is a property ascribed
to certain artistic and intellectual achievements by certain creators who
are said to possess the capacity to ‘create,’ as evidenced by the creativ-
ity of their work.
This is a parlous state of affairs indeed—provided only that an
explanation of creativity is possible (my skepticism on this score will
emerge presently). What, exactly, is in need of explanation; what is the
problem? What fact or facts clash with what beliefs, theories, or expec-
tations in the matter of creativity? I confess to not being sure. The
obvious explanation of such uncertainty is that different writers have
different problems, as we have already noted. There is, however, the
possibility that the problems are connected, and hence can be set out
in an orderly way. My suggestion for the status of most fundamental
problem of all, from which the others branch off, is this. Creative
achievements are unique events; explanatory progress is made only
with repeatable events. Hence there is something inexplicable about
creativity. Or, rather, to all new, interesting, novel, ingenious, pleasing,
inventive, gifted: and other cognitive, technological: and artistic acts
there is attributed a common property, something they all exemplify,
something that can thus be studied and explained: this is called creativ-
ity. Thus the inaccessible uniqueness of creation is made to yield to
the belief that nothing is mysterious, remote, inexplicable.
This fundamental problem is, I believe, absorbed during our elemen-
tary education. We are taught that artistic, cognitive, and technical
achievements are unique events, miracles, strokes of luck (or genius)
which we should mainly be concerned to welcome and study.4 This
fundamental epistemological pessimism seems to foreclose the problem:
creativity just is an inexplicable ‘gift.’ Our rationality is signaled to
the extent that we accept and make the best of this situation. That
same education, however, also indicates an epistemological optimism:
4
In the same way that chess masters record and study the grand masters and their
great games. No one seems to be trying to find out what makes a great game great
and thus deprive it of its mystique. Cf. Section III, below.
the achievements of science and technology suggest that all problems

will sooner or later yield to human thought. We seem to have truth
and beauty in such abundance that it is inconceivable that we cannot
reach the truth about beauty, originality, etc. Although I claim this
problem of inexplicable uniqueness to be the fundamental one behind
the creativity literature, I do not claim it is soluble. I suspect that many
who contribute to the literature mistakenly believe that because they
have found a problem, or what looks like one, it must be soluble. Its
insolubility, and indeed ultimate incoherence, in my view vitiates the
entire literature.
Given, though, for the moment, that this is a soluble problem, let us
continue discussing the attempt to explain creativity. Perhaps if we
could explain creativity, specify the laws it obeys and the initial condi-
tions productive of it, then the aims of increased output and/or urgent
solutions would be facilitated. The problems of output and urgency
would then clearly be subordinate to the problem of inexplicable
uniqueness. Were that so, might it not have been better organization
on my part to begin with explanation as an aim, and then to move on
to increased output and urgent solutions as subordinate or by-product
aims? The reason I did not proceed in this way is because of the pos-
sibility that an explanation of creativity would not solve the practical
problems of output and urgency. Our understanding of earthquakes,
continental drift, ice ages, red giants and black holes may make us feel
better, emotionally and intellectually, but they do not give us any power
over the processes in question. Is it not entirely possible that the con-
catenation of elements required for creativity obey laws such that human
intervention is not possible? Maybe creativity is an outcome of trial
and error, and obeys only the laws of chance. We can explain the
roulette wheel without being about to gamble on it successfully.
For example, one strand in the literature, which undoubtedly can
be traced back to Freud, is the idea that creativity is a manifestation
of psychological disorder.5 The most extreme recent case is Storr’s
argument that Einstein’s genius was a by-product of a psychological
condition, namely schizophrenia (could the schizophrenia not be a
5
Storr, The Dynamics of Creation, 61ff. Jean Cocteau somewhere compares being
creative to being pregnant. Salvador Dali expresses similar ideas in The Secret Life of
Salvador Dali (New York: Dial Press, 1961), as does the brilliant and tormented Brit-
ish painter Francis Bacon. See David Sylvester, Interviews With Francis Bacon (London:
Thames and Hudson, 1975).
48 i. c. jarvie
by-product of his genius?). Confirmations of the neuroses of creative

people abound: from Berkeley’s concern with the bowels to Einstein’s
eccentricities of dress and manner, from Bobby Fischer’s tantrums to
the unbelievable squalor of Francis Bacon’s studio. But what of counter-
examples? What of Mozart, Rembrandt, Hume? What of the argument
that even if all creators have neuroses, not all neurotics are creative,
and hence the creative value of what someone does cannot be fully
understood in terms of their psychology? What makes the difference
between Einstein’s psychopathology and that of the schizophrenic who
believes he is a piece of soap? The answer has to focus on the content
of their ideas, and thus has to have reference to something like the
objective existence of intellectual problems and traditions, and the
further fact that Einstein’s psychopathology resulted in his contributing
to those rather than to the private world of insane fantasy. We cannot,
as it were, direct neuroses into science and art rather than intellectual
rubbish. This argument goes to undermine the idea that an explanation
of creativity, even if found, will lead to practical knowledge of how
to foster creativity. We might get further with folk tales and rules
of thumb.
So much then for doubts about the utility of solving the basic prob-
lem of inexplicable uniqueness. Let me now argue that no such expla-
nations of creativity are there to be found. The case I choose is the
movies; not just because they are a specialty of mine, but also because
their creative processes are less privatized than those of the traditional
arts and sciences (I suppose it is a bit analogous to studying research
teams rather than individual scientists). Producers of movies, obviously,
have sought for many years to understand what makes a movie a suc-
cess. Success is an aspect of creativity that cannot be gainsaid simply
because popularity is one of its desiderata. In the classical arts, the
crucial desideratum of success (so seldom mentioned) was to please the
patron, the dedicatee, or God, as well as the artist himself.6 One might
6
When I was first introduced to Rembrandt’s painting known as The Night Watch,
it was remarked that its bold, active, almost chiaroscuro style had shocked those who
commissioned it, and Rembrandt’s intransigent artistic temperament on this point
contributed to his financial downfall. The idea was that crass patrons always failed to
understand geniuses, who had to be tough to maintain their integrity. Later, I noticed
this story was declared a legend by contemporary historians, who claim that the picture
was always hung, that Rembrandt’s commissions did not dry up, and who attribute his
downfall to expensive living (especially the house). The theory that all creative artists
are misunderstood by hoi polloi is a widespread and pernicious one, since it can be
used to rebut all criticism, and even self-criticism and doubt.
say that in movies, to be a creative success is to make something both

interesting and popular. By this standard, the most creative periods in
Hollywood were between 1914 and 1926, and, again, from the mid-
thirties to the mid-forties. The first period marks the maturity and
development of the silent movie, the second, maturity and development
in the sound movie. What can explain such periods of creative success?
Certainly no psychological theory of creativity will do, for this would
be to reduce a creative era or a creative place to a fortuitous concat-
enation of individuals. To give so much to fortune seems excessive.
Two factors are widely bruited:7 experiment and encouragement.
While there may be exceptions, these factors do seem crucial, whether
we think of Ingmar Bergman, the French New Wave, or the vintage
periods of Hollywood. Freedom to (and security despite) experiment
and continuing encouragement are entirely characteristic of Hollywood
in the two periods mentioned, less as a policy than as an unintended
consequence of institutional arrangements. By 1914, silent movies were
twenty years old, technically accomplished, highly successful with the
public, and hence not trammeled with rules, regulations, and restric-
tions. No one really knew for sure and in advance what would click at
the box office and be something to be proud of as well. Hence many
filmmakers were given their heads as soon as they had a success. This
was institutional rather than attitudinal. Doubtless many movie moguls
were crass and vulgar and concerned solely with catering to public
taste. But they had to work through and with men who had a profes-
sional and creative pride; who were not and would not think of them-
selves as hacks. In some cases their self-estimation may have been
excessive, but that is not important. What matters is that men of the
caliber of D. W. Griffith, Eric von Stroheim, C. B. DeMille, King Vidor,
John Ford, Buster Keaton, and other slapstick comedians were chal-
lenged and stimulated by a new medium to an unprecedented degree.
At first, they simply enjoyed themselves immensely. Early Hollywood
seems to have been a place where any crazy idea could get a hearing,
and creators worked at a frantic pace.8 What sorted out the sheep from
7
See J. Agassi, “The Function of Intellectual Rubbish,” Research in the Sociology of
Knowledge, Science, and Art 2 (1979): 209–227.
8
Charles Chaplin, My Autobiography (London: The Bodley Head, 1964; Penguin
ed., 1966), 154. Chaplin was amazed when Mack Sennett said to him, “We have no
scenario. We get an idea, then follow the natural sequence of events.” So different from
what he describes as the “rigid, non-deviating routine” of the theatre.
50 i. c. jarvie
the goats was the popular touch, whether in a player or a director.

Unawareness may have been something of a blessing, for with public
acclaim came self-consciousness and, ultimately, pretension. Griffith and
Stroheim are examples, as is Orson Welles in the forties. The most
spectacular case, however, is Charlie Chaplin. This London street urchin,
who became a brilliant vaudeville comedian of the English music hall,
went to Los Angeles to try himself in films in 1913. He worked steadily
and quickly until 1916. In that year he was negotiating a new contract
with a different company, and this necessitated a trip to New York. He
cabled his brother which train he was on, and settled down for the
five-day journey. Remarking that in those days he was unrecognized
when out of make-up and costume, he recalls being in the middle of
shaving when the train was swamped with people in Amarillo, Texas.
They were looking for him! Telegraph operators had spread the word
that he was coming, and cities laid on formal welcoming ceremonies.9
Chaplin himself does not say this, but I detect the beginnings of self-
consciousness and decline in his movies from that experience, although
there are occasional reversions to form. By 1918, Chaplin persuaded
D. W. Griffith, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks to join him in
creating their own film company under the title United Artists. Gran-
deur indeed.
After the introduction of sound, movies were in effect a new medium.
Technical teething troubles over, they conquered the depression business
slump and entered another golden age artistically and economically. It
sounds incredible, but Los Angeles in the thirties seems to have been
a cultural El Dorado. Gathered there were Hugh Walpole, Aldous
Huxley, Christopher Isherwood, Thomas Mann, Bertolt Brecht, Thorn-
ton Wilder, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, Raymond Chandler,
Nathanael West, Ben Hecht, Igor Stravinsky, Sir C. Aubrey Smith,
Sir Cedric Hardwicke, Leslie Howard, Laurence Olivier, Orson Welles,
John Houseman, and Vivien Leigh—to name only a few whose fame
owed nothing to the movies. The combination of the attractions of
California living with the intense creativity and excitement of Holly-
wood almost produced a cultural center to rival New York. In
this atmosphere the individuals sometimes flourished and sometimes
suffered, but the movies only flourished.10
Ibid., 175–179.
9
10
The most evocative account of Hollywood in the thirties and forties is by Charles
Higham and Joel Greenberg, Hollywood in the Forties (London: A. Zwemmer, 1968). The
We can see then that there is some pattern to periods of great cre-
ativity. We cannot reproduce them at will. The fundamental strength
of public demand for movies cannot be recovered, especially since the
arrival of television. Hence, there have been long periods in which
filmmakers have been offered anything but encouragement and certainly
nothing like freedom. Recently a new phenomenon has appeared:
desperate experimentation in the face of bankruptcy. Several of the
major American movie companies have gone from success to collapse
in the last six or seven years. For a time, there were unrivalled oppor-
tunities for innovation and experiment. But that has passed, and a
pervading sense of insecurity co-exists with the most profitable year
since 1946.11
In this section, I have argued that the first weakness in studies of
creativity is poorly articulated aims. When the aims are articulated it
seldom looks as though any of them could sustain the kinds of explora-
tions of creativity that have been undertaken—practical or theoretical.
III A Logical or a Psychological Issue?
Philosophers commonly distinguish between what they call the logic

and the psychology of knowledge; between, that is, the rational recon-
struction of the propositions and inferences which constitute knowledge,
and the subjective mental processes that go on in those producing it.
The aim of making the distinction is to free epistemology from psychol-
ogy, to deny that knowledge has anything to do with belief. In a simi-
lar manner, I should like to distinguish between creativity as an
objective matter, a property, so to speak, of created works; and creativ-
ity as a property of persons or their minds. Much of the research into
creativity is in the latter category and, though I am skeptical of it for
reasons already and yet to be stated, I do not want to discuss it directly.
What I want to stress is the distinction and the consequences of its
neglect. Unless there is an objective logic of creativity, a psychology of
only book I know which attempts seriously to discuss the creative process in movies
without reference to individual genius, but rather to collective endeavor, is Lawrence
Alloway, Violent America: The Movies 1946–1964 (New York: Museum of Modern Art,
distributed by the New York Graphic Society, Greenwich, Conn., 1971).
11
See Pauline Kael, “On the Future of the Movies,” New Yorker (5 August 1974):
43–59.
52 i. c. jarvie
creativity can be of no interest. The psychology of scientists is interest-

ing mainly because they are doing science, and science means something
like exploring the way the world is. Presumably, creativity is interesting
because there is something going on in creative people that results in
objective results: creations. What are the objective achievements? Here
the whole subject seems to become anecdotal: sayings and stories about
the great geniuses are trundled out. Two things strike one: first, the
virtus dormativa effect; second, that the achievements called creative can
be characterized without the concept of creativity and without remain-
der. Originality, novelty, synthesis, insight, and so on suffice. The status
of creativity as a property in its own right is highly questionable.
This is the main reason I have postponed saying anything direct
about creativity until the end. So far, we have asked the simple ques-
tion, what are the aims of studying creativity? This was an obvious
question with which to begin a discussion of rationality and creativity,
since a rational action is necessarily (though not sufficiently) a goal-
directed action. But this question is also a second-order question: it is
about the study of creativity, not about creativity. Here we begin to
capture in a preliminary way some elements of what this paper is
advocating. I believe that the rationality of creativity has to do not so
much with the (psychological) creative process, as with the rationality
of the creator towards his own creative process. In other words, ratio-
nality is to be located in the actions the creator takes, before, and
especially after, any ‘act of creation’ occurs.
For various obvious reasons which I do not here want to go into,12
Popperians often say that rational belief is only a special case of ratio-
nal action; they subordinate or even absorb the act of belief or creation
into action. Hence those who look on creativity psychologically, as
bisociation, or psychoneurosis, and so on, as though there was a ghost
in the machine, a Magic Moment when the Muse Speaks, a flash of
blinding light, an urge to cry Eureka, are bypassed. Action before and
action after eventually squeeze out what is in between.
Rational action is goal-directed action, where the tools are critically
held theories. Rational thought is action directed to the goal of solving
intellectual or artistic problems. The rationality of rational action shows
itself in critical open-mindedness, trial and error. The rationality of
12
See J. Agassi, “The Role of Corroboration in Popper’s Methodology,” Australasian
Journal of Philosophy 39 (1961): 82–91; J. Agassi and I. C. Jarvie, “The Problem of the
Rationality of Magic,” British Journal of Sociology 18 (1967): 55–74.
rational thought consists of trial and error, which is a form of action.

It is not the problem being tackled that is rational; no more is it the
solution being offered that is rational; but the method of trying out the
thought, inspiration, idea, against the problem, against other solutions
and, in some interesting cases, against the facts, that is rational. This
is the case whether the problem be called cognitive or artistic.13
One hears the response that this is all very well, but that the theory
of creativity comes to explain the new thought, the very thing that is
put on trial. This presupposes the mind, soul, ghost in the machine, that
receives or creates the new thought, the inspiration, does the bisociation,
or whatnot. My counter-suggestion would be that my account allows us
to dispense with the mind reified in this sense, and hence creativity
hypostatized in this sense, for the mind becomes the product rather than
the producer of rational organization, of goal-directed, trial-and-error
action. Einstein said: “my pencil is more intelligent than I.”14
This view also proposes a rather different approach to the practical
questions of increasing output, solving particular urgent problems. It
suggests no recipe, but general social conditions of encouragement and
freedom. Bisociation and the like are mental acts which—whether or
not they lie at the root of creativity—is somehow irrelevant since there
is no way to foster or induce them. Whereas an institutional setup that
fosters freedom and encouragement—while not easy to construct—has
been constructed from time to time, sometimes inadvertently. The other
consequence of my view is that fostering creativity may turn out to be
a less attractive prospect than it sounds. What I have in mind is this.
Neither a favorable social setup nor an array of rules of thumb, are a
recipe for creative achievement. So much expenditure may be under-
taken without promise or even hope of results. Indeed, even if success
is achieved, they predict that its cost will be a huge amount of what
will later be designated waste: that is to say, we know beforehand that
much of our expenditure will be afterwards declared waste, yet we
cannot specify in advance what will be waste, and hence we cannot
eliminate it. Thus we are denied the comfort of even thinking we can
eliminate waste. (Although in my view we can dispense with the moral
overtones on waste by declaring waste part of the costs of production.)
13
What I have in mind is Gombrich’s notion of art as “making and matching.” See
E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion (London: Phaidon Press, 1960).
14
Einstein is quoted to this effect in K. R. Popper, Objective Knowledge (Oxford: The
Clarendon Press, 1972), 225n.
54 i. c. jarvie
If we divert the entire budget of the U.S. Pentagon into research into
the causes of cancer, say, we can no more guarantee success (however
that is defined) than we can assure the gambler that his number will
come up (it will, but he could be dead before it does). No doubt, in
time, scientific research on this scale would yield the bureaucracy, jobs,
and contracting industry that the military budget does: and there are
unattractive as well as attractive aspects to there being so many men and
women in white coats. It is unlikely such expenditure and such waste
would ever be agreed to because, while the military has a task at which
it is very rarely tested, cancer research is tested every time a patient dies.
So much, then, for the question of what problems are being tackled
in the literature on creativity. Not only are these problems not often
formulated, formulating them inclines one to the conclusion that they
cannot be solved: not simply because they are difficult or intractable
but, much more seriously, because they reveal muddles that may vitiate
the enterprise. Creativity may not give rise to clear problems because
on no known theory is it presupposed as a definite property of the
physical world or the world of mind. To avoid concluding it is chime-
rical we shall have to seek it elsewhere.
IV Creativity a World 3 Event
The groundwork for the second main argument, about to be developed,

has been extensively laid down in the discussion so far. Creativity, like
knowledge or discovery, can be seen to have a logical as well as a psy-
chological aspect. A solution to a problem can be judged creative; so
can the mind which produced that solution. However, a solution that
was in fact creative can fail to be recognized as such at the time, and
its creator can similarly be thought not creative. The problems we are
talking about can be cognitive or artistic. J. S. Bach is my favorite
example: a composer virtually dismissed in his own time as a competent
but rather pedestrian fellow, far outshone by his brilliant sons C. P. E.
and J. C.15 While those sons are by no means forgotten, they can hardly
now be mentioned in the same breath as their father, who has serious
claim to being one of the (if not the) greatest composers who ever lived.
15
I. C. Jarvie, “The Objectivity of Criticism of the Arts,” Ratio 9 (1967): 67–83.
Tovey comments that Bach’s art was neglected “as old-fashioned and crabbed” by his
younger contemporaries. We owe his rediscovery to Mendelssohn and Schumann. (See
“Bach, J. S.” in Encyclopedia Britannica, 11th ed.).
With cognition, the question becomes more involved. For one thing,
there is a popular prejudice in favor of positive science being called
creative at the expense of negative science. Positive and negative are
connected with the simpleminded distinction between, say, a theory
(positive) and its criticism (negative). Sometimes, lord help us, a distinc-
tion is made between negative and constructive criticism. Hence,
Copernicus is creative for inventing heliocentrism, but the many critics
of Ptolemy are not even well-known. Along these lines one might as
well say Plato was creative and Aristotle was not: but this shows up the
absurdity. Aristotle created beautiful arguments against Plato which
were enormous creative achievements in themselves. Isaac Newton was
a creative genius, but so too was Berkeley, who picked holes in Newton’s
mathematics and metaphysics.
All this discussion is in the logical realm. Solving a problem is creative;
devising a criticism of a theory is creative. Creativeness cannot be
unpacked in any precise way, and indeed I have hinted earlier that it may
be a dispensable term. What I want to emphasize here is the different
point that whether or not an idea or a criticism is a creative one has
nothing to do with psychology, with whether an act of creation, inspira-
tion, or bisociation has occurred. Indeed, the extensive discussion of humor
by both Koestler and Freud demonstrates this. So far as this paper is
concerned, there is nothing creative about jokes. I find the expressions,
‘what a creative joke,’ or, ‘he’s a really creative comedian,’ very odd.
Odder, is the attention given to humor by those interested in creativity.
If there is rationality in creativity it is of course going to be located
in the public, objective, logical realm, and not in the psychological one.
Hence the importance of this distinction and the fact that it plays
haywire with the literature on creativity. On this view, creativity is a
cognate of ‘simple,’ ‘powerful,’ ‘unifying,’ ‘exciting,’ ‘trail-blazing,’ and
other sorts of adjectives that might be attached to new theories, new
criticisms, or new works of art. The rationality of creativity then con-
sists of it being successful action directed at solving an artistic or cog-
nitive problem. Calling something a ‘creative failure,’ might simply
indicate ingenuity. Degrees of creativity are also sometimes alluded to,
but I see no way of explicating these in any discussible manner.
Perhaps the notion of creativity, then, is that of a socially defined
event in the world of ideas or art, what Popper has called the world
of objective mind, or mind objectified, the third world or World 3.16
16
K. R. Popper, Objective Knowledge, chap. 3, 4.
56 i. c. jarvie
This rather than a ‘property of the mind.’ A new theory or work of

art undoubtedly has its physical or World 1 aspects—marks on paper
or daubs on canvas. It also undoubtedly in some sense had its origins
in certain mental acts of its creator, in World 2. But neither of these
is of much importance or interest. What makes a theory a new theory,
a work of art an original work of art, is the objective relationship it
bears as a World 3 object to other World 3 objects, other theories and
works of art.17 These in turn have gained their significance because of
the bearing they have on those especially important World 3 entities
known as problems, that is to say, former theories, or means of portray-
ing the world in art that have now become inconsistent or otherwise
unsatisfactory. The standards of what is new or what is a creative addi-
tion to art are similarly a judgment within World 3, constantly subject
to World 3 debate. Art and cognition are the mind striving to achieve
objective existence in the external World 3, transcending space and
time, and they achieve that when something is created (a theory, a
solution, a new problem, a new argument, a ‘match,’ a ‘discovery,’ etc.).
Put it like this: to seek in the physical world a recipe for, or an explana-
tion of, what physical conditions bring about Einstein’s pencil marks is
no more absurd than asking us what kinds of mind or mental process
brings about Einstein’s great thoughts. Just as Einstein’s pencil marks
have no meaning unless their significance in the third world is under-
stood, so his thoughts have no interest unless there is a third world
significance. This is precisely my objection to Storr’s view of Einstein
as a psychopath. What possible explanatory value does this hold? What
counts is not psychopathy, but the world of objective ideas. This is the
logical aspect of creation and cognition; creativity in a certain sense
only exists as a vector in World 3.
V To Explain Away
The third decisive argument undermining the entire enterprise of

studying creativity in the manner it is currently studied has been most
eloquently expressed by Einstein in his beautiful essay on Newton.
17
This may explain my total opposition (not to modern art but) to modernism in
art, the philosophy that traditions must be broken with. How someone trained as, or
pretending to be, an artist can even think of this is something of a mystery; it is a bit
like an English speaker deciding to utter only gibberish.
Conceding that reason is weak when measured against its never-ending

task, Einstein hails Newton as the first to succeed in explaining a wide
range of phenomena mathematically, logically, quantitatively, and in
harmony with experience. How, he asks, ‘did this miracle come to birth
in his brain?’ Then he apologizes for the ‘illogical’ question, “for if by
reason we could deal with the problem of ‘how,’ then there would be
no question of a miracle in the proper sense of the word.”18
In other words, what Einstein is saying is that creativity is interesting
precisely because and to the extent that it is uniquely mysterious. Were
it not such, it would not be creativity. We can show this by imagining
what the reaction would be were we to pinpoint the creative element
in many cases of creation. I contend that what would happen then is
that we would set out to isolate other, alternative special features of
creativity as ‘the miracle.’
The problem here is that this argument shows that creativity is such
that were it to be explained it would be explained away. Usually an
explanation of something does not explain it away. When it does,
something is wrong.
VI Self-Reference
The fourth decisive argument is this. Suppose we had an explanation

of creativity. A fortiori, that would be an explanation of new explana-
tions. A fortiori, it would be an explanation of that new explanation
itself that we have just devised (namely of creativity).
Were we to say, (T ) ‘All creation is a product of neurosis,’ we should
also have to say that (T ) itself, being a creation, was a product of
neurosis—regardless of who first uttered it. But how are we to know
that this neurotic manifestation is to be taken seriously, whereas the
belief that someone is a piece of soap is not?
VII Trial and Error
Having, then, looked at four arguments, which seem to me not only

not met but quite impossible to meet, the grounds for my skepticism
18
Albert Einstein, “Isaac Newton,” in his Out of My Later Years (New York: Philo-
sophical Library, 1950), 219–223, quote from 220.
58 i. c. jarvie
towards the literature on creativity have been exposed. Toward the

beginning of the paper, I said that what could be said about creativity
was rather trite and rather scanty. At the risk of now being both trite
and scanty, I present a few remarks on the matter additional to what
has emerged in the foregoing discussion. Bertrand Russell, Mozart, and
moviemaking are my examples of creativity; Russell in the cognitive
area, Mozart in the area of individual artistic creation, movies in the
area of collective artistic creation; Russell and Mozart fluent and indi-
vidual geniuses, movies made by committees.19
In his essay, ‘How I Write,’20 Russell reports that, when bothered by
a problem, he tried the method of writing and rewriting, but he invari-
ably found the first version to be the best. This was a discovery about
himself (his mind, but, more importantly, its World 3 achievements).
Eventually, he adopted the following method. After concentrating reflec-
tion on the problem at hand, possibly writing nothing, he had planted
it in his subconsciousness and would turn to other things. At some point
the solution would re-emerge into his consciousness, and it only
remained for him to write it out. This is a very striking passage in
Russell. It gives concrete and helpful hints (“Turn to other things for
a while”). It explains the sense of inspiration or revelation (as the rush
created by the surfacing of subconscious mental work). It is also fol-
lowed by a careful disclaimer. Russell points out that not everything he
produced in this manner was creative or valuable or true. He says
merely that this was his conscious method of working, which he
had discovered by trial and error. After the fact, he decided whether
what he had written was publishable. Even after he had published he
might later decide that some of the things he had said were false. He
emphasized, however, that his aim was simply to try to do the best
he could at the time. The Russell Archives at McMaster University
are filled with early drafts of books and articles that never saw the
light of day. Hence, we see at work in Russell a conscious process of
trial and error, a totally rational approach to creativity as ultimately a
World 3 matter.21
19
See I. C. Jarvie, Towards a Sociology of the Cinema (London: Routledge and Kegan
Paul, 1970), chap. 1–3.
20
In Bertrand Russell, Portraits from Memory (London: George Allen and Unwin,
1956), 194–197. Storr, The Dynamics of Creation, 42–43 attributes a similar idea to
Graham Wallas.
21
To show that Russell’s cool detachment has nothing to do with his endeavors being
logical and cognitive, one could cite the superb American painter Edward Hooper,
Similar in some ways is the fluency reported of Mozart, whose sub-

conscious seems to have been working on music the whole time. Hence,
he could compose in his head, play from memory, and write down the
piece later; compose while playing billiards; even compose a prelude
while copying down the already thought-out fugue.22 He left very few
notebooks or sketches, and yet is known to have corrected and improved
works a great deal, often turning aside to easier, lighter commissions
while struggling hard with problems in more intense works.
I have picked on examples like Russell and Mozart because on the
surface they look so fluent and ‘inspired,’ the opposite of the hesitant,
diffident, groping, trial-and-error creator I have in mind. In close-up,
however, this impression disappears. Russell and Mozart have to be
rational about their own creativity too. Russell reports a harrowing
exception to his own method of work when he was writing Principia
Mathematica. He tried consciously to work hard and creatively. The strain
of working on the abstract and difficult problems of that book from
1902–1910 was so severe that “my intellect never quite recovered. . . .
I have been ever since definitely less capable of dealing with difficult
abstractions than I was before.”23
Artists and intellectuals work as they can, as they find they have been
most successful (in the World 3, not public opinion, sense) and exercise
much of their critical faculties on the question of what is good enough
to release. Painters throw away canvasses, or store them away incom-
plete, perhaps to be finished one day, perhaps not; writers submit
themselves to editors (who may be themselves, their wives, as well as
others), the most startling case of which came to light recently with
the publication of Ezra Pound’s editing of T. S. Eliot’s poem, The
Waste Land. Some people went so far as to wonder whether publication
who not only creates by “painting, scraping off, and repainting,” but also is dominated
by the objective logic of creation: “I find, in working, always the distracting intrusion
of elements not part of my most interested vision, and the inevitable obliteration and
replacement of this vision by the work itself as it proceeds. The struggle to prevent this
decay is, I think, the common lot of all painters to whom the invention of arbitrary
forms has lesser interest. I believe that the great painters, with their intellect as master
have attempted to force this unwitting medium of paint and canvas into a record of
their emotions. I find any disgression from this large aim leads me to boredom.” (Quoted
in Lloyd Goodrich, Edward Hoppper [New York: H. N. Abrams, 1971], 161.).
22
See the account in Erich Hertzmann, “Mozart’s Creative Process,” in The Creative
World of Mozart, ed. Paul Henry Lang (New York: W. W. Norton, 1963), 17–30.
23
Bertrand Russell, The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell, 1872–1914 (London: George
Allen and Unwin, 1967), 152–153.
60 i. c. jarvie
did not detract from Eliot’s stature as a creative innovator.24 The short
answer to that, I suppose, is that Eliot could have restored any cuts
Pound made had it been his judgment that they did not serve to solve
the poetic problem with which he was grappling. Furthermore, many
artists and intellectuals show their work to friends, wives, children,
professional peers, editors, publishers and the like long before it sees
the light of day. Academe has a tradition of acknowledging such help.
Because that tradition is not general does not at all imply the practice
is not.
It is not hard, then, to see the process of trial and error not only at
work, but consciously employed, in cognition and the individual arts.
A fortiori it is not going to be difficult to detect it in collective arts,
whether architecture or the cinema. Filmmaking not only employs trial
and error, but, to the extent possible, institutionalizes—even bureau-
cratizes—it. This is not necessarily all to the good, as, obviously, exces-
sive trial is a form of caution. Once Russell knew that earlier works he
had written contained mistakes, or did not sell, he might have been
justified in publishing nothing. Capable of error and yet wanting to
avoid it, the cautious policy is to do nothing.25 Capable of failure, yet
desperately trying to avoid it, cautious movie producers compromise—
that is to say, they interpret trial results too soon and too harshly. This
permeates the creative process in movies, which is an institutionalized
clash between art and commerce, each side with its own problems, its
own integrity, its own series of trials and errors to be avoided. Money
being the necessary, but by no means sufficient, condition of there ever
being any films made at all, commerce holds a powerful position. The
subtlety is not that the bureaucratic organization is split between com-
mercial people and creative people, but that commerce and creation
coexist in most film people. Hence, a script may be written and rewrit-
ten until it has shape and coherence; it then may be rewritten some
more to improve its commercial possibilities. The same will apply to
casting, to decisions on sets, costumes and locations, to editing the
picture, to the manner in which it is publicized. The writer, the direc-
24
T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land, a facsimile and transcript of the original drafts includ-
ing the annotations of Ezra Pound, ed. Valerie Eliot (New York: Harcourt, Brace,
Jovanovich, 1971).
25
In the movies, this becomes interesting in the political dimension. From time
to time Russia and China made it so difficult to avoid ideological error (because of
unpredictable shifts in the party line) that filmmaking shrank almost to zero.
tor, the actor, the cameraman, the set designer, and the editor are all
simultaneously in search of a solution to their creative problems which
is also commercially viable. Some trials are creative (does that scene
cut well?), some commercial (does the preview audience like it?), many
are a mixture of both. For sure, the box office is neither physical nor
psychological; I suggest that the creative side similarly is a sort of objec-
tive matter.
In film, as in the other arts, but less so in philosophy and still less so
in science, there is a tedious avant-garde with a romantic view of cre-
ativity as mainly consisting in not interrupting while the Muse speaks
through the favored individual. Life is easier that way. Being rational
and self-critical is very hard and sometimes impossible. It is neverthe-
less the key to anything deserving the label creativity.
CHAPTER FOUR
CREATIVITY AS A DARWINIAN PHENOMENON:

THE BLIND-VARIATION AND
SELECTIVE-RETENTION MODEL
Dean Keith Simonton
I Introduction
In 1859, Charles Darwin advanced a theory that provided a scientific

explanation for the evolution of life—the Origin of Species as the book’s
title has it.1 Because Darwin argued that species evolved into new spe-
cies through the process of natural selection, his explanation is often
called ‘selection theory.’ However, selection does not constitute the sole
process in Darwin’s theory. On the contrary, selection depends on
variation. Darwin assumed that organisms varied on numerous inher-
itable traits and that these traits conferred differential levels of adapta-
tion. Those organisms that display superior fitness to the environment
are more likely to survive the ‘struggle for existence’ and thereby pass
their adaptive traits to the next generation. As should be apparent,
without variation there can be no selection.
Even more to the point, the variation side of Darwin’s theory is
in many respects more provocative than the selection side. It may
seem obvious, even tautological, to argue that those trait variants that
bestow more fitness are most likely to survive in the gene pool. Yet
Darwin’s claims about the variations were more controversial in his
own time, and continue to be so today: The variations displayed little
volition nor intelligence. The variations are generated without
any foresight into which variants were most likely to survive and repro-
duce. The variations are not pre-adapted, and many will be outright
maladaptive. Although the species population as a whole might move
toward enhanced environmental fitness, that movement could only be
accomplished by producing many variants that will fail to outlast the
1
Charles Darwin, On the Origin of the Species by Means of Natural Selection: Or, The
Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life (London: J. Murray, 1859).
64 dean keith simonton
selection process. Darwin’s theory views variation as ignorant of future

outcomes, and therefore inherently wasteful. Only a small proportion
of all competing variants will prevail.
In a sense, Darwin’s theory can be considered an implicit theory of
creativity—albeit the creativity associated with life. It is a theory of
how new forms emerge from the old. Indeed, the theory even features
a direct relation with the definition of creativity favored by most
researchers.2 Specifically, creativity is defined as an idea that fulfills two
independent requirements. First, a creative idea must be original, novel,
or surprising. Repeating what has been done before does not count as
creative. Second, a creative idea must work; that is, it must be adaptive
or functional as judged by some criterion or set of criteria. Otherwise,
it would be impossible to distinguish the creative from the crazy. Of
course, both requirements are riddled with all sorts of niceties. Is
originality, novelty, or surprise gauged with respect to the individual or
society? Must an idea be adaptive for just the person or must it also
work for other persons? Because satisfactory answers to these questions
would demand another chapter, I will say no more here. The point I
want to make is that the origin of species also arises from adaptive
originality—the new variants that exhibit greater fitness.
Given this analytical connection, it may not be surprising that
Darwin’s theory soon influenced ideas about human creativity. The
creative process in Homo sapiens could be perceived as functioning
according to processes that were analogous to those responsible for the
evolution of that species from common ancestors among the anthropoid
apes. The first major thinker to make this connection was William
James, the functionalist psychologist and pragmatist philosopher. Just a
bit more than two decades after the first edition of Origin, James pub-
lished, “Great Men, Great Thoughts, and the Environment” in which
he sketched a Darwinian theory of creativity. James said:
social evolution is a resultant of the interaction of two wholly distinct
factors: the individual, deriving his peculiar gifts from the play of psy-
chological and infra-social forces, but bearing all the power of initiative
and origination in his hands; and, second, the social environment, with
its power of adopting or rejecting both him and his gifts.3
2
Dean Keith Simonton, “Creativity: Cognitive, Developmental, Personal, and Social
Aspects,” American Psychologist 55 (2000): 151–158.
3
William James, “Great Men, Great Thoughts, and the Environment,” Atlantic
Monthly 46 (1880): 441–459; quote from 448.
creativity as a darwinian phenomenon 65
He also described the cognitive processes by which the individual gen-

erates originality:
Instead of thoughts of concrete things patiently following one another in
a beaten track of habitual suggestion, we have the most abrupt cross-cuts
and transitions from one idea to another, the most rarefied abstractions
and discriminations, the most unheard of combination of elements, the
subtlest associations of analogy; in a word, we seem suddenly introduced
into a seething cauldron of ideas, where everything is fizzling and bob-
bling about in a state of bewildering activity, where partnerships can be
joined or loosened in an instant, treadmill routine is unknown, and the
unexpected seems only law.4
The process is chaotic rather than ordered, haphazard rather than
deliberate, combinatorial rather than logical.
Unfortunately, James followed Darwin too closely insofar as he tended
to view the individual creator as the unit of selection. Each creative
individual was accepted or rejected according to that person’s total
ideational fitness. Although there can be no doubt that selection can
occasionally take place at this level, it is often more useful to conceive
selection as taking place within rather than across individuals.5 In par-
ticular, individual creators themselves generate ideational variants that
undergo selection by the individual. It is that conception of the creative
process that I wish to make the focus of this chapter.
I begin by providing a summary of Donald Campbell’s theory6 and
then offer an overview of empirical research findings that lend support
to its basic tenants. I conclude by offering a broader discussion of the
theory’s advantages and disadvantages.
II The BVSR Model
Campbell proposed that creativity occurred via the process of blind

variation and selective retention, or what has been called a BVSR process.7
The selective retention portion is governed by a set of criteria that
4
Ibid., 456.
5
Dean Keith Simonton, Origins of Genius: Darwinian Perspectives on Creativity (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1999).
6
Donal T. Campbell, “Blind Variation and Selective Retention in Creative Thought
as in other Knowledge Processes,” Psychological Review 67 (1960): 380–400.
7
Gary A. Cziko, “From Blind to Creative: In Defense of Donald Campbell’s Selec-
tionist Theory of Human Creativity.” Journal of Creative Behavior 32 (1998): 192–208.
must be satisfied for an ideational variation to be retained for further

use. For instance, of all potential solutions to a given problem, that one
that meets the specified conditions will be preserved. Like in the case
of Darwin’s original theory, this is the least interesting and least con-
troversial feature of the BVSR model. More provocative and contentious
is the first step of the process—that which generates blind variations.
Campbell maintained that true creativity required a certain amount of
groping in the dark. The creator had to engage in some process in
which the outcome of any given trial was uncertain. Any given ide-
ational variant may or may not fulfill the twofold requirement of
originality and adaptiveness, which is the hallmark of creativity.
It is critical to recognize that by blind, Campbell did not mean random.
Although all random variations are blind, not all blind variations are
random. He gave a specific example of ‘systematic sweep scanning’ to
illustrate a mechanism that is blind but not random. Thus, when radar
scans the horizon for aircraft at a fixed rate of motion and angle of
search, each scan remains blind in the sense that the apparatus is not
exploiting any a priori knowledge about the precise location of any
approaching aircraft. This illustration also shows that the blindness is
a quantitative rather than qualitative feature of the process. Obviously
a radar installation will usually take advantage of some information about
how to restrict the search. For example, radars at airports do not search
for planes coming from straight overhead. Radars installed for defense
purposes may limit the search to the direction from which an air assault
must necessarily arrive. The scanning of defense radars is thus less blind
than that of airport radars. But both are, to some degree, blind.
Because Campbell was a psychologist, he offered some suggestions
about what kinds of mental processes would generate the blind varia-
tions behind creative thought. These suggestions built upon the previ-
ous speculations of such thinkers as Alexander Bain, Paul Souriau,
Ernst Mach, and, especially, Henri Poincaré.8 In essence, the variations
emerge through some variety of combinatorial process, a process that
involves some degree of chance or unpredictability.9 In fact, the pro-
8
Alexander Bain, The Senses and the Intellect, 3rd ed. (New York: Appleton, 1874); Paul
Souriau, Theorie de l’invention (Paris: Hachette, 1881); Ernst Mach, “On the Part Played
by Accident in Invention and Discovery,”Monist 6 (1896): 161–175; Henri Poincaré, The
Foundations of Science: Science and Hypothesis, the Value of Science, Science and Method, trans.
George B. Halstead (New York: Science Press, 1921).
9
Jacques Hadamard, The Psychology of Invention in the Mathematical Field (Princeton,
N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1945).
posed mechanisms are roughly analogous to the genetic recombinations

that provide the bulk of the variants for natural and sexual selection
in biological evolution.
Regrettably, Campbell did not develop the BVSR model beyond the
initial suggestions in his 1960 paper. Instead of elaborating the model
into a complete theory of creativity, he chose to apply the same general
framework to sociocultural evolution and evolutionary epistemology.10
As a consequence, interest in the BVSR as a general model of creativ-
ity waned; but it would show up from time to time in theories of aesthetic
evolution, economic innovation, and scientific discovery.11 My initial
involvement concerned the latter application,12 but I eventually realized
that the model could be enlarged into a truly comprehensive theory of
creativity in the arts as well as the sciences.13 The theory is comprehen-
sive in that it supplies a coherent explanation for many diverse empiri-
cal findings that otherwise would appear unrelated to each other.
III Empirical Research
The Darwinian theory of creativity accounts for key features of three

core aspects of the phenomenon: the creative process, the creative
personality, and creative development.
10
Donald T. Campbell, “Variation and Selective Retention in Socio-Cultural Evolu-
tion,” in Social Change in Developing Areas, eds. Herbert R. Barringer, George I. Blanksten,
and Raymond W. Mack (Cambridge, Mass.: Schenkman, 1965), 19–49; “Evolutionary
Epistemology,” in The Philosophy of Karl Popper, ed. Paul A. Schlipp (La Salle, Ill.: Open
Court, 1974), 413–463.
11
Colin Martindale, The Clockwork Muse: The Predictability ofArtistic Styles (New York:
Basic Books, 1990); Barry M. Staw, “An Evolutionary Approach to Creativity and
Innovations,” in Innovation and Creativity at Work: Psychological and Organizational Strategies,
eds. Michael A. West and James L. Farr (New York: Wiley, 1990), 287–308; Aharon
Kantorovich, Scientific Discovery: Logic and Tinkering (Albany: State University of New
York Press, 1993); Aharon Kantorovich and Yuval Ne’eman, “Serendipity as a Source
of Evolutionary Progress in Science,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Science 20 (1989):
505–529.
12
Dean Keith Simonton, Scientific Genius: A Psychology of Science (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press. 1988); “The Chance-Configuration Theory of Scientific
Creativity,” in The Psychology of Science: Contributions to Metascience, eds. Barry Gholson,
William R. Shadish, Jr., Robert A. Neimeyer, and Arthur C. Houts (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1989), 170–213.
13
Dean Keith Simonton, “Donald Campbell’s Model of the Creative Process: Cre-
ativity as Blind Variation and Selective Retention,” Journal of Creative Behavior 32 (1998):
153–158; “Creativity as Blind Variation and Selective Retention: Is the Creative Process
Darwinian?” Psychological Inquiry 10 (1999): 309–328; Origins of Genius.
A. Creative Process
Cognitive psychologists tend to view creativity as a special form of
problem solving.14 Although not all problems require creativity, acts of
creativity usually entail the solution of some given problem. Problem-
solving behavior can be ordered along a continuous dimension that
represents the amount of genuine creativity involved. At one extreme
are problems that require no creativity at all. Such problems can be
solved using well-defined ‘strong methods,’ such as algorithms.15 Arith-
metic and algebra problems are generally of this nature. With very
minor exceptions (for example, the introduction of trial values), these
problems cannot be said to require any form of BVSR process.
However, as problems become more novel and complex, with ill-
defined goals and indefinite means to attain those goals, some kind of
BVSR procedure becomes increasingly necessary. Domain-specific
strong methods must be replaced with more general ‘weak methods,’
such has problem-solving heuristics that cannot guarantee a solution.16
Besides some amount of blindness being involved in the application of
these heuristics—because we cannot always know in advance which
heuristic is optimal—one of the most commonplace heuristics is explic-
itly BVSR in operation, namely trial and error. In short, to the extent
that the problem requires a high degree of creativity, the more the
process must become Darwinian.17
Evidence for this conclusion comes from four sources: labora-
tory experiments, computer simulations, introspective reports, and
archival data.
Laboratory Experiments. Most empirical research on creative problem
solving uses laboratory experiments. This literature has amply docu-
mented the various processes that can contribute to the generation of
ideational variations that are to some degree blind.18 For instance,
experiments have indicated how the incubation period preceding a
14
Allan Newell and Herbert A. Simon, Human Problem Solving (Englewood Cliffs,
N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1972).
15
David Klahr, Exploring Science: The Cognition and Development of Discovery Processes
(Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2000).
16
Klahr, Exploring Science.
17
Simonton, Origins of Genius.
18
Dean Keith Simonton, “Scientific Creativity as Constrained Stochastic Behavior:
The Integration of Product, Process, and Person Perspectives,” Psychological Bulletin 129
(2003): 475–494; Creativity in Science: Chance, Logic, Genius, and Zeitgeist (Cambridge, UK:
Cambridge University Press, 2004).
creative insight may rely on the ‘opportunistic assimilation’ of haphaz-

ard environment stimulation that serendipitously primes the particular
associative pathway that leads to a solution.19 Experimental studies have
shown how creativity can be enhanced by exposing the problem solver
to random, incongruous, or ambiguous stimuli.20 By broadening the
scope of activated associative pathways, the probability is increased
that one of those paths will suggest a creative solution. Needless to say,
the broader the range of activation, the more blind will be the associa-
tive search.
Computer simulations. Computer programs that most successfully dem-
onstrate creative problem solving tend to introduce at some level a
blind-variation procedure, most often by means of some random com-
binatorial process.21 The best examples are those programs that oper-
ate by strict Darwinian principles, namely, genetic algorithms and
genetic programming.22 In effect, these programs generate ideational
variations using the software analog of the genetic recombination and
mutation that drives biological evolution.23
Introspective reports. Several eminent creators have left autobiographical
records of the mental processes by which they arrived at their major
breakthroughs. Although quite varied, these most often support the
19
Colleen M. Seifert, David E. Meyer, Natalie Davidson, Andrea L. Patalano, and
Ilan Yaniv, “Demystification of Cognitive Insight: Opportunistic Assimilation and the
Prepared-Mind Perspective,” in The Nature of Insight, eds. Robert J. Sternberg and Jan-
net E. Davidson (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1995), 65–124.
20
Ron A. Finke, Thomas B. Ward, and Steve M. Smith, Creative Cognition: Theory,
Research, Applications (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1992); R. A. Proctor, “Computer
Stimulated Associations,” Creativity Research Journal 6 (1993): 391–400; Albert Rothenberg,
Artistic Creation as Stimulated by Superimposed Versus Combined-Composite Visual
Images,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 50 (1986): 370–381; Robert S. Sobel
and Rothenberg, “Artistic Creation as Stimulated by Superimposed Versus Separated
Visual Images,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 39 (1980): 953–961; Wendy
W. N. Wan and Chi-Yue Chiu, “Effects of Novel Conceptual Combination on Creativ-
ity,” Journal of Creative Behavior 36 (2000): 227–240.
21
Margaret A. Boden, The Creative Mind: Myths & Mechanisms (New York: Basic
Books, 1991).
22
John R. Koza, Genetic Programming: On the Programming of Computers by Means of Natural
Selection (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1992); Genetic Programming II: Automatic Discovery
of Reusable Programs (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1994); Koza, Forrest H. Bennett III,
David Andre, and Martin A. Keane, Genetic Programming III: Darwinian Invention and
Problem Solving (San Francisco, Calif.: Morgan Kaufmann, 1999).
23
Colin Martindale, “Creativity and Connectionism,” in The Creative Cognition
Approach, eds. Steve M. Smith, Thomas B. Ward, and Ron A. Finke (Cambridge Mass.:
MIT Press, 1995), 249–268.
involvement of some BVSR process.24 To provide just one example,

Hermann von Helmholtz admitted:
I only succeeded in solving such problems after many devious ways, by
the gradually increasing generalisation of favourable examples, and by
a series of fortunate guesses. I had to compare myself with an Alpine
climber, who, not knowing the way, ascends slowly and with toil, and
is often compelled to retrace his steps because his progress is stopped;
sometimes by reasoning, and sometimes by accident, he hits upon traces
of a fresh path, which again leads him a little further; and finally, when
he has reached the goal, he finds to his annoyance a royal road on which
he might have ridden up if he had been clever enough to find the right
starting-point at the outset. In my memoirs I have, of course, not given
the reader an account of my wanderings, but I have described the beaten
path on which he can now reach the summit without trouble.25
Interestingly, one heuristic in the inventory of problem-solving tech-
niques is known as ‘hill climbing.’26 If you are trying to reach a peak,
always go up. As Helmholtz demonstrates, this heuristic is frequently
BVSR in operation. Because one cannot anticipate what obstacles may
stand in the path or determine in advance whether one is heading
toward a local rather than global maximum, the process must have an
element of uncertainty or blindness. Every time the problem solver has
to ‘retrace steps’ or ‘start from scratch’ it is an implicit admission that
blindness had intruded into the process.
Archival data. Because introspective reports are inherently unreliable
sources of data, it is fortunate that creators will sometimes leave behind
more objective indicators of their creative process. These include note-
books, sketchbooks, diaries, and the like. Such records also point to the
place that BVSR processes have in creative thought.27 For instance,
Picasso saved the sketches that he made in the process of creating
Guernica, one of the most famous paintings in the history of modern
art. Despite Picasso’s exceptional artistic expertise, he did not begin
with an initial compositional sketch and then fill in the details until he
reached the final version. Instead of a simple honing process, the art-
24
25
Hermann von Helmholtz, “An Autobiographical Sketch,” in Popular Lectures on
Scientific Subjects, Second Series, trans. Edmund Atkinson (New York: Longmans, Green,
1898, orig. 1891), 266–291, quote from 282.
26
David N. Perkins, The Mind’s Best Work (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1981).
27
ist generated an extraordinary variety of sketches that explored various

possible figures and their configurations.28 Moreover, a detailed empir-
ical analysis of these sketches demonstrated that they did not progress
inevitably toward the final form.29 Most often, the final version of a
given figure would be closer to an earlier sketch than to a later one,
showing that Picasso would often advance up a blind alley. He was
patently engaged in the accumulation of diverse ideational variants
from which he would select that subset that would contribute to the
completed composition. In brief, Guernica was the clear upshot of a
BVSR procedure.
Darwin’s surviving scientific notebooks illustrate another critical
feature of the creative career:30 Rather than work on one project at a
time, highly creative individuals tend to work on many projects simul-
taneously, jumping back and forth as obstacles are encountered or
potential insights emerge.31 This parallel processing of multiple problems
has been styled a ‘network of enterprises.’32 An important repercussion
of this modus operandi is that it permits considerable crosstalk across
diverse and apparently unrelated topics.33 This crosstalk functions, in
effect, as a blind-variation process. This consequence is demonstrated
in the following introspective report of Poincaré’s:
I turned my attention to the study of some arithmetical questions appar-
ently without much success and without a suspicion of any connection
with my preceding researches. Disgusted with my failure, I went to spend
a few days at the seaside, and thought of something else. One morning,
walking on the bluff, the idea came to me . . . that the arithmetic trans-
formations of indeterminate ternary quadratic forms were identical with
those of non-Euclidean geometry.34
28
Rudolf Arnheim, Picasso’s Guernica: The Genesis of a Painting (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1962).
29
Dean Keith Simonton, “The Creative Process in Picasso’s Guernica: Monotonic
Improvements or Nonmonotonic Variants?” Creativity Research Journal (forthcoming).
30
Howard E. Gruber, Darwin on Man: A Psychological Study of Scientific Creativity (New
York: Dutton, 1974).
31
Simonton, Creativity in Science.
32
Howard E. Gruber, “Networks of Enterprise in Creative Scientific Work,” in The
Psychology of Science: Contributions to Metascience, eds. Barry Gholson, William R. Shad-
ish, Jr., Robert A. Neimeyer, and Arthur C. Houts (Cambridge, Mass.: Cambridge
University Press, 1989), 246–265.
33
Dean Keith Simonton, Creativity in Science.
34
Poincaré, The Foundations of Science, 388.
Poincaré could not solve one problem without first solving another
problem that was seemingly unrelated to the earlier one.
B. Creative Personality
Researchers have made major headway in identifying the intellectual
and personality traits that correlate with individual differences in cre-
ativity.35 From our perspective, the most significant finding is that many
of these correlates involve traits that should facilitate engagement in
the hypothesized BVSR process.36 For instance, creativity is positively
correlated with the capacity to generate remote or unusual associations
and to generate a diversity of responses to a given stimulus.37 This
capacity would clearly augment the span of activation produced by
any set of stimuli.38 Creativity is also correlated with openness to expe-
rience, including wide interests and a sensitivity to new ideas.39 Con-
sequently, highly creative individuals are open systems subjected to a
variety of stimuli, thereby increasing the range of primed associations,
some of which lead to serendipitous connections between hitherto
unrelated ideas.
But perhaps the most telling correlate has to do with a person’s abil-
ity to filter out extraneous information. This ability is negatively asso-
ciated with both openness40 and creativity.41 Creative individuals are
35
Gregory J. Feist, “A Meta-Analysis of Personality in Scientific and Artistic Creativ-
ity,” Personality and Social Psychology Review 2 (1998): 290–309.
36
37
Harrison G. Gough, “Studying Creativity by Means of Word Association Tests,”
Journal of Applied Psychology 61 (1976): 348–353; J. P. Guilford, The Nature of Intelligence
(New York: McGraw-Hill); Sarnoff A. Mednick, “The Associative Basis of the Creative
Process,” Psychological Review 69 (1962): 220–232.
38
Martindale, “Creativity and Connectionism.”
39
Julie A. Harris, “Measured Intelligence, Achievement, Openness to Experience, and
Creativity,” Personality and Individual Differences 36 (2004): 913–929; Robert R. McCrae,
“Creativity, Divergent Thinking, and Openness to Experience,” Journal of Personality
and Social Psychology 52 (1987): 1258–1265.
40
Jordan B. Peterson and Shelley H. Carson, “Latent Inhibition and Openness to
Experience in a High-Achieving Student Population,” Personality and Individual Differ-
ences 28 (2000): 323–332; Peterson, Kathleen W. Smith, and Carson, “Openness and
Extraversion Are Associated with Reduced Latent Inhibition: Replication and Com-
mentary,” Personality and Individual Differences 33 (2002): 1137–1147.
41
Shelley H. Carson, Jordan B. Peterson, and Daniel M. Higgins, “Decreased
Latent Inhibition Is Associated with Increased Creative Achievement in High-Func-
tioning Individuals,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 85 (2003): 499–506; Hans
J. Eysenck, Genius: The Natural History of Creativity (Cambridge, England: Cambridge
University Press, 1995).
less able to ignore supposedly irrelevant stimuli, paying attention to

distractions rather than ignoring them. Although this inability is most
likely a handicap in everyday life, it can prove an asset in creativity. As
Mach pointed out long ago, noticing what others fail to notice provides
the primary basis for serendipitous discoveries, and even in the absence
of such a direct consequence such sensory input can again stimulate
associations that might not otherwise emerge, associations that then
end in a creative synthesis.42
Curiously, the inability to filter out extraneous stimuli is also positively
correlated with psychopathology.43 Indeed, this incapacity is associated
with elevated scores on psychoticism, a measure of a person’s leanings
toward psychosis.44 This linkage shows that there is some foundation
for the notion of the ‘mad genius.’ Highly creative individuals do share
an important cognitive disability with the mentally ill. At the same time,
creators possess compensatory characteristics—such as high intelligence
and ego-strength—that convert what otherwise would be a deficit into
an asset.45
Nevertheless, to provide a dispositional profile of the creative person
that does not take into consideration the domain of creative activity is
impossible. This necessity ensues because domains vary according to
their degree of dependence on some BVSR process.46 This variation
is portrayed schematically in the upper portion of Figure 1.
Scientific creativity, on the average, relies less on BVSR than does
artistic creativity. The lesser reliance depends on the fact that a scien-
tist’s creativity tends to be more constrained by logic and mathematics
and by accumulated empirical data, whereas the artist’s creativity is
only loosely restricted by a given aesthetic style. However, neither sci-
entific nor artistic creativity are homogeneous domains with respect to
the magnitude of BVSR. Within the arts, for instance, it is possible to
distinguish between highly formal or classical forms, on the one hand,
42
Ernst Mach, “On the Part Played by Accident in Invention and Discovery,” Monist
6 (1896): 161–175.
43
Hans J. Eysenck, “Creativity and Personality: Suggestions for a Theory,” Psycho-
logical Inquiry 4 (1993): 147–178; Genius.
44
Hans J. Eysenck, “Creativity and Personality: Word Association, Origence, and
Psychoticism,” Creativity Research Journal 7 (1994): 209–216.
45
Frank X. Barron, Creativity and Psychological Health: Origins of Personal Vitality and
Creative Freedom (Princeton, N.J.: Van Nostrand, 1963); Carson, Peterson, and Higgins,
“Decreased Latent Inhibition Is Associated with Increased Creative Achievement in
High-Functioning Individuals”; Eysenck, Genius.
46
Simonton, Origins of Genius; Creativity in Science.
Low Dependence on BVSR ← CREATIVITY → High Dependence on BVSR

DOMAIN
Scientific Artistic
Paradigmatic Non-paradigmatic Formal, Expressive,

classical romantic
Normal Revolutionary
DISPOSITION
more constrained, predictable, ← Cognitive processes → more unconstrained,
logical, conscious, deliberate, unpredictable, illogical,
simple, non-versatile intuitive, involuntary,
complex, versatile
more restricted, focused atten- ← Openness to experience → more unrestricted, defocused
tion, fewer interests, serendip- attention, many diverse inter-
ity rare ests, serendipity common
lower incidence rate, less severe ← Psychopathology → higher incidence rate, more
symptoms severe symptoms
DEVELOPMENT
more conventional, stable, ← Home environment → more unconventional, unstable,
homogeneous heterogeneous
more likely firstborn ← Birth order → more likely later born
superior grades, more ← Education and training → inferior grades, less formal
formal training, less training, more likely
likely marginal marginal
fewer, more homogeneous ← Mentors and role models → more numerous,
heterogeneous
more politically stable, ← Sociocultural Zeitgeist → more politically unstable,
culturally uniform culturally diverse
Figure 1. Domains of creativity are distinguished according to the extent to
which they involve the participation of blind-variation and selective-retention
processes. Placement along this dimension then determines the expected
dispositional traits and developmental experiences for creators active within
a given domain. Adapted from Dean Keith Simonton, Creativity in Science:
Chance, Logic, Genius, and Zeitgeist (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University
Press, 2004).
and highly expressive or romantic forms, on the other.47 On the aver-

age, the former will be less Darwinian than the latter.
In the case of scientific creativity, it is first necessary to distinguish
highly paradigmatic disciplines like the natural sciences from non-para-
digmatic disciplines like the social sciences.48 Because creativity in the
former is far more constrained by theory, method, and data than is
creativity in the latter,49 the BVSR process should show a par-allel pat-
tern. However, within the paradigmatic sciences it is necessary to distin-
guish normal ‘everyday’ creativity that operates within a given paradigm
from revolutionary creativity in which a scientist offers a new paradigm
to displaced one that has been discredited by accumulated anomalies.50
The cognitive processes, personality traits, and psychopathological
tendencies are aligned along this same dimension (see Figure 1, middle
section).51 Thus, a physicist conducting normal science would have the
attributes falling on the left side of the figure whereas a highly expres-
sive romantic poet would have attributes falling on the right side of the
figure. A large amount of research supports this alignment of indi-
vidual differences.52 For instance, artists have much higher rates of
mental illness than do scientists, and among the latter social scientists
have higher rates than do natural scientists.53
C. Creative Development
Research on this topic concentrates on two distinct phases of the life
span. In the first phase, the individual acquires the internal capacity
for creativity, whereas in the second the individual actualizes this capac-
ity into external products.
47
Arnold M. Ludwig, “Method and Madness in the Arts and Sciences,” Creativity
Research Journal 11 (1998): 93–101; Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy, trans. Francis
Golffing (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1956; orig. 1872).
48
Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 1970).
49
Dean Keith Simonton, “Psychology’s Status as a Scientific Discipline: Its Empirical
Placement within an Implicit Hierarchy of the Sciences,” Review of General Psychology
8 (2004): 59–67.
50
Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions.
51
52
Ibid.
53
Arnold M. Ludwig, The Price of Greatness: Resolving the Creativity and Madness Controversy
(New York: Guilford Press, 1995).
Acquisition. A large amount of research has accumulated regarding

the early childhood and adolescent experiences that enhance or impair
the acquisition of creative potential.54 These antecedents involved nature
and nurture—that is, both natural endowment and environmental
influences. In the former category is the genetic basis for the earlier
observation that a connection exists between creativity and psychopa-
thology. Outstanding creators are more likely to emerge in family lin-
eages that feature higher-than-average rates of mental illness.55 The
more creative members of a pedigree are probably those who inherit
the optimal intensity of symptoms, including the reduced cognitive
filtering mentioned earlier. In line with what I said earlier, this familial
linkage may be more noticeable among artists than scientists.
The category of environmental factors is much larger and probably
more influential than the genetic category. Most of these factors oper-
ate to increase the person’s intellectual openness and to reduce confor-
mity to traditional ways of viewing the world.56 For instance, creative
development is enhanced when an individual is exposed to diverse
cultures, languages, and ideas, when the person experiences unusual,
even traumatic events in childhood and adolescence, and when the
individual’s educational experiences are less conventional. Even so, as
was the case for dispositional traits, these antecedents vary according
to the particular domain of creative achievement (See Figure 1, lower
portion).57 Of special interest is the impact of birth order, role models
and mentors, and the sociocultural milieu. Disciplines that require a
higher engagement of BVSR processes are more likely to feature later
born children who studied or studied under numerous and diverse
predecessors, and who grew up under more unstable political systems
and more diverse cultural milieus. I hasten to point out that these
associations, as usual in the social sciences, are statistical rather than
deterministic. In the case for birth order, for instance, a specific set of
circumstances can undermine and even reverse the effects.58
54
55
E.g., Kay R. Jamison, Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Tem-
perament (New York: Free Press, 1993); J. I. Karlson, “Genetic Association of Giftedness
and Creativity with Schizophrenia,” Hereditas 66 (1970): 177–182.
56
Simonton, Origins of Genius; Creativity in Science.
57
58
Frank J. Sulloway, Born to Rebel: Birth Order, Family Dynamics, and Creative Lives (New
York: Pantheon, 1996).
Actualization. Once development is complete, the person’s creative

potential must be actualized as creative products during the course of
the career. This productive output also has features that are in accord
with the conception of creativity as a Darwinian process.59 A case in
point is the relation between quantity and quality of output. The num-
ber of major works is positively correlated with the number of minor
works, an association that holds both across and within careers. Those
creators who produce the most high-impact publications also tend to
produce the most low-impact publications; within the career of a single
creator, the best work tends to appear during those periods in which the
creator produces the most work regardless of quality. In short, the more
variations a creator generates, the higher the odds that one will prove
to have superior adaptive success. In addition, the hit rate, or the ratio
of hits to total attempts tends to fluctuate randomly across and within
careers.60 Thus, with respect to across-career variation, those creators
who produce the most hits also produce the most misses.
This statement should not be taken as saying that some creators
cannot improve the odds of success with increased experience. On the
contrary, such improvement is especially likely during the early phases
of the career when the creator is still engaged in mastering the requi-
sites for domain-specific achievement. But even after that mastery is
attained, subsequent output will remain a hit or miss affair. A success-
ful work will as likely be followed by an unsuccessful work as by another
successful work. This unevenness in outcome shows that a residual
amount of blindness remains in the creative process. Even a highly
accomplished creator must still face moments of groping in the dark
for something that is both original and functional.
IV Discussion
Given that Darwin’s original theory of evolution provoked considerable

controversy, it should not be surprising that the Darwinian theory of
creativity has attracted extensive criticism as well.61 Unfortunately, much
59
60
61
Subrata Dasgupta, “Is Creativity a Darwinian Process?” Creativity Research Journal 16
(2004): 403–413; Liane Gabora, “Creative Thought as a Non-Darwinian Evolutionary
Process,” Journal of Creative Behavior 39 (2005): 262–283; David N. Perkins, “Creativity:
of the debate stems from fundamental misconceptions of what a BVSR

process actually entails.62 For example, some critics argue that the
theory is exclusively predicated on unusual or exceptional cognitive
processes, such as free or remote association.63 Yet this argument is
invalid.64 Aside from the fact that the hypothesized associative processes
are by no means strange or rare, a large number of non-associative
processes can also give rise to blind variations. A systematic search
through a set of permutations is a prime example. A person can solve
an anagram problem using a step-by-step generate-and-test procedure,
but that procedure will still incorporate blindness.
Permutation searches also illustrate another aspect of BVSR that is
often misunderstood, namely that blindness is a continuous rather than
discrete property.65 The solution of crossword puzzles involves a search
through permutations of letters of the alphabet. Yet seldom is the
search totally blind. Most often, it will operate under a series of con-
straints, such as ‘a five-letter word’ that signifies ‘a shelter for conceal-
ing hunters, especially duck hunters,’ perhaps a little later additional
hints emerging from the configuration of neighboring words, such as
the fact that the second letter is an l. In some cases, the search will not
be blind at all, either because the constraints are absolute (for example,
‘three-letter definite article beginning with t’) or because the puzzle-
solver’s expertise is so great (for example, the daily crossword puzzle
enthusiast). In any case, creativity is not either blind or not blind, but
varies in the degree of blindness involved in solving a given problem.
In the main, as problems increase in novelty, ambiguity, or complexity,
the amount of blindness required to attain a solution increases as well.
Beyond the Darwinian Paradigm,” in Dimensions of Creativity, ed. Margaret A. Boden

(Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1994), 119–142; Robert J. Sternberg, “Cognitive
Mechanisms in Human Creativity: Is Variation Blind or Sighted?” Journal of Creative
Behavior 32 (1998): 159–176.
62
Cziko, “From Blind to Creative”; Dean Keith Simonton, “Darwin as Straw Man:
Dasgupta’s (2004) Evaluation of Creativity as a Darwinian Process,” Creativity Research
Journal 17 (2005): 299–208; “Picasso’s Guernica Creativity as a Darwinian Process:
Definitions, Clarifications, Misconceptions, and Applications,” Creativity Research Journal
(forthcoming).
63
Michael D. Mumford and Alison L. Antes, “Debates about the ‘General’ Picture:
Cognition and Creative Achievement,” Creativity Research Journal (forthcoming); Robert
W. Weisberg and Richard Hass, “We Are All Partly Right: Comment on Simonton,”
Creativity Research Journal 19:4 (2007) 345–360.
64
Simonton, “Darwin as Straw Man.”
65
Simonton, “Picasso’s Guernica Creativity as a Darwinian Process.”
Other criticisms arise from the use of the adjective Darwinian to

describe the process.66 There are many ways that the origin of creative
ideas does not operate like the origin of new species. For example, in
the former case, the variants tend to be produced sequentially within
a human brain whereas in the latter case they tend to emerge simul-
taneously within a population during a given reproductive cycle. More-
over, unlike what normally holds for biological evolution, human
creativity can freely borrow ideas from distinct lineages. A horse cannot
incorporate genes from a fly, but Picasso could easily assimilate graphic
forms from African art. These and other differences cannot be denied.
But the question reduces to what should be considered the essential
features of a Darwinian process. For Campbell67 and others like me,
the essence is captured by the BVSR process. This process is then
applied to a host of phenomena beyond biological evolution, such as
neurological development and antibody formation.68
In conceiving such applications, it becomes useful to distinguish
between two kinds of Darwinism: primary and secondary.69 On the
one hand, primary Darwinism is restricted to a single phenomenon—
the evolution of life forms. This application now encompasses the
wealth of concepts and processes subsumed under what is variously
termed the modern evolutionary synthesis, the evolutionary synthesis,
the modern synthesis, the new synthesis, the neo-Darwinian synthesis,
or simply neo-Darwinism. In any event, primary Darwinism is only
relevant to our understanding of creativity when it is used to account
for the selection pressures that might have favored the emergence of a
human brain capable of exhibiting creative behavior.70
On the other hand, secondary Darwinism applies a core aspect of
Darwin’s original formulation to some phenomenon besides biological
evolution. Most often, the central feature chosen is the BVSR process,
66
Liane Gabora, “Creative Thought as a Non-Darwinian Evolutionary Process”;
“Why the Creative Process is Not Darwinian,” Creativity Research Journal (forthcoming).
67
Campbell “Blind Variation and Selective Retention in Creative Thought as in
Other Knowledge Processes.”
68
E.g., Gerald M. Edelman, Neural Darwinism: The Theory of Neuronal Group Selection
(New York: Basic Books, 1987); Thomas Söderqvist, “Darwinian Overtones: Niels
K. Jerne and the Origin of the Selection Theory of Antibody Formation,” Journal of
the History of Biology 27 (1994): 481–529.
69
70
Dean Keith Simonton, “Human Creativity: Two Darwinian Analyses,” in Animal
Innovation, eds. Simon M. Reader and Kevin N. Laland (New York: Oxford University
Press, 2003), 309–325.
but this need not be the only one. A classic example is Social Darwin-
ism, a theory predicated on Darwin’s concept of the struggle for exis-
tence—the title of Origin’s Chapter 3—and its involvement in weeding
out ‘inferior’ social groups. Briefly put, to say that something is Darwin-
ian means merely to claim that it has some characteristics analogous
to those witnessed in Darwin’s theory. To claim an analogy is not tan-
tamount to asserting an identity. It is perhaps for this reason that
scholars with established Darwinian credentials have not objected to
the application of this term to the phenomenon of human creativity.71
The analogical nature of the term is an asset insofar as it provides
a useful guide to theoretical and empirical research. On that score, I
maintain that a Darwinian theory of creativity has performed quite
well. Besides offering an integrative framework for coordinating all of
the diverse findings regarding the creative process, the creative person-
ality, and creative development, it has led to specific theoretical models
and empirical inquiries that otherwise would not have been pursued.72
For instance, the BVSR process provided the foundation for a combi-
natorial model that yields precise predictions regarding individual dif-
ferences and longitudinal changes in creative output.73 That model has
also led to quantitative predictions regarding certain primary attributes
of the multiples phenomenon, that is, the occasion when a given dis-
covery or invention is made by independent scientists.74 Furthermore,
the testing of Darwinian-inspired models has produced new and impor-
tant empirical results that would not have appeared otherwise. An
instance is the study of Picasso’s Guernica sketches mentioned earlier in
this chapter.75
Even so, it must be acknowledged that the term Darwinian can be
a liability as well as an asset. For some critics, it is an emotionally-
charged word associated with sociobiology and evolutionary psychology,
two intellectual movements that are sometimes seen as more political
and even religious rather than strictly scientific.76 One could, therefore,
argue that it might be better to find a more neutral word to designate
71
Michael Ruse, “Review of Origins of Genius: Darwinian Perspectives on Creativity by
Dean Keith Simonton,” Isis 92 (2001): 587–589.
72
73
Dean Keith Simonton, “Creative Productivity: A Predictive and Explanatory Model
of Career Trajectories and Landmarks,” Psychological Review 104 (1997): 66–89.
74
Simonton, “Psychology’s Status as a Scientific Discipline.”
75
Simonton, “The Creative Process in Picasso’s Guernica.”
76
Sternberg, “Cognitive Mechanisms in Human Creativity.”
the set of ideas constituting the theory. For instance, rather than call
the creative process Darwinian or even BVSR, we might better refer
to it as a combinatorial or constrained stochastic process.77 After all, would
it be less valid if called by some other name?
My belief is that the benefits outweigh the costs. The study of cre-
ativity must be brought into the scientific mainstream. Rather than
representing some mysterious process, creativity should be examined
from a naturalistic perspective that links it with other phenomena of
the same kind. Of all natural phenomena, the evolution of life comes
closest to the creation of ideas. Notwithstanding the conspicuous
differences between the two processes, they both can be subsumed under
a generic BVSR mechanism. To the extent that Darwin can be credited
with introducing that particular mechanism into organic evolution, so
can he provide the eponym for the process underlying human creativ-
ity. That is just an act of giving credit where credit is due.
77
Simonton, “Scientific Creativity as Constrained Stochastic Behavior”; “Darwin
as a Straw Man.”
CHAPTER FIVE
CREATIVITY AND SKILL
Berys Gaut
I Introduction
There is a long philosophical tradition, stretching from Plato to recent

times, which denies that the core capacity involved in creativity is a
matter of skill. Plato writes in the Phaedrus:
if any man come to the gates of poetry without the madness of the
Muses, persuaded that skill alone will make him a good poet, then shall
he and his works of sanity with him be brought to nought by the poetry
of madness, and behold, their place is nowhere to be found.1
This view of creativity was seconded by many of the Romantic poets,
and has echoed throughout popular culture. The view of creativity as
not being or involving a skill lies behind the thought that creativity is
a natural (or supernatural) ability, not susceptible to the learning and
teaching process, perhaps being completely inexplicable. I am going
to argue that this view is mistaken, since it incorrectly adopts an anti-
teleological view of the creative process and conflates what I shall call
routinized with non-routinized skills. I will also show that the creative
ability satisfies some plausible criteria for involving a skill. It will also
emerge from the view defended here that the value of creativity is
partly to be explained by the value of a kind of human freedom and
the value of courage.
II What Is Creativity?
We need first to get clear about what creativity is. The traditional
definition is two-part. The first part holds that a creative act or product
1
Plato, Phaedrus, 245a, in The Collected Dialogues, eds. Edith Hamilton and Huntington
Cairns (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961).
84 berys gaut
must be original.2 Originality we can understand in terms of what is

saliently new. The process of producing something saliently new I will
refer to as ‘innovation.’
What is saliently new is a matter of degree, and the standards applied
have varied widely. John Dewey, in his educational and political writ-
ings, thinks of creativity as something to which all children have natural
access. On the other hand, Immanuel Kant has a dauntingly high and
restrictive standard. During the eighteenth century, the discussion of
creativity was conducted largely in terms of the notion of genius; Kant
recognizes genius as having a place only in the fine arts, and even there
only at a very high standard of achievement.3 So according to Kant,
Kant was not a genius.
What is the correct standard for salient newness? Part of the answer
is that, strictly speaking, creativity is a matter of degree, since things can
be new to greater or lesser degrees, so as we become more demanding
in what counts as saliently new, we should say that the activity is more
creative. Another aspect of the answer is to recognize that standards of
salience in what counts as new may legitimately vary, depending on the
context, and that this is relevant to whether we judge whether something
is creative simpliciter. We may judge some of children’s activities as cre-
ative, even though those same activities done by adults would often not
be, because we are ( justifiably) less demanding in what counts as salient
newness, given children’s lesser skills and experience of the world. A
further distinction in respect of newness that may be relevant in such
cases is whether the idea is new to the person who comes up with it, as
opposed to whether it is the first time that the idea appears in human
history. This is Margaret Boden’s distinction between psychological and
historical creativity (P-creativity and H-creativity).4
The second part of the traditional definition holds that for an act to
be creative, its product must be valuable because, it is held, originality
alone does not suffice for creativity. For instance, Kant notes that there
can be original nonsense, and had he been alive today he would at this
point probably have added something rude about the Turner Prize. He
2
The notion of a product should be understood broadly throughout this discussion:
besides physical things, ideas, procedures, techniques, and so on, count as products.
3
Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment, trans. Werner S. Pluhar (Indianapolis, Ind.:
Hackett, 1987), sec. 46, Ak. 307–308.
4
See Margaret Boden, The Creative Mind: Myths and Mechanisms, 2nd ed. (London:
Routledge, 2004), 2.
creativity and skill 85
requires that the products of genius (creativity) be ‘exemplary,’ that they

serve as a standard or rule by which to judge other works. Therefore,
transposing the view from genius to creativity, creativity is a matter
of exemplary originality: an act is creative just in case it produces
something innovative (saliently new) and valuable. Again, we should
recognize that the value of things is a matter of degree (and therefore
so is creativity), and that standards of how valuable something must be
to count as creative simpliciter may vary, depending on the context.
The traditional definition is product-oriented: it places no constraints
on the process that results in the creative output. As such, it is com-
patible with any story about that process, including Plato’s story of
supernatural intervention and human madness. But the definition is
false, since the two conditions are insufficient for an act to be creative.
Consider the inventor Charles Goodyear, who, in 1839, invented the
vulcanization of rubber while he was in debtors’ prison. Goodyear pro-
ceeded by systematically dropping into a liquid rubber solution all the
substances on which he could lay his hands—including cream cheese
(this did not work)—until he eventually came across sulfur, which did
the job. Was Goodyear creative in what he did? He certainly produced
something that was original and valuable, but his was not a terribly
creative act, if it was creative at all. The reason lies in how he reached
his discovery: by a brute, mechanical search process. Such a process
did not require skill, insight, imaginative leaps, or anything other than
sheer persistence—in short, it lacked flair. One could, indeed, mechanize
this procedure, programming it into a computer, in the same way that
drug companies mechanize the generation of innumerable chemical
compounds to see which ones are effective in fighting diseases.
Consider another example: suppose that you kidnap me, strip me
naked, cover me with paint, and lock me in a pitch-dark room for several
hours. I thrash around, trying to escape. When eventually released, I
discover that there was in the room a canvas, and in flailing around,
I have produced a painted surface that is stunningly beautiful and
completely unlike any other abstract painting yet seen. I have made
something original and quite valuable. But I have not been creative,
since my painting was completely accidental, produced independently
of my knowledge, let alone any skills that I have.
The Goodyear and the painting examples show that the traditional
definition of creativity is incorrect; for both of these activities satisfy it,
in producing things which are original and valuable—vulcanization and
the painting—but neither activity is creative. What more is required?
86 berys gaut
It is that the process of a thing’s making involves, as I will say, flair.

This should be understood to at least rule out the cases where I
produce something by a mechanical search procedure, or in which I
produce something purely by accident. Note that I say purely by acci-
dent, because one should allow a role for serendipity in creation: but
that is the skillful exploitation of chance, rather than chance alone
5
producing something.
III The Anti-Teleological Model of Creativity
My claim is that flair involves a kind of skill. Why might one deny this?
Let us start with Plato: why is the difference between the creative person
and the drone not a difference in the possession of a kind of skill? In
the Ion, Plato has Socrates argue that Ion, a rhapsode (a kind of creative
recitor of poetry), does not have his ability to speak well on Homer’s
poetry by skill. If he did, he could explain not only the particular excel-
lences in Homer, but also the particular merits and failures of other
poets, on whom he admits he can say nothing. Moreover, Ion can offer
no account of how it is that he can speak so well on Homer. (Socrates
also claims that the creative process in Ion is irrational. Socrates has
more than one reason for this; but one of them seems to rest on the
thought that skill is a matter of bringing about one’s ends by deploying
suitable means. If one thinks of a rational process of making something
as the taking of means to bring about the existence of the object, then
if there is no skill, there is no taking of means, so one is not engaged
in a process of rational making.)
Plato’s reasons for denying the role of skill in Ion’s creative process
are peculiarly unconvincing. For there are specialized skills, and we
are familiar with an academic world in which one person can write
well on one poet, and have very little to say about another. Moreover,
Ion’s inarticulacy about his ability is a familiar feature of many kinds
of skill: one cannot explain how one rides a bicycle, but it is a genuine
skill for all that.
5
For a related defense of the three-part definition, see my “Creativity and Imagi-
nation,” in The Creation of Art: New Essays in Philosophical Aesthetics, eds. Berys Gaut
and Paisley Livingston (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 149–151.
The Goodyear example is taken from David Novitz, “Creativity and Constraint,”
Australasian Journal of Philosophy 77 (1999): 67–82, at 75, though Novitz employs it for
a different purpose.
However, there is a way to defend the idea that creativity does not
involve a kind of skill that is in the spirit of Plato’s project. According
to several influential writers, the creative process is not goal-directed,
that is, it is not teleological. In being creative, I do not adopt the means
to some already pre-determined end. R. G. Collingwood argued along
these lines, and so did Monroe Beardsley and Vincent Tomas.
One version of the kinds of considerations to which these writers
appeal can be reconstructed as a five-step argument. First, if one is to
take the means to an end, one has to know the end. For instance, if
I want to make a table, I must know what the table is to be like if I
am to set about making it. Second, if, however, the process of making
something is creative, then one cannot know the end: for if one knows
the end, one has already created the object. For instance, a poet creating
a poem cannot already know what the poem is, for if he knows this,
he has already created the poem. To have conceived of it is to have
made it. Contrast this with making something uncreatively, such as a
table, where one can know what the table is to be like, without having
made it, since one must go on physically to make it (by skill) before it
exists. Third, it follows from the first two steps that creative making
cannot consist in the taking of means to ends—the creative process
cannot be teleological. Creating the poem cannot be a matter of tak-
ing means to an end. (Taking the means here can only mean writing
the poem down, having already thought of it: but merely writing it
down is something subsequent to the creative process, not part of it.)
Fourth, exercising a skill requires the taking of means to bring about
one’s ends. Fifth, it follows from the last two steps that creativity can-
6
not involve a skill.
However, as just stated, the argument is open to an objection at
step two about the proposed ontology of the artwork. Perhaps some
kinds of artworks are abstract universals or types, such as poems and
musical works, and so they do exist merely when conceived. But other
artworks, such as paintings and sculptures, essentially involve material
components. So the claim that conceiving of the artwork is identical
6
R. G. Collingwood, The Principles of Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1938
[reissued 1958]). Collingwood holds that “To create something means to make it non-
technically, but yet consciously and voluntarily” (128); technical making is craft making,
which involves a means-end structure and skill (16–18). Collingwood also holds that
works of art are always created in this sense, and that they are imaginary objects, distinct
from their physical embodiments (chap. 7). Collingwood does not explicitly link creation
to creativity, but this version of the argument captures the spirit of his position.
88 berys gaut
with its creation is false in such cases. Hence, the anti-teleological argu-
ment would at best apply only to some artworks (and more generally
only to the creation of abstract universals or types).
However, we need not enter into the ontological debate about the
nature of artworks here, since an alternative version of the argument
does not rely on the claim that the artwork is created when its idea is
created. Rather, it holds that the creative act is completed when the artist
has the idea of the artwork. It is the thinking up of the artwork that
is the creative act. Some kinds of artworks (perhaps) essentially involve
material objects, but the creative aspect of their making is nevertheless
exhausted by the artist’s conceiving of them. Their physical realiza-
tion, in contrast, is a matter of noncreative manual labor in the case
of sculpture and painting, or noncreative writing down of words or
notation in the case of literature and music. So at step two, this varia-
tion of the argument holds that if the process of making something is
creative, then one cannot know the end: for if one knows the end, one
has already been creative. The argument then proceeds smoothly without
the debatable ontological claim.
Something like this variation of the argument is adopted by
Vincent Tomas:
To create is to originate. And it follows from this that prior to creation the
creator does not foresee what will result from it . . . [Otherwise he] would
have to have the idea of it in mind. But if he already had the idea in
mind, all that would remain to be done is to objectify the idea in paint
or in stone, and this would be a matter of skill, or work. . . . By the time
they [sculptors] have the idea, the creative act, which in this case is the
production of the idea, is finished. But to produce that original idea, the
sculptor does not first have to produce an idea of it.7
So, according to Tomas, creativity cannot consist in finding the means
to realize a pre-determined goal, and therefore does not involve skill;
rather, it consists in thinking up an original idea. Thinking up this
idea does not consist in finding the means to yet another idea, or
there would be an infinite regress of ideas. Note that Tomas applies
this claim not only to arts, such as poetry and music, whose products
are abstract universals, but also to material arts such as sculpture. The
sculptor thinks up an idea and in so doing is creative, but he can leave
it to hired stonecutters to execute his plan.
7
Vincent Tomas, “Creativity in Art,” Philosophical Review 67 (1958): 1–15, at 4.
Instead, Tomas thinks of creativity as a kind of causal process: follow-

ing Plato, there is a moment of inspiration, and then the original kernel
of the creative idea develops over time in a non-teleological fashion.
In this process, Tomas holds that the artist must exercise critical con-
trol, but this is a matter of the original inspiration causally controlling
the creative process. Tomas talks of the inspiration ‘kicking’ the artist
when he proceeds in a way inconsistent with it.8 (Monroe Beardsley,
in defending and elaborating Tomas’s account, has characterized it as
a propulsive as opposed to a finalistic theory.)9 So creativity is a mat-
ter not of goal-directed activity, but of a causal process started in an
admittedly mysterious act of inspiration, which then causally controls
the development process through the artist’s critical judgment. On this
view, then, what I am calling flair cannot be a matter of skill, since
skill, goes the claim, is always a matter of taking means to a pre-
conceived end. The table-maker knows what the table that he is going
to make looks like; his skill consists in following the techniques required
to produce it. In contrast, the artist’s creativity consists in thinking up
something new, and its physical making, involving skill, can in principle
be left to someone else.
I argue that this account is mistaken and that the creative process
can be goal-directed, that skill plays an important part in it and that
in particular flair involves skill. Indeed, there is a glaring problem with
Tomas’s account, for it leaves it utterly mysterious how the artist knows
that he is on the wrong track. For unless he has some conception of
his goal in mind, how can he know that he is going astray? Talk of
inspiration kicking him when he is going wrong is a misleading meta-
phor, since it suggests a causal mechanism where there must be a goal-
directed activity. For one’s inspiration must have sufficient content—it
must lay out the goal in sufficient detail so that one knows when one
is deviating from it. ‘That’s not what I had in mind!’ cries the artist, as
she rejects a draft; but then she must have had something in mind, and
know in outline what it was, to react in this way.10
So what is involved in the creative process, and what role is flair
playing in it? The best way to approach this is by considering what is
8
Ibid., 13.
9
Monroe Beardsley, “On the Creation of Art,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism
23 (1965): 291–304.
10
John Hospers (“Artistic Creativity,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 43 [1984–
1985]: 243–255) also notes this point at 245. However, he uses it to argue that there
is no real difference between the teleological and propulsive theories.
90 berys gaut
required to change an activity from a non-creative one to a creative

one. Let us consider cookery.
Start with a basic piece of cookery. I want to bake a chocolate cake.
Finding my trusty cookbook, I consult the appropriate recipe. Each
step involved in making the cake is laid out carefully: how much flour,
raising agent, etc., I have to add, how long I have to place the mix in
the oven, at what temperature, the sort of chocolate to choose, and the
temperature at which to melt it and to pour it on the top, how long to
let it stand. If I am competent and conscientious, I will have produced
a perfectly serviceable chocolate cake by following the recipe. I have
undoubtedly made something worth making, and I demonstrated some
useful skills, but so far, except in the loosest sense, I have not been
creative in my cooking. Why is this? Well, clearly, part of the answer is
that there is nothing original about my cake. Part of the answer too is
that I have simply followed the recipe laid down in the book. Even if
by some fluke, caused by mislabeled packaging, so that my ingredients
were wrong, or the oven was malfunctioning, and my cake came out
radically original, I would not count as creative. Simply following the
recipe meant that I was not engaged in a creative activity.
A recipe consists of a set of instructions for taking some steps that,
if followed correctly, produce a pre-determined outcome. We can
generalize the notion of a recipe to that of a routine: a routine is a
set of rules that, if followed competently, produce a pre-determined
outcome. Following these rules may be difficult and require a lot of
training and skill. But as long as one simply follows a routine, one is
not being creative, even though one may need to be highly skilled to
do so. Practical life is full of routines: car mechanics and plumbers are
skilled followers of routines.
To return to cookery, how might one start to be creative? One might
decide to try to bake a better chocolate cake, perhaps a creamier, richer
concoction. The problem is that one no longer has a recipe, so one
cannot rely on a routine. The problem is twofold: one does not know
the exact means to take (what ingredients to use, for instance), and one
does not know the exact taste one is after (one cannot exactly specify
the end). So one must experiment.
However, this cannot be done (if one is to be creative or even just
plain sensible), by the Charles Goodyear method of randomly throw-
ing in items into the cake mix to see what will happen. Rather, one
experiments within bounds, trying out various possibilities, drawing
on knowledge of other recipes which might help (perhaps there was a
chocolate mousse recipe, found tasty in the past), varying the ingredients
in quantity and type, and so on. So one deploys one’s cookery skills,
but does not follow a routine; if one’s quest is successful, one will have
developed a new routine (a new recipe) for a better chocolate cake, but
one’s actions did not, and could not, if they were creative, consist in
following a routine. Moreover, one’s actions could not be random, since
otherwise (as in the case of my traumatic encounter with the paint and
the darkened room) they would not be creative either.
I have been creative (albeit not at a terribly exalted level), if I
produce a tastier chocolate cake. Yet that process was goal-directed
throughout, contra Tomas. It also involved skills, though not the follow-
ing of routines. So creativity is compatible with goal-directedness, for
two reasons. First, creativity can consist in a greater specification of
one’s goal. I wanted to bake a better chocolate cake; but I initially had
no idea as to the precise features of this end: how, precisely was it to
taste? As I experimented further, I managed to get clearer about the
exact qualities of the final product. So one way in which one can be
creative is by further refining one’s goal. A painter, for instance, can
be creative by virtue of starting out with a rough idea of the sort of
painting he wishes to make, and then get his goal more precise as he
tries out various options. So creativity can involve teleological reasoning
because one aspect of this reasoning is a more detailed specification of
one’s goal (a process sometimes put in terms of finding the constitutive
means, as opposed to causal means, to one’s ends).
Second, an aspect of creativity lies in finding the means to accomplish
one’s end. It is possible to be creative in finding the means to one’s
goal, even if the goal is completely precise. One may, have decided
on the exact taste that one wants for one’s cake, but not know how to
achieve it. A similar process of controlled, skillful trying out of various
options may lead one to reach it. Alternatively, imagine aiming to bake
a five-foot high cake. One may know exactly what one is trying to make,
but have no idea about how to go about making it, and be creative in
finding those means. So there is such a thing as creativity of means as
well as creativity of ends. The same applies to the arts: an architect,
for instance, may be creative in thinking up the design of a building,
but his structural engineer may also be creative in finding a way physi-
cally to realize the architect’s apparently impossible design. Consider
the creativity required to be Frank Gehry’s structural engineer.
Talk of teleology may seem to miss something essential to cre-
ativity. What of inspiration, the creative idea that comes from
92 berys gaut
one-knows-not-where? It seems to be essential to the creative process,

but not to fit the teleological account. If inspiration strikes an artist,
then there is no place for the end-specification and means-choosing
processes that I have outlined. For in being inspired, he is completely
passive: inspiration consists of ‘poppings’ into the mind, as Peter Kivy
puts it in deflationary style.11
Moreover, since the artist is at the moment of inspiration passive,
neither is there any conceptual room for skill. Talk of skill qualifies
doings: when we display skill, we display it in doing something. When
we are merely passive, there is no possibility of skill being exercised. It
makes no sense, for instance, to talk of a skillful pain; in contrast, one
can say that someone handled their pain skillfully: but that is a matter
of how they acted and responded in respect of the pain, not in how
they had the pain. So, for an essential aspect of creativity, teleology
and skill have no place.
Now, to clarify, I do not maintain that creativity is necessarily a goal-
directed process. My point is that it can be teleological, and indeed,
that is almost always how it is. In any case, the passive aspect to cre-
ativity poses no threat to the account proposed here. For, there must
be some psychological process that produces the moment of inspiration,
and since it is a process, it can be teleological. For example, a widely
accepted account of creativity is due to Graham Wallas, who describes
the creative process as involving a process of preparation, followed by a
perhaps lengthy period of incubation, when nothing consciously occurs
to the creative person, followed by a sudden moment of illumination
or inspiration, and ending in a period of verification or clarification
in which the creative idea is elaborated and tested.12 So, according to
Wallas, the sudden moment of inspiration is standardly preceded by a
long unconscious process and standardly leads to a further process. In
developing this description, he drew on the writings of Henri Poincaré,
who referred to “this appearance of sudden illumination, a manifest sign
of long, unconscious, prior work.”13 Now nothing forbids this process
11
Peter Kivy, The Fine Art of Repetition: Essays in the Philosophy of Music (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1993), 68.
12
Graham Wallas, The Art of Thought, ed. Jonathan Cape (London: Jonathan Cape,
1926), 79–96; reprinted in Creativity, ed. P. E. Vernon (Harmondsworth: Penguin,
1970).
13
Henri Poincaré, The Foundations of Science, trans. G. B. Halstead (Science Press,
Marrickville NSW, 1924), 383–394; reprinted in Vernon, Creativity, quote from 83 in
Vernon.
from being teleological, or from involving skills: many skills are uncon-
scious: those involved in riding a bike standardly are, for example.
However, the precise nature of the process is properly a matter of
psychological investigation. What we need here is the simple point that,
unless we deny the possibility of psychological explanation, then there
is some psychological process that terminates in the moment of inspi-
ration; there is no reason to deny that this process as a whole can be
teleological and involve skills. In the same way, looking for something
is an active process; the success-condition, seeing the thing looked for,
is a passive occurrence; but the process as a whole is teleological and
may involve skills by virtue of the active process of looking.
There is a second reply to the inspiration objection. Whether an
idea for a work counts as an inspiration will crucially depend both on
a person’s skills and on his interests. Douglas Dunn once remarked
in a lecture that he had had the idea for a poem when, talking with
a friend, they both discovered that in their youths they had opened
Blue Note jazz records imported from America and inhaled the odor
of them: “The smell of America!”14 What made this an inspiration?
Well, Dunn was struck by a thought which he believed that, given his
skills, he could likely work up into a good poem and because Dunn
aims to write poetry. A non-poet might have merely gone on to think
‘What a stink!’
On the other hand, a philosopher, such as Kant, might be inspired
to produce a great philosophical work by the thought that events are
individuated by the causal relations in which they stand. Even Douglas
Dunn might be hard put to make a poem out of that. So what ideas
count as inspirations is relative to what a person thinks that he can go
on to do with them, and that depends on his abilities and interests.
Since one’s interests specify one’s goals, the notion of inspiration is
thus conceptually related to that of one’s goals. Indeed, one can think
of the creative person’s activity as involving a kind of search for ideas,
which might be the germ for works: the searching might be active, or
merely consist in openness to useful ideas or experiences thrown up
by the world or by a person’s unconscious. The creative person is thus
on the lookout for ideas and experiences that may form the germs for
achievements in her field, be it poetry or philosophy.
14
Douglas Dunn, “Creativity in Poetry,” Royal Institute of Philosophy Lecture,
Dundee, 14 November 2003.
94 berys gaut
So the idea that the creative process cannot be teleological is mistaken.

Even the process of thinking up new ideas can be goal-directed, since
one can start with a general goal (to invent a better mousetrap), and
then be creative in more exactly specifying the details (of the mousetrap).
We have seen that one can be creative also in finding means to one’s
goals. Since the creative process can be teleological, the central reason
for thinking that creativity cannot be a matter of skill lapses. We have
also seen that what one must not do is simply follow routines if one
is to be creative. So, the flair that the creative person shows involves
skills, but not the following of routines.
Now it may be objected that this is not possible, for skills and routines
are one and the same. But that is false. A routine is a set of rules, which
if followed competently, will produce some pre-determined result; a rule
is an abstract propositional structure. A skill, in contrast, is a kind of
capacity, an ability to do something. Routines and skills are different
kinds of things. Moreover, not all skills are plausibly specifiable in terms
of rules. For the application of rules can require skill in hard cases. One
might think that this skill could itself be specified by a rule; but that is
not so, since one can also imagine hard cases for rules for applying rules,
the adjudication of which would require the use of skills, and so on ad
infinitum. Skills are often required to follow routines (one must know how
to mix cake ingredients, for instance); but one can demonstrate skills
in ways other than by following routines, as in my activity of trying to
bake a better cake, or in knowing how to apply rules.
IV Criteria for Skills
I have considered two prominent reasons for believing that creativity

cannot involve a skill: it is alleged that the creative process cannot be
teleological and that all skills are routinized. I have argued that both
of these claims are false. But showing that this is so does not entail
that creativity involves a skill, it merely demonstrates that we have been
given no good reasons for believing that it does not involve a skill. To
show that it does involve a skill requires showing that it satisfies the
conditions for an ability to be a skill. But we must avoid a too-easy
claim. I remarked earlier that a skill is a kind of a capacity, an ability
to do something. If that were all that could be said about the notion
of a skill, triviality would threaten the account. For creativity involves
a capacity to produce saliently new and valuable outcomes, so it must
be a skill, if a skill is a capacity or ability. No one ought to deny that

creativity is a productive capacity.
So what more is required for a productive capacity to be a skill? I
doubt if the notion of a skill is sufficiently determinate to be captured
in terms of individually necessary and jointly sufficient conditions.
Nevertheless, some criteria can be given, and the satisfaction of all
of these is sufficient for an ability to be a skill. Some of the marks of
skill are as follows. First, the capacity in some domain is special (not
universally shared): we tend to talk of people as skilled in some activity
when they have an ability that is not possessed by everyone who engages
in that activity. Second, we talk of skills as a kind of accomplishment
(the words ‘skilled’ and ‘accomplished’ are near-synonyms). Third, it
makes sense to talk about practicing one’s skills: in practicing music
making, I thereby practice my music-making skills. Finally, skills are
something that one can learn, so we oppose skills to purely natural
abilities. Breathing is not a skill, because it is not something one learns;
but music making is a skill, since it is learned, and (arguably) walking is
also a skill, since that is something that is learned too. Note that I am
not claiming that these marks are individually necessary conditions for
a productive capacity to constitute a skill, but they are, rather, criteria
for something to be a skill.15
Is a creative ability a skill on this criterial account? Clearly, creative
activity in some domain is special and is an accomplishment. But does
it make sense to talk of practicing creativity? The explanation for the
apparent oddity of talking this way is simple: when we say that someone
is creative, we have to specify the domain or domains in which this
so. Charles Darwin and Pablo Picasso were both highly creative, but
in very different fields. One standardly practices creativity by practic-
ing creative something or other—short story writing, poetry, painting,
philosophy, and so on. When one practices an activity in which one
is creative, one can thereby practice the skills of creativity. Likewise,
when one practices piano playing, one thereby practices one’s piano
playing skills. But there is also a disanalogy here, which helps explain
the apparent oddity of talk of practicing creativity. Practice is most
effective when one is following a routine, since there is a rule one can
repeatedly follow, and so on which to strengthen one’s grip. Because
the skill involved in creativity is non-routinized, practice here runs the
15
For more on the notion of a criterion, see my “ ‘Art’ as a Cluster Concept” in Theo-
ries of Art Today, ed. Noël Carroll (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000).
96 berys gaut
danger of merely hardening the grip of a routine on a person, rather

than producing a genuinely creative outcome.
Can one learn to be creative, however? One might object that one
cannot teach someone to be creative, so one cannot learn to be creative,
and hence creativity cannot involve a skill. In reply, even if one denied
that creativity can be taught, the claim that one can learn to be creative
could still stand, for the fact that one can learn a skill does not require
that one be taught it. Everyone from infants to research scientists can
learn many things without being taught them, since they can learn them
from experience, from trying something out. Further, it does not follow
from the fact that something can be learned that everyone can learn
it, still less that everyone can become equally accomplished in it. The
ability to play a piano is a skill that can be learned, but it is not open
to everyone (the tone-deaf and those who lack basic dexterity have a
serious disadvantage), nor can everyone reach the same level of skill.
As the music example also illustrates, skills rest on natural abilities, so
saying that a skill can be learned is not to deny that it may also involve
natural abilities.
Moreover, there are good reasons to think that creativity can be
taught as well as learned. Edward de Bono and Tony Buzan have made
highly successful careers out of teaching people to be more creative,
and there is a plethora of books by educationalists dedicated to teaching
creativity, by techniques ranging from imaginative play to fostering a
supportive environment.16 There are, in fact, many techniques for teach-
ing creativity. One of the more august is Leonardo da Vinci’s advice
to the aspiring painter to look at a stained wall and see images in it.
Philosophers have generally discussed this in the context of pictorial
representation, to illustrate the phenomenon of ‘seeing-in.’17 But Da
Vinci intended it as a piece of advice on how to foster the creativity
of visual imagination: he described it as “of great utility in arousing
the mind to various inventions.”18 By employing one’s imagination and
16
See for instance, Anna Craft, Creativity across the Primary Curriculum: Framing and
Developing Practice (London: Routledge, 2000); Anna Craft, Bob Jeffrey and Mike Leib-
ling, eds., Creativity in Education (London: Continuum, 2001); and Tina Bruce, Cultivating
Creativity in Babies, Toddlers and Young Children (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 2004).
17
E.g., Richard Wollheim, Painting as an Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1987), 46.
18
Martin Kemp, ed., Leonardo on Painting, trans. Martin Kemp and Margaret Walker
(Yale University Press, 1989), 222.
exposing it to something outside one’s control, one may find inspira-

tion for new works.
Another technique for fostering creativity is to bind oneself in certain
ways, so that one cannot do things in ways that one has customarily
used. A good example is the Dogma 95 film movement, which abjured
standard film techniques, such as recording final sound after shooting,
allowing props to be brought in to locations and sets to be constructed,
the use of optical work, filters, special lighting, and so on. The motiva-
tions of the movement for this were diverse, but it had the effect of
enhancing creativity, by forcing filmmakers, such as Lars von Trier and
Thomas Vinterberg, to find new ways of working that otherwise were
susceptible to familiar solutions.19
The learning objection could still be pressed, however. Creativity
is often associated with young children, yet young children may have
little in the way of skills, so creativity cannot involve a skill. Moreover,
education may function to make children less creative, undermining
their spontaneous creativity.
These objections are not successful. Children will have learned a lot
by the time they become creative in some activity such as drawing or
painting, not least because they must have mastered many skills to be
engaged in these activities, and some of these skills may be the skills
involved in being creative. True, they will not have learned as much as
a professional artist. But recall our earlier discussion about standards
of creativity: creativity is a matter of degree, and what counts as cre-
ative simpliciter depends on how demanding we are about what counts
as saliently new and about the degree of value that a product should
exhibit. When we talk of children as being creative, we generally apply
less demanding standards of salient newness and value than we would
in assessing professional artists. A child’s drawings are unlikely to show
the degree of originality that we demand of professional artists, though
they are perhaps charming and of considerable value to doting parents.
While children have learned less than a professional artist, we also apply
a less demanding standard of creativity to their works.
So learning skills and creativity are not in a disproportion here
that would threaten the claim that creativity is learnable. Recall too
the distinction between P- and H-creativity. That children’s creativity
19
For a general discussion of how constraints may promote creativity, see Jon Elster,
Ulysses Unbound: Studies in Rationality, Pre-Commitment and Constraint (Cambridge: Cambridge
98 berys gaut
may be low on the H-creativity scale is not to deny that their ideas
are highly saliently new to them: that they are often very P-creative.
In addition, while it is true that education can sometimes undermine
children’s creativity, it does not follow that creativity cannot be taught:
it only follows that some kinds of teaching can undermine rather than
foster it.
So far, we have clarified the notion of a skill and discussed whether
creativity involves a skill. But the question also arises of whether cre-
ativity is to be identified with a kind of skill, or whether it merely involves
a skill, and something in addition is required. Consider mountain
climbing. This involves many skills, but more is required to be a good
mountain-climber than possessing these skills: one has to have the right
attitudes and values as well. Someone scared of heights may possess
the relevant skills, but be a very poor climber or no climber at all. The
ability to climb mountains thus involves skills and the possession of
certain attitudes and values. Creativity, I suggest, is like that. In parallel
fashion, someone may have creative ability, but be poor at exercising
the skill, because he or she is too timid to take the risks involved in
being creative. As we will see shortly, there is an internal connection
between being creative and possessing a kind of courage.
V Some Alternatives Considered
It can seem hard to swallow the idea that creativity is an ability involv-
ing a skill, since so much of traditional discourse, both popular and
philosophical, opposes creativity to skill. A brief survey of the alterna-
tives may aid digestion.
The oldest alternative is the supernatural theory: Plato held in the
Ion, as we saw, that the gods or muses speak through the poet: creativity
is a supernatural force. That will be rejected by any even minimally
naturalist psychology; and more importantly, it simply begs the question:
for how do we explain the gods’ creativity? Plato to support his case
cites Tynnichus, the original one-hit wonder, who produced a famous
praise-song, but nothing else of note, as an example of how the gods
can pick on a person to demonstrate their creativity, but never again
favor him.20 However, it is striking that creative people tend to produce
several creative things, not just one.
20
Plato, Ion, 534d–e.
A second alternative is to hold that the creative process is completely

inexplicable. Kant held this view: “Genius is the innate mental predisposi-
tion (ingenium) through which nature gives the rule to art”; and by ‘nature,’
he means “the supersensible substrate (unattainable by any concept of
the understanding) of all his [man’s] powers,” the noumenal realm,
21
which lies beyond the possibility of scientific explanation. Yet complete
inexplicability is incompatible with even the limited understanding that
psychology has given us of creativity, and with the ability to enhance
creative powers through teaching. Nor is there is any good argument
for it. Some have thought that creativity is inexplicable because if
something is explicable, it is predictable, and one cannot predict the
creative outcome: for if one could do so, it would not be genuinely new,
but could already be thought. Yet that argument has several problems,
not least of which is that not all explanations have predictive power:
historical explanations standardly cannot predict anything, but merely
make sense of what happened.
A more modest alternative is that creativity is a purely innate, natu-
ral capacity; as such, it does not involve the learnable features of a
skill; and not everyone has this capacity. Innate capacities are either
bodily or mental. The capacity to become pregnant is innate, and it
is no news to hear that not everyone has it. Is creativity like that, an
ability to be impregnated with original ideas? Not so: creativity can
be enhanced, as we have noted, through learning, but the ability to
become pregnant is enhanced, if enhanced at all, by biological interven-
tion. So is the innate capacity a mental one? It is surprisingly hard to
find mental capacities that are purely innate. Perhaps the capacity to
discriminate absolute musical pitch is an example of one (though even
that is disputed). But, as we have already seen, an innate capacity can
be a precondition for the possession of skills that are not universally
possessed, such as musical ones; and a mark of a skill is improvement
through learning. So the fact that we can improve creative abilities
is incompatible with the pure innateness hypothesis, but is consistent
with holding that, though creative ability requires some innate mental
abilities, it also involves skills.
A final alternative is that the explanation for the difference between
the competent artist and the creative one is not a difference in creative
skills, but is entirely a reflection of their different personalities. There is
a large and surprisingly robust psychological literature on the creative
21
Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment, sec. 46, Ak. 307; sec. 57, Ak. 344.
100 berys gaut
personality. Creative scientists, compared to less creative ones, turn out

to be open to experience, flexible in thought, have drive and ambition,
are dominant, arrogant, hostile, introverted and independent. Artistic
creative types tend to be open to experience, fantasy-oriented, impulsive,
suffer from anxiety and affective illness, have drive and ambition, are
nonconforming, independent, hostile, unfriendly and lack warmth.22
However, this rather alarming empirical catalogue of personality traits
does not show that personality traits alone suffice to make the difference
between a competent and a creative artist or scientist. It is certainly
possible to have these traits, be knowledgeable and competent in one’s
domain, and still not be creative. I suspect that many of us will be
acquainted with real people just like that. Moreover, it is no part of
my claim that personality plays no role in creativity: on the contrary, I
have held that attitudes play a role; it is simply that skills do too.
So a brief survey of some of the alternatives to the skill view does
not throw up any attractive alternatives, and this should help defuse
some of the anxiety surrounding the claim.
VI The Value of Creativity
Besides attacking the anti-teleological model, I have argued that the kind
of skills involved in creativity are non-routinized. The latter thought has
two interesting implications for the question of the value of creativity,
one to do with freedom, the other with courage.
Why should we value the skills involved in creativity particularly
highly? Part of the answer is that we value them on instrumental
grounds, since their exercise can produce valuable things. But we also
value creativity non-instrumentally, for its own sake. In general, we
value skills for their own sake; but why do we particularly value cre-
ative skills? An explanation is available on the account defended here:
creative persons exhibit a kind of freedom, they are not bound by
routines, but they can stand back from them, consider whether they are
for the good, and act in a way that is goal-directed but not routinized.
Creative persons, then, are free in the sense that they are not bound
by the established practice of routines. Creativity manifests a certain
22
See Gregory J. Feist, “The Influence of Personality on Artistic and Scientific Cre-
ativity,” who presents a comprehensive survey of the relevant literature, in Handbook of
Creativity, ed. Robert J. Sternberg (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999).
kind of freedom in the domain of skills; and freedom is something we

value for its own sake.
This claim must be understood carefully. I do not mean that cre-
ativity demonstrates freedom of the will in a sense that would show
the hard determinist that he is mistaken. The freedom involved is less
metaphysically weighty than that. It is the ability to stand back from
one’s course of action and consider whether one ought to continue to
pursue it. This is a capacity that Christine Korsgaard has identified in
another context as reflective freedom: when assailed by a desire, we
may wonder whether we ought to adopt that desire, whether we should
make it our own.23 This is compatible with a deterministic account of
the capacity, but it is nevertheless a recognizable sense of liberty in
action. In parallel fashion, the creative person can step back from a
pre-existing routine, and wonder whether she ought to adopt it, or find
some other way in which to accomplish her task.
The connection of creativity to freedom emerges in another way.
Creativity and play are often associated. For instance, in reflecting on
his own creative process Albert Einstein wrote, “combinatory play
seems to be the essential feature in productive thought.”24 Now people
may play in two ways. Formalized games, such as football and rugby,
have rules that must be obeyed to count as playing the game. These
games are partly constituted by routines. In the second kind of game,
not specified by rules, one can simply kick a ball around, for instance,
without obeying any formal rules. So one’s play-activity need not be
governed by routines. This is clearly the kind of play that Einstein had
in mind when he spoke of ‘combinatory play’: one plays freely with
ideas to try out various combinations, to see what fruitful may come of
them. This is not a blind, accidental process; it can involve considerable
skills. Neither is it a matter of routines. Some play is free play. Free play
can involve the transformation of one kind of procedure governed by
routines into another, and so be the exercise of creativity. According to
a (possibly apocryphal) story, rugby was invented by a pupil at Rugby
school, who picked up a football and ran with it, thus violating the
constitutive rules of one game and inventing another.
23
See Christine Korsgaard, The Sources of Normativity (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 1996), 92–94.
24
Albert Einstein, “Letter to Jacques Hadamard,” in The Creative Process, ed. Brewster
Ghiselin, (New York: Mentor, 1952), 43.
102 berys gaut
There is a related way in which the connection of the value of cre-

ativity to that of freedom emerges. Creativity is often associated with
imagination: indeed, in some uses, ‘imaginative’ and ‘creative’ are syn-
onyms. Imagination, unlike belief, is free of constitutive commitments
to truth: a belief is what it is in part because it aims at the truth, so
that the fact that a belief is not true is always a relevant criticism of
it. Imagination, in contrast, is free of this constitutive commitment to
truth: an act of imagining is not flawed merely by virtue of being about
something that is not true. This lack of a constitutive commitment to
truth means that imagination can be rationally employed to play with
various hypotheses, to try them out, even though it might not be rational
(yet) to believe them. So the kind of active creativity involved in trying
out various ideas has imagination as its characteristic vehicle; and the
vital property of imagination for this purpose is that it exhibits a kind
of freedom: an ability rationally to stand back from what we believe,
and consider the world in a different way.25
We value creativity for its own sake, then, in part because it expresses
a certain kind of freedom. In being creative, we show ourselves to
be capable of rising above the routines that govern so many of our
activities, can rationally reflect on them, and can substitute for them a
mode of activity that produces valuable results, and these results are
not, insofar as they are original, achievable by previous routines. We see
exhibited in this way a kind of practical freedom, an ability to stand
back from the routines that govern our ordinary lives and reflect on
whether there is another, better way to proceed.
Creativity is essentially connected to a second value. If creative
activity is a kind of non-routinized activity, then it must by definition
exhibit a kind of risk. A routine reliably produces a pre-determined
outcome, if one conscientiously follows it. A creative act, not being
governed by a routine, lacks this kind of reliability, so it is in that way,
inherently risky. That is why an essential virtue of the creative person
is courage exhibited in the realm of his creative activity. The creative
person must have a high tolerance for risks. But since he is aiming
at something valuable, his risk-taking is not mere foolhardiness, like
someone who has jaywalking as a hobby. In aiming at the valuable,
but knowingly being prepared to take risks to achieve it, the creative
person fulfils the definitional conditions of courage. Picasso, looking
25
For a defense of these claims and their greater elaboration, see my “Creativity
and Imagination.”
back on his co-invention of Cubism with Georges Braque, compared

himself and Braque to two mountaineers roped together climbing a
mountain: if one fell, the other would tumble after him. The metaphor
not only strikingly captures the nature of their collaboration, but also
well illustrates the courage that is required for the risk-taking, creative
artist. The non-routinized skills involved in creativity thus exhibit not
just the value of freedom, but also of courage.26
26
Versions of this paper were read at Dundee University, Leeds University, Stirling
University, the Institute of Education at London University, and the British Society
of Aesthetics annual conference in 2005. I would like to thank the audiences at these
occasions for their many helpful comments.
CHAPTER SIX
ON BRINGING A WORK INTO EXISTENCE
Peter Lamarque
The phrase ‘completed work’ has a pleasing ambiguity between process

and product. When an artist’s work is completed a completed work,
so it seems, comes into existence. Completion of one kind signals
completion of the other. When the (artist’s) work stops the work (of
art) starts. Indeed it seems a necessary condition for a work to come
into existence that the work on it has been completed. The question
is: what exactly occurs when a work comes into existence? If that
question seems tendentious—as it will to some—then an alternative is
this: what kind of change is wrought upon the world when the artist’s
work is completed?
It is far from clear what kind of thing a completed work is. Indeed
given the diversity of the kinds of works at issue—paintings, prints,
symphonies, songs, poems, novels, dramas, films, architectural works,
sculptures, dance—it might seem unreasonable to expect any single or
informative answer across the board. The intuitive differences between,
say, sculptures and symphonies, the former apparently physical objects,
the latter apparently abstract structures, immediately suggest there is
no one ‘kind of thing’ that a work is, thus that it is pointless proceed-
ing. But the focus for the discussion seeks to accommodate the obvious
diversity of works and, as far as possible, stay neutral on pressing issues
in work ontology.
The latter might not be realistic in all cases. For example, if you
hold that musical works are eternal sound-structure-types then you
will not be impressed by the phrase ‘bringing a work into existence’
for you hold that the work has always been in existence. However,
you would be hard-pressed to deny that the ‘composer’ of the work
actually worked at the composition (even if this work was a process of
‘discovery’) and completed it at some point. Then the question returns:
what has changed in the world when the artist’s work is completed? To
106 peter lamarque
suppose that the world was no different, in musical and artistic terms,
after 1808, when Beethoven completed his Fifth Symphony—especially
on the grounds that the Fifth Symphony has always existed as a sound-
structure-type—is hyperbolic. The differences before and after this event
are manifest and far-reaching. Perhaps, though, it might be argued, it is
not the work itself that had this influence but the discovery of the work
or the spreading awareness of the work. In any case, that a change was
wrought upon the world when the compositional work was completed
seems undeniable. So let us focus on that change.
The enquiry needs to be pinned down a bit more. For one thing, it
does not need to be distracted with attempts to define art. Some of the
works on the list will be works of art in an honorific sense, but many
would not merit that title. There are paintings and poems and songs that
are not normally considered art but are nonetheless completed works
and need to be included. Questions of value, however, are inescapable
in the enquiry. Michel Foucault, writing about linguistic works, nicely
brings out the practical as well as theoretical problems in delimiting
works, and the peculiar role of judgments of value:
What is a work? What is this curious unity which we designate as a
work? . . . If an individual were not an author, could we say that what he
wrote, said, left behind in his papers, or what has been collected of his
remarks, could be called a ‘work’? . . . Even when an individual has been
accepted as an author, we must still ask whether everything that he wrote,
said, or left behind is part of his work. The problem is both theoretical
and technical. When undertaking the publication of Nietzsche’s works, for
example, where should one stop? Surely everything should be published,
but what is ‘everything’? Everything that Nietzsche himself published
certainly. And what about the rough drafts of his works? Obviously. The
plans for his aphorisms? Yes. The deleted passages and the notes at the
bottom of the page? Yes. What if, within the notebook filled with apho-
risms, one finds a reference, the notation of a meeting or of an address,
or a laundry list: Is it a work or not? Why not? And so on, ad infinitum.
How can one define a work amid the millions of traces left by someone
after his death? A theory of the work does not exist . . .1
Foucault despairs of finding a determinate answer to the practical ques-
tions he raises for the scholarly editor. Surely he is right that there is
not always a clear line round what should count as an author’s ‘work’
worthy of preservation. He is also right that value judgments relating to
1
Michel Foucault, “What is an Author?” in The Death and Resurrection of the Author,
ed. William Irwin (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 2002), 11.
on bringing a work into existence 107
an author’s status can affect whether a product of a certain kind counts

as a work; Friedrich Nietzsche’s letters are works while the letters of
an unknown bank clerk might not be. But we need stricter conditions
on what counts as a work than the constraints imposed on a consci-
entious editor. That brings us back to ‘completion’ for the fragments
and jottings that catch the eye of the editor are not completed works
in the sense sought.
Of course, the idea of completion is not itself value-free. There is an
aesthetic as well as a genetic conception of completion in the context
of works.2 A work-in-progress might seem aesthetically complete—well-
structured, unified, pleasing—even though for its creator it is unfinished
or has even been abandoned, just as a work completed by an artist, to
that artist’s satisfaction, might appear aesthetically incomplete. To deem
a work aesthetically incomplete is to make an aesthetic judgment about
it, to say that in certain respects it fails, it lacks unity, coherence, or
appropriate closure. Genetic completion also involves a value judgment,
this time by the artist. This is a judgment that now is the time to stop,
that the work is complete. This is a decision that an artist must make.
But aesthetic completeness, as we have seen, is neither necessary nor
sufficient for this decision, for genetic completeness. An artist might stop
working, believing the work to be aesthetically complete, in cases where
the artist’s objective critical opinion judges it aesthetically incomplete.
Alternatively, the artist might stop working and be indifferent to aesthetic
completeness. Of course there are many reasons why an artist might
decide to stop work, not all of them resting on the belief that the work
is complete. Some artists simply abandon their work. However, it would
be wrong to endorse Paul Valery’s often quoted saying that “A poem
is never finished, only abandoned” for the standard case remains that
in which the artist decides the work is complete and therefore stops.
In what follows, a completed work will be one that satisfies genetic
completeness, in this sense, meaning: the work is completed as a result
of a decision by its creator that the work is complete.
We need to be a bit wary also of conflating ‘creation’ and bring-
ing into existence. Harry Deutsch has given reasons for keeping these
distinct.3 He cites the case of painting by numbers. Those who apply
2
I borrow the terms from Paisley Livingston, whose discussion in “Counting Frag-
ments, and Frenhofer’s Paradox,” (British Journal of Aesthetics 39 [1999]: 14–23), I have
found very useful.
3
Harry Deutsch, “The Creation Problem,” Topoi 10 (1991): 209–225.
108 peter lamarque
the paint have brought the painting into existence but all the creative
work has been done for them. In general:
(t)he creative part of creating a painting may in fact consist of doing
less than bringing the painting into existence. It may consist in devis-
ing a scheme for where on the canvas the paint should go; or it might
consist merely in creatively envisaging in some detail what the painting
will be like.4
The problem is not peculiar to painting by numbers. Arguably an
analogous situation arose in Renaissance studios where a Master painter
would give instructions to teams of workers on what should be painted
where. Creativity is credited to the Master although the underlings bring
the painting into existence. It is not only creativity that is at issue in
such cases. There are also issues of work identity. When avant-garde
artists do something apparently similar, the question arises of what
kind of works they are creating. Thus the conceptual artist Sol LeWitt
laid down specifications for certain of his works without putting them
into effect himself. One such, Wall Drawing No. 623 Double asymmetrical
pyramids with colour ink washes superimposed, which has been realized (if that
is the word) in a mural in the National Gallery of Canada, consists of
instructions as follows: “colour ink wash: the background is grey, blue,
grey, blue; left pyramid: the apex is left—four sides: 1—red, blue, blue,
red, blue; 2—yellow, blue, grey, blue” and so on. But what is the work?
Given that there can be different ways of realizing the work and given
that LeWitt is a conceptual artist, it could be argued that the work is
the idea rather than the painted mural itself.5 (Even if this is right in
this particular case, it should not be taken as a general endorsement
of idealist theories of the work, such as R. G. Collingwood’s, which
identify the work in every case with something mental.) Clearly to know
if and when a work has come into existence we need to know what
kind of work it is. But it is worth distinguishing a value-free conception
of creation where it literally means bringing into the world something
that did not exist before, in contrast to an honorific sense implying
originality or ‘creativity.’
4
Deutsch, “The Creation Problem,” 211.
5
The case is discussed by David Davies in Art as Performance (Oxford: Blackwell,
2004), who argues for the centrality of the idea in the work’s identity: “The fact that
there are actual enactments of LeWitt’s constraints . . . bears upon the appreciation of
the work only by, as we might put it, ‘enlivening’ the idea, supplementing the inten-
sionality of the vehicle as verbally specified,” 232.
II
An initial, if no doubt over-simple, description of what artists do in

bringing a work into existence is that they are ‘making something out of
something.’ In every case there seem to be ‘materials’ worked on, even
if the materials take very different forms in different cases. A simple
paradigm is that of the sculptor carving a sculpture out of stone or
wood. The material is the physical material used (stone, wood) and a
completed work appears after a process of carving and shaping and
polishing. The sculpture is made out of the physical material. So much
is obvious. Much less obvious is the relation that the work (the sculpture)
has to the material out of which it is made. Indeed this becomes the
pivotal issue in our enquiry. Is the sculpture identical with the shaped
material out of which it was made or is the sculpture a distinct object,
an object of a distinct kind, constituted by, but not identical with, this
physical material? For those works with a similar physical base—paint-
ing, buildings, prints, even films—similar questions arise. It is common
to call the materials out of which these works are made their ‘medium’;
in these cases the medium is physical, including a range of familiar
kinds from canvas, paper, paint, charcoal, or bronze, to more exotic
substances. But the idea of a medium in relation to works needs more
refinement. For one thing, the medium is not always physical and there
can be ‘multi-media’ works. To include musical and literary works we
need a broader conception of materials to include abstract entities
such as sound-types, word-types, and structure-types. But if such enti-
ties are admitted, then the parallels with physical material return. For
it still looks as if the work of the artist can be described as a kind of
patterning, shaping, configuring, in general manipulating, of a medium
running up to the production of a completed work. The musical com-
poser tries out sequences, patterns, and juxtapositions of sound-types,
along with rhythms, pitches, tones, and harmonies, until the right final
structure is in place and compositional work stops. This too is a kind
of manipulation of a medium, not totally dissimilar to the work of a
painter or sculptor—likewise for the author writing a sonnet or novel.
The medium here is language, but a process of structuring and manipu-
lating takes place; the materials are the words, meanings, and sentence
structures afforded by the language and in a more literary context, the
ideas, themes, genres, styles, character-types, and plot-types on which
the author is drawing. The question that we asked of the physical works
is directly applicable to works of these other kinds: what is the relation
110 peter lamarque
between the medium manipulated into a structure and the work itself ?
Is the musical work identical to the sound-structure-types of which it is
constituted or is it something distinct? Is the literary work identical to
its constitutive word-sequence-types (its text) or is it distinct?
Before addressing these questions directly, more needs to be said about
the crucial idea of a medium. So far a medium has been identified
with the materials, broadly conceived, of which works are constituted.
These materials are not necessarily physical—they can take the form
of abstract entities—but in each case it is not implausible to describe
artists (or makers of works generally) as manipulating a medium as an
essential part of the process of making a work. Works are made out
of the materials of a medium. However, within aesthetics it is now
common to distinguish a medium of this kind—the kind that David
Davies calls a ‘vehicular medium’6—with another kind, sometimes
called an ‘artistic’ medium.7 There is no settled view as to exactly how
the latter should be defined. For Jerrold Levinson “ ‘Medium’ in this
sense is closer to ‘art form’ than to ‘kind of stuff,’ ”8 while for David
Davies, “attention to the artistic medium of a work necessarily refers
us to the intentionality of a maker who acts in light of these supposed
understandings in manipulating a vehicular medium.”9
Drawing on both these approaches, we might say that an artistic
medium involves the conception of a work by its maker as being a work of a
certain kind. The important point is the intentionality. A work’s artistic
medium is not determined (exclusively) by art, historical, or third person
classification but by the way in which the work is conceived by the person
making it. There might be cases where the artistic medium is unknown
to art history (perhaps this is true of the prehistoric cave paintings),
making the work virtually impossible to understand or appreciate.
The combination of vehicular and artistic medium allows for a richer
understanding of what it is to make a work. For an artist is not just
manipulating materials but is doing so under some conception of what
kind of work is aimed for. Of course, it would be wrong to suppose
this conception is always precise or unchanging. Artists might set out
with only the vaguest conception of what they are doing and might
6
Davies, Art as Performance, 56ff.
7
The term comes from ibid.
8
Jerrold Levinson, Music, Art, and Metaphysics: Essays in Philosophical Aesthetics (Ithaca,
N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1990), 29.
9
Davies, Art as Performance, 60.
change their minds midway. But artists rarely work randomly—Jackson

Pollock’s ‘action paintings,’ for example, were far from random and
issued from quite determinate conceptions of an artistic process—and,
when they do, this itself helps determine the kind of work they produce.
Furthermore, the way an artist conceives his work and the kind of work
he conceives it to be do not arise in a cultural vacuum, but against
a complex cultural background of practices, conventions, established
modes (accepted or reacted against), prevailing ideas, political and
social currents, as well as available materials, technology, and economic
circumstances. Clearly, then, completing a work is not just deciding to
stop—to stop manipulating the materials—but involves making that
decision in the light of a conception of what has been achieved, against
a background of cultural practices.
Now we can return to our questions about the relation between the
materials out of which a work is made and the work itself. This closely
ties in with the earlier question of what change has been wrought on
the world by bringing a work into existence. Let us return again to the
simplest case, that of the carved sculpture. Physical changes are wrought
upon a physical medium. Is not the work, then, none other than the
piece of stone as it appears at a certain point in time, viz. when the
sculptor stops work on it? On this view, the only relevant change in
the world when a work comes into existence is that something (the artist’s
activity) has stopped. The piece of stone in itself continues to exist but
it is no longer being chiseled and worked. It is the same piece of stone
that it was before the work stopped but now it has acquired a property
it did not have before, namely, being a sculpture. The property of being a
sculpture, on this account, is not different in kind from other properties
possessed by the stone: being white, being smooth-textured, being shaped like a
person, being seven feet high. Something that previously wasn’t a sculpture
is now a sculpture, just as something that previously was not smooth
is now smooth. A work comes into existence when predicates like ‘is a
sculpture,’ ‘is a painting,’ ‘is a musical work’ become truly applicable
to some material such as a physical object or abstract entity.
This account has the appeal of simplicity but only I suggest because
it combines truism with false analogies. It is a truism that when a
work comes into existence, the predicate ‘is a work’ is truly applicable
where it was not before. A true proposition can now be formulated
about something in the world that would not have been true prior
to the work’s coming into existence. When Michelangelo finished the
Pietà, it became true that the Pietà exists, something that was not true
112 peter lamarque
while he was still working. But that says no more than that the work
was finished when the work was finished. We still do not know what
difference it made to the world that ‘is the Pietà’ became true of a piece
of marble, nor how that should be construed. The proposed account
is misleading in its comparison between the predicates ‘is a sculpture’
and ‘is smooth-textured’ or ‘is white.’ Although it might be true that the
predicates are all applicable to one and the same object, the piece of
marble, only the latter two predicates identify intrinsic qualities of that
object. However the qualities came to be possessed by the marble, for
example, through polishing and cleaning, they remain physical qualities
of the object. Exactly those same qualities could have been possessed
by the object without any human intervention. Such, though, is not
the case with the property being a sculpture. That property is essentially
connected to human agency. Nothing is a sculpture—indeed nothing
is a work of any kind in the sense intended—except as a product of
human agency. But even more than that, if we apply our earlier finding,
there must be intentionality deep in the very concept of a work. A work
is the product of an agent’s manipulation of a medium and becomes
a work, and the work that it is, only under a conception supplied by
the agent. A necessary condition for a piece of marble becoming a
sculpture is that it be conceived as a sculpture by its maker.10 Without
that it remains just a piece of marble.
Behind the view discussed lies an analogy which, although initially
plausible, is flawed. It is an analogy with an activity like cooking. A
cook will ‘manipulate’ the ingredients until a dish is complete. When the
cooking is done new predicates are applicable to the finished product:
being a fried egg, being a sponge cake. It is tempting to see being a sculpture
as analogous, as the same kind of predicate. In both cases, there is a
process completed and the coming into existence of something that
was not there before. But disanalogies have already been identified.
Being a fried egg (like being smooth-textured ) is a physical property, or
strictly being fried is a physical property of an egg. It is defined as such
independently of human intention. Most eggs are fried deliberately for
human ends but that might not always be the case. There could be
10
There might be ancient or primitive works the creators of which did not possess
the concept of sculpture. We should be wary, though, of how to treat these. It might
be that they have been appropriated into the sculptural tradition by those who found
them. Arguably, those who found the works, not those who created them, made them
as sculptures.
fried eggs—even, however improbably, sponge cakes—without human

agency. More importantly, a fried egg could come into existence without
being conceived as such either by its maker or by others. That is not the
case with works. Paintings, sculptures and symphonies do not happen
by accident. The cooking paradigm can be put schematically. Cook-
ing a φ with a set ψ of ingredients is such that when ψ has reached a
certain physical state s then (by skill or good luck) ψ becomes a φ just
in virtue of its attaining s. When the egg undergoes a certain physical
change it becomes a fried egg. But in the case of works there is no
physical state (or state of an abstract entity) the possession of which is
sufficient for a work to come into existence. We cannot say that when
the marble looks a certain way (for example, resembles so-and-so, has
a smooth texture) then a sculpture exists, nor can we say in the musical
case that when a certain combination of notes or a certain structure
has been assembled then a musical work exists. A completed work, we
have seen, depends not on the state of the materials used but on a
decision by the maker, and its being the work it is depends on how it
is conceived by its maker.
These seemingly innocuous observations already have far-reaching
consequences for what can count as a work. If there can be no works
without human agency and intentions and no works that are not con-
ceived as such by those that fashion them then there can be no ‘found’
works, nor any eternally existing works. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony can-
not exist eternally as an abstract sound-structure-type. That is not to
say that there is not an abstract sound-structure-type associated with
the work but void of any agency or any conception of the work that
sound-structure-type per se could not be the work. Those who do wish
to identify a musical work with an eternal sound-structure-type might
respond by locating the required human agency in the discovery of the
structure and the required intentionality in its becoming an object
of appreciation. It is only when the sound-structure-type enters human
consciousness, they might argue, that it becomes a work in the broader
sense of the term but it always existed as a work in a generic sense.
This, however, is already a retreat from the stronger conception of
work mooted earlier.
Out of this response, we can develop another more refined version
of the view that being a painting, being a sculpture, and being a musical work
are properties that a vehicular medium—a physical object, an abstract
type—acquires as a result of the work of an artist in manipulating that
medium. This version has more to commend it, although ultimately it
114 peter lamarque
too must be rejected. A work is still essentially identified with the ‘stuff ’
of which it is constituted but the change wrought in the world when
the work comes into existence is that the constituting material acquires
intentional and relational properties that previously it did not possess. To
be a sculpture is to be a piece of marble (wood, for example) shaped and
configured by human agency and which has come to possess intentional
properties such as being conceived as a sculpture, being an object of appreciation,
being a representation of David, being in the classical style. The parallel now
is not between being a sculpture and being smooth-textured or even being a
fried egg but between, say, being a sculpture and being elected Mayor. When
Jones is elected Mayor something of a different order happens to him
than when he puts on weight or loses his hair. The latter are physical
changes, the former changes in status. Jones’s election as Mayor brings
with it a range of institutional powers and responsibilities. Acting as
Mayor, Jones can formulate and implement policies on local matters,
can represent the city on official occasions, can make appointments
and award prizes; in addition, people will expect certain attitudes of
him as Mayor, a degree of respect or deference, demanding of him
an obligation to act with dignity and decorum, ‘upholding the office.’
Analogously, when a work comes into existence, it too acquires a status
conventionally defined. Certain expectations arise for works, however
humble. They are open to special kinds of appraisal, they are located
in traditions and styles, they invite appreciation as works of a particular
kind, and they can be attributed meaning or symbolism.
The idea that works, on becoming works, acquire a distinctive status
and a distinctive range of intentional properties is correct and impor-
tant.11 The analogy with an institutional role like becoming a Mayor is
illuminating. But how far can the analogy be pressed? Later we shall find
reasons for caution. Is being a work a property that something can have
at some times but not at others? Nelson Goodman, who invites us to
ask not ‘What is art?’ but ‘When is art?’ answers in the affirmative:
an object may be a work of art at some times and not at others. Indeed,
just by virtue of functioning as a symbol in a certain way does an object
become, while so functioning, a work of art. The stone is normally no
work of art while in the driveway but may be so when on display in an
art museum. In the driveway, it usually performs no symbolic function;
11
See Peter Lamarque, “Work and Object,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 52,
no. 2 (2002): 141–162.
in the art museum it exemplifies certain of its properties—e.g. shape,

color, texture. . . . On the other hand, a Rembrandt painting may cease
to function as a work of art when used to replace a broken window or
as a blanket.12
As long as an object possesses the functions of a work of art, then it is
art. But just as Jones may retire from the office of Mayor and lose his
mayoral status so an object can cease to be art when it loses its relevant
functions. According to Goodman, “That an object functions as art
at a given time, that it has the status of art at that time, and that it is
art at that time may all be taken as saying the same thing—so long as
we take none of these as ascribing to the object any stable status.”13
Goodman retreats from the strong position apparently defended, “Per-
haps to say that an object is art when and only when it so functions is
to overstate the case or to speak elliptically. The Rembrandt painting
remains a work of art, as it remains a painting, while functioning only
as a blanket.”14 The point is that it does not so easily lose its function
as a painting, just as a chair that is never sat on is still a chair.
The crucial part of the Mayor analogy is this: becoming Mayor is
a status that some pre-existing object ( Jones) acquires at a particular
time. It is a status that could be given up. The change wrought on
the world is a change of status not the introduction of anything new
into the world. Jones-as-Mayor is identical to Jones; there is just one
object here and Jones himself, as a man, stays the same before, during
and after his elevation. It would be absurd to suggest that when Jones
becomes Mayor a new object has appeared in the world. Is this true
of works? Is it the case that to bring a work into existence is merely to
change the status of something that already exists? Is a work identical
to its constituting material? The view I will defend is that this is not a
good analogy and that to bring a work into existence is indeed to bring
something new into the world.
12
Nelson Goodman, “When Is Art?” in The Arts and Cognition, eds. David Perkins &
Barbara Leondat (Baltimore, Md.: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977), 17.
13
Goodman, “When Is Art?” 10n, 19.
14
Goodman, “When Is Art?,” 18.
116 peter lamarque
III
There has been considerable debate about constitution and identity,

whether, in the familiar example, the statue is identical to the lump
of clay that constitutes it.15 The focus here is slightly different in ask-
ing what happens when a work comes into existence, but it draws on
many of the same issues. The focus is evident in a question Roman
Ingarden raises:
whether a work of art is a physical object having a specific form or
whether it is rather something that is constructed on the basis of a physi-
cal object as an entirely new creation brought into being by the creative
activity of the artist.16
Eddy M. Zemach identifies the same issue but suggests its resolution
lies more in a choice of conceptual systems than in further investigation
of the objects themselves:
The distinction between (1) a change in the object and (2) the object’s
going out of existence and replacement by another is relative to our
concepts: it depends on a choice of a system of substance concepts. We
cannot distinguish case 1 from case 2 by observing the object: what makes
them different is not anything that a perceptive observer who is unaware
of our system of substance concepts can discover. Yet the distinction
between change and annihilation is very important to us; all things we
identify and talk about have identity conditions; that is, we endow some
of their properties with a privileged status.17
The core of the argument that a work (for example, a sculpture) is
not identical to its constituting material (for example, clay, marble, or
bronze) appeals to applications of Leibniz’s Law or the Indiscernibility
of Identicals. This law states that if an entity a is identical with entity
b then, for any property, if a has that property then b has that property
15
See, for example, Mark Johnston, “Constitution is Not Identity,” Mind 101 (1992);
Michael B. Burke, “Copper Statues and Pieces of Copper: A Challenge to the Standard
Account,” Analysis 52 (1992): 12–17; D. Zimmerman, “Theories of Masses and Prob-
lems of Constitution,” Philosophical Review 104 (1995) 53–110; Lynne Rudder Baker,
“Why Constitution is Not Identity,” Journal of Philosophy 44 (1997): 599–621; Judith
Jarvis Thompson, “The Statue and the Clay,” Nous 32 (1998); Eric T Olson, “Material
Coincidence and the Indiscernibility Problem,” Philosophical Quarterly 51 (2001); Kit Fine,
“The Non-Identity of a Material Thing and Its Matter,” Mind (2003).
16
Roman Ingarden, “Artistic and Aesthetic Values,” British Journal of Aesthetics 4,
no. 3 (1964): 198.
17
Eddy M. Zemach, Real Beauty (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University
Press, 1997), 147.
or, put another way, there can be no property possessed by a that is

not also possessed by b. Should there be such a property then a can-
not be identical with b. Philosophers have found the principle readily
applicable to works of art. Thus, Joseph Margolis says:
artworks possess, where ‘mere real things’ do not, Intentional properties:
all representational, semiotic, symbolic, expressive, stylistic, historical,
significative properties. If that is granted, then of course artworks cannot
be numerically identical with ‘mere real things.’18
A similar conclusion, drawn at a linguistic rather than metaphysical
level, is reached by Kit Fine who observes that a range of descriptive
predicates—for example, defective, substandard, well or badly made, valuable,
ugly, Romanesque, exchanged, insured, or admired—might be truly applied to
the statue but not to the piece of bronze.19 The argument is not restricted
to physical objects. Jerrold Levinson, who defends the thesis, “musical
works must be such that they do not exist prior to the composer’s com-
positional activity, but are brought into existence by that activity” (italics in
original),20 argues, by appeal to Leibniz’s Law, that two musical works
constituted by the same sound-structure-type would nevertheless not
be identical because, being ‘indicated’ in different contexts, they would
have different aesthetic and artistic properties.21
But the argument about different properties possessed by a work
and by its constituting material needs to be handled with care. After
all, might not Margolis’s argument find an analogy with the Jones-
as-Mayor case? If, as Margolis argues, artworks possess Intentional
properties, but ‘mere real things’ do not, then can we not say that
Jones-as-Mayor possesses Intentional properties, such as constitutional
powers and obligations, that the man himself does not possess? Jones-
the-man does not possess the power to legislate; that is only a power
he acquires during his term of office and when acting in that role. Yet,
as we have seen, it would be odd to conclude that Jones-the-Mayor
is not identical with Jones. If that is correct, then perhaps we should
hesitate to conclude, with Margolis, that artworks are not numerically
identical with mere real things.
18
Joseph Margolis, What, After All, Is a Work of Art? (University Park: The Pennsyl-
vania State University Press, 1997), 34–35.
19
Fine, “The Non-Identity of a Material Thing and Its Matter,” 206.
20
Levinson, Music, Art & Metaphysics, 68.
21
Ibid., 69.
118 peter lamarque
In this context, it is tempting for the identity theorist to deploy the

idiom of qua objects, in spite of the controversial nature of that notion.22
When we reflect on Jones qua Mayor we confine our reflections to
certain aspects of his actions and interests. We might be ignorant of
his other characteristics. Similarly it could be argued that it is only qua
statue that the piece of bronze possesses, say, aesthetic properties; qua
piece-of-bronze it does not possess such properties. After melting down,
the bronze survives qua piece-of-bronze, but not qua statue. Being a
work or being a painting or, more specifically, being a painting of Diana
and Actaeon might, returning to our earlier hypothesis, be an aspect
that a physical canvas possesses at some but not necessarily all times
of its existence. Perceiving or thinking about the canvas qua work or
the canvas qua representation-of-Diana-and-Actaeon might bring into
salience a range of art-related properties, including aesthetic proper-
ties. On this account it is simply question-begging to say that objects,
unlike works, cannot have such properties.
But the appeal to Leibniz’s Law and differences in properties has
not been defeated. The idea that something can have properties qua
this but not qua that is fairly obscure. However, it becomes worse than
obscure, incoherent, when essential properties are at issue. If we think
of essential properties as de re necessities which hold of objects under any
description, then there could be no essential properties of object O qua φ
but not of O qua ψ. Yet in the art case, there do seem to be properties
essential to works but not essential to the material that constitutes the
works. Eddy Zemach gives an example:
Fountain and the urinal are distinct things, since they have different
essences. Being a part of a certain artworld is essential to Fountain; out of
that context Fountain cannot exist, for it would lack its essential aesthetic
property, its contrast to traditional artworks, which makes it the artwork
it is. Its significance is due to its appearance as an artwork at a specific
historical and art-historical period. For the urinal, on the other hand, its
relation to that artworld is inessential; it can survive without it.23
22
Criticisms of qua-objects appear in, for example, Harry Deutsch, “The Creation
Problem,” Topoi 10 (1991): 212–213; Mark Johnston, “Constitution is Not Identity,” Mind
101 (1992): 91; Stefano Predelli, “Musical Ontology and the Argument from Creation,”
British Journal of Aesthetics 41 (2001): 288–289. For a more positive account, see Kit Fine,
“The Problem of Non-Existents I. Internalism,” Topoi 1 (1982): 97–140.
23
Zemach, Real Beauty, 160.
An even simpler case might be this. Arguably, being a sculpture is an

essential property of Michelangelo’s Pietà such that the Pietà would cease
to exist if it ceased to be a sculpture. But being a sculpture is not essential
to the piece of marble, even in that configuration, because the marble
might have issued from the wrong kinds of origins (for example, it might
not have been the product of human agency or intention).
We need to distinguish a negative from a positive thesis. The nega-
tive thesis, which is widely held, is that a work is not identical to its
constituting material. The positive thesis concerns what kind of entity
a work is. Agreement on the negative thesis does not ensure agreement
on the positive. However, the negative thesis does involve a commit-
ment to there being a new kind of entity brought into existence with a
work. This commitment comes out clearly in an example from Lynne
Rudder Baker:
When a large stone is placed in certain circumstances, it acquires new
properties, and a new thing—a monument to those who died in bat-
tle—comes into being. And the constituted thing (the stone monument)
has effects in virtue of having properties that the constituting thing (the
stone) would not have had if it had not constituted a monument. The
monument attracts speakers and small crowds on patriotic holidays; it
brings tears to people’s eyes; it arouses protests. Had it not constituted a
monument, the large stone would have had none of these effects. When
stones first came to constitute monuments, a new kind of thing with new
properties—properties that are causally efficacious—came into being.24
Baker has developed the theory primarily in relation to persons25 but sees
it as applying also to “the relation that obtains between an octagonal
piece of metal and a Stop sign, between strands of DNA molecules
and genes, between pieces of paper and dollar bills, between stones and
monument; between lumps of clay and statues—the list is endless.”26
Significantly, the example refers to causal properties. This suggests
another weakness in the postulation of qua objects. How could O qua φ
have causal properties not possessed by O qua ψ ? But if Baker is right,
24
Lynne Rudder Baker, Persons and Bodies: a Constitution View (Cambridge: Cambridge
25
For discussion, notably on the constitution issue, see D. Pereboom, “On Baker’s
Persons and Bodies,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 64, no. 3 (2002): 615–622;
M. Rea, “Lynne Baker on Material Constitution,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research
64, no. 2 (2002): 607–614; G. Wedeking, “Critical Notice: Lynne Rudder Baker, Persons
and Bodies,” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 32, no. 2 (2002): 267–290.
26
Lynne Rudder Baker, Persons and Bodies, 27.
120 peter lamarque
this can happen with the monument and the stone. The explanation is
that the monument is ‘a new kind of thing with new properties.’
Kit Fine also defends the negative thesis; he gives prime attention to
the statue and the alloy from which it is made but views that example
as paradigmatic of a wider relation between a material thing and its
matter.27 What is important for our purposes are not the detailed argu-
ments for and against constitutionalism28 but the metaphysical conclu-
sion—intuitively disturbing—that two different material things might
occupy the same space at the same time. A statue can be a material
entity but is not the very same material entity as the piece of marble that
constitutes it. One reason why this result is not repugnant to common-
sense lies in a crucial feature, namely that the coincident objects are not
of the same kind. The metaphysical principle that commonsense, if not
logic itself, should preserve is that no two objects of the same kind can occupy
the same space at the same time.29 But acceptable versions of the positive
thesis maintain that works and ‘mere’ physical things are not of the same
kind, even in the cases where the works are physical things.30
Many aestheticians have advanced the negative thesis but it is strik-
ing how diverse are the views that emerge from a rejection of identity.
Roman Ingarden, for example, insists:
in its structure and properties a work of art always extends beyond its
material substrate, the real ‘thing’ which ontologically supports it, although
the properties of the substrate are not irrelevant to the properties of the
work of art which depends upon it.31
From this starting point, he develops a view of the work as a col-
laborative effort between artist and observer centered on the notion
of ‘concretion’:
27
Kit Fine, “The Non-Identity of a Material Thing and Its Matter,” Mind 112
(2003): 195–234.
28
Kit Fine’s argument in “The Non-Identity of a Material Thing and Its Matter”
is primarily linguistic, showing that those defenders of the identity thesis who marshal
arguments from “opacity” to combat putative exceptions to Leibniz’s Law are them-
selves led to “intolerable consequences.” Baker’s argument, in contrast, is not primarily
linguistic but metaphysical in showing that properties like being a statue are not only
relational properties but are also essential in some cases.
29
See David Wiggins, Sameness and Substance (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1980).
30
The point is also emphasised by Robert Stecker in Interpretation and Construction:
Art, Speech, and the Law (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), 91–92.
31
Ingarden, “Artistic and Aesthetic Values,” 198.
The concretion of the work is not only the reconstruction thanks to

the activity of an observer of what was effectively present in the
work, but also a completion of the work and the actualization of its
moments of potentiality. It is thus in a way the common product of
artist and observer.32
As the ‘material substrate’ is clearly not the common product of artist
and observer the negative thesis is again reinforced although the lat-
ter on its own does not entail the positive thesis on offer. There is a
role for observers (or interpreters) in the identity conditions of works
but a somewhat different idiom, as we shall see, captures this better
than Ingarden’s.
A more radical version of the negative thesis distances works
altogether from their physical substrates. On the idealist theory the
work—even of ostensibly a physical kind—does not occupy space at
all. Here is Collingwood:
A work of art in the proper sense of that phrase is not an artifact, not a
bodily or perceptible thing fabricated by the artist, but something solely
in the artist’s head, a creature of his imagination; and not only a visual
or auditory imagination, but a total imaginative experience. It follows
that the painted picture is not the work of art in the proper sense of
that phrase.33
However, Collingwood does not suppose that the act of putting paint
on canvas is entirely fortuitous to the work itself for the act of painting
is incorporated into the very experience that the painter expresses:
There is no question of ‘externalizing’ an inward experience that is
complete in itself and by itself. There are two experiences, an inward
and imaginative one called seeing and an outward or bodily one called
painting, which in the painter’s life are inseparable, and form one single
indivisible experience, an experience, which may be described as paint-
ing imaginatively.34
Later he writes that “the painter ‘records’ in his picture the experience
which he had in painting it” and:
the picture . . . produces in [the audience] sensuous-emotional or psychical
experiences which, when raised from impressions to ideas by the activity
32
Ibid., 199.
33
R. G. Collingwood, The Principles of Art (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1938), 305.
34
Ibid., 304–305.
122 peter lamarque
of the spectator’s consciousness, are transmuted into a total imaginative

experience identical with that of the painter.35
So the material object, the painted picture, is both part of the artist’s
act of expression and causally connected to an audience’s appreciative
response but is nevertheless not identical with the work itself, which
exists entirely in the mental realm.
Another, extreme, defense of the negative thesis seems to hold that
works (of art) per se do not even exist, strictly speaking, but are pro-
jections of the imagination. They are not objects of perception but
objects of the imagination and only objects of perception are real.
Such is Jean-Paul Sartre’s view. “The Seventh Symphony,” he writes, “is
in no way in time. It is therefore in no way real. It occurs by itself, but
as absent, as being out of reach. . . . It is not only outside of time and
space—as are essences, for instance—it is outside of the real, outside
of existence.”36
Something similar is true of pictures. Sartre thinks that paintings—
that is, representational paintings—act much like images; to reveal
their content, and thus their identity as pictures, requires an act of
imaginative consciousness, a ‘radical change’ and ‘negation’ that shifts
consciousness from perception to imagination. All that we can perceive
is the paint and canvas; only when we attain an imaginative conscious-
ness can we bring to mind what he calls the ‘ethetic object,’ in effect,
the work itself.
Here then are three distinct views of the work consequent on accept-
ing the negative thesis: that the work is a product of artist/audience
collaboration, that it exists entirely in the mind of the artist, that it
is a projection of the audience’s imagination onto a material ana-
logue. These views and others like them emerge under pressure of an
assumption that a work is a different kind of entity from the materials
underlying it. Works are not simply changes in pre-existing objects or
rearranged items in the world. That at least is a view to be endorsed.
Nor are these the only candidates for a theory of the work. Works
have been characterized as action-types, performance-tokens, indicated
structures, and culturally emergent entities.37
35
Ibid., 308.
36
Jean-Paul Sartre, The Psychology of Imagination (New York: Carol Publishing Group,
1991), 280.
37
By, respectively, Gregory Currie, An Ontology of Art (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989);
Davies, Art as Performance; Jerrold Levinson, “What a Musical Work Is,” in Music, Art,
It is not necessary in this context to engage with all these theories.

We already have the ingredients at hand to offer an answer of a general
kind to our enquiry, about how the world changes when a work comes
into existence. The important considerations are these: works are the
product of human agency and intention; they emerge when work on
them has been completed; work is completed, as opposed to abandoned,
under a conception of the finished product; the work a maker under-
takes in producing a completed work involves the manipulation of a
vehicular medium constrained by an artistic medium; completed works
possess intentional properties of an aesthetic, artistic or representational
kind; the possession of those properties is made possible only in the
appropriate cultural context.
Once we have embraced the negative thesis that a work is not simply
a change of state in existing materials and once we have acknowledged
the cultural embeddedness of works, there are few options in seeking a
general characterization of the kind of entity that comes into existence
when a work is completed. In short, a work must broadly be a ‘cultural
entity’ of some sort. Herein lies what truth there is in institutional
accounts of art. There have to be established ‘practices’—perhaps
something like an ‘artworld,’ though that idea is notoriously problem-
atic—to make possible the existence of works (paintings, sculptures,
symphonies). This is where the analogy with becoming a Mayor is at its
most plausible. Mayors only exist where the appropriate constitutional
and legal systems are in place. But, as we saw, being elected Mayor
gives Jones a new status but does not introduce a new object. Becom-
ing a work, in contrast, does introduce a new—‘institutional’—object.
Works are like schools, churches and laws. A new school is a genuinely
new (institutional) object in a community not identical with the build-
ings that comprise it. The buildings might or might not be new them-
selves. A church ceases to be a church when it is sold, deconsecrated
and turned into a coffee house. Something is lost, but not the building.
To use a final hoary analogy, if I am missing a chess piece I might
mould a bit of plasticine into a convincing shape and thereby make a
rook. A new chess piece has come into the world but not a new bit
of plasticine.
and Metaphysics: Essays in Philosophical Aesthetics (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press,
1990); Joseph Margolis, “Works of Art as Physically Embodied and Culturally Emergent
Entities,” British Journal of Aesthetics 14 (1974).
124 peter lamarque
The example calls to mind the perennial problem of ‘readymades’

in a theory of works. When Marcel Duchamp exhibited a bottle rack
and called it Bottlerack, did a new object (a work) come into existence?
To some this seems counterintuitive. But Margolis confidently uses the
example to support the negative thesis, “Duchamp made something
when he created Bottlerack but he did not make a bottle rack. . . . If the
bottle rack were said to be identical with Duchamp’s Bottlerack . . ., we
should be contradicting ourselves.”38 This view can only be right if
the example can satisfy our other conditions for workhood. Something
analogous to manipulating a medium, forming a conception, and
completing a work occurs in the readymade cases, as noted by George
Dickie, in talking about the piece of driftwood that becomes a work,
“Such a piece of driftwood would be being used as an artistic medium
and thereby would become part of the more complex object—the-
driftwood-used-as-an-artistic-medium. This complex object would be
an artefact of an artworld system.”39 As such the artefact would acquire
aesthetic and artistic properties and attain an identity in the artworld.
There are parallels between Dickie’s ‘used-as-an-artistic-medium’ and
Levinson’s indication; for Levinson by indicating a sound-structure-type
a composer brings into existence a new kind of entity a ‘structure-as-
indicated-by-X-at-t.’ Crucially, though, no such indication could be
sufficient to make a new entity without there being an ‘institutional’
context—practices, conventions, accompanying expectations—where
this is made possible.
The institutional requirement for work-existence casts doubt on
the strongly mentalistic accounts offered by Collingwood and Sartre.
Works cannot exist just in the mind or in the imagination. They need
the cultural setting as outlined. But mentalistic elements are present.
There have to be appropriate beliefs, attitudes, modes of appreciation,
and expectations for works to come into, and be sustained in, existence;
these are constrained by the conventions of established practices in the
arts. Works cannot survive as works if these practices are lost. If no one
remains in a position to judge that something is a work of a particular
38
Joseph Margolis, Art and Philosophy: Conceptual Issues in Aesthetics (Atlantic Highlands,
N.J.: Humanities Press, 1980), 20–21.
39
George Dickie, “The New Institutional Theory of Art,” in Aesthetics and Art Criti-
cism: The Analytic Tradition, An Anthology, eds. Peter Lamarque and Stein Haugom Olsen
(Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), 49.
kind then works of that kind no longer exist.40 This is partly the truth
behind Ingarden’s observation that works are the ‘common product of
artist and observer.’ It is only through a kind of social compact between
people with like-minded interests that the recognition of a work as a
work is possible.
We should conclude, then, that to bring a work into existence is
indeed to bring a new entity into the world, not just to reorder what
is there already. The conclusion is important, if hard won, because
it means that whenever a work is completed there has been genuine
creation even if in some cases we have to withhold the plaudits accom-
panying the more evaluative sense of artistic creativity.
40
See Lamarque, “Work and Object,” 155–156.
PART TWO
CREATIVITY, IMAGINATION, AND SELF

CHAPTER SEVEN
POINCARÉ’S ‘DELICATE SIEVE’: ON CREATIVITY AND

CONSTRAINTS IN THE ARTS
Paisley Livingston
I Introduction
Testimony about episodes of artistic creativity often describes a puz-

zling combination of deliberate and involuntary elements. For example,
Vincent Van Gogh wrote that it was possible for him to make an
especially expressive picture, or as he put it, something with ‘feeling’
in it, because the picture had already spontaneously taken form in his
mind before he started drawing. He added, however, that if there was
something worthwhile in the picture, this was “not by accident but
because of real intention and purpose.”1 Reflection on such testimony
and on his own experience as a poet led Paul Valéry to conclude that
artistic creation always involves a combination of ‘conscious acts’ and
‘spontaneous formation’; only their relative proportion varies.2 If this
point is granted, the outstanding and notoriously difficult problem is to
understand how such different elements combine in the creative process.
In other words, how is inspiration, or the work of the muse, related
to the artist’s deliberations, plans, rational choices, and intentional
actions? In what follows I shall develop a conjecture that falls within
the conceptual space defined by two extreme theses—the popular,
inspirationist idea that artistic creativity is a sudden, involuntary, and
ultimately inexplicable event, and the dubious, rationalistic counter
thesis, which characterizes artistic creation as a principled, deliberate
selection from amongst an array of previously known options, each of
which is associated with an expected quantity of artistic value. In Sec-
tion II, I discuss Henri Poincaré’s reflections on creativity in his 1908
1
Vincent van Gogh, “Letter to Anton Ridder Van Rappard,” in The Creative Process,
ed. Brewster Ghiselin (New York: Mentor, 1952), 55.
2
Paul Valéry, “L’invention esthétique,” in Oeuvres, vol. 1, ed. Jean Hytier (Paris: Gal-
limard, 1957), 412–415.
130 paisley livingston
essay, “L’Invention mathématique.”3 Although some of Poincaré’s ideas

have been restated and elaborated upon in the literature on creativ-
ity, I contend that his most important claims still merit a closer look.
Taking Poincairé’s general model as my point of departure, I sketch
a new conjecture about artistic creativity in Section III; I also discuss
a kindred proposal by Jon Elster. In Section IV, I further illustrate
and explain this conjecture with reference to Virginia Woolf ’s artistic
breakthrough in the writing of Jacob’s Room.4 In my final section, I take
up and respond to objections that may be raised against these claims
about artistic creativity.
II Poincaré on Creativity
Poincaré famously reported that some of his best mathematical ideas

simply popped into his head while he was on holiday and not con-
sciously doing mathematics:
I then began to study arithmetical questions, apparently without any great
result, and without suspecting that they could have the least connection
with my previous investigations. Disgusted by my lack of success, I went
away to spend a few days at the seaside, and thought about entirely
different things. One day, as I was walking along the edge of the cliff,
the idea came to me, again with the same characteristics of brevity,
suddenness, and immediate certainty, that arithmetical transformations
of indefinite ternary quadratic forms are identical with those of non-
Euclidian geometry.5
Poincaré says that after a stint of hard work on these functions, he
encountered new obstacles. His narrative continues:
Thereupon I left for Mont-Valérien, where I had to serve my time in
the army, and so my mind was preoccupied with very different matters.
One day, as I was crossing the street, the solution of the difficulty which
had brought me to a standstill came to me all at once. I did not try to
fathom it immediately, and it was only after my service was finished that I
3
Henri Poincaré, “L’invention mathématique,” Bulletin de l’Institut Général Psychologique
8 (1908): 175–187; reprinted in Science et méthode (Paris: Flammarion, 1908), 43–63;
reprinted in L’Invention mathématique (Paris: Jacques Gabay, 1993), 35–51; trans. by George
Bruce Halstead as “Mathematical Creation,” in The Foundations of Science (London: Sci-
ence Press, 1924), 383–394; all translations in this chapter are Paisley Livingston’s.
4
Virginia Woolf, Jacob’s Room (Orlando, Fla: Harcourt, 1922).
5
Poincaré, “L’invention mathématique,” 52.
poincaré’s ‘delicate sieve’ 131
returned to the question. I had all the elements, and had only to assemble
and arrange them. Accordingly I composed my definitive treatise at a
sitting and without any difficulty.6
At first glance, Poincaré may seem to be espousing an inspirationist
conception of creativity—the idea that genuine creativity is largely if
not entirely a matter of sudden, involuntary illumination or insight.
A closer look at Poincaré’s narrative reveals, however, that he is no
straightforward exponent of a simple inspirationist thesis. Instead,
Poincaré deserves to be acknowledged as an early exponent of the view
that creative achievements are often the product of different sorts of
interacting psychological processes, including the stages of preparation,
incubation, insight, and revision that have become a commonplace in
the literature on creativity.7
According to Poincaré, a necessary condition of what he calls
“appearances of sudden illumination” is that they are “first preceded
and then followed by a period of conscious work.”8 Prior, conscious
work is necessary to inspiration because it sets in motion what Poincaré
called la machine inconsciente (the unconscious machine).9 The basic idea
here is uncontroversial: someone who is truly idle, in the sense of not
being at any time engaging in any relevant projects, will not be likely
to experience the sort of episodes of inspiration that Poincaré and
many other creative persons have described. Yet Poincaré gives other
reasons why inspiration must be accompanied by conscious effort:
unless the researcher or artist makes a prior selection of the elements
upon which the mind is to operate, the search will be too open-ended
and will most likely be fruitless as a result. Conscious, voluntary work
posterior to moments of inspiration is necessary because the ideas that
6
Ibid., 53.
7
See, for example, Graham Wallas’s influential pamphlet, The Art of Thought (London:
Jonathan Cape, 1926). More recently, Poincaré’s views have been taken up by Howard
E. Gruber, “Insight and Affect in the History of Science,” in The Nature of Insight, eds.
Robert J. Sternberg and Janet E. Davidson (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1995), 397–432.
One of the few authors who emphasizes Poincaré’s historical importance on this topic
is Robert W. Weisberg, Creativity: Understanding Innovation in Problem Solving, Science, Invention,
and the Arts (Hoboken, N.J.: John Wiley & Sons, 2006), chap. 8; I first saw Weisberg’s
book while revising the notes to this essay. For additional philosophical background
on artistic creativity, see “Introduction: The Creation of Art: Issues and Perspectives,”
in The Creation of Art: New Essays in Philosophical Aesthetics, eds. Berys Gaut and Paisley
Livingston (New York and Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 1–32.
8
Poincaré, “L’invention mathématique,” 53.
9
Ibid., 54.
pop into one’s mind usually require some development and polishing.
Also, it is necessary to verify them: although inspiration tends to be
accompanied by a second-order attitude, a belief or feeling, to the
effect that the inspired thoughts are correct, worthwhile, or otherwise
appropriate, sometimes this feeling of ‘absolute certainty’ is belied by
subsequent examination or critical reflection.
To sum up, the moments of idleness or ‘incubation,’ when the artistic
or scientist has set aside his or her work and takes up some unrelated
pastime, can be crucial to the creative process. Yet if thinkers are, at
such times, ‘idle’ in the sense of not being consciously occupied by
work, in fact, their minds are not at all idle in the sense of being useless,
empty, or unoccupied, for in an ‘unconscious machine’ has been set in
motion and is hard at work. Or to shift to another image employed by
Poincaré, one wheel on the pulley is idle so that the other wheels can
work all the more efficiently.
One of the most original and fascinating aspects of Poincaré’s dis-
cussion of creativity is his attempt to say something about how the
process of incubation works, and more specifically, about how this
process is functionally related to the efforts of the conscious ego or
self. Poincaré repeatedly insists that the key to mathematical innova-
tion, be it conscious or unconscious, cannot simply be the application
of ‘a tremendous power of attention’ or of a heightened capacity of
calculation. The symbolic combinations to be searched through are
simply too numerous for this to be the key to discovery. The possible
permutations are in principle infinite, and even if the unconscious mind
has generative capacities that far exceed those of conscious attention
or reasoning, its superior success cannot be explained in these terms:
“Invention consists precisely in not constructing useless combinations,
but in constructing those that are useful, which are a tiny minority. To
invent is to discern, to choose.”10
Should this point be granted, and if it is further allowed that some
unconscious mental process is at times highly successful at realizing the
relevant sort of discernment, it would seem to follow that the uncon-
scious ego must employ tact and discernment so as to achieve a kind of
selection or ‘divination’ of a (or even the) useful combination. Yet Poin-
caré rejects this conclusion. It is not a solution of the problem simply
to assume that the unconscious mental processes can reliably identify
a new, useful combination or idea without working through any of the
10
Ibid., 48.
numerous possibilities. Talk of unconscious divination would merely

relocate the mystery, since it is no good postulating the existence of an
unconscious genius at work inside the mind of the genius. It can be
added that the attribution of a capacity of discernment or divination to
an unconscious homunculus does not square with Poincaré’s observation
that not all products of inspiration in fact prove to be good ideas.
With these problems in mind, Poincaré pursues the thought that the
unconscious mental processes must in fact ‘blindly’ and rather rapidly
generate a large number of combinations, most of which are of no
interest or utility, but a few of which are truly genial. He suggests in
passing that the unconscious machine can in a brief amount of time
form more combinations than could be comprised in the whole life
of a conscious being. He further observes that in the subliminal ego’s
symbolic operations or ‘couplings,’ there is a high degree of disorder
or chance amounting to a kind of ‘freedom.’11 So a key ingredient
to creative inspiration is a chaotic, rapid, unconscious recombination
of ideas. This conjecture remains central to some (but not all) psycho-
logical theorizing and modeling in this domain, especially amongst
connectionists and those who think of creativity as a kind of evolu-
tionary process involving blind variation followed by the operation of
a selective mechanism.12
Poincaré’s conjecture about the extraordinary generative capacities
of the unconscious mental machine raises a key question. How is it
that in the oft-recounted experience of inspiration or ‘insight,’ a few
of the results of the chaotic process of generation pop into mind and
become candidates for verification and refinement? And how can we
explain the fact that most of the unconsciously generated ideas go
unnoticed, while most, but not all, of those that do pop into awareness
are genuinely creative, in the sense of being innovative and valuable
in the relevant context?13
11
Ibid., 62.
12
Colin Martindale, “Creativity and Connectionism,” in The Creative Cognition
Approach, eds. Steven M. Smith, Thomas B. Ward, and Ronald Finke (Cambridge,
Mass.: MIT, 1995), 249–268; D. T. Campbell, “Blind Variation and Selective Retention
in Creative Thought and Other Knowledge Processes,” Psychological Review 67 (1960):
380–400; Dean K. Simonton, “Foresight in Insight? A Darwininan Answer,” in The
Nature of Insight, eds. Robert J. Sternberg and Janet E. Davidson (Cambridge, Mass.:
MIT Press, 1995), 465–494.
13
On the semantics of creativity and divergent conceptions of creation, see Gaut
and Livingston, “Introduction,” The Creation of Art; Margaret A. Boden, The Creative
Mind: Myths and Mechanisms (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson; 1990); 2nd ed. rev.
(London: Routledge, 2004); Monroe C. Beardsley, “On the Creation of Art,” Journal
In an effort to respond to this question, Poincaré hypothesizes that

the good and useful mathematical ideas are harmonious and beautiful,
and therefore are capable of affecting the mathematician’s aesthetic
sensibility, which somehow remains attuned to the outputs of uncon-
scious cognitive processes. The arousal of this aesthetic sensibility is
what directs conscious attention to these harmonious findings, in the
form of the recognition of their apparent fittingness or correctness. In
this context Poincaré makes a few relevant remarks about his notion
of a specifically mathematical elegance or beauty. He contends that it
is not ‘the beauty of qualities and appearances’ that strikes the senses.
Instead, the talented mathematician has a sensibility attuned to the
‘more intimate’ beauty, which arises from the harmonious order of
the parts of some whole, and which pure intelligence can grasp inde-
pendently of sensorial perception. Elegance, he tells us, is a matter of
the harmony between the parts; it is symmetry, a ‘happy adjustment,’
order, unity. With this in mind, Poincaré explicitly rules out the “garish
colours and the blatant noise of the drum,” which he castigated as the
preferred objects of the ‘barbarian’ sensibility.14
Poincaré surmises that while one unconscious mental process blindly
generates combinations, the aesthetic sensibility scans the results, sin-
gling out those that are especially pleasing, elegant, harmonious, or
well-proportioned. In other words, when he was strolling idly along
the cliff, Poincaré was not aware of the unconscious search going on
in his unconscious mind, yet part of his mind—the mathematician’s
aesthetic sensibility—continued to monitor the ongoing calculations,
and recognizing an especially harmonious or beautiful result, signaled
this to the conscious ego, which thereby enjoyed the experience of
inspiration. With these assumptions in place, Poincaré seeks to explain
the advent of the occasional false inspiration. What he wants to say
in this regard is that while all good mathematical ideas are beautiful,
most, but not all beautiful ones are good. That some of the ‘poppings’
do not turn out to be true or useful meshes with the thought that false
ideas can have features, such as elegance, that please the aesthetic
of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 23 (1965): 291–304; David Ecker, “The Artistic Process as
Qualitative Problem Solving,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 21(1963): 283–90;
Vincent Tomas, “Creativity in Art,” The Philosophical Review 67 (1958): 1–15; R. Keith
Sawyer, Explaining Creativity: The Science of Human Innovation (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2006).
14
Poincaré, “L’invention mathématique,” in Science et méthode, 17.
sensibility sufficiently to call attention to themselves. Usually, however,

unconsciously generated combinations that have the requisite aesthetic
virtue to win recognition and pop into awareness turn out to have
whatever other epistemic merits qualify them as genuine discoveries.
Poincaré concludes, then, that the talented mathematician’s special
aesthetic sensibility “plays the part of a delicate sieve,”15 singling out
the elegant new combinations. Conscious deliberation must then take
up the problem of deciding which products of the inspiration can be
worked up into genuine discoveries and which cannot.
The adequacy of Poincaré’s scheme to mathematical discovery is
not my topic here. I shall instead focus in the next section on ways
in which his basic conjecture might be adapted to account for some
paradigmatic instances of artistic creativity.
III Artistic Creation and Aesthetic Commitments
We have ample evidence supporting the idea that artistic creativity

often arises from a multi-faceted process involving hard, deliberate
work, periods of idleness, unconscious cognitive activity, and episodes
of inspiration, appreciation, and revision. What is lacking is a better
understanding of the relations between moments of inspiration and the
artist’s plans and choices; this is where Poincaré’s evocation of the role
of aesthetic intuition and sensibility may, if sufficiently reworked, lead
to a new conjecture about artistic creativity and the relations between
inspiration and constraints.
It was hardly an innovation on Poincaré’s part to postulate a psy-
chological faculty called the ‘aesthetic sensibility.’ It may seem easy to
identify paradigmatic instances of its operation, such as ‘our’ instant
recognition that a picture by Vincent Van Gogh is vibrant, well bal-
anced, and so on. Yet it is anything but uncontroversial to postulate
the existence of a compartmentalized or strongly modular faculty of
a formal and universal aesthetic response capable of fulfilling the specific
function Poincaré assigns to it. His assumptions about the intuition of
mathematical truths cannot be carried over—without modification—to
the question of the role of aesthetic sensibility in the process of artis-
tic creation. One obvious reason for this is that we cannot accept the
15
Ibid., 59.
assumption that the sole source of artistic value is a work of art’s

manifestation of a purely formal beauty. In modern and contemporary
art, intentionally constituted ugliness and related aesthetic features often
contribute to artistic value, as works by Otto Dix, George Grosz, Michael
Kvium, and many other artists show. Even if we set such cases aside,
the account of our responses to aesthetic beauty requires revision.
It is a truism to observe that the appreciation of some object’s aes-
thetic qualities typically (if not always) depends on attunement to its
perceptible features.16 Yet such perceptual scrutiny is not a sufficient
condition of the appreciation of aesthetic qualities, as such qualities
depend as well on relations between perceptible features and a range
of other factors, such as features of the artistic medium, the relevant
art-historical context and genre, and the specific nature of the artist’s
project.17 Features that clearly appear derivative, clumsy, and inelegant
given one framework assumption about the artist and context can reveal
rather different aesthetic valences when a better understanding of the
context is gained.
To mention a few examples, the seemingly awkward compositional
qualities and apparently clumsy narrative devices of some fifteenth-
century Sienese pictures are better perceived as the skilful marks of a
willfully anachronistic affirmation of a style associated with a proud,
local authority and the favored, Sienese precedent of Duccio di Buon-
insegna.18 Again, the deliberately crafted and chosen cracks and asym-
metries of a wabi tea bowl are incorrectly judged if we categorize them
as mistakes or failures to achieve proper form. It is the advocates of
a rival aesthetic who apply such negative labels.19 Another example is
Henri Matisse’s exploration of unusual color combinations in Woman with
16
Paisley Livingston, “On an Apparent Truism in Aesthetics,” British Journal of
Aesthetics 43 (2003): 260–278.
17
Kendall L. Walton, “Categories of Art,” Philosophical Review 79 (1970): 334–367;
Richard Wollheim, “Criticism as Retrieval,” in Art and its Objects, 2nd ed. (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1980), 185–204. One way to couch the key idea here
is to say that the “supervenience base” of aesthetic qualities is far broader than the
perceptible features of some artistic structure or object on display.
18
An example is a Sienese picture attributed variously to Sassetta, Sano di Pietro,
and the Master of the Osservanza, The Meeting of St Anthony and St Paul, ca. 1430–1435
(47 × 33.6 cm), The National Gallery, Washington D.C.
19
For example, the Seto stoneware teabowl named Asaina (Momyama period,
1568–1615). The neo-Confucian scholar Dazai Shundai, for example, called such items
“filthy and damaged old bowls”; cited in Paul H. Varley, “Chanoyu: From the Genroku
Epoch to Modern Times,” in Tea in Japan: Essays on the History of Chanoyu, eds. Paul
H. Varley and Kumakura Isao (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1989), 175.
a Hat (1905), which were pleasing to a sensibility attuned to such bold

experimentation, but shocking to the many observers whose responses
were informed by different conventions and expectations. What began
as a negative label applied in outrage (quels fauves! [what wild animals!])
was to become a name for a successful new aesthetic.
More generally, we can say, along with Kendall Walton, Richard
Wollheim, and others, that the apt appreciation of a work of art’s
valenced, aesthetic qualities requires scrutiny of the work against a
background constituted by art forms, conventions, a level and history
of achievement, recognition of the aims and standards to which the
artist is committed, and a sensibility appropriately attuned to the lat-
ter. These are, I believe, relatively uncontroversial points about the
determination and recognition of aesthetic and artistic qualities. The
conclusion that has not been drawn in the literature is that these con-
textualist assumptions about the appreciation of aesthetic qualities have
important implications for our understanding of artistic creation—a
thought that follows from the observation that one of the artist’s crucial
tasks is the appreciation of his or her own emerging results.
As Poincaré conjectures, inspiration is not only the result of a genera-
tive or combinatorial device, but also requires a selective—an apprecia-
tive or evaluative, component. Poincaré also remarked that conscious
work on a specific project is necessary to set the unconscious machine
in motion, initiating its process of rapidly combining motifs or ideas.
Yet it may also be conjectured that the function of prior, deliberate
planning and work is not limited to the mere release or discharge of
some generalized, unfocused unconscious activity, which would then be
followed by the selective process guided by a universal, formal, aesthetic
intuition. Instead, an artist’s deliberations and intentional efforts help to
establish a scheme that provides crucial guidance to subsequent activi-
ties that include deliberate experimentation with an artistic medium
as well as unconscious or spontaneous explorations and responses that
may extend through periods of apparent idleness or incubation.
What I have in mind in speaking of the artist’s prior commitment
to a scheme is the at least provisional choice of, and engagement with
a given medium, art form, genre, and some more particular project.
Some such constraints are inherent in a specific technology or craft;
others may be proposed or imposed by a patron or producer, while
others are more independently arrived at by the individual artist, or
group of collaborating artists. Artistic movements and manifestos often
reflect and influence this kind of commitment, as do projects whereby
an artist undertakes to produce a series of interrelated works meant to

fit together in valued ways. Another salient type of scheme to which
an artist or group of artists may become committed is an ‘aesthetic,’
where an aesthetic is not a doctrine or theory, but a cluster of norms,
expectations, and discriminations pertaining to artistic projects.
In the idiom of theories of rational choice and satisficing, we might
say that what the artist’s initial, more or less deliberate selection of a
project and correlative aesthetic helps to establish are the parameters
and threshold for an effective ‘stopping rule’ that can inform the sponta-
neous or deliberate termination of the process of combinatorial experi-
mentation.20 Yet this is not the insight we are after, as this idiom may
suggest that the aesthetic valence of the options to be searched through
exists entirely independently of the search and parameters in question,
which in artistic contexts is misleading. What will count as a remarkable
discovery worthy of a eureka-like response varies in function of the set
of values and expectations established by the provisional scheme and
project, and more generally by the artist’s operative aesthetic.
The artist’s commitment to or engagement with a scheme helps to
establish and activate some valenced expectations that are the product
of a more specific and context-sensitive counterpart to what Poincaré
referred to as the aesthetic sensibility. Commitment to artistic constraints
crucially orients the creative process by establishing formal as well as
substantive, or content-related parameters, and corresponding norma-
tive expectations and dispositions. This is the case in part because the
artist’s response to options that emerge through hard work and inspira-
tion involves the application not only of conscious criteria or principles,
but also of a sensibility attuned to the orientations and purposes of a
given project.
The importance of this function of prior constraints can be high-
lighted by reference to empirical investigations indicating that prompt
and frequent self-evaluation is strongly correlated with artistic expertise.21
A good artist, it would seem, is not only someone who has the gift of
unconsciously generating new combinations and skillfully manipulating
some medium, but someone who has the propensity to react sensitively
20
David Schmidtz, “Satisficing as a Humanly Rational Strategy,” in Satisficing and
Maximizing: Moral Theorists on Practical Reason, ed. Michael Byron (Cambridge: Cambridge
21
Todd I. Lubart, “Models of the Creative Process: Past, Present, and Future,”
Creativity Research Journal 13 (2000–2001): 295–308.
to his or her own results, selecting those that correspond to a scheme

of artistic value. Here is another point on which Poincaré’s conjecture
should be acknowledged as the source for contemporary observations
about creativity; for example, a key refrain in criticism of algorithmic
modeling of creative practices is that such models cannot perform the
evaluative function that is essential to genuine creativity.22
Poincaré reasoned that a period of incubation or idleness can con-
tribute to creativity because it involves a kind of chaotic, unconscious
cognitive search. Although there is broad agreement that incubation is
often helpful, the reason remains controversial amongst contemporary
psychologists, and some even doubt that a chaotic unconscious search
is part of the story.23 It is hard to see, however, how a complicated
new idea can pop into mind in the absence of any search or mental
process whatsoever, and by definition a period of incubation involves
no relevant, conscious effort or deliberate activity. In any case, another
hypothesized function of incubation is that of deactivating fruitless
assumptions about how a problem can be solved: a period of inactivity
makes a fresh look possible, or as the French saying goes, la nuit porte
conseil. There is an artistic analogue, at least in cases where the artist
deems that his or her results have become too stale and predictable. The
choice of new initial constraints, and the corresponding initiation of a
period of related, unconscious cognitive activity, can serve to forestall
or inhibit reliance upon overworked strategies, of which a tiresome
personal mannerism or sterile and repetitive stylistic habit is the most
evident symptom. So whatever else it may achieve, settling on a new
scheme may help the artist resist a habitual way of working. This is,
for example, one of the main motivations of the constraints adopted
by members of the influential Dogma 95 movement.24
My conjecture can be further clarified with reference to a kindred
proposal made by Elster, who explores the idea that strategies of rational
pre-commitment or resolute choice are crucial to genuine artistic cre-
ativity. He defines ‘inspiration’ as the rate at which ideas move from the
unconscious into the conscious mind, and conjectures that inspiration,
22
This critique is stated, for example, in R. Keith Sawyer, Explaining Creativity: The
Science of Human Innovation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), chap. 6.
23
Eliaz Segal, “Incubation in Problem Solving,” Creativity Research Journal 16 (2004):
141–148.
24
Mette Hjort and Scott MacKenzie, eds. Purity and Provocation: Dogma 95 (London:
British Film Institute Press, 2003).
thus defined, “is an inversely U-shaped function of the tightness of

the constraints.”25 Given this assumption, it makes sense that in a situ-
ation where the agent faces too many options, the self-imposition of
constraints could be an effective way of enhancing inspiration.
Elster does not advocate any particular explanation as to why
‘sufficiently’ tight constraints contribute to inspiration. One of the
themes of his ongoing research on human rationality and irrationality
is the idea that pre-commitments and resolute choices have the charac-
teristic function of allowing agents to overcome anticipated hyperbolic
discounting, preference changes, strategic time inconsistency, and surges
of passion. Thanks to Circe’s helpful advice, Ulysses anticipates that
hearing the song of the sirens will cause him to steer his ship to its
destruction; so to enjoy their lovely song while resisting its fatal call,
the hero has himself bound to the mast. More prosaically, someone
struggling with an addiction, weakness of the will, or bad habits can
plan ahead and employ various indirect strategies to preclude giving in
when the time of temptation arrives. Yet it is not obvious that the same
factors explain the importance of constraints in an artistic context. The
artist, it might seem, is quite unlike Ulysses because in paradigmatic
cases of artistic creation, there is no Circean advice, and no risk of any
drastic preference shifts. How, then, are pre-commitments and inspi-
ration related to each other in artistic cases? And why do constraints
contribute to inspiration at all, other than for the trivial reason that
one cannot do everything all at once? Even if we agree with Elster’s
notion that pre-commitments and resolute choices are important or
even crucial to artistic creativity, it is dubious that their primary or
characteristic function is that of overcoming anticipated inconsistencies
across time. My Poincaré-inspired conjecture is that prior commitment
in the case of artistic creativity involves the selection and activation
of a system of artistic and aesthetic parameters crucial to the very
occurrence of a determinate, valenced response to future output or
performance. Pre-commitment, in the sense of a deliberate choice, or a
more or less spontaneous engagement with a artistic scheme, project, or
aesthetic, forestalls aesthetic indifference, directionless scrutiny, and the
inability to experience a spontaneous judgment of the results of artistic
experimentation. What artistic pre-commitments achieve, then, is not
25
Jon Elster, Ulysses Unbound: Studies in Rationality, Precommitment, and Constraints (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 212.
the prevention of an unwanted shift of preference, but the attunement

and enhanced activation of a capacity for response not directly under
the artist’s conscious control. To rephrase the point in terms of Elster’s
allegory, Ulysses prudently anticipates that hearing the lovely siren song
will produce a disastrous change of preferences if he does not somehow
pre-commit. What the artist risks in the absence of pre-commitment is
the failure to hear any song at all, or better, any new song having what
can be recognized as a determinate artistic value.
IV Virginia Woolf ’s Novelistic Breakthrough
To flesh out my schematic indications with regard to the emergence

and function of artists’ commitments to artistic schemes, in this section,
I shall briefly discuss a few relevant aspects of a particular episode of
successful artistic creativity, namely, Virginia Woolf ’s composition of
her first genuinely modernist novel, Jacob’s Room.
After Woolf had published her second novel, Night and Day,26 in 1919,
she was ‘irritated’ (as she put it) by criticisms raised in print by her friend
and rival, Katherine Mansfield, who suggested that Woolf ’s long novel
was far too traditional.27 One reason why Woolf was genuinely bothered
by this criticism was that she was basically in agreement with Mansfield
and others about the tenets and values associated with modernism in
the arts, and had come to understand her greatest ambition as that of
contributing something important to the modernist revolution in litera-
ture.28 Entries in her diaries express worries that such figures as James
Joyce and T. S. Eliot might surpass her in this regard, and that Marcel
Proust had already done so. In the period following the completion of
Night and Day, Woolf was thinking and writing at a very general level
about the very idea of modernist art. Her appreciation of her sister’s
paintings, and her engagement with the artistic interests and activities
of such figures as Roger Fry, was part of an ongoing process through
which she immersed herself in a modernist aesthetic. She began to
26
Virginia Woolf, Night and Day (London: Flamingo, 1919).
27
For Mansfield’s criticisms, see Clare Hanson, ed., The Critical Writings of Katherine
Mansfield (London: Macmillan, 1987), 56–63; for plausible comments on Woolf ’s reac-
tion and more general relation to Mansfield, see Angela Smith, Katherine Mansfield and
Virginia Woolf: A Public of Two (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999).
28
For background on Woolf and artistic modernism, see Hermione Lee, The Novels
of Virginia Woolf (London: Methuen, 1977), 11–24.
write a number of episodic and impressionistic short stories (including

a short fiction entitled “An Unwritten Novel”)29 that eschewed the sorts
of characterizations and descriptions that Woolf had come to associate
with Victorian fiction. Her deliberations and writings, guided by the
very general scheme of achieving a truly modern form of literature,
led to the emergence of a new, more specific leading idea, namely, a
scheme for the creation of a modernist, experimental novel. Having
come up with exciting new thoughts in this vein, Woolf wrote with
enthusiasm in her diary:
The day after my birthday; in fact I’m 38. Well, no doubt I’m a great deal
happier than I was at 28; & happier today than I was yesterday having this
afternoon arrived at some idea of a new form for a new novel. Suppose
one thing should open out of another—as in “An Unwritten Novel”—only
not for 10 pages but for 200 or so—Doesn’t that give the looseness and
lightness I want: doesnt [sic] that get closer & yet keep form & speed,
& enclose everything? My doubt is how far it will enclose the human
heart—Am I sufficiently mistress of my dialogue to net it there? For I
figure that the approach will be entirely different this time: no scaffolding;
scarcely a brick to be seen; all crepuscular, but the heart, the passion,
the humour, everything as bright as fire in the mist. Then I’ll find room
for so much—a gaiety—an inconsequence—a light spirited stepping at
my sweet will. Whether I’m sufficiently mistress of things—thats [sic] the
doubt; but conceive mark on the wall, K. G. [Kew Gardens] & unwritten
novel taking hands & dancing in unity. What the unity shall be I have yet
to discover: the theme is a blank to me; but I see immense possibilities in
the form I hit upon more or less by chance 2 weeks ago. I suppose the
danger is the damned egotistical self; which ruins Joyce & Richardson
to my mind . . . I must grope and experiment but this afternoon I had a
gleam of light. Indeed, I think from the ease which I’m developing the
unwritten novel there must be a path for me there.30
Woolf explicitly records here her decision to pursue a scheme for the
writing of her next novel, a scheme labeled, ‘a new form for a new
novel.’ This scheme receives various other, metaphorical characteriza-
tions in the diary entry, including an architectural image. She clearly
has in mind a style or narrative ‘voice’ that has emerged here and
there in some of her most recent writings. The more proximate ‘break-
through’ idea, which seems to have crystallized some two weeks after
29
Virginia Woolf, “An Unwritten Novel,” in Monday or Tuesday (New York: Harcourt,
Brace, 1921).
30
Entry of Monday 26 January 1920, The Diary of Virginia Woolf, vol. 2, ed. Anne
Olivier Bell (Harmondsworth: Penquin, 1981), 13–14.
these stylistic experiments, is that of making this sort of ‘free’ narrative

form the organizational principle for an entire novel. Thus the artist
is simultaneously engaged in a retrospective appreciation of her own
earlier efforts, in which she culls what she now perceives as promising
moments, and an anticipatory plan for combining those elements so
as to generate a result of even greater value in this same vein. In her
anticipation of future efforts to apply this scheme, Woolf expresses
worries about possible shortcomings of the ‘path’ or approach she has
in mind. She knows she will need to find a theme for her new novel,
and she worries whether this new form she has in view will truly serve
as a vehicle for psychological insights. Woolf ’s discovery of a general
scheme or formal strategy was accompanied by a high level of excite-
ment, and was followed by a burst of deliberate, conscious work and
spontaneous, unconscious mental activities. (In Poincaré’s terms, the
‘unconscious machine’ had been set in motion.) Woolf ’s own manner
of talking about this aspect of the writerly process reads as follows:
After a hard day’s work, trudging round, seeing all he can, feeling all
he can, taking in the book of his mind innumerable notes, the writer
becomes—if he can—unconscious. In fact, his under mind works at
top speed while his upper mind drowses. Then, after a pause the veil
lifts; and there is the thing—the thing he wants to write about—
simplified, composed.31
In the months that followed her experience of the ‘gleam of light’
about a new form for a new novel, Woolf made swift progress on Jacob’s
Room, continuing to monitor her results in terms of the initial scheme
and ambition. She recorded in her diary how, when things were going
well, she got ideas for her narrator’s flights of fancy while she was out
on her daily walk. When her first draft was completed, she edited and
rewrote some of her pages in function of her initial scheme, deleting,
for example, passages which were taken as having recourse to more
traditional plot development and explanatory and descriptive devices.32
Although not everyone agrees about the merits of her results, it is fairly
uncontroversial to recognize Jacob’s Room as an important modernist
work, and it is clear that it was a major breakthrough for Woolf in
31
Virgina Woolf, “The Leaning Tower,” in A Woman’s Essays: Selected Essays, ed.
Rachel Bowlby (London: Penquin, 1992), 163.
32
For this general claim about Woolf ’s revisions and an example, see James King,
Virginia Woolf (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1994), 315.
that it pointed the way towards such masterpieces as Orlando, To the

Lighthouse, and The Waves.33
To sum up, I have not suggested that episodes of creative artistry
are reducible to, or can be fully reconstructed as, sequences of rational
choice, if by rational choice is meant the deliberate singling out of an
option expected to maximize some function. In the case of Virginia
Woolf, the scheme she settles on before she begins writing Jacob’s Room
is indeed a highly schematic notion about a kind of work that she wants
to create, a path and not a definite result or destination. This scheme
is, however, sufficiently particularized in her mind to have a genera-
tive and evaluative function: Woolf is in a position to assess her own
results, and subsequent readers can follow her at least part of the way
in this regard. It would appear, then, that strategies of rational problem-
solving, including planning and pre-commitments, are an important
part of the story of artistic creation and reception. These strategies
are functionally related even to those aspects of creativity that seem
most suited to an a-rationalist, inspirationist account, namely, the ‘top
speed’ work of an ‘under mind’ that is not under the agent’s direct
control, as well as those moments when valuable new ideas suddenly
pop into awareness following a period of incubation. Yet the opera-
tion of a universal, formal sensibility does not make such spontaneous,
selective responses possible. Instead, it is an operative aesthetic, partly
shaped and generated through an artist’s context-bound selection of,
and engagement with, a prior scheme or project, which in happy cases,
is at least partly a product of a moderately rational choice made from
a range of worthwhile artistic goals.
V Objections and Replies
I turn now to a series of objections to these conjectures about cre-

ativity and commitment to constraints. In his probing comments on
Elster’s proposal, Jerrold Levinson claims that artists are typically free
to change their minds and abandon or revise whatever prior commit-
ments they may engage in, in which case there may be no correla-
33
Virginia Woolf, Orlando: A Biography (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1928); To the
Lighthouse (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1927); Jacob’s Room & The Waves (New York:
Harcourt, Brace, 1923 © 1931).
tive to Ulysses’ strategy of self-binding or resolute choice.34 After all,

someone who starts out trying to draft a serious philosophical novel
could, if things went wrong, bail out and reclassify the results as an
ironic fragment. To this one may respond that although such cases no
doubt obtain, in many others the commitment is much more binding,
if only because of the degree to which the artist’s attitudes effectively
become entrenched, psychologically as well as legally and economi-
cally. Artists often refrain from an opportunistic abandonment of prior
engagements, in part because the artist’s own critical judgment remains
informed by a given project and by related norms determining what
can and cannot be experienced as an artistically successful result. The
relevant device or method of pre-commitment, then, is the creation
of a disposition to respond. What at one point appears as one distant
and schematic option amongst others finally becomes the object of an
irresistible desire and ‘self-evident’ judgment. In some cases, the means
of artistic pre-commitment is a public proclamation of intent (as in the
programmatic statements of a manifesto), the unexplained repudiation
or abandonment of which would have serious repercussions for the
artist’s self-understanding and status.
Levinson levels another objection against what he characterizes as
the overly ‘inflexible’ model proposed by Elster, namely, that Ulysses’
enters into self-binding explicitly and deliberately, whereas this is not
the case with artists. I think the correct response here is to split the
difference. In other words, we should acknowledge that some artists do
deliberately and explicitly settle on, and commit to a scheme, whereas
in other cases the operative scheme or aesthetic spontaneously emerges
against a background of factors that are not entirely or even predomi-
nantly a matter of the artist’s doings. Mixed or hybrid cases are no
doubt common. Pre-commitment is often, but not always, then, the
product of the artist’s deliberation and choice. A similar point can be
made about Elster’s postulation of the existence of a definite, overall
objective in the artist’s mind, namely, the maximization of artistic value:
at least some of the schemes that motivate and guide subsequent activi-
ties are indeed oriented towards the creation of artistically valuable
works, given a suitably broad and plausible conception of this kind
of value. This moderate thesis is not contradicted by the existence of
cases where an artist deliberately makes an artistically less valuable work
34
Jerrold Levinson, “Elster on Artistic Creativity,” in The Creation of Art, 235–256.
to achieve some other goal, such as the maximization of an expected

economic payoff.
Another objection that may come to mind here is that it is viciously
circular to propose that creativity is explicable in terms of a prior, creative,
and rational selection of the constraints corresponding to an aesthetic or
to some general artistic project. Indeed, it would be hopeless to propose
that to be creative at making a particular work, the artist must first be
creative in selecting an entire aesthetic, where the latter feat remains a
perfect mystery. However, my proposal is not that all prior constraints
and schemes are the products of great creativity. The mistaken thesis
would be what R. G. Collingwood called ‘aesthetic individualism,’ the
idea that the artist is a perfectly self-sufficient individual who creatively
generates everything—including the medium, art form, themes, tech-
niques, and genres.35 Sometimes new artistic constraints are devised, but
then the artist relies on a background of traditional artistic conventions
and methods, as well as received orientations and norms.36 Yet deliberate
experimentation with seemingly arbitrary constraints is sometimes an
important part of the story, and can indeed establish a scheme within
which unanticipated yet viable aesthetic discernments become possible.
In other cases, the attunement of the requisite sensibility and capacities
of discernment is a product of training and experience that are only
partly the object of the artist’s deliberate selection.37
35
R. G. Collingwood, The Principles of Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1938),
316.
36
This point is underscored and developed by Stein Haugom Olsen in “Culture,
Convention, and Creativity,” and by Noël Carroll in “Art, Creativity, and Tradition,”
in The Creation of Art, eds. Gaut and Livingston, 192–207, 208–234 respectively.
37
A first version of this paper was initially presented at Stanford University at a
conference on rational choice and the humanities organized by David Palumbo-Liu. I
think David for his helpful editorial advice. Another version was presented in Providence,
Rhode Island at the annual meeting of the American Society for Aesthetics. I thank
my respondent on that occasion, Gary Fuller, for his comments and encouragement.
David Davies and other members of the audience raised some helpful questions. The
work described in this paper was partially supported by a grant from the Research
Grants Council of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region, China (Project No.
LU3401/06H). I am very grateful for this support.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION1
Michael Polanyi
The enterprise that I am undertaking here has been severely discouraged

by contemporary philosophers. They do not deny that the imagination
can produce new ideas which help the pursuit of science or that our
personal hunches and intuitions are often to the point. But since our
imagination can roam unhindered by argument and our intuitions
cannot be accounted for, neither imagination nor intuition are deemed
rational ways of making discoveries. They are excluded from the logic
of scientific discovery, which can deal then only with the verification
or refutation of ideas after they have turned up as possible contribu-
tions to science.
However, the distinction between the production and testing of
scientific ideas is not really so sharp. No scientific discovery can be
strictly verified, or even proved to be probable, yet we bet our lives every
day on the correctness of scientific generalizations, for example, those
underlying medicine and technology. Admittedly, Sir Karl Popper has
pointed out that, though not strictly verifiable, scientific generalizations
can be strictly refuted. But the application of this principle cannot be
strictly prescribed. It is true that a single piece of contradictory evi-
dence refutes a generalization, but experience can present us only with
apparent contradictions, and there is no strict rule by which to tell whether
any apparent contradiction is an actual contradiction. The falsification
of a scientific statement can therefore no more be strictly established
than can its verification. Verification and falsification are both formally
indeterminate procedures.
There is in fact no sharp division between science in the making
and science in the textbook. The vision which guided the scientist to
1
Reprinted from Chemical and Engineering News 44 (1966): 85–93. © 1966 American
Chemical Society, and The Concept of Creativity in Science and Art, eds. Denis Dutton and
Michael Krausz (The Hague/Boston/London: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1981),
148 michael polanyi
success lives on in his discovery and is shared by those who recognize it.
It is reflected in the confidence they place in the reality of that which
has been discovered and in the way in which they sense the depth and
fruitfulness of a discovery.
Any student of science will understand—must understand—what
I mean by these words. But their teachers in philosophy are likely to
raise their eyebrows at such a vague emotional description of scientific
discovery. Yet the great controversy over the Copernican system, which
first established modern science, turned on just such vague emotional
qualities attributed to the system by Nicolaus Copernicus and his fol-
lowers, which proved in their view that the system was real.
Moreover, after Isaac Newton’s confirmation of the Copernican
system, Copernicus and his followers—Kepler and Galileo—were
universally recognized to have been right. For two centuries their
steadfastness in defending science against its adversaries was unques-
tioningly honored. I myself was still brought up on these sentiments.
But at that time some eminent writers were already throwing cold
water on them. Henri Poincaré wrote that Galileo’s insistence that
the earth was really circling round the sun was pointless, since all he
could legitimately claim was that this view was more convenient. The
distinguished physicist, historian, and philosopher, Pierre Duhem, went
further and concluded that it was the adversaries of Copernicus and his
followers who had recognized the true meaning of science, which the
Copernicans had misunderstood. While this extreme form of modern
positivism is no longer widely held today, I see no essential alternative
to it emerging so far.
Let us look then once more at the facts. Copernicus discovered the
solar system by signs which convinced him. But these signs convinced
few others. For the Copernican system was far more complicated than
that of Ptolemy: it was a veritable jungle of ad hoc assumptions. More-
over, the attribution of physical reality to the system met with serious
mechanical objections and also involved staggering assumptions about
the distance of the fixed stars. Yet Copernicus claimed that his system
had unique harmonies which proved it to be real even though he could
describe these harmonies only in a few vague emotional passages.2 He
did not stop to consider how many assumptions he had to make in
formulating his system, nor how many difficulties he ignored in doing
2
De Revolutionibus [On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres] (Nuremberg, 1543), Preface
and bk. 1, chap. 10.
the creative imagination 149
so. Since his vision showed him an outline of reality, he ignored all its
complications and unanswered questions.
Nor did Copernicus remain without followers in his own century.
In spite of its vagueness and its extravagances, his vision was shared
by great scientists like Kepler and Galileo. Admittedly, their discoveries
bore out the reality of the Copernican system, but they could make
these discoveries only because they already believed in the reality of
that system.
We can see here what is meant by attributing reality to a scientific
discovery. It is to believe that it refers to no chance configuration of
things, but to a persistent connection of certain features, a connection
which, being real, will yet manifest itself in numberless ways, inexhaust-
ibly. It is to believe that it is there, existing independently of us, and
that for that reason its consequences can never be fully predicted.
Our knowledge of reality has, then, an essentially indeterminate
content: it deserves to be called a vision. The vast indeterminacy of the
Copernican vision showed itself in the fact that discoveries made later,
in the light of this vision, would have horrified its author. Copernicus
would have rejected the elliptic planetary paths of Kepler and, like-
wise, the extension of terrestrial mechanics to the planets by Galileo
and Newton.3 Kepler noted this by saying that Copernicus had never
realized the riches which his theory contained.4
This vision, the vision of a hidden reality, which guides a scientist
in his quest, is a dynamic force. At the end of the quest the vision is
becalmed in the contemplation of the reality revealed by a discovery;
but the vision is renewed and becomes dynamic again in other scientists
and guides them to new discoveries. I shall now try to show how both
the dynamic and the static phases of a scientific vision are due to the
strength of the imagination guided by intuition. We shall understand
then both the grounds on which established scientific knowledge rests
and the powers by which scientific discovery is achieved.
I have pursued this problem for many years by considering science
as an extension of ordinary perception. When I look at my hand and
move it about, it would keep changing its shape, its size, and its color
but for my power of seeing the joint meaning of a host of rapidly
changing clues, and seeing that this joint meaning remains unchanged.
3
Ibid., bk. 1, chap. 4.
4
See H. Dingle, The Scientific Adventure (London: Pitman, 1952), 46.
150 michael polanyi
I recognize a real object before me from my joint awareness of the

clues which bear upon it.
Many of these clues cannot be sensed in themselves at all. The con-
traction of my eye muscles, for example, I cannot experience in itself.
Yet I am very much aware of the working of these muscles indirectly,
in the way they make me see the object at the right distance and as
having the right size. Some clues to this we see from the corner of our
eyes. An object looks very different when we see it through a blackened
tube, which cuts out these marginal clues.
We can recognize here two kinds of awareness. We are obviously aware
of the object we are looking at, but are aware also—in a much less posi-
tive way—of a hundred different clues which we integrate to the sight
of the object. When integrating these clues, we are attending fully to
the object while we are aware of the clues themselves without attending
to them. We are aware of these clues only as pointing to the object we are
looking at. I shall say that we have a subsidiary awareness of the clues in
their bearing on the object to which we are focally attending.
While an object on which we are focusing our attention is always
identifiable, the clues through which we are attending to the object
may often be unspecifiable. We may well be uncertain of clues seen
from the corner of our eyes, and we cannot experience in themselves
at all such subliminal clues, as for example the effort of contracting
our eye muscles.
But it is a mistake to identify subsidiary awareness with unconscious
or preconscious awareness, or with the Jamesian fringe of awareness.
What makes an awareness subsidiary is the function it fulfills; it can have
any degree of consciousness so long as it functions as a clue to the object
of our focal attention. To perceive something as a clue is sufficient by
itself, therefore, to make its identification uncertain.
Let me return now to science. If science is a manner of perceiving
things in nature, we might find the prototype of scientific discovery in
the way we solve a difficult perceptual problem. Take for example the
way we learn to find our way about while wearing inverting spectacles.
When you put on spectacles that show things upside down, you feel
completely lost and remain helpless for days on end. But if you persist
in groping around for a week or more, you find your way again and
eventually can even drive a car or climb rocks with the spectacles on.
This fact, well-known today, was in essence discovered by Stratton
seventy years ago. It is usually said to show that after a time the visual
image switches round to the way we normally see it. But some more
recent observations have shown that this interpretation is false.
It happened, for example, that a person perfectly trained to get
around with upside-down spectacles was shown a row of houses from
a distance, and he was then asked whether he saw the houses right side
up or upside down. The question puzzled the subject and he replied
after a moment that he had not thought about the matter before, but
that now that he was asked about it he found that he saw the houses
upside down.5
Such a reply shows that the visual image of the houses has not turned
back to normal; it has remained inverted, but the inverted image no
longer means to the subject that the houses themselves are upside down.
The inverted image has been reconnected to other sensory clues, to
touch and sound and weight. These all hang together with the image
once more, and hence, though the image remains inverted, the subject
can again find his way by it safely. A new way of seeing things rightly has
been established. And since the meaning of the upside-down image has
changed, the term ‘upside down’ has lost its previous meaning, so that
now it is confusing to inquire whether something is seen upside down
or right side up. The new kind of right seeing can be talked about only
in terms of a new vocabulary.
We see how the wearer of inverting spectacles reorganizes scrambled
clues into a new coherence. He again sees objects, instead of meaning-
less impressions. He again sees real things, which he can pick up and
handle, which have weights pulling in the right direction and make
sounds that come from the place at which he sees them. He has made
sense out of chaos.
In science, I find the closest parallel to this perceptual achievement
in the discovery of relativity. Einstein has told the story of how from
the age of sixteen, he was obsessed by the following kind of specula-
tions.6 Experiments with falling bodies were known to give the same
results on board a ship in motion as on solid ground. But what would
happen to the light which a lamp would emit on board a moving ship?
5
See F. W. Snyder and N. H. Pronko, Vision with Spatial Inversion (Wichita, Kans.:
University of Wichita Press, 1952). For fuller evidence and its interpretation in the
sense given here, see H. Kottenhoff, “Was ist richtiges Sehen mit Umkehrbrillen und in welchem
Sinne stellt sich das Sehen um?” Psychologia Universalis 5 (1961).
6
See P. A. Schilpp, ed., Albert Einstein, Philosopher-Scientist (New York: Tudor, 1951), 53.
152 michael polanyi
Supposing the ship moved fast enough, would it overtake the beams of
its own light, as a bullet overtakes its own sound by crossing the sonic
barrier? Einstein thought that this was inconceivable, and, persisting
in this assumption, he eventually succeeded in renewing the concep-
tions of space and time in a way which would make it inconceivable
for the ship to overtake, however slightly, its own light rays. After this,
questions about a definite span of time or space became meaningless
and confusing—exactly as questions of ‘above’ and ‘below’ became
meaningless and confusing to a subject who had adapted his vision to
inverting spectacles.
It is no accident that it is the most radical innovation in the history
of science that appears most similar to the way we acquire the capacity
for seeing inverted images rightly. For only a comprehensive problem
like relativity can require that we organize such basic conceptions as
we do in learning to see rightly through inverting spectacles. Relativity
alone involves conceptual innovations as strange and paradoxical as
those we make in righting an inverted vision.
The experimental verifications of relativity have shown that the
coherence discerned by Einstein was real. One of these confirmations
has a curious history. Einstein had assumed that a light source would
never overtake a beam sent out by it, a fact that had already been
established before by Michelson and Morley. In his autobiography,
Einstein says that he made this assumption intuitively from the start.
But this account failed to convince his contemporaries, for intuition was
not regarded as legitimate ground for knowledge. Textbooks of physics
therefore described Einstein’s theory as his answer to the experiments of
Michelson. When I tried to put the record right by accepting Einstein’s
claim that he had intuitively recognized the facts already demonstrated
by Michelson, I was attacked and ridiculed by Professor Grünbaum
who argued that Einstein must have known of Michelson’s experiments,
since he could not otherwise have based himself on the facts established
by these experiments.7
However, if science is a generalized form of perception, Einstein’s
story of his intuition is clear enough. He had started from the principle
that it is impossible to observe absolute motion in mechanics, and when
he came across the question whether this principle holds also when
light is emitted, he felt that it must still hold, but he could not quite
7
See A. Grünbaum, Philosophical Problems of Space and Time (New York: Knopf,
1963), 378–385.
tell why he assumed this. However, such unaccountable assumptions

are common in the way we perceive things, and this can also affect
the way scientists see them. Newton’s assumption of absolute rest itself,
which Einstein was to refute, owed its convincing power to the way we
commonly see things. We see a car traveling along a road and never
the road sliding away under the car. We see the road at absolute rest.
We generally see things as we do, because this establishes coherence
within the context of our experience. So when Einstein extended his
vision to the universe and included the case of a light source emitting
a beam, he could make sense of what he then faced only by seeing it
in such a way that the beam was never overtaken, however slightly, by
its source. This is what he meant by saying that he knew intuitively
that this was in fact the case.
We understand now also why the grounds on which Copernicus
claimed that his system was real could be convincing to him, though not
convincing to others. We have seen that the intuitive powers that are at
work in perception integrate clues which, being subsidiarily known, are
largely unspecifiable; we have seen further that the intuition by which
Einstein shaped his novel conceptions of time and space was also based
on clues which were largely unspecifiable; we may assume then that this
was also true for Copernicus in shaping his vision of reality.
And we may say this generally. Science is based on clues that have
a bearing on reality. These clues are not fully specifiable; nor is the
process of integration which connects them fully definable; and the
future manifestations of the reality indicated by this coherence are
inexhaustible. These three indeterminacies defeat any attempt at a
strict theory of scientific validity and offer space for the powers of the
imagination and intuition.
This gives us a general idea of the way scientific knowledge is
established at the end of an inquiry; it tells us how we judge that our
result is coherent and real. But it does not show us where to start an
inquiry, nor how we know, once we have started, which way to turn
for a solution. At the beginning of a quest we can know only quite
vaguely what we may hope to discover; we may ask, therefore, how
we can ever start and go on with an inquiry without knowing what
exactly we are looking for.
This question goes back to antiquity. Plato set it in the Meno. He said
that if we know the solution of a problem, there is no problem—and
if we don’t know the solution, we do not know what we are looking
for and cannot expect to find anything. He concluded that when we
154 michael polanyi
do solve problems, we do it by remembering past incarnations. This

strange solution of the dilemma may have prevented it from being
taken seriously. Yet the problem is ineluctable and can be answered
only be recognizing a kind of intuition more dynamic than the one I
have described so far.
I have spoken of our powers to perceive a coherence bearing on
reality, with its yet hidden future manifestations. But there exists also
a more intensely pointed knowledge of hidden coherence: the kind
of foreknowledge we call a problem. And we know that the scientist
produces problems, has hunches, and, elated by these anticipations,
pursues the quest that should fulfill these anticipations. This quest is
guided throughout by feelings of a deepening coherence and these
feelings have a fair chance of proving right. We may recognize here
the powers of a dynamic intuition.
The mechanism of this power can be illuminated by an analogy.
Physics speaks of potential energy that is released when a weight slides
down a slope. Our search for deeper coherence is likewise guided by
a potentiality. We feel the slope toward deeper insight as we feel the
direction in which a heavy weight is pulled along a steep incline. It is
this dynamic intuition which guides the pursuit of discovery.
This is how I would resolve the paradox of the Meno: we can pursue
scientific discovery without knowing what we are looking for, because
the gradient of deepening coherence tells us where to start and which
way to turn, and eventually brings us to the point where we may stop
and claim a discovery.
But we must yet acknowledge further powers of intuition, without
which inventors and scientists could neither rationally decide to choose
a particular problem nor pursue any chosen problem successfully. Think
of Stratton devising his clumsy inverting spectacles and then groping
about guided by the inverted vision of a single, narrowly restricted eye
for days on end. He must have been firmly convinced that he would
learn to find his way about within a reasonable time, and also that the
result would be worth all the trouble of his strange enterprise—and
he proved right. Or think of Einstein, when as a boy he came across
the speculative dilemma of a light source pursuing its own ray. He did
not brush the matter aside as a mere oddity, as anybody else would
have done. His intuition told him that there must exist a principle
which would assure the impossibility of observing absolute motion in
any circumstances. Through years of sometimes despairing inquiry, he
kept up his conviction that the discovery he was seeking was within his
ultimate reach and that it would prove worth the torment of its pursuit;
and again, Einstein proved right. Kepler too might reasonably have
concluded, after some five years of vain efforts, that he was wasting
his time, but he persisted and proved right.
The power by which such long-range assessments are made may
be called a strategic intuition. It is practiced every day on a high level
of responsibility in industrial research laboratories. The director of
such a laboratory does not usually make inventions, but is responsible
for assessing the value of problems suggested to him, be it from out-
side or from members of his laboratory. For each such problem the
director must jointly estimate the chances of its successful pursuit, the
value of its possible solution, and also the cost of achieving it. He
must compare this combination with the joint assessment of the same
characteristics for rival problems. On these grounds he has to decide
whether the pursuit of a problem should be undertaken or not, and
if undertaken, what grade of priority should be given to it in the use
of available resources.
The scientist is faced with similar decisions. The kind of intuition
which points out problems to him cannot tell him which problem to
choose. He must be able to estimate the gap separating him from discov-
ery, and he must also be able roughly to assess whether the importance
of a possible discovery would warrant the investment of the powers
and resources needed for its pursuit. Without this kind of strategic
intuition, he would waste his opportunities on wild goose chases and
soon be out of a job.
The kind of intuition I have recognized here is clearly quite different
from the supreme immediate knowledge called intuition by Gottfried
Leibniz or Benedict (Baruch) Spinoza or Edmund Husserl. It is a skill
for guessing with a reasonable chance of guessing right, a skill guided
by an innate sensibility to coherence, improved by schooling. The fact
that this faculty often fails does not discredit it; a method for guessing
10 percent above average chance on roulette would be worth millions.
But to know what to look for does not lead us to the power to find
it. That power lies in the imagination.
I call all thoughts of things that are not present, or not yet present—
or perhaps never to be present—acts of the imagination. When I
intend to lift my arm, this intention is an act of my imagination. In this
case imagining is not visual but muscular. An athlete keyed up for a
high jump is engaged in an intense act of muscular imagination. But
even in the effortless lifting of an arm, we can recognize a conscious
156 michael polanyi
intention, an act of the imagination, distinct from its muscular execu-

tion. For we never decree this muscular performance in itself, since
we have no direct control over it. This delicately coordinated feat of
muscular contractions can be made to take place only spontaneously,
as a sequel to our imaginative act.
This dual structure of deliberate movement was first described by
William James seventy years ago. We see now that it corresponds to the
two kinds of awareness that we have met in the act of perception. We
may say that we have a focal awareness of lifting our arm, and that this focal
act is implemented by the integration of subsidiary muscular particulars. We may
put it exactly as in the case of perception, that we are focally aware of
our intended performance and aware of its particulars only subsidiarily,
by attending to the performance which they jointly constitute.
A new life, a new intensity, enters into this two-leveled structure the
moment our resolve meets with difficulties. The two levels then fall apart,
and the imagination sallies forward, seeking to close the gap between
them. Take the example of learning to ride a bicycle. The imagination
is fixed on this aim, but, our present capabilities being insufficient, its
execution falls behind. By straining every nerve to close this gap, we
gradually learn to keep our balance on a bicycle.
This effort results in an amazingly sophisticated policy of which we
know nothing. Our muscles are set so as to counteract our accidental
imbalance at every moment, by turning the bicycle into a curve with a
radius proportional to the square of our velocity divided by the angle
of our imbalance. Millions of people are cycling all over the world by
skillfully applying this formula which they could not remotely under-
stand if they were told about it. This puzzling fact is explained by the
two-leveled structure of intentional action. The use of the formula is
invented on the subsidiary level in response to the efforts to close the
gap between intention and performance; and since the performance
has been produced subsidiarily, it can remain focally unknown.
There are many experiments showing how an imaginative intention
can evoke covertly, inside our body, the means of its implementation.
Spontaneous muscular twitches, imperceptible to the subject, have
been singled out by an experimenter and rewarded by a brief pause
in an unpleasant noise; and as soon as this was done, the frequency
of the twitches—of which the subject knew nothing—multiplied
about threefold. Moreover, when the subject’s imagination was stimu-
lated by showing him the electrical effect of his twitches on a galva-
nometer, the frequency of the twitches shot up to about six times their
normal rate.8
This is the mechanism to which I ascribe the evocation of helpful
clues by the scientist’s imagination in the pursuit of an inquiry. But we
have to remember here that scientific problems are not definite tasks.
The scientist knows his aim only in broad terms and must rely on his
sense of deepening coherence to guide him to discovery. He must keep
his imagination fixed on these growing points and force his way to what
lies hidden beyond them. We must see how this is done.
Take once more the example of the way we discover how to see
rightly through inverting spectacles. We cannot aim specifically at
reconnecting sight, touch, and hearing. Any attempt to overcome
spatial inversion by telling ourselves that what we see above is really
below may actually hinder our progress, since the meaning of the
words we would use is inappropriate. We must go on groping our way
by sight and touch, and learn to get about in this way. Only by keep-
ing our imagination fixed on the global result we are seeking can we
induce the requisite sensory reintegration and the accompanying
conceptual innovation.
No quest could have been more indeterminate in its aim than
Einstein’s inquiry, which led to the discovery of relativity. Yet he has
told how during all the years of his inquiry, “there was a feeling of
direction, of going straight towards something definite. Of course,”
he said, “it is very hard to express that feeling in words; but it was
definitely so, and clearly to be distinguished from later thoughts about
the rational form of the solution.” We meet here the integration of
still largely unspecifiable elements into a gradually narrowing context,
the coherence of which has not yet become explicit.
The surmises made by Kepler during six years of toil before hitting
on the elliptical path of Mars were often explicit. But Arthur Koestler
has shown that Kepler’s distinctive guiding idea, to which he owed his
success, was the firm conviction that the path of the planet Mars was
somehow determined by a kind of mechanical interaction with the
8
See R. F. Hefferline, et al., “Escape and Avoidance Conditioning in Human
Subjects without Their Observation of the Response,” Science 130 (1959): 1338–1339;
R. F. Hefferline, “Learning Theory in Clinical Psychology,” in Experimental Foundations
of Clinical Psychology, ed. A. J. Bachrach (New York: Basic Books, 1962).
158 michael polanyi
sun.9 This vague vision—foreshadowing Newton’s theory—had enough

truth in it to make him exclude all epicycles and send his imagination
in search of a single formula, covering the whole planetary path both
in its speed and in its shape. This is how Kepler hit upon his two laws
of elliptical revolution.
We begin to see now how the scientist’s vision is formed. The imagi-
nation sallies forward, and intuition integrates what the imagination
has lit upon. But a fundamental complication comes into sight here.
I have acknowledged that the final sanction of discovery lies in the
sight of a coherence which our intuition detects and accepts as real;
but history suggests that there are no universal standards for assessing
such coherence.
Copernicus criticized the Ptolemaic system for its coherence in
assuming other than steady circular planetary paths, and fought for the
recognition of the heliocentric system as real because of its superior
consistency. But his follower, Kepler, abandoned the postulate of circular
paths, as causing meaningless complications in the Copernican system,
and boasted that by doing so he had cleansed an Augean stable.10 Kepler
based his first two laws on his vision that geometrical coherence is the
product of some mechanical interaction,11 but this conception of real-
ity underwent another radical transformation when Galileo, Descartes,
and Newton found ultimate reality in the smallest particles of matter
obeying the mathematical laws of mechanics.
I have described at some length elsewhere some of the irreconcilable
scientific controversies which have risen when two sides base their argu-
ments on different conceptions of reality. When this happens neither
side can accept the evidence brought up by the other, and the schism
leads to a violent mutual rejection of the opponent’s whole position.
The great controversies about hypnosis, about fermentation, about
the bacterial origin of disease, and about spontaneous generation are
cases in point.12
It becomes necessary to ask, therefore, by what standards we can
change the very standards of coherence on which our convictions rest.
9
See Arthur Koestler, The Sleepwalkers (London: Hutchinson, 1959).
10
Ibid., 334.
11
Ibid., 316.
12
Michael Polanyi, Personal Knowledge (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1958),
150–160.
On what grounds can we change our grounds? We are faced with

the existentialist dilemma: how values of our own choosing can have
authority over us who decreed them.
We must look once more, then, at the mechanism by which imagi-
nation and intuition carry out their joint task. We lift our arm and
find that our imagination has issued a command which has evoked its
implementation. But the moment feasibility is obstructed, a gap opens
up between our faculties and the end at which we are aiming, and
our imagination fixes on this gap and evokes attempts to reduce it.
Such a quest can go on for years; it will be persistent, deliberate, and
transitive; yet its whole purpose is directed on ourselves; it attempts
to make us produce ideas. We say then that we are racking our brain or
ransacking our brain; that we are cudgeling or cracking it, or beating our brain
in trying to get it to work.
And the action induced in us by this ransacking is felt as something
that is happening to us. We say that we tumble to an idea; or that an idea
crosses our mind; or that it comes into our head; or that it strikes us or
dawns on us, or that it just presents itself to us. We are actually surprised
and exclaim: Aha! when we suddenly do produce an idea. Ideas may
indeed come to us unbidden, hours or even days after we have ceased
to rack our brains.
Discovery is made therefore in two moves: one deliberate, the other
spontaneous, the spontaneous move being evoked in ourselves by
the action of our deliberate effort. The deliberate thrust is a focal act of
the imagination, while the spontaneous response to it, which brings
discovery, belongs to the same class as the spontaneous coordination
of muscles responding to our intention to lift our arm, or the sponta-
neous coordination of visual clues in response to our looking at some-
thing. This spontaneous act of discovery deserves to be recognized as
creative intuition.
But where does this leave the creative imagination? It is there; it is not
displaced by intuition but imbued with it. When recognizing a problem
and engaging in its pursuit, our imagination is guided both by our
dynamic and by our strategic intuition; it ransacks our available facul-
ties, guided by creative intuition. The imaginative effort can evoke its
own implementation only because it follows intuitive intimations of its
own feasibility. Remember, as an analogy, that a lost memory can be
brought back only if we have clues to it; we cannot even start racking
our brain for a memory that is wholly forgotten. The imagination must
160 michael polanyi
attach itself to clues of feasibility supplied to it by the very intuition

that it is stimulating; sallies of the imagination that have no such guid-
ance are idle fancies.
The honors of creativity are due then in one part to the imagina-
tion, which imposes on intuition a feasible task, and, in the other part,
to intuition, which rises to this task and reveals the discovery that the
quest was due to bring forth. Intuition informs the imagination, which in its
turn, releases the powers of intuition.
But where, then, does the responsibility for changing our criteria of
reality rest? To find that place we must probe still deeper. When the
quest has ended, imagination and intuition do not vanish from the scene.
Our intuition recognizes our final result to be valid, and our imagina-
tion points to the inexhaustible future manifestations of it. We return to
the quiescent state of mind from which the inquiry started, but return
to it with a new vision of coherence and reality. Herein lies the final
acceptance of this vision; any new standards of coherence implied in
it have become our own standards; we are committed to them.
But can this be true? In his treatise on The Concept of Law, Profes-
sor H. L. A. Hart rightly observes that, while it can be reasonable to
decide that something will be illegal from tomorrow morning, it is non-
sense to decide that something that is immoral today will be morally
right from tomorrow. Morality, Hart says, is “immune against deliberate
change”13 and the same clearly holds also for beauty and truth. Our
allegiance to such standards implies that they are not of our making.
This existentialist dilemma still faces us unresolved.
But I shall deal with it now. The first step is to remember that
scientific discoveries are made in search of reality—of a reality that is
there, whether we know it or not. The search is of our own making,
but reality is not. We send out our imagination deliberately to ransack
promising avenues, but the promise of these paths is already there to
guide us; we sense it by our spontaneous intuitive powers. We induce
the work of intuition but do not control its operations.
And since our intuition works on a subsidiary level, neither the
clues which it uses nor the principles by which it integrates them are
fully known. It is difficult to tell what were the clues, which convinced
Copernicus that his system was real. We have seen that his vision was
fraught with implications so far beyond his own ken that, had they
13
H. L. A. Hart, The Concept of Law (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1961).
been shown to him, he would have rejected them. The discovery of

relativity is just as full of unreconciled thoughts. Einstein tells in his
autobiography that it was the example of the two great fundamental
impossibilities underlying thermodynamics that suggested to him the
absolute impossibility of observing absolute motion. But today we
can see no connection at all between thermodynamics and relativity.
Einstein acknowledged his debt to Mach, and it is generally thought,
therefore, that he confirmed Mach’s thesis that the Newtonian doc-
trine of absolute rest is meaningless; but what Einstein actually proved
was, on the contrary, that Newton’s doctrine, far from being mean-
ingless, was false. Again, Einstein’s redefinition of simultaneity origi-
nated modern operationalism, but he himself sharply opposed the
way Mach would replace the conception of atoms by their directly
observable manifestations.14
The solution of our problem is approaching here. For the latency of
the principles entailed in a discovery indicates how we can change our
standards and still uphold their authority over us. It suggests that while
we cannot decree our standards explicitly, in the abstract, we may change
them covertly in practice. The deliberate aim of scientific inquiry is to
solve a problem, but our intuition may respond to our efforts with a
solution entailing new standards of coherence, new values. In affirming
the solution we tacitly obey these new values and thus recognize their
authority over ourselves, over us who tacitly conceived them.
This is indeed how new values are introduced, whether in science, or
in the arts, or in human relations. They enter subsidiarily, embodied in
creative action. Only after this can they be spelled out and professed in
abstract terms, and this makes them appear to have been deliberately
chosen, which is absurd. The actual grounds of a value, and its very
meaning, will ever lie hidden in the commitment, which originally bore
witness to that value.
I must not speculate here about the kind of universe, which may
justify our reliance on our truth-bearing intuitive powers. I shall speak
only of their part in our endorsement of scientific truth. A scientist’s
originality lies in seeing a problem where others see none and finding
a way to its pursuit where others lose their bearings. These acts of his
mind are strictly personal, attributable to him and only to him. But
they derive their power and receive their guidance from an aim that
14
See Schilpp, Albert Einstein, Philosopher-Scientist, 49.
162 michael polanyi
is impersonal. For the scientist’s quest presupposes the existence of an

external reality. Research is conducted on these terms from the start
and goes on then groping for a hidden truth toward which our clues
are pointing; and when discovery terminates the pursuit, its validity is
sustained by a vision of reality pointing still further beyond it.
Having relied throughout his inquiry on the presence of something
real hidden out there, the scientist will necessarily also rely on that
external presence for claiming the validity of the result that satisfies
his quest. And as he has accepted throughout the discipline which this
external pole of his endeavor imposed upon him, he expects that oth-
ers, similarly equipped, will likewise recognize the authority that guided
him. On the grounds of the self-command, which bound him to the
quest of reality, he must claim that his results are universally valid; such
is the universal intent of a scientific discovery.
I speak not of universality, but of universal intent, for the scientist
cannot know whether his claims will be accepted; they may be true and
yet fail to carry conviction. He may have reason to expect that this is
likely to happen. Nor can he regard a possible acceptance of his claims
as a guarantee of their truth. To claim universal validity for a statement
indicates merely that it ought to be accepted by all. The affirmation of
scientific truth has an obligatory character, which it shares with other
valuations, declared universal by our own respect for them.
Both the anticipation of discovery and discovery itself may be a
delusion. But it is fertile to seek for explicit impersonal criteria of their
validity. The content of any empirical statement is three times inde-
terminate. It relies on clues which are largely unspecifiable, integrates
them by principles which are undefinable, and speaks of a reality which
is inexhaustible. Attempts to eliminate these indeterminacies of science
merely replace science by a meaningless fiction.
To accept science, in spite of its essential indeterminacies, is an act
of our personal judgment. It is to share the kind of commitment on
which scientists enter by undertaking an inquiry. You cannot formalize
commitment, for you cannot express your commitment noncommit-
tally; to attempt this is to perform the kind of analysis, which destroys
its subject matter.
We should be glad to recognize that science has come into existence
by mental endowments akin to those in which all hopes of excellence
are rooted and that science rests ultimately on such intangible powers
of our mind. This will help to restore legitimacy to our convictions,
which the specious ideals of strict exactitude and detachment have
discredited. These false ideals do no harm to physicists, who only pay

lip service to them, but they play havoc with other parts of science
and with our whole culture, which try to live by them. They will be
well lost for truer ideals of science, which will allow us once more to
place first things first: the living above the inanimate, man above the
animal, and man’s duties above man.
CHAPTER NINE
EVERY HORSE HAS A MOUTH: A PERSONAL POETICS1
F. E. Sparshott
This essay does not seek to anatomize the creative process, but looks at
the credentials of the very idea of such a process in the field of poetry.
It is in three parts, somewhat loosely interrelated. The first part inquires
into the legitimacy of inquiring into the ‘creative process’; the second
describes some aspects of my own experience, to see whether anything
in the processes of my creating deserves to be called a creative process;
and the third asks why one should try to effect a union between such
disparate concepts as those of creation and process.
II
It may seem reasonable that someone who has both published exten-
sively on aesthetic theory and made a public profession of poetry should
be asked to testify from personal experience on the creative process.
Yet a poet’s first impulse when asked how he writes poems is usually to
resist the question. ‘With pencil on paper,’ he will say; or ‘in English’;
or ‘with difficulty’; and so on. These may be truths, but the questioner
is likely to feel they are the wrong truths. Yet why should these not
be the only truths there are? Why should there be a further question?
Anything that ends in a poem must be a poetic process, and anything
that ends in an original poem must be a creative process. What more
could one say? A way of writing should have no interest for the public
independent of what is written and published, and when the worth of
1
Reprinted from Philosophy and Literature 1 (Dearborn: The University of Michigan
Press, 1977), reprinted in The Concept of Creativity in Science and Art, eds. D. Dutton and
M. Krausz (The Hague/Boston/London: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1981), 47–73,
all rights reserved.
166 f. e. sparshott
what is written is established, it can be of no consequence whether it was

written in this way or that. It is notorious that when poets talk among
themselves they find little to say about the processes and procedures
whereby they write. These have nothing interesting in common, and
confessional anecdotes soon grow tedious. The problems in which poets
show an engrossing common interest are those of publicity and finance:
how to get their work before a sufficient public at a rate that makes it
not quite suicidal to devote some reasonable proportion of their lives
to their exacting art. The process of writing enters into this concern
only insofar as it is related to skill or luck in attracting commissions and
similar opportunities. This has been said often; but, however often and
emphatically it is said, it always needs to be said again.
Yet people persist in asking about the creative process as though that
were something above and beyond writing poems or painting pictures.
What makes them persist in the face of such discouragement? Perhaps
there are two things that seem so puzzling that they feel they must
return to their question. First, since poetry for most poets is not a liv-
ing and never has been, and is less likely to bring fame than to incur
rejections and contemptuous reviews, one wonders what drives anyone
to choose it for a career. And second, since poems are seldom asked
for and even less often fill any social or economic need, how does one
decide on any particular occasion to write a poem, and how does one
decide what poem one shall write?
Those do seem to be good questions. Yet to ask them presupposes one
or both of two things, both strange or absurd. The first presupposition is
that any activity that is not justified either by socio-economic yield or by
an outcome successful in some other fashion is at best inexplicable and
at worst suspect. But that is absurd, as Aristotle showed: some activities
must be valued for themselves alone, or nothing can have value. The
second supposition is that to write poetry is to do something odd or
at least something requiring explanation: that poetry is somehow not
normal. But that would be a strange thing to suppose. The occasional
practice of poetry seems to be very widespread. A large proportion
of our young people commit themselves to verse at least once in their
lives, and regular poets are not especially rare; history fails to record any
society in which poetry was not practiced, or in which the poet was not
a recognized figure. Nor is it unusual, even in a society so dominated
as ours is by its economic structure, for a person to devote time and
energy to an uneconomic activity that interests him. So a poet asked
about the poetic process may resent the question as expecting him to
every horse has a mouth: a personal poetics 167
assume responsibility for an oddness and eccentricity that no tenable

view of civilization would impute to him: the oddity, he may retort, is
that civilization should have decayed to a point where a merely banausic
viewpoint could claim such privilege.
The poet does not need to be so touchy. The presupposition might
after all be not that the poet is a crank but that his role is of such sin-
gular importance that we are interested in how anyone comes to take
it on and, having assumed it, fulfills its requirements. And there is after
all a difficulty in principle in understanding how poets write poems. It
is this difficulty that gives rise to the concept of a creative process and
is reflected in the seemingly paradoxical nature of that concept. Poets
and other artists engage in creative production on a regular basis. This
regularity seems to show that there is a dependable or at least repeatable
process or procedure they go through; otherwise, one could not say of a
person that he was now a poet, but only that he had been one. To say
that he is now a poet suggests that he will go on writing. Yet this seems
something not even the poet could know, since our notion of a poem
requires that it be original, hence unprecedented, hence unpredictable.
Thus, to say that one is a poet is to predict the unpredictable.
Strictly, one does not know that one is still a poet, for every poet
must one day write his last poem, and will not then know that it is his
last poem he has written. But one may have good reason to believe that
one is. And that good reason may not be that one has access to some
creative process, or some Muse who will continue to call on one when
she is called on. Any one who knows he is a poet also has some knowl-
edge of what sort of poet he is. His poems, however original, will be his
poems and will manifest to himself as well as to his readers something
of his characteristic style. The poet knows he is a poet because he has
a way of writing, which he knows. When he stops writing it will most
likely be because he is no longer interested in writing that way. If there
is such a thing as a creative process it may lie in this, that every poet
develops his own way of finding themes and his own way of working
them. The process is to find a theme and work it.
That might be another good place to stop. Psychoanalysts and his-
torians might find something more to say in general terms about how
themes are found and worked. But the philosopher cannot: he can only
insist that a theme must be found, and worked too. And the poet can
only tread his own regress: somewhere at the end of his technique and
at the bottom of his bag of tricks there must be an absolute starting
point. But so it is with all skills, even the most rudimentary. How do
168 f. e. sparshott
you raise your arm? Philosophers have liked to ask that question, and
conclude that though the arm-raiser may invent or discover means, pro-
cedures, or re-descriptions, sooner or later he must come to something
that he admits he just does. Otherwise he would never get his arm up.
One might postulate an ‘arm-raising process,’ just as one speaks of a
creative process, as a fancy way of saying that people just raise their
arms, as poets just write poems, without being able to say altogether
how. A poet is someone to whom writing a poem has become some-
thing as intimately familiar as raising his arm, the difference being that
what he is intimately familiar with is the way of doing it that he has
developed for himself.
In this more reasonable frame of mind, one can after all say some-
thing more general about the creative process. How does the poet
think of something to write about? The answer must be: it just comes
to him. And how does it come to him? Maybe somebody brings it.
Bridegrooms evoke epithalamia as editors elicit articles. But if nobody
brings anything, if there is no commission or request, how does it come
to him? And now the inexperienced or very infrequent writer cannot
say. It simply does. That is exactly what it is to be an inexperienced or
infrequent writer, that there is no set condition on which he writes. But
the experienced writer can say. He keeps on the watch for occasions,
seeks them out. He scrutinizes his world for occasions of just such poems
as he knows how to write. And how does he recognize such an occa-
sion? Because he sees in it the possibility of just such development as
lies within the scope of his practice. Again, that has to be exactly what
it is to be an experienced writer. To have experience is nothing other
than to be able to recognize and exploit occasions for skill. It might be
thought that what this describes is the practice of the unoriginal and
uncreative writer, but it is not so. Even the most astonishing innova-
tor astonishes in the sum of his work, or the total development of his
practice, or in one or two works that are new departures, and not in
each work taken singly in relation to the others. On the other hand,
the experience of the poet is not that of the farmer. The farmer must
recognize the right day for grubbing the rutabagas, and it is the same
day that another farmer would recognize, and would be an equally
good day for anyone placed as he is placed to get them in. But what
the poet has to recognize is the proper occasion for the exercise of his
own style and no other, and it is rarely that even a sympathetic poet
can suggest to another what such an occasion would be.
When the poet has thought of something to write about, how does he
know what to write about it? The answer is almost as before: it comes
to him. But not quite as before, because it must already have come to
him. In recognizing an occasion or an opportunity, he must have recog-
nized it as an occasion for doing this or that. But we may set that aside,
for unless the completed work springs to his mind ready-made there is
work yet to do. How does he know how to do this work? It comes to
him. And how does it come? Again, it may be brought, or some of it
may. It is possible that someone should tell him what meter to use, what
rhymes, what analogies, and so on to any extent. His ignorance may
be thus aided, his expertness thus tested. If I give a child a paint-by-
numbers set I suggest at once that he shall paint, what he shall paint,
and how he shall paint it; and a less explicit variant on this procedure
might stimulate production without quite excluding creation. But, of
course, any part played by such intrusion is outside our interest when
it is specifically the creative process that engages our attention.
Given a donnée, then, how does the knowledge of how to develop it
come to the poet? Once more, the poet who lacks experience cannot say.
He can know how to follow a rule, but not how to depart from it, and
if he departs he must do it in fear and trembling or in foolhardiness.
With the experienced poet it must be otherwise. Strictly, he cannot say
how it comes to him, for anything he could say would amount to a rule
he could cite. But, though he cannot describe it fully, there is nothing
he knows better than his own way of proceeding. That, and nothing
else, is what his art is. He knows what to do next, and this is not what
the rule of his art prescribes but what determines his style. And the
truly original and creative artist is the one whose style determines a
way of developing and changing his ways of proceeding themselves,
who sees in the next occasion for his art not an opportunity to do what
he knows how to do but an opportunity to do what he knows to be
the next thing.
But how does the poet know it will continue to come to him? The
artist’s perpetual fear that the sources of his inspiration will suddenly
dry up seems real and reasonable, but there is something factitious
about it, as though a man were to fear he might forget how to speak
his native tongue—or how to raise his arm. Such things do happen.
But in the ordinary course of events, as Aristotle remarks in oppos-
ing the suggestion that a man might ‘forget’ his moral principles, one
does not forget what one does all the time. I forget my French, which
170 f. e. sparshott
I speak seldom, but not my English, which I speak every hour and in
which I frame all my thoughts.
Here is the heart of the matter. The artist, the poet, is to be known by
his sustained habit of attention. As he scrutinizes his world for themes,
so he looks ceaselessly up and down for ways of proceeding. His style
is a style of search, not a habit of acceptance. His mind is a restless
scanner, an inward rat. The other day an inventor was interviewed on
television and asked if he might not run out of ideas. He said he would
not. “I think all the time. If you think for forty hours a week, you’ll
think of something.” The layman who asks the writer how he gets his
ideas seems to think that such ideas would be forcing themselves spon-
taneously on a mind as idle as his own. But nothing is more evident
to the artist than that he is working at his art, and the layman is not.
What poets have most evidently in common is not a mysterious contact
with secret springs, and certainly not any shared mental process, but
simply a steady application to the actual writing of poetry. Anybody
can be a poet who really wants to be, though wanting will not make
him a good one. What the layman does not do, and probably could
not do, is bring himself to attend steadily, day after day and year after
year, to the business of the art.
To ask a poet to describe the creative process is to ask him to
formulate a rule, or something that will do in place of a rule, by fol-
lowing which any idle ninny could make a poem. But writing poems
is something idle ninnies cannot expect to do without forfeiting their
idleness and ninnyhood. A poet is not an idle ninny who just happens
to own a sort of magical sausage-machine that he might lend (or of
which he might deliver the patent) to his neighbor, like lending him a
power-mower. If there is a creative process it cannot be a substitute for
intelligent work. It must be a way such work is done.
III
Talk of the creative process, it seems, covers two questions the poet
may be asked: how he came to bend his attention steadily in that unre-
munerative direction, and how he comes to write this or that poem. If
I now answer these questions for my part, it is not because I wish to
speak for ‘the poet,’ since each must answer for himself, but because
what I think about these matters must reflect what has happened to me,
and the way I interpret my experience must be colored by my theories.
My answers will be honest, within limits, but I cannot answer for their
truth. The way I now recall my life may not be at all the way it was.
In my assumption of the vatic mantle—a suitably portentous phrase,
stressing the self-image rather than the work to be done; and a mantle,
unlike a persona, covers the contours but leaves the face exposed—I
recognize five stages and look to a possible sixth.
The first stage was my realization that the poetry we were taught at
school was something I understood better than my teachers—or rather,
understood in a way they did not. I had a feel for what was going on,
like someone watching players at a game he knows. That was when
I was a child, eleven or twelve. The second stage came a year or two
years later. It was the realization that I knew how poetry worked, what
governed the choice to say this rather than that. The poems I was
then writing were not good ones, even by the standards appropriate
to children’s verse, but they were rooted in a confidence that I knew
what I was doing—a confidence that I have never lost, and have never
experienced in any other form of activity, even in those in which my
practice seems objectively to have been more successful.
I have sharp and vivid recollections of the occasions on which the
two realizations I have mentioned came to me—or rather, perhaps, of
the moments that have come to stand for these discoveries. The differ-
ence between the two stages thus marked seems very real and evident
to me, though I am less sure that I can put the sense of it into words:
it is the difference between finding something congenial and finding it
rational, between a feel for the whole and a grasp of its workings. But
it may after all be that the real difference is between the two images I
retain, and the two incidents they purport to stand for.
The third stage begins with the recognition, at fifteen or so, that
poetry was what I came into the world to do: not something I could
do, but something it was my business to do. R. G. Collingwood, in his
Autobiography, tells how the conviction that philosophy was his business
was precipitated in him at the age of eight, though he did not then
know what the business was.2 I recognize in his account something
akin to my own experience, and suspect it may be a common one in
the onset of prophetic vocations.
The fourth stage is not linked to any date or event. It was the realiza-
tion, somewhere in my twenties, that it was not in me to be a first-rate
2
R. G. Collingwood, An Autobiography (London/N. Y.: Oxford University Press,
1939).
172 f. e. sparshott
poet; specifically, that my gift was not such that it would be rational to
organize my life around it or sacrifice all other pursuits and interests to
it. I have called this a realization; but it may rather have been a decision,
or even the entry on a new style of self-dramatization. But a decision
or self-assessment was in any case called for. It is part of our romantic
orthodoxy that devotion to any art must conflict (or demands readiness
to conflict) with moral and social obligations; and even without that
orthodoxy everyone must confront the question of what weight each of
his major concerns is to have in the economy of his life. So I decided
to be a minor poet. Poetry would be something interstitial, something
I did when not preoccupied. But this was a change of policy, not of
attitude; poetry still was, and still is, the only thing I took completely
seriously. But I encased my seriousness with irony and formed my life
around the inwardly farcical but outwardly respectable career of the
academic philosopher.
The fifth stage began in 1958, when at the prompting and with the
help of a friend, I began to publish my work. From this point, poetry
was no longer a private affair, a matter of my self-image, but part of
my ordinary engagement in the world. Publication normalizes poetry.
A sixth stage would begin if I were to begin to write, or to believe
myself to be able to write, extremely good poems. Poetry would then
be something I would think it proper to give things up for. But this
does not seem likely.
Such is my poetic process (wholesale). There seems to be a clear
enough pattern to it: first seeing that a practice is congenial, then see-
ing it as a field for confident operation, then the sense that practice in
this field is not merely possible but called for, and at the same time the
recognition of the associated role and the decision to present oneself
in one of its versions; and finally, in maturity, the recognition that the
role is to be played in a certain fashion and under certain conditions
suggested by an adult assessment of social reality and one’s own place
in it. But this clear pattern turns out not to be very interesting, because
on inspection it proves to be one that everyone must follow who is to
adopt a career on the basis of its attraction rather than because it is
socially accessible. In fact, it seems likely that an analogous path must
be traced even by those who merely drift along the line of least resis-
tance into a hereditary niche. It too must seem at first merely congenial,
because one has grown up with it; then feasible and intelligible; then,
as one confronts adulthood, it must begin to figure as what one is going
to do with one’s life; then, as one matures in one’s occupation, one
comes to know one’s place in it both as a set of skills and as a social

position. And at last one simply occupies one’s place, and no longer
needs to think about that. So I could have spared my autobiography,
had it not been that it was only by reflecting on it that I have come to
recognize this form of development that the very nature of the case
seems almost to demand.
But how about the poetic process (retail)? How do my poems get
started? For anyone who makes a profession of poetry, there can be
only one answer to this: in every way possible. In the practice of my
profession I direct my attention upon all my surroundings in a hunt
for occasions of writing. It must therefore be the case, and it is, that
everything that could serve as such an occasion will actually serve as
one. If I knew of any other sorts of occasion than those I find, I would
make use of them at once. A poem may start from the following. An
incident. A recollected incident. An incident read about. A mood, or
more likely something seen and experienced through the mood, for
a mood in itself is nothing. A phrase that suggests a verbal structure.
A word that sticks in the mind, or a line or a snatch of rhythm that
comes from nowhere. Some words chosen at random by sticking a pin
in a dictionary—rather tricky, that. An idea for a kind of poem, or a
scheme to be filled in. In fact, anything that a poem could be about, or
that could go into a poem, or any way of writing a poem. Whatever.
All that is necessary is that one should be able to say ‘I could use that’;
one need not even know at once how one could use it.
Sometimes an idea for a poem, or a part for a poem, may occur
to one when one is not on the watch and not in the mood for poetry.
It may then stay around for years until eventually it germinates or is
abandoned as after all boring or irrelevant. Sometimes a line, or a
phrase or a rhythm, comes together with the adumbration of its own
completion, a shadowy notion of a larger structure in which the frag-
ment should occupy a place already determined. But in my case the
adumbrated structures are usually large and complex, and I recall no
case in which such a structure came to fruition: the pattern completed
has always been a smaller one. No doubt that is part of what it is to
be a minor poet: that the settled tendency of one’s work is towards a
diminution of scale.
One possible source of ideas I have seldom used: dreams often yield
poetic fragments, but these seldom lead beyond themselves or sustain
their promise of interest. And I have chosen not to resort to drugs for
the release of inhibition or the derangement of the senses.
174 f. e. sparshott
Of a very few poems I cannot say how they originated because they
appeared spontaneously completed, requiring only to be written down
and slightly revised. These poems do not seem on the whole to be better
or worse than those in whose genesis deliberation played a greater part,
and differ from them in only two ways: that they contain rather more
banal Freudian imagery (of pegs and holes, birds and oceans), and that
they tend to contain weak elements that for a long time escape notice
or resist revision. These spontaneous poems seem neither more nor less
characteristic of me than the others. And indeed one does not see why
any great gulf should be fixed between the willed and the unwilled.
Someone who habitually writes verse might be expected to develop such
a facility that he could and sometimes would do so without thinking
about it, much as an experienced driver can direct his car through
heavy traffic without giving any thought to where he is going.
It is often thought that the operations of the unconscious mind in
composition (to which the ‘instantaneous’ or ‘spontaneous’ poetizing
I have referred to might be thought to attest) are accompanied by
agonies of ‘incubation’ and other psychological disturbances, and that
these are an integral part of the creative process. My own experience
has been that such pains, irritabilities, abstractions, fatigues, and other
signs of unconscious effort are not particularly associated with poetry
or creative writing. They occur at a certain phase in the composition
of philosophical writings, or the solution of personal or administrative
problems, or any complex matter. As many have reported, the phase is
that at which a problem is mooted but the terms in which it is formu-
lated are too nebulous, or too complex, to repay systematic problem-
solving, any attempt at systematic or step-by-step procedures being at
once frustrated by the conviction that the terms of the problem are
unclear or just wrong. It is then that one waits and agonizes, contracts
a migraine, quarrels with one’s family, goes for long walks, dreams, or
tosses in insomnia. These distressing episodes seem in my own experi-
ence to be related to the phase in the problem to be solved, and to have
no connection with antecedent or current events in my personal life.
The popular image of ‘the oyster and the pearl,’ according to which
such distresses bear witness to the nacreous covering of an intrusive
irritant in one’s psyche, seems based on an interpretation of only one
class of cases—and, I suspect, a conjectural interpretation at that. The
painful incubation marks rather the phase in problem solving that calls
for intensive work of a kind one cannot consciously do.
My reference to unconscious labors is open to the objection that, even

if the very notion of an unconscious mental activity does not embody
a contradiction, unconscious activities are ex hypothesi unobservable and
hence merely hypothetical constructs: all that is observably happening
is that one is interrupting one’s work with a bad conscience. The objec-
tion is easy and has point, but it is misleading to speak thus of ‘all that
is observably happening,’ for that is not sufficiently described unless
one says that everything goes on as if an internal energy-consumer
and attention-distracter were scanning one’s problem for a system of
ordering that would allow the work of conscious problem-solving and
monitoring to go forward fruitfully in a systematic or serial fashion.
Unconscious mental activity is a dispensable or an empty hypothesis
only in the sense that the physical world is so.
In addition to the occasions for verse mentioned, there are commis-
sions—requests for a piece of writing of a certain sort, for a certain
occasion, of a certain dimension, on a given topic—any or all of these.
In this regard a poem is no different from a philosophical paper or
lecture. I can accept such a commission in full confidence that I will
come up with something on schedule that will fulfill the requirements,
although of course I cannot answer for the quality beyond a certain
minimal competence. Why should I not be confident? It is my business
to do so.3 Between the acceptance of the commission and the fulfillment
I shall expect the pains of incubation to intervene, but sometimes they
do not; sometimes I am visited by what seems to me an ‘inspiration’ in
the form of a genuinely novel and exciting idea and sometimes I am
not; and the occurrence of episodes of either kind bears no observable
relation to the degree or kind of satisfaction the relevant public takes
in the outcome.
In outlining my career as a poet and cataloguing the occasions of my
poems, I have answered both the questions that inquiry into the creative
process seemed to comprise. But I have left out what is superficially the
most striking aspect of my experience, which in this respect parallels that
of another academic part-time poet, Alfred Edward Housman. Aside
from my adolescence, when one writes verse as a baby dribbles, there
3
It is my good fortune that my productive processes are properly synchronized with
anticipated deadlines. Many unfortunate artists and writers are so constituted that the
passing of a deadline is needed to initiate the process, just as some people are unable
to set out for the opera before curtain-time.
176 f. e. sparshott
have been four periods in my life when I wrote verse regularly, a poem
or a large part of one more or less everyday. In Housman’s case, these
periods were by his own account times of excitement, answering no
doubt to gusts of inspirational afflatus or surges of hormonal flow. In
my case, no such disturbance is easy to discern, though of course there
is no knowing what an analyst or a lie detector might dredge up.
The first of these periods of regular production, from January 1
to the middle of March, 1944, was undertaken as a matter of policy
in the context of adoption of the role of verse-writer, the date fixed
in advance—one begins diaries with the new year. So any relation to
personal disturbance must at least have been mediated.
The second period, in January 1966, had a double occasion that
again called for no troubling of the waters by angels. In the first place,
a hiatus between teaching engagements had left my mind free from
preoccupations for the first time in years; in the second place, recent
publication of a volume had depleted my stock of unpublished poems.
Again, the decision to go into regular production on a certain date and
for a certain time was taken beforehand. On this occasion I confirmed
that I could, given a clear mind, sit down with a sheet of paper and be
sure that in no more than an hour I would certainly have come up with
a poem or a substantial part of one; though that does not mean that I
did not, or need not, keep on the watch for the rest of the day.
The third period of regular composition, from late August to October,
1969, was different. A reading of Matsuo Bassho –’s Journey to the Deep North
reactivated an old interest in Japanese verse and occasioned the project
of writing a series of occasional poems in Japanese forms, at least one
every day. These, being very short, could be composed in short times
of peace, without needing protracted freedom from preoccupations.
Not surprisingly in view of the nature of the initial stimulus, the series
of poems that resulted tended to be on the theme of travel, but in fact
it turned out to be more cohesive than that and ended in a sequence
that took on the evident though unheralded character of an end. One
might therefore postulate some internal unconscious dynamic governing
the form of the whole that some form of structural or psychological
analysis might lay bare. However, the poems did not, as a sequence or
individually, come from any felt disturbance or other specific experience
other than that of reading a book that suggested a model.
The fourth period, from June to October 1970, presents a more
complex case. Superficially, the situation was as in 1966. The recent
publication of a book had depleted my unpublished store, and the start
of a sabbatical year provided the necessary freedom from constraining

preoccupations. But although I might, conformably with past practice,
have provided for a period of regular poetizing, I made no such plans.
Rather, the book was occasioned by a curious incident. I had a dream
in which I arrived at a meeting where I was to read from my poems,
and found I had brought none with me. I hurried home and searched
in vain for my manuscripts, but at last found in a drawer a book I had
forgotten. This proved to be full of poems I did not recall writing but
knew I had written; they were full of a strange power. On waking,
I wrote down what I had dreamed—something I do not usually do.
Some time later, I found in my office a mimeographed document that
I recognized at once as the book of my dream, and which I knew at
once that it was laid upon me to fill with poems. So I did so, one or
more on every day when I was not sick or traveling. This time, though,
there was no conclusion. It simply happened that by late September
there were fewer and fewer days when I could summon the composure
to wait in stillness. The initial sense of something akin to obligation
had given way to a mere habit of continuing, and after a while, there
seemed no reason to push it further; besides, I was becoming more
engrossed in a complex piece of philosophizing. So the series dwindled
away, its last members perfunctory and fragmentary, and the book
remains unfilled. The poems, of course, do not have the special power
of the poems I dreamed, and differ from other things I have written
only in the absence of any large and complex structures. The reason
I call this incident curious is that next winter I found the account of
the dream I had written, and found that the book I had dreamed was
not really the book I ‘recognized’—it was in fact a book I knew well,
the account book I keep for the income-tax people. It is as if the dream
and the false recognition were part of some unconscious dynamic in me,
though the outcome fitted well into what would have been a normal
and sensible strategy for me to pursue deliberately. And I note in myself
an unreasoned urge to tell the story, in one form or another—in fact, it
is only to provide a setting for it that I accepted an editor’s suggestion
that I might exploit my own experience for this article.
So much for anecdote. I infer from my experience that there may
well be an unconscious dynamic of composition, but that it is useless
to look to it for any characteristic significance, idle to expect that it
will correlate with any character discernible in the outcome, and rash
to suppose that it always works in a way that is independent of the
conscious strategies of its host.
178 f. e. sparshott
A caution is needed. Obviously I recall much in my life that I have

left out, although it could affect the interpretation of what I have
written. For instance, the occurrence of sustained but widely sepa-
rated bursts of poetic activity might seem odder than it is, because
my narrative did not mention that my writing of philosophical prose
has accustomed me to regular writing for protracted periods on set
themes. But so it is with all those anecdotes of sudden inspirations and
dream-compositions and emotional disturbances that figure so often in
writings on the creative process. Such accounts necessarily come to us
as parts of stories that are the products of selection and editing; and it
often happens that the selecting and editing are carried out in order to
present a certain image of creative procedure, and may therefore omit
material that could have been used to tell a very different story—one,
perhaps, in which the striking incidents would not figure at all, or would
not appear striking.
IV
The phrase the creative process is used in two different ways. Some-
times it is used generically to refer to all processes, whatever they may
be, whose outcome meets some appropriate criteria for originality. At
other times it is used to refer to some specific process whose character-
istic outcome is supposed to be original work. It is not always clear in
which sense the phrase is being used, and the distinction is not always
recognized. Yet the distinction must be made, for if original work is
ever produced it must be produced somehow or other and the phrase
cannot lack application in the former sense; but it does not follow that
the phrase has any application in its latter sense.
Three different accounts of the creative process have achieved some
currency. One, associated with Paul Valéry,4 and ultimately inspired by
Edgar Allan Poe,5 is exemplified in Part II of this paper: it reduces to
saying that some possible component or aspect of a poem serves as
a starting point and is then elaborated, partly heuristically and partly
systematically. Since all this says is that one must start and then continue,
this is clearly taking creative process in the former of the senses distin-
4
For example, Paul Valéry, Aesthetics (New York: Pantheon, 1964), 130ff.
5
E. A. Poe, “The Philosophy of Composition,” Collected Works (New York: Crowell,
1902), vol. 14.
guished above. It tells nothing about how poems are made, except that
they are poems and they are made. A second account of the creative
process is associated with Robert Graves,6 T. S. Eliot,7 and a host of
romantic writers.8 A schematized version of it might go as follows. First
comes the original formulation of a problem or conceiving of a theme
(preceded possibly by the poet finding himself in an excited, troubled,
or sensitized condition). Second comes a period of random search not
directed by the will, unconscious incubation, and so on. Third comes
a flash of insight, a relief from suspenseful tension, a sense of how
things will go together. Fourth comes the deliberate elaboration of
this insight; and fifth is the criticism and refinement of the elaborated
solution. This five-stage model will be referred to from now on as ‘the
standard version,’ and seems to take creative process in its second sense,
for it appears to describe a psychological process whose correlation with
creative solutions to problems or original achievements would need to
be established empirically.9 The third account of the creative process
to achieve currency is that elaborated by Arthur Koestler from a hint
of Sigmund Freud’s.10 Here, creativity is attributed to the unforeseen
interaction of two or more thought-patterns previously elaborated
independently. But does this take creative process in the former or the
latter of the senses we distinguished? It might be either. Although it
seems merely to say how originality actually comes about in typical
cases, it might be construed to mean that in every truly original work
one must be able to find a complexity of the kind indicated, so that
we are merely performing a logical analysis that must in some form or
6
Robert Graves, The Crowning Privilege (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1959), 214.
7
T. S. Eliot, “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” in The Sacred Wood (London:
Methuen, 1920).
8
Cf. F. E. Sparshott, “Xanthippe,” in Looking for Philosophy (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s
9
At a recent general meeting of the League of Canadian Poets at Fredericton,
N.B., the three contributors to a panel on the writing of a poem gave accounts all
of which conformed to the following pattern. The poet is attracted by a large public
or personal theme, which seems to call for a poem, but sees no way of setting about
it. Then, an incident in the poet’s life reminds of him of an incident connected with
the troublesome theme, and in a state of excitement, he writes a shortish poem or
fragment interpreting one in terms of the other. On the basis of this he is then able
to work systematically at the large theme. The pattern itself seems as interesting as
the coincidence: this might be a typical way of finding an authentic mode of entry
into a major theme.
10
See Arthur Koestler, The Act of Creation (New York: Macmillan, 1964), and the
article by Koestler contained in this volume. [“This volume” refers to the original
publication in which this chapter appeared.—Eds.]
180 f. e. sparshott
other be presumed to have its counterpart in the process of produc-

tion. The reason it is hard to tell which is meant is that many authors
who write in this field think in terms of a natural necessity: the mind
is a logical engine, so that in describing what takes place we are at the
same time performing a logical analysis, and vice versa. I return to
this question later.
In whichever sense the phrase the creative process is taken, and
whichever of the three models we adopt, we may be met by the objec-
tion that the very phrase embodies a contradictio in adjecto. The idea of
creation is that of production from nothing, production of absolute
novelty, and the absoluteness of the novelty requires that there be no
rule, no method, no series of stages, and accordingly no process whereby
it came. The model of creation is the unqualified fiat of God, applied
to names whose sense is eternally or instantly complete and only awaits
its reference. But the model of a process is something like digestion, in
which one can identify initial and terminal stages and enumerate and
explain the steps whereby beginning is transformed into end.
To see that the concept of a creative process is not so paradoxical after
all, one might compare Aristotle’s seemingly innocuous account of the
requirements of a whole.11 It must, he says, have a beginning, a middle,
and an end: the beginning is what has no necessary antecedent but has
a necessary or normal consequent, the end is what comes naturally—
necessarily or normally—from an antecedent but has no consequent,
and the middle of course has both antecedent and consequent. So we
have a process divisible into linked stages; but the accounts of beginning
and end are not symmetrical. The end is not said to necessitate its ante-
cedents: it is not a ground of explanation, but something explained. The
beginning, by contrast, is a ground of explanation but is unexplained.
The concept of a beginning thus defined is that of a novelty that is
absolute but fertile.12 But if the beginning is an unexampled beginning,
the necessary steps by which the inevitable end is reached cannot be
known in advance. It must be a necessity retrospectively revealed. And
if we recall the way Aristotle usually speaks of natural necessities we
may suggest that what is retrospectively revealed is how the intermedi-
ate steps were needed to bring about the inevitability of the result. So
11
Aristotle, Poetics vii, 1450b26–31.
12
The notion of an absolute end brings an analogous inexplicability. How can
anything have no consequences? Only in the hererocosms, the separate universes, of
art, can an end be a completion that is not also the beginning of something.
we may say that a creative process differs from a non-creative process

in that the causal connections are not known in advance, as they are
in processes where the initial stage is itself explicable as how what
regularly happens normally begins. One might still complain that the
notion of a process is misapplied, as though anatomizing a whole were
tracing the steps of its genesis; but the charge of paradox will not stand.
In fact, recent philosophical discussions of creativity take two forms.
One inquires into how something akin to rules and methods, right and
wrong ways of proceeding, can enter into the processes of producing
unprecedented objects. The other inquiries into the nature and locus
of the novelty in the created work, without supposing anything about
the way it came into being. The former is no more open to the charge
of paradox than the latter.
Let us consider further our Aristotelian model of a creative process
as one with an absolute beginning and a series of subsequent stages
whose necessity is therefore only retrospectively revealed. A poem or
other work of art obviously functions as some sort of communication
among people, and one might therefore expect to reduce it to terms
of the simplest model of communication theory. This model assumes
that one starts with something determinate to be communicated. This
is encoded, the encoded message is transmitted, then at the other end
it is decoded and the original message recovered. The model calls for
no absolute beginning: the original message is a structured datum that
enters into the communicative process for reasons congruent with the
formulation of the message and the devising of the process itself. Let
us contrast with this R. G. Collingwood’s account of artistic expression,
which we may construe as a standard philosophical account of the
creative process.13 Here there is no determinate first stage, no known
and structured message to be encoded. There is only an encoding that
is at the same time a deciphering. The creative process is a passage
from unclarity to clarity, the imparting of structure to inchoate feel-
ing. But this is seen not as a passage from beginning to end, as though
the clarification were brought about by the successive application of
ever finer filters, but as the arrival at an absolute beginning. So there
is and there is not a process: there is, because the artist has progressed
from unclarity to clarity, and what he has clarified is in an unexplained
13
See R. G. Collingwood, The Principles of Art (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1938).
182 f. e. sparshott
sense the ‘same feeling’ that he began with;14 but there is not, because
the end has the status of an absolute beginning in the light of which
earlier phases are of no account, sublated, aufgehoben, or something.
And what is transmitted from artist to public is supposed not to be in
a code or to admit of decoding, because the artist’s encoding was also
a deciphering and all paths of transmission are magically bypassed.
This is strange stuff indeed, but the strangeness may be demanded by
the nature of the case. Attempts to apply information theory to art
seems to fail just because they see no need for such oddness.15 They
simply take it for granted that a work of art is the encoded version
of a pre-existing message that the artist wishes to transmit. It is only
on this supposition that the concept of redundancy can be pressed
into service to give precision to the notion of style. But if in fact there
was no original message—for otherwise the process would have been
reproductive rather than creative—there is no way it is transmitted,
no code, no bits of information, no redundancy. The model cannot
be applied at all.
Where there is no initial message to be encoded and transmitted, we
cannot tell message from noise. The creative process is thus necessarily
indeterminate. Yet it must be strongly ordered, since the end is ordered.
Vincent Tomas has spelled out how this is possible, in an account that
we could crudely adapt to the terms of Part I of this paper as follows.16
The work must start from a donnée that has to be regarded as gratuitous,
an absolute starting point. But the artist perceives it as structured in
a way that permits and calls for a line of further development. It is
fidelity to this line of development that serves to regulate his continuing
creation. Normally, it is the author’s style, which includes his style of
changing his style that serves as a matrix both for the structures origi-
nally discerned and for the continuations suggested, though of course
it may happen that the development envisaged is in some ways, even
in many ways, unprecedented. In any case what serves as controlling
factor is the present condition of the uncompleted work in the light of
the possibilities originally contemplated. But we have to add that every
recognizable intermediate stage in the work’s progress serves as a new
14
See, however, Collingwood’s Essays on Philosophical Method (Oxford: Clarendon,
Press, 1933) for an explication of the patterns of thought involved.
15
Cf. A. A. Moles, Information Theory and Esthetic Perception (Urbana: University of
Illinois Press, 1966).
16
Vincent Thomas, “Creativity in Art,” Philosophical Review 67 (1958): 1–15.
donnée suggesting a partially new set of possibilities for development.

The work is presumed complete when a stage is reached that calls for
no development.
This modest account of something that is both truly creative and
truly a process, controlled in a way that can be rationally accounted
for and retrospectively described but is at the same time unprecedented
and free from rules and routines, is meant to exclude an account in
Collingwood’s manner that supposes the end of a work to be somehow
implicit in its beginning. To see a way of proceeding is not to sense
the way to a goal. True, but one feels that the sense of an end must
be operative in some way or other. The artist’s activity is inexplicable
unless he has a hunch that a completed work might result from his
working; and his sense of work to be done and progress to be made
is unintelligible without some adumbration of a sort of completion.
Accounts of the sort I have outlined should be taken not as denying
that such a sense of an end is necessary but as denying that it can be
understood as determining the course a work takes. The envisaged end
is likely to change as the work already done reveals an unsuspected
character and suggests unforeseen possibilities.17
It seems that one can produce at least one account of what a creative
process would be that is coherent and free of paradox. But we have
not described a definite process. All we have done is show that the
notion of creation does not exclude everything that might be termed
a process, and suggest how such a process might be articulated. This is
not to say that the notion of creativity includes or implies any sort of
process. To speak of creation or creativity is not to say that a sort of
procedure has been followed, but only that certain sorts of procedures,
namely routines, have not been followed. What, for instance, do we
mean when we call a person ‘creative’? Sometimes we mean that his
solutions to problems are unexpected and fruitful—unexpected, or they
would be routine; fruitful, or nothing would have been brought into
being. Sometimes we are merely classifying his job as one that involves
neither routine production nor dealing with the public: he works in the
creative department, no matter what the merits of his work. Sometimes
I think we call a person creative if his rate of production in the fine
17
Conformably with this recognition, Mikel Dufrenne, who speaks of the artist as
responding to the call of the as yet uncreated work, describes it as an “indeterminate”
call. See Mikel Dufrenne, Phenomenology of Aesthetic Experience (Evanston: Northwestern
University Press, 1973), 35.
184 f. e. sparshott
arts or some other creative activity is unusually high: if he is fertile

in fruitful solutions, or if he is full of ideas. In general, a person is
called creative because of a tendency to produce things of a novel
sort, or things of a sort in which novelty is important, in a variety of
contexts. In no case do we suggest anything about his procedures of
production. One might go further and insist that it is absurd to suppose
that a single process would characterize such a tendency in all fields
alike. Creative activity is not a special sort of activity, but any sort of
activity that issues in new being. The idea of a creative process is not
paradoxical, but gratuitous.
Those who think of the creative process as a characteristic sort of
sequence of psychological events are exposed by the foregoing consid-
erations to a familiar philosophical attack that seems crushing.18 The
occurrence of any such process, it is said, is logically incapable of
being either a necessary or sufficient condition of creativity in the sense
sketched above. Novelty and fruitfulness in solutions can be identified
without knowing their psychological antecedents, and a hackneyed or
eccentric solution is not redeemed by any anecdote about its origins.
But this argument, though valid and important, does not suffice to show
that the occurrence of a certain sort of process in a context where the
novelty of the outcome is an important issue has merely anecdotal
significance. It shows only that the process cannot serve as hallmark for
the product, as some writers have seemed to think it could. But that is
not the only significance it could have.
Suppose someone were to put forward our five-stage standard ver-
sion as a characteristic way of producing novel solutions, in the arts or
elsewhere. This might indeed be put forward merely as a generalization
about how originators in fact originate. Even that would not be merely
nugatory: if we are interested in a result, it is natural that we should
be interested in how it came about, and the way things tend to happen
in the human world is a proper matter for concern. Alternatively, one
might propose it, not as necessary or sufficient condition of creativity
already recognized, but as actually defining a sense of ‘originality’—that
sense, in fact, which is relevant to art. In some cultures, a pot is not
deemed properly made unless its design was revealed in a dream.19 To
do this is of course to propose a radical revision of our ideas. Art is
18
For example, see John Hospers, “The Concept of Artistic Expression,” Proceedings
of the Aristotelian Society (1954): 55.
19
Ruth L. Bunzel, The Pueblo Potter (New York: Columbia University Press, 1929).
transformed into something of which a psychological process could be

the necessary and sufficient condition—that is, a psychological episode.
The work of art is reduced to the status of evidence that ‘art has taken
place.’20 All criticism is reduced to foolishness because the evident
object is replaced by an unverifiable claim. And, because the alleged
dynamic is common to creative work in any field and not in the arts
alone, it replaces the role of ‘artist’ in our hagiography by that of the
creative person conceived as a psychological type, a sort of holy fool.
Such a revision seems to me preposterous, but a few years ago there
were many to propose it.
These extreme interpretations of our standard version, as anecdotal
and as definitive, are not the only ones possible. One could for instance
argue that the occurrence of the process, because its very description
seems to testify both to a serious churning and to some sort of resolution
in the outcome, constitutes a claim that the outcome merits attention.
This might not be a claim of actual worth, for one might well concede
that puddings are proved in eatings, but a claim that what has emerged
merits scrutiny for possible worth. This point may be obscured by an
inevitable but misleading tendency in collections of reports on the
creative process. Only successful artists are asked to provide anecdotes
of how they create, so that what they say may appear to be a recipe
for success even though a thousand bunglers might have told precisely
similar stories if anyone had thought to ask them. Similarly, the hand-
ful of exemplary anecdotes that are endlessly repeated from the annals
of scientific discovery report only those dreams and inspirations whose
outcome was a successful discovery or invention. We are not told of
the inspiration that proved abortive, the dream that dissolved on wak-
ing, the unconscious incubation and flash of insight whose elaboration
disclosed an egregious blunder, the ‘got it’ phenomenon whose sequel
was a ‘lost it’ experience. So, if we attach any weight to the occurrence
of any psychological process, it would be wiser to do so on the basis
of our general expectations about human affairs than on the basis of
analogies from success stories.
There is a better reason for invoking the creative process as a clue to
seriousness in the arts than in the sciences. Notoriously, the work of a
20
Here is an example plucked from the remainder table: “It could be argued . . . that
the painting was a kind of relic, a kind of certificate or guarantee that certain activities
had taken place previously which you were not there to witness.” Donald Carroll and
Edward Lucie-Smith, Movements in Modern Art (New York: Horizon, 1973), 132.
186 f. e. sparshott
truly original artist may be misprized until familiarity has revealed the
right way to look at his work, the perspective from which his patterns
are visible. We are therefore tempted to look to something other than
what we find in the work for testimony to its seriousness or even to
its worth. This extraneous aid could be the testimony of an informed
critic, or the artist’s proved reputation won by work in a more familiar
mode. But it could also be something extraneous in the production of
his work, such as his labor and eventual satisfaction; or, perhaps rather
less extraneous, the occurrence of a process that we deem likely on
the face of it to issue in serious work. We may think of the creative
process as guaranteeing at least some sort of novelty, and, if the novelty
for which it is a recipe is by no means the originality of the highest
form of art, our description of it may serve as a guarantee that in a
serious and experienced worker the outcome can be neither hackwork
nor a mere flash in the brain pan. Even so qualified an assurance
may be of comfort to the humble camp-follower of the arts in these
difficult days.
If occurrence of the sort of process sketched in our standard ver-
sion can be taken as presumptive evidence of seriousness, part of the
reason may be that what the version describes is what we think ought
to take place when something truly original is done. It may be that
the standard version and its variants are popular, not because there is
any reason to think that anything of the sort often or ever takes place,
but because it seems fitting: a work of art is as if it were the outcome
of such a process. As human beings, we feel able to pronounce on the
fittingness and congruence of human affairs and attitudes. We do not
feel the need to have recourse to the behavioral sciences to assure us
that our sense of how life goes has empirical backing. On the contrary,
we feel free to deride these sciences if they either otiosely confirm or
absurdly conflict with our lifelong experience of being human.
It seems then that our standard version may function less as an
inductive generalization than as an expression of our untutored and
uncriticized sense of what ought to be the case, our way of imagining
what it must be to create. It is but one step more to claim for it the
status of a myth. Plato in his Symposium metaphorically describes artis-
tic and intellectual creation as ‘giving birth in beauty.’21 Our standard
account may be construed as an explanation of this metaphor. The
triggering experience answers to insemination, the initial formulation
21
Plato, Symposium 206b–212a.
of the problem corresponds to conception. Unconscious incubation is

transparently an image of gestation, and the moment of intuition is the
moment of birth. Then nature yields to nurture: the phases of elabora-
tion and criticism answer respectively to the phases of development in
which the infant masters first bodily movement and speech, and then
social skills. Our reasons for adopting this natal metaphor are doubtless
as much religious as evidential. It testifies to our sense of the dignity
of art, to the importance we assign to the birth of new being, to the
status of the work of art or the scientific discovery as a new and almost
living force come into the world. It is a late survival of the eighteenth-
century notion of the ‘genius’ as someone who is less a fabricator than
the place where an autonomous and natural evolution occurs.22
Our reasons for accepting this or that description of a creative pro-
cess as what inevitably, or usually, or typically, or properly, or occasion-
ally but interestingly takes place, may be of many kinds. But, as the
examples of Tomas and Koestler may suggest, we might arrive at the
notion of such a process simply by considering the conditions without
which the emergence of something that was both unexampled and
significant would not be possible. As a loaf must be baked, a poem
must be created, and it is not clear why there can be no necessary
conditions for either process. But at this point we would do well to
abandon psychology for phenomenology or conceptual analysis. The
alleged ‘process’ becomes an elucidation of origination as such. If
there is to be origination there must be a starting point of some kind;
if the originated whole is to be original the principles of its organiza-
tion must themselves be unprecedented, and must therefore represent a
second origin; if there is organization, there must be elaboration; and
if there is to be a public outcome it must have been promulgated and
must therefore have passed the critical scrutiny of the creator or his
custodian. Our standard version does little more than spell out these
requirements in psychological terms, assigning each phase a place in a
temporal sequence. The one item in the standard version quite unac-
counted for is the ‘unconscious incubation,’ which from the present
point of view is either a gratuitous piece of psychologizing (or theolo-
gizing)23 embroidery, or else a dramatization of our recognition that
22
See M. H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp (New York: Oxford University Press,
1953), chap. 8.
23
The phrase unconscious incubation seems to have had its original home in Wil-
liam James’s The Varieties of Religious Experience (London: Longman’s, Green and Co.,
1902), with the phenomena of religious conversion.
188 f. e. sparshott
the two starting points are in principle separate and that each is a true
beginning. The transposition of the creative process from psychological
and genetical to analytical terms is exemplified in a vigorous argument
by Monroe C. Beardsley, who urges that what we call creativity and
originality is properly to be located within the work of art itself, and is
the emergence of complex resultant qualities that could not have been
inferred from an enumeration of the constituents and their relations:
this non-inferrability is popularly construed as unpredictability, put into
a temporal frame of reference, and projected back onto the artist—as
though works of art were produced by human beings instead of appear-
ing, as we all know, ready made on the walls of galleries.24
Although proponents of the old ‘new’ criticism may be contented with
an account of creativity and originality in analytical or phenomenologi-
cal terms, there are reasons why artists and cultural critics cannot be.
There is an important difference between human and divine creation:
the Creator’s claim to originality is (in orthodox theology) unimpeach-
able, but human beings must establish their bona fides. Creation, prop-
erly, is the production of new being, of something that did not before
exist but now has a being of its own and in its own right. The concept
of creation is then basically less that of process and outcome than that
of an achievement. What matters is that there should now be something
that owes its being to another, God or man, but in itself is perfectly
real. In the paradigm case of the divine creation, this suffices: before,
there was no world, but now there is a world, and God will answer for
it. But when we speak of human achievements an ambiguity creeps in.
With half our minds we think that achievement, creation and original-
ity are relative to their point of origin. We do not deny originality or
creativity to either Charles Darwin or Alfred Russel Wallace on the
other’s account, and there is a sense in which Darwin’s achievement
would have been no less if Wallace had reached his conclusions a decade
before but left them unpublished. So it is that to sustain a plagiarism
suit the plaintiff must show not only that the form produced by the
alleged plagiarist coincides with the preexisting form, but that he had
access to it. It may be in part because memory is delusive, the external
history of creation often unknown and unverifiable, and the channels
whereby ideas are transmitted manifold and hard to trace, that we like
to invoke a creative process, an agonizing labor that at least shows that
24
Monroe C. Beardsley, “On the Creation of Art,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criti-
cism 23 (1965): 291–305.
the alleged creator did not know he was doing anything so undemand-
ing as plagiarizing. Just so, councilors were at one time summoned to
attend the birth of a prince, lest some low-born brat be smuggled in
a warming-pan; but, if decorum precludes observation of the royal
childbed, some reassurance may be had from the observation that the
Queen was previously pregnant and is pregnant no more, and that the
putative birth was heralded by appropriate groans.
It may be that the status of our standard version is more that of a
parable than of a myth. The hard-headed will say that when the Pueblo
potter says she dreamed her design the real purport of her claim is
that she did not copy it. So it may be that to claim to have undergone
the creative process is but a dramatic way of claiming true authorship.
And why claim true authorship? Copyrights may be involved, and the
artist must live. But that is not all. The value of originality has become
deeply embedded in our whole way of thinking about art and even
about science.25 We think of art in terms of its history. The truest work
of art, perhaps the only true work of art, we think, is one fit to figure
in the history of art: the only true point is a turning point.
25
For an early manifestation cf. Edward Young, Conjectures on Original Composition in
a Letter to the Author of Sir Charles Grandison (London: Printed for A. Millar and R. and
J. Dodsley, 1759).
CHAPTER TEN
CREATIVITY AND SELF-TRANSFORMATION
Michael Krausz
I work with special handmade brushes. They are made of the hairs of
deer, elk, and fox. They have their own life. After dipped in a solution—
like India ink or dried pigment mixed in water—with a slight pressure
on museum board, they make very fine, thin lines. With greater pressure
a brush’s bulbous base releases a swath of pigment on to the surface.
I usually have a general idea of what the painting will look like. But
the materials take on a life of their own. They suggest their own pos-
sibilities. The unintended spontaneous movements of my fingers and
arms allow brush and pigment to respond as they may. Sometimes the
unintended emergent results are welcome, sometimes not. Sometimes
brush and pigment respond with extreme delicacy, variety, and wit.
Other times they respond with ponderous contortions. Sometimes the
result is a scene that I could not have imagined. Sometimes the scene
provides a space that invites my entry.
As I work on a particular piece, I do so with the foreknowledge of its
place in a series of works. Just as a single work may give rise to emer-
gent features, so too may a series of related works give rise to emergent
features. These features may become apparent when the series is viewed
as a whole, as in a solo exhibition. Creating a given artwork provides
an occasion to discover and explore its emerging scapes.
My art-making has a history closely related to my self-transforma-
tion. In 1971, I had a nondualistic experience in the studio of a friend.
When being surrounded by her large abstract shaped canvases, I sud-
denly experienced myself in the space of the work instead of looking
at it. More than that: I experienced an ‘interpenetration’ of my self
and the space of the painting.1
1
I borrow this apt term from John Dewey, who describes such experiences as: “com-
plete interpenetration of self and the world of objects and events,” in Art as Experience
(New York: Capricorn Books, 1934), 19.
192 michael krausz
In that space, I suddenly became much more highly visually

sensitive—to spatial relations, to coloration and more. As a consequence
of that nondualistic experience I needed to paint. As a matter of ‘inner
necessity,’ I had to paint.2 After one year of intense work, I had my first
one-person exhibition. Since then, I have had twenty.
As a consequence of my nondualistic experience (which I shall
discuss later), I now experience more clearly, more expansively, more
richly, more perspicuously.3 Such changes in my ways of experienc-
ing in turn affect what I produce. What I produce has affected my
ways of experiencing. I think of my art-making as a process in which
who I am is enriched and transformed. In short, my art-production
fosters my self-transformation, and my self-transformation fosters
my art-production.
Upon reflection, the reader may be tempted to distinguish several
distinct transformations whereby one transformation took me into the
space of the painting. Another would have involved the interpenetration
of myself and the space of the painting. Yet another transformation
would have involved my becoming visually sensitive, and a still further
transformation would have involved my need to paint. Could I have had
a transformation in how I experience as opposed to what I experience,
and not associate it with anything particular to art? Could I have had
the same experience but not be compelled to make art myself ? Could
I have had that experience but simply develop a need to experience
more of my friend’s work and that of others? Could I have had that
experience and not have any related experiences when making my
art? In my experience, these logically distinguishable possibilities are
inextricably intertwined and symbiotic.
More fully, my painting is integrally related to my self-transformation,
and my self-transformation is integrally related to my painting. I value
both painting and self-transformation as ends in themselves. My artistic
production motivates my self-transformation and my self-transformation
motivates my artistic production. Such is my personal program.
2
Wassily Kandinsky elaborates the idea of inner necessity in his book, Concerning the
Spiritual in Art, and Painting in Particular (New York: Wittenborn, Schultz, 1963). See also
my Interpretation and Transformation: Explorations in Art and the Self (Amsterdam: Rodopi,
2006), chap. 9, 10.
3
See J. N. Findlay, “The Perspicuous and the Poignant,” in Aesthetics, ed. Harold
Osborn, ed. (London: Oxford University Press, 1972).
creativity and self-transformation 193
II
I periodically invoke my personal program as part of my understanding

of who I am. I bring it to mind as need arises, as I confront vocational
challenges or life decisions. It plays a significant role as I periodically
assess what I am making of my life. I revise my personal program as
my aims and interests change and develop.
I do not propound this personal program for others. Others might not
connect artistic production with self-transformation, or, self-transforma-
tion with artistic production, in these ways, or not at all. Quite possibly,
for others, no meaningful relationship exists between artistic production
and self-transformation. Or, possibly artistic production ought to take
precedence over self-transformation; perhaps self-transformation should
be the overriding aim, with artistic production contributing to that
aim. Maybe the aim of self-transformation and the aim of artistic
production should be co-equal; or the aims of self-transformation and
artistic production may be symbiotic. In the course of life, one may take
precedence over the other in different ways at different times. There is
no single right personal program.
My personal program values process over product, seeks to foster
self-transformation, and accommodates nondualistic experiences. It
recognizes nondualistic experiences as benchmarks of my creative life’s
journey. It does so chiefly, but not exclusively, through art-making. It
could do so as well (and sometimes does) through making music, writ-
ing, or other such activities.
Yet one could embrace a personal program that excludes any or
all of these ingredients. An individual could, for example, embrace a
personal program that values product over process; or that excludes
or is indifferent to self-transformation; or excludes or is indifferent to
nondualistic experiences. A personal program might exclude or be
indifferent to art-making, music making or any other such activities. It
could value process to the exclusion of products entirely; or, as in the
case to the ascetic, disvalue or exclude process and product.
More generally, personal programs indicate our present place in
relation to our projected future, informed by our emerging interests
and purposes. They help to identify who we are to ourselves as our lives
unfold. Personal programs situate what David Novitz calls a narrative
identity. He says, “The construction of narrative identities, like that
of works of art, is often highly inventive. Both are usually constructed
with immaculate care, often with insight and sensitivity, and in a way,
194 michael krausz
moreover, which must alter and contribute to the sorts of people we

are.”4 He continues, “Our narrative identities are neither God-given
nor innate, but are painstakingly acquired as we grow, develop, and
interact with the people around us.” 5
In this way, who we are—our self—transforms. Sometimes our self
may exhibit opposing or incongruent characteristics. The need and
extent of their ‘resolution’—whether a single self should answer to a
single set of fully congruent characteristics or numerous incongruent
ones—also depends upon the requirements of our personal program.
Novitz says, “Most of us have, at best, a fragmented and changing view
of self. We see ourselves successively in different, sometimes incompat-
ible, ways, and we do so, on my view, because we are inclined to tell
more than one story about ourselves.”6
Nondualistic experiences might be variously described as nirvanic,
epiphanic, numinous, religious, flow, ecstatic, or oceanic—depending
upon one’s preferred philosophical or soteriological tradition. Charac-
terizations of nondualistic experiences might deploy such metaphors as
‘interpenetration’ of subject and object, or ‘fusion’ of artist and work, or
‘overcoming,’ or ‘dissolving,’ or ‘transcending’ such binary oppositions
as subjective and objective reality. All these idioms suggest that, under
particular circumstances, sharp distinctions between such binary terms
as self and other, or subject and object, are undone.7
Arthur Danto describes such nondualistic experiences as:
high moments of artistic work, those moments of pure creativity, when
artist and work are not separated by a gap of any sort, but fuse in
such a way that the work seems to bring itself into existence. At such
points—and any creative person lives for these—there is none of the
struggle and externality that marks those phases of artistic labor in which
inspiration fails and the work itself refuses to cooperate . . . [Materials]
are . . . agents of selflessness, which is the state at which . . . so much of
Oriental philosophy . . . aims.8
4
David Novitz, “Art, Narrative and Human Nature,” Philosophy and Literature 13,
no. 1 (April 1989): 72.
5
Ibid. 65.
6
Ibid. 62.
7
For his discussion of “peak experiences,” see A. H. Maslow, Religions, Values, and
Peak Experiences (New York: Viking Press, 1963). Also, for his discussion of “flow,” see
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, Creativity: Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention (New
York: Harper Collins Publisher, 1996).
8
Arthur Danto, Mysticism and Morality (New York: Basic Books, 1972), 110–111
(my emphasis).
Noted British composer Alexander Goehr comments that at spe-

cial moments:
[T]he music writes itself. . . . There is no longer a composer who pushes
the material about, but only its servant, carrying out what the notes
themselves imply. This is the exact experience I seek and which justifies
all else. For me such experience exceeds all other satisfactions that I
know or can imagine . . . for, at this moment, I find myself overcome by
an oceanic sensation of oneness with all around me.9
Chang Chung-yuan speaks of states of nonduality or ‘Oneness’ when
he asks, “What is Tao-painting?” He answers:
Tao is the ontological experience by which subjective and objective reality
are fused into one. . . . This interfusion initiates the process of creativity,
which in turn establishes unity in multiplicity, the changeless in the ever-
changing. [The work of] the artist who has reached this state of oneness
will be far beyond what his egoform self could accomplish. [Chang
continues:] Robert Henri (1865–1929), speaking of modern art, expresses
somewhat the same idea: The object, which is back of every true work
of art, is the attainment of a state of being, a state of high functioning,
a more than ordinary moment of existence. In such moments activity is
inevitable, and whether this activity is with brush, pen, chisel, or tongue,
its result is but a by-product of this state, a trace, the footprint of the state.
The work of art is, indeed, the by-product of a state of high function-
ing. This state of spiritual exaltation is fundamental to creative activity,
while skills and measurements are secondary. It is the manifestation of
an ontological experience.10
In addition, according to the Advaita Vedantic Hindu tradition for
example, the state of realization of Brahman is also a state of ‘nondual-
ity,’ where all consciousness of diversity and multiplicity is negated.11
So understood, nondualistic experiences differ from the more com-
mon experience of ‘losing oneself ’ in one’s work, understood simply
as concentrating on one’s work. In the latter case, a sharp distinction
remains between the self and work.
9
Alexander Goehr, Independent (1 June 1991), quoted in Anthony Storr, Music and
the Mind (New York: Ballantine books, 1992), 97 (my emphasis).
10
Chang Chung-yuan, Creativity and Taoism: A Study of Chinese Philosophy, Art and Poetry
(New York: Harper Colophon Books, 1970), 203–204 (my emphasis).
11
See Vibha Chaturvedi, “Reflections on the Interpretation of Religious Texts,” in
Interpretation and its Objects: Studies in the Philosophy of Michael Krausz, ed. Andreea Deciu
Ritivoi (Amsterdam: Rodopi Publishers, 2003), 308.
196 michael krausz
Larry Briskman assigns logical priority to the production of creative

products.12 He agrees that there can be a connection between creative
activity and self-transformation. But he sees self-transformation as an
unintended consequence or by-product of creative production. Ironi-
cally, Briskman argues that, if we give priority to artistic production we
will be in a better position to benefit from the potential self-development
or self-transformation that can follow in its wake. Indeed, Briskman
holds that self-development or self-transformation should not be pursued
as an aim as such. He argues that losing oneself in one’s work—whether
of the more common variety or of the nonduality variety—depends
upon focusing upon making the work and not upon the self.
Yet an individual might have an aim without making it a perpetual
focus of attention. Such an aim may be invoked periodically to make
sense of the process as a whole. For example, I may aim to have a mean-
ingful relationship or a rewarding career without continually focusing
upon those aims at every waking moment. Still, I may periodically call
upon an aim and choose among various personal or vocational possibili-
ties in light of it. Having an aim does not require that it be the object
of my continual focus. In this manner, we can keep self-transformation
as an aim, even if it is best only occasionally to call it to mind.
Indeed, for their duration, nondualistic experiences do inhibit creative
activity. For the ability of emergent properties of a work to affect their
creator depends upon a duality between creator and work (or, more
generally, the Other.) Such duality is necessary for the creator to be
‘carried by’ or ‘influenced by’ the creator’s work in progress. As well,
nonduality inhibits criticism and critical interaction between creator
and work.
Yet, nondualistic experiences characteristically arise only periodically.
Only during nondualistic periods would creative activity be interrupted.
Such activity can be resumed with the reinstallation of duality, later to
be informed by the ‘afterglow’ of nondualistic experience. Put otherwise,
since creative activity demands the duality between self and work, the
pursuit of creative activity will be inhibited in moments of nondual-
12
See Larry Briskman “Creativity and Self-Development: Comments on Michael
Krausz’s ‘Creating and Becoming’ ” unpublished. An abridged version of this paper
was presented at a symposium on “Creating and Becoming,” at the annual meeting
of the Society for Philosophy of Creativity, Eastern Division Meeting of the American
Philosophical Association, Washington, D.C. (28 December, 1978). A version of the
APA presentation was published as Larry Briskman, “Creating and Self-Development:
A Reply to Michael Krausz,” Leonardo 13, no. 4 (Autumn 1980): 323–325.
ity. Yet from such moments of nonduality we can draw inspiration for
subsequent creative activity.
To consider a work’s strengths and weaknesses, criticism and com-
mentary demand looking at works apart from oneself. They must occur
in a dualistic mode. But nondualistic experiences are not outside the
range of creativity. While nonduality can inhibit productivity, we should
not dismiss nonduality as irrelevant to creative processes. It can be an
ingredient of a creative life journey, a part of a larger project of self-
transformation.
III
Consider Briskman’s tri-partite distinction among creative persons, cre-

ative processes, and creative products. To draw out the consequences
of his view I will adopt a less personalistic voice than that of Part I.
In contrast to my concerns about personal programs that accom-
modate nondualistic experiences, Briskman’s treatment concerns the
logical priority of creative products. He draws sharp distinctions among
creative persons, creative processes, and creative products. He takes these
terms to be fundamentally independent. His central concern addresses the
question how we are to identify a creative product, creative person,
and creative product. He holds that creative products are logically
prior to creative persons and to creative processes. Creative persons
and creative processes can be identified only after creative products
have been identified as such. Briskman says:
Creative people and creative processes can only be identified via our
prior identification of their . . . products as themselves creative. That is,
the person is a creative one and the process was a creative process only
in the light of our prior evaluation of the product itself as a creative
product. If this is correct, then it follows that a[n] artistic product is not
creative because it was produced by a creative person or a creative process,
but rather that both the psychological process involved, and the person
involved, are deemed to be creative because they succeed in producing a
product deemed to be creative. It is the creativity of the product which
has, so to speak, logical priority.13
13
Larry Briskman, “Creative Product and Creative Process in Science and Art,”
The Concept of Creativity in Science and Art, eds. Denis Dutton and Michael Krausz (The
Hague: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1981), 135. Reprinted in this volume, chap. 2.
198 michael krausz
Briskman summarizes his view:

A creative . . . artistic, product has, I suggest, the following characteristics.
First, relative to the background of prior products, it is a novel product.
Second, it puts this novelty to a desirable purpose by solving a problem, such
problems being themselves relative to this background and emerging from
it. Third, it does so in such a way as to actually conflict with parts of this
background, to necessitate its partial modification, and to supplant and
improve upon parts of it. Finally, this novel, conflicting problem-solution
must be favorably evaluated; it must meet certain exacting standards which
are themselves part of the background it partially supplants.14
I agree that “creative people and creative processes can only be identified
via our prior identification of their . . . artistic products as themselves
creative.” Yet, as my earlier discussion suggests, I qualify my agree-
ment. Sometimes, the very distinctions among persons, processes and
products cannot be sharply sustained.
For the moment, let us pursue Briskman’s tripartite distinction and
see where it leads us. Briskman’s three terms—person, process, and
product—generate eight formal possibilities: (1) creative person, cre-
ative process, and creative product; (2) uncreative person, uncreative
process, uncreative product; (3) uncreative person, creative process,
creative product; (4) creative person, uncreative process, and creative
product; (5) creative person, uncreative process, uncreative product;
(6) creative person, creative process, uncreative product; (7) uncre-
ative person, creative process, uncreative product; and (8) uncreative
person, uncreative process, creative product. These permutations are
formal possibilities.
(1) It is natural to assume that a creative product is an outcome
of a creative person and a creative process. And (2) it is natural to
assume that an uncreative person and uncreative process will lead to
an uncreative product. But (3) a creative product might arise from a
creative process, while its originating person is uncreative. This would
be so if the product exhibited emergent properties that the originating
person never intended or imagined.
Whatever might be said about the originating person, some creative
process is required for a creative product to arise. So, a product may be
creative and its process may be creative, while its originating person—
with respect to the product first identified—is uncreative. Accordingly,
from the logical priority of a creative product, it does not follow that
14
Ibid., 144.
the originating person was creative. If we disallow miraculous creation

from nothing, given a creative product, the antecedent processes must be
creative. In turn, according to possibility (4), a product is creative and
its originating person is creative, but its antecedent process is uncreative.
This formal possibility is implausible because, again, without some
creative process, a creative product would be miraculous. A creative
product minimally requires a creative process. It may but need not
involve a creative person. In turn, possibility (5) allows for an uncreative
product, an uncreative process, and a creative person. How could a
person be creative if the product and the process are uncreative? Now
a creative person might be creative in relation to some product other
than that which was first identified. That allows the possibility that a creative
person might (and usually does) produce some failures.
Consider possibility (6) in which a person and a process is creative
but the product is not. Suppose that we ask whether a particular com-
poser is creative by considering his or her very latest work. Suppose
further that that latest work is unimaginative, derivative, pretentious,
boring, and breaks no existing compositional tradition. We judge it to
be uncreative. But it does not follow that the composer is altogether
uncreative if we take into consideration the creativity of other products
besides this latest work. We could deem the composer to be a creative
person by virtue of the creativity of the other products. So the question
whether a person is altogether creative could be considered in rela-
tion to a body of work other than a particular one initially identified
for consideration. Possibility (7) suggests a product and its originating
person is uncreative, while the process is creative. Without the product
being creative, it is implausible to infer that its process was creative.
Yet, a process may be creative but in relation to a creative product
other than the one first identified. Finally, possibility (8) suggests that
a product is creative and its originating person and its process are
uncreative. This possibility is implausible, since the creativity of the
product would be miraculous. Again, the creative product would
have been a miraculous creation from nothing. In sum, unless qualified,
(1), (2), and (3) are the most plausible of the eight formal possibilities.
In turn, (5), (6) and (7) appear to be implausible. But they become
plausible when we do not follow Briskman in identifying the creativ-
ity of a person or a process only in relation to a given product that
is first identified. He assumes that we should judge the creativity of
persons and processes by isolating a given product from the family of
products with which it resides.
200 michael krausz
In private correspondence (2 July 2007), Karen Bardsley raises an

interesting puzzle concerning the uniqueness of a creative product. It
concerns two individuals, who generate a product, say, a solution to
a problem, almost but not quite in tandem. Suppose both pursued a
common process to address the same problem. Unbeknownst to the
second person, the first person hits upon the solution a month before
the second person does. When the second person puts it forward, the
community of pertinent practitioners rejects it as uncreative because
they already accepted the solution as offered by the first person. Brisk-
man’s account suggests that the uniqueness of a creative product—and
thus the creativity of its person and process—is inextricably connected
with historical circumstance. The breaking of a tradition is, among
its problem-solving virtues, a matter of historical achievement. When
only one of the two individuals actually succeeds in uniquely break-
ing a tradition—where his or her solution actually has an impact on
pertinent practitioners—it follows from Briskman’s suggestion that the
solution of only one of the individuals could be creative. According to
the tradition-breaking criterion, the second person who produced the
same solution was not creative, nor was the process that gave rise to
it. But the two solutions are identical. This is a puzzling result. Why
not regard both instances of the same product as creative? Why not
regard both persons and their respective processes as creative? The
answer depends upon whether we regard tradition-breaking in historical
terms. If so, then only one individual could be creative. If not, more
than one individual could be creative.
Still assuming Briskman’s fundamentally independent tripartite
distinctions among persons, processes, and products, let us collect our
findings. For a product to be creative a pertinent creative process is
necessary. No creative product can be produced without its creative
process. These findings are compatible with Briskman’s overall (though
roughly put) claim that creative products are logically prior to creative
persons and processes in the sense that we can identify creative per-
sons and creative processes as such only via our prior identification of
creative products.
But even within the terms that Briskman embraces, the situation is
more complicated. First, creators need not be individuals; they may
be groups of individuals. They may even be holistic collectives like
institutions. Creators need not be persons. They may be other sorts of
beings, either non-mechanical (like elephants and dogs) or mechanical
(like computers). Products may be multiple rather than singular, as in
a series of works—some but not all of which, taken separately, might

be deemed creative. Finally, more than one converging process may
precede a creative product. This possibility raises issues about how we
should count or individuate such processes. These considerations—only
mentioned here—complicate the logical possibilities that arise from
Briskman’s relatively simple tripartite distinction.
IV
The issues surrounding self-transformation further complicate Brisk-

man’s taxonomy. For we may regard self-transformation per se (still in
Briskman’s idiom) as a creative product, thus undermining a general
and sharp distinction between creative process and creative product,
or, in terms of Briskman’s mentor, Karl Popper, between World 2 and
World 3 entities. (Popper argues that inhabitants of World 3 are ‘objec-
tive contents of thought,’ inhabitants of World 2 are subjective mental
states, and inhabitants of World 1 are physical states.) Briskman relegates
self-transformation to the subjective World 2 realm. On his account self-
transformation could not be regarded as a creative product. In accord
with Popper’s ontology, Briskman identifies both creative products and
non-creative products as World 3 entities. As he puts it:
If creativity were to be located as an event in World 3—if creativity
was held to be, in a logical sense, fundamentally independent of events in
World 2—then it would follow that living per se, and self-development per
se [or self-transformation per se], could not be considered creative.15
According to Briskman, to say that self-transformation can be creative
we must make self-transformation an objective World 3 product. So he
generates a dilemma: either we must abandon his Popperian objectivist
World 3 requirement for creativity. Or we must somehow ‘objectify’
the subjective self-transformation. Actually, we must do both. We must
reject Briskman’s construal of subjective and objective states as ‘fun-
damentally independent,’ and we must allow that self-transformation
may be taken up as a possibly creative activity. Put otherwise, we may
take up our self-transformation as our work. To speak this way requires
an adjustment to Briskman’s idea of a product.
15
Briskman “Creativity and Self-Development,” 4 (my emphasis).
202 michael krausz
Indeed, my underlying misgivings about Briskman’s tripartite distinc-

tions are captured by the thought that the idea of a product carries with
it the suggestion that a product is an objectified entity, with the valence
of ‘thingliness.’ The idea of a product is too restrictive. In contrast, we
should substitute the idea of a work that is not restricted to thingliness.
It allows for both a process and a product. It allows for bracketing a
project such as self-transformation as one’s work. It allows for a voca-
tion as one’s work; it allows for a personal relationship as one’s work;
it allows for one’s life as one’s work. No doubt, thingly products partly
constitute one’s life; they punctuate it; they serve as its signposts. But
we need the more ample idea of a work or a ‘life-work’ to provide
the normative context in virtue of which thingly products may have
meaning and significance. It is in that larger notion of work that my
personal program finds its place.
We can easily identify the thingliness of a work in such plastic arts
as painting or sculpture. Their products are physically embodied in
palpable ways. The thingliness in other artistic endeavors such as music,
dance, or conceptual art is not so easily identified. In these domains, the
distinction between process and product is not easily drawn. Where is
the distinction between process and product when in 1917, by exhibiting
his Fountain, Marcel Duchamp debunks the tradition of precious objects
in the artworld? Where is the distinction between process and product
in Leonard Bernstein’s performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony to
celebrate the fall of the Berlin Wall in November 1989? Where is the
distinction between process and product in Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s
wrapping and unwrapping of the Reichstag in June and July of 1995?
Such examples suggest that we cannot draw a general and sharp dis-
tinction between process and product.
The idea of work incorporates processes and products. It is both a
verb and a noun. It is both an act and a resultant product. A work is
a doing as well as that which is done. Accordingly, we can take up the
self and its life as a creative work. Indeed, such a notion of work is
commonplace in psychotherapy and soteriology. This idea of work is
encapsulated in John Dewey’s idea when he says:
We have an experience . . . when the material experienced runs its course
to fulfillment. Then and only then is it integrated within and demarcated
in the general stream of experience from other experiences. A piece
of work is finished in a way that is satisfactory; a problem receives its
solution; a game is played through; a situation, whether that of eating
a meal, playing a game of chess, carrying on a conversation, writing a
book, or taking part in a political campaign, is so rounded out that its

close is a consummation and not a cessation. Such an experience is a whole
and carries with it its own individualizing quality and self-sufficiency. It
is an experience.16
So understood, our work may include more than thingly products. It
may include our self-transformation. And, in some personal programs,
it may accommodate nondualistic experiences amongst its ingredients.
Yet conceding this much requires a taxonomy somewhat different from
one that takes creative persons, creative processes, and creative products
as fundamentally independent.17
16
John Dewey, Art as Experience (New York: Capricorn Books, 1934), 35 (my emphasis).
17
This essay revisits and develops my, “Creating and Becoming” in The Concept of
Creativity in Science and Art, eds. Dutton and Krausz, 187–200. For their helpful comments
and suggestions, I thank Karen Bardsley, Elizabeth D. Boepple, Larry Briskman, Roy
Fitzgerald, Mark Harris, Peter Lamarque, Thomas Leddy, Anne Sclufer, Jill Stauffer,
Ulli Wiesner, and Mary Wiseman.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ON THE DIALECTICAL PHENOMENOLOGY OF CREATIVITY1
Albert Hofstadter
I would like to present to you the idea of thinking about creativity in

terms of the basic concepts of dialectical phenomenology. It is unneces-
sary to stop to examine the notion of dialectical phenomenology. Illus-
tration of it is already before us in the shape of Hegel’s Phenomenology
of Spirit and his later writings about the philosophy of mind. We need
not adopt Hegel’s own monistic spiritualistic metaphysics in taking over
the basic ideas of dialectical phenomenology, nor need we presuppose
a logically necessary and single-track line of development, whether in
individual life, social life, or world history. What I wish to suggest is only
the dialectical structure and meaning of the creative process, with the
thought that study of this process in terms of dialectical phenomenol-
ogy could open it up to a genuine mode of comprehension.
It is generally agreed that creation is not a one-sided mechanical
making according to a fixed formula or routine. So, for example,
creative photography is not like the process by which the passport
photographer takes your picture. He already knows what content and
what form he wants the picture to have, and he needs only to fit you, as
subject, into the frame to produce your picture. He has a content and
form already decided beforehand, and has only to fit the new matter
into it. He could take the same picture of anyone else; and the degree
to which the process is routine is measured by the comic effect that
would be produced if he substituted a horse or a camel for a human
being. The creative photographer, on the other hand, finds that the very
idea of a picture is already a challenge. He does not know beforehand
what content it is to have, what its form is to be. His task, indeed, is
precisely to find a content and a form and the unity of the two, to
determine the being of a picture. ‘Picture’ first gets a meaning for him
1
Reprinted from The Concept of Creativity in Science and Art, eds. D. Dutton and
M. Krausz (The Hague/Boston/London: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, The Hague/
Boston/London, 1981), 201–208, all rights reserved.
206 albert hofstadter
in this process of finding/inventing the new unity of form, content,

and subject. Instead of following a routine he has to develop the new
totality itself: the new unity of form, content, and matter, which is to
be the new picture.
What is it that differentiates the routine from the creative photogra-
pher? The routine photographer, like the passport photographer, already
has his general form-content unity fixed, and he swings his lens around
to the prefixed type of subject so as to produce the normally expected
result—the expertly done photograph, the arty picture. The creative
photographer, to the contrary, is first in a quandary. He does not have
a prefixed form-content idea with its correlated subject matter class. He
looks upon all that as not his dish of tea; he finds himself estranged
from it, finds it alien to his spirit. He has to find in the whole situation
a form-content unity and its correlative subject matter to which he can
give himself and which will give itself to him. He is in search of a new
totality, which will be own to him and to which he will give himself
as its own. He is in search of a new reconciliation of the factors of
opposition and difference—form, content, subject matter on the one
hand, and his own living spirit on the other—which he can experience
as real truth, as genuine actuality, a totality in which inner and outer
factors have come together in a living, not a mechanical, unity.
I use the example of the photographer because it is so easy to
see the difference almost immediately, since the routine mechanical
photographer depends chiefly on mechanical means—predetermined
content, form, subject, instrument, equipment—all of them so ready
at hand that anyone can be such a photographer, whereas the creative
photographer is in the same general fix as any creative being: everything
around him has fallen into flux, he himself swims in the midst of the
turbulent stream without any shores, and he has to find his way to
safety by bringing the flux into the rhythm of a living form.
But the photographer is only the image of us all. Wherever we are,
in private life or public, art or religion, action or thinking, the same
general problem faces us. We can approach the context with our prefixed
formula for the given sphere of life—prefixed meanings, forms of pro-
cedure, subjects to which they are applied, habits of feeling, willing,
and thinking, capacities and skills—and try to put things together in
the same way as before. And as long as this works, we can persist in
it. When, however, life inside or out rebels against this mechanical way
of constraining it, we are confronted with the problematics of creativ-
ity. We have to become creative, since we have to find and invent a
on the dialectical phenomenology of creativity 207
new totality of form-content, matter, and spirit, which will enliven the
life process.
This life-quandary is widespread today. The people who are most
involved in it, that is, the younger people who are now confronted with
the task of determining the form and content of their life, experience
the rebellion of life within their own selves, and they find themselves in
profound alienation from much of the traditional culture. So they are
in the midst of the crisis that is characteristic of creativity generally:
the crisis of estrangement, alienation, otherness, difference.
This language of alienation, estrangement, otherness, and difference
brings us directly into touch with the context of dialectical phenomenol-
ogy. If anything is characteristic of the dialectic, it is the appearance of
the phenomenon of alienation or estrangement, or more generally of
difference, opposition, and otherness. These are one half of the story
of the dialectic; the other half is given in the correlative names for
unity: reconciliation, appropriation, and ownness. Hegel says ‘Versöhnung,’
Heidegger ‘Ereignis,’ and both ultimately come to the same thing as
‘appropriation’ and ‘ownness.’ It is ultimately in the structures of own-
ness that human creativity shows itself and its products. The meaning
of creativity lies in the attainment of genuine ownness.
In thinking about creativity we tend to think first of the artist as
creator and his activity as creation. In earlier days one thought first,
rather, of God and of His act of creation. Our present tendency is a
reverberation of the romantic movement in life and art, which placed
the artistic individual at the center, and which put special accent on his
subjectivity as the source of truth rather than on submitting his sub-
jectivity to a reality outside him as foundation of truth. But creativity
belongs everywhere, and perhaps it would be better if we looked more
frequently to spheres outside art for subjects of investigation. We shall
recollect that Whitehead thought creativity to be so pervasive, present
in every pulse of process that gave rise to a new actual entity, that
he declared it to be the first and most universal of all the categories.
Therefore, in what immediately follows, I would like to bring to your
attention, as an instance of creativity a nonartistic matter, the appar-
ently unlikely matter of the master-slave relationship. Since it is one
of the most achieved parts of Hegel’s phenomenology and has been
much examined in recent years, and since it lies at the basis of the
possibility of advanced socialized life, it is of particular interest as a
means of directing our attention to creativity in life and experience
apart from art.
The master-slave or lord-bondsman relationship arises out of the

struggle for recognition. Two egos stand in confrontation. Each, as an
ego, seeks recognition by the other as being ‘I.’ Each seeks to be the
essence of their mutual relationship. Each needs an other to be its own:
the one needs to appropriate the other, needs the other to be reconciled
within a unity in which the ego is recognized as the essence. In an other
alone can the ego find its own, so that it can truly be ego. Its basic
drive as ego is to be with its other as its own. The problem is: how is
this being-with to be achieved?
The two egos are not themselves self-conscious about this need
they share. It is we, who look on from ‘above the battle’ (for we have
already been through it and are now reflecting backwards), who can
apprehend with conscious awareness what is going on there. The two
involved egos are there in the throes of their own desires and passions,
basically the passion to be free—that is, to find selfhood in and with
what is not self, and in this case particularly to find self-recognition in
the other. They do not yet know this passion to be theirs—they are,
rather, inside it, moving in and moved by it; the knowledge of it will
come, and can only come, as it gets realized, so that they can see in
the realized form what it is they were struggling for. (As Croce main-
tained: the creative one does not know what he has been striving to
create until he has created it.)
Before the master-slave relationship developed in human culture
there was the immediate relationship of being-with, as in the hunting
band, where no one is chief, ruler, lord, but everyone has his say and
his part in determining what is to be done. The life of the Mbuti pyg-
mies in the African Congo region (as described by Colin Turnbull in
Wayward Servants)2 gives a beautiful picture of what a life is like which
dispenses with the master-slave foundation—although, perhaps, a closer
look would indicate how powerfully the forest itself is given the role
of master in relation to all members as its servants. There is here a
necessary suppression of individuality so as to prevent any particular
member from asserting himself—no matter how great his talent, skill,
even genius—beyond the average level of sociality. This book is indeed
a fascinating story of how a people can create, with genuine and con-
tinuing creativity, a form of social life that is essentially free, equal, and
2
Colin Turnbull, Wayward Servants (Garden City, N.Y.: Natural History Press,
1965).
fraternal within itself, but also, within the confines of a very limited
geography and socio-psychological topography. But all advanced culture
depends on the prior establishment of political power and the relation
of ruler to ruled. Much of human history has lain in the production
and transformation of this relationship towards the point at which
eventually its asymmetry can be entirely removed.
The theme I wish to stress, then, is that the master-slave relation-
ship, as such, is something that is created in the struggle between the
confronting egos as the mode of unity—the mutual appropriation,
reconciliation, or ownness—which sublates (aufhebt—cancels, preserves,
while transcending) the opposition of the two agents, raising them up
into being the subjects of a new totality, with a new content and form,
which gives (albeit only a passing one, nevertheless) a fulfillment to their
mutual need for recognition.
The idea of master-slave, lord-bondsman, was an indispensable
creation in the history of the development of human society, and
it still remains as an indispensable creation in the history of human
individuality. Much of childhood’s suffering, as well as its fulfillment
and security, lies in the recognition it is compelled, by its own weak-
ness, to give to the adult-parent ego, finding its own selfhood in the
maturity, strength, and above all credible authority of the parent. The
suffering is greater when that authority later comes into question and
when, therefore, a new creative art of social appropriation of self and
other is needed—that is, the achievement of a new unified totality of
content, form, and the subjectivity of its own selfhood. This is part of
the search for one’s identity as outcome of the identity crisis and is the
clear counterpart, in the actual struggle for life, of the artist’s search
for artistic identity as he grows out of dependence on earlier forms,
traditions, and masters and finds himself cast into the outsideness and
indeterminateness of new existence.
Let us try to see how the master-slave relationship—despite the
negative attitude we presently have towards the subjection of ruled to
ruler, political subject to despotic king or dictator, serf to lord, slave to
slave owner—was nevertheless an actual creation, a step forward into
novelty and constructive order.
The egos, to begin with, are isolated within themselves; each, outside
the other, is not the other, and the other is not it; they are really differ-
ent. But difference among egos cannot remain as mere otherness: the
different is the strange and alien, and what is strange and alien is, or
rapidly becomes, hostile, an enemy. The further off people are from
us, the easier it is for us to regard them, and for them to regard us, as
actually or potentially hostile. We approach one another with caution,
for, being distant, without nearness, we are not neighbors, and so it
does not grieve one when the other is mishandled; on the contrary,
even we, who have been educated and disciplined in the values of the
high religions of the East and the West, find it easy enough to take the
position of master to the other as slave, determiner to determined.
The two thus become enemies. It is tempting to think that they could
have started at the very beginning as friends; but one does not know
how to think ‘friend’ except through thinking ‘enemy.’ Friendship needs
the long discipline of living together in the security of a social environ-
ment that cares for both. Enmity needs only the initial encounter of
those who are other to one another.
The two become enemies, however, because they need one another.
For outside the relationship of ego to ego, self to self, the ego cannot
find the ownness it needs in order to be itself. Without the alter ego
the ego is outside the Ereignis—outside the appropriation of being to
being, outside the reconciliation, the Versöhnung, which it needs in order
to come to its own. The step into enmity is already the first step on
the road to the creation of a genuinely human life. Instead of passing
one another by, the two are attracted to each other and in need of one
another. Egos are beings who, being an I, can have a ‘mine.’ And this
means that a further possibility—amazingly new, fecund, fraught with
the deepest potentialities of existence and truth—begins to appear. For,
if an ego can apprehend and appropriate something as mine, it is on
the point of being able to turn around and give itself also as ‘thine.’ It
needs only another ego, in whom it can recognize also the power of
owning, to which it is able to yield.
Both the mine and the thine are necessary for the new unity that
comes about between separate egos who have become enemies. In its
primitiveness each can think first only of possessing the other as its
own, as mine. To possess an other ego as mine means that the other
ego must give itself to me, so that I am its thine. Neither has as yet
learned how to give itself. They know only how to demand and try to
take what is other as their own. Each wants the other to belong to it,
but in the way in which an ego can belong to an ego—that is, by rec-
ognition, acknowledgment, giving of itself to the other (as gift) so that
the other’s self is its own self, its own essence—what is mine is thine,
even to the point of my own self. This is what the one ego wants of the
other; and the struggle to the death to achieve it is itself the creative
process of realizing this new, profound, soul-shaking idea.
Both egos are engaged in this process. The creative agent is neither
the one alone nor the other, but the two of them in a mutual structure
of consciousness of other and of self. There is a We in process of self-
formation, creating itself in and out of the I’s, first by developing in
and through their animosity as alien and estranged, and then by the
struggle of this animosity to bring itself into being in the definite shape
of the master-slave condition.
Underlying the process is the fundamental need and desire, the
passion to be free, to find ownness and otherness, self-recognition
in the other, or, as Heidegger’s phrase goes, to be ‘gathered in the
appropriation.’ This passion is the source of the dialectical structure
of the creative process. Gathering in appropriation needs, first of all,
the Enteignung, the de-appropriating, which is at the same time a ready-
ing of the appropriate to the appropriate, so that there can be a true
appropriation, an Ereignung, in which the others find their own. From
the mere sameness, the abstract difference, of the two egos, there had
to develop first their real difference, their opposition and alienation,
precisely in order that the struggle should begin in which they might
find in each other their own.
I have not the space to specify in detail how not only the master
finds his own in the slave, but also how the slave first begins to find
what is truly man’s own, and not merely this individual’s own, in the
discipline of rule, so that a creative process is started that looks towards
reconciliation at a level of ultimacy.
The struggle of the artist with his medium, and also with his society
and culture, his artistic competitors, his own past education, his habits
and the pregiven cast of his mind, the temptations of popular suc-
cess, and so many other factors of difference, is also a struggle to be
with all these as own, to transform others and self into a new shape,
gathering them all into a new appropriation in which they fit so as to
be able to live in freedom.
The struggle of every creative person—and this means every person
so long as he or she tries to continue to live in a meaningful way—is
this same dialectic of plunging into the alienation in order to reach
towards the appropriation, opening one’s self and one’s situation to the
factors of difference, opposition, and estrangement so as to permit the
possibility of a new living gathering.
As the bridge gathers the opposing shores of the river, the country
and city, the fields and streets, the one life and the other, into a recipro-
cal totality of ever-moving life, so the creative person bridges otherness
to gather what is alien into a new ownness.
The categories we must use to comprehend creativeness, wherever it
is, are those of identity, differentiation, and recovery, of estrangement
and reconciliation, the alien and the own, the gathering of differents
and opposites into the appropriation of a reciprocal ownness.
These are the categories of dialectical phenomenology, which have
yet to be tried for their power of enlightenment.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ARTISTIC RELEVANCE OF CREATIVITY
David Davies
Art historians tell us many fascinating things about the activities of

artists. From Kenneth Clark, we learn that Turner’s Snowstorm was
painted after Turner had himself fastened to the mast of a small boat
in a snowstorm, risking his life, and that in painting the picture, he
used a new method for representing light that was developed through
years of experimentation.1 Philip Steadman and David Hockney have
each argued, in different ways, that artists such as Jan van Eyck and
JohannesVermeer used various kinds of optical devices, including the
camera obscura, in generating their paintings.2 We also learn, from
scholars who have scrutinized canvasses with x-ray photography, that
many paintings (for example, Vermeer’s Woman with a Wine Glass) have
pentimenti that have been hidden from view through overpainting, and
that some paintings (for example, the Disciples at Emmaus, originally
attributed to Vermeer) have a completely different history of making
from the one previously assumed.
Turning to the other arts, Livingstone Lowes’s The Road to Xanadu
suggests that Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote “Kubla Khan” after tak-
ing opium, the poem being the unfinished transcription of something
that came to him in his reverie, and that the poem is unfinished due
to the untimely arrival of the person from Porlock.3 We learn that art-
ists sometimes fail to realize their artistic intentions in their work, as,
perhaps, in the case of Gerald Manley Hopkins whose poem “Henry
Purcell” arguably contains a line that says something different from what
1
Kenneth Clark, Looking at Pictures (London: John Murray, 1960).
2
P. Steadman, Vermeer’s Camera (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001);
D. Hockney, Secret Knowledge (London: Thames and Hudson, 2001).
3
J. Livingston Lowes, The Road to Xanadu (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1927).
214 david davies
Hopkins intended it to say.4 Film scholars reveal to us the sometimes

Byzantine processes whereby the films we see have been constructed
through the collaborative, or competitive, activities of directors, actors,
cinematographers, editors, and producers. They also inform us that
Thomas Vinterberg’s Festen was made according to the strict require-
ments of the Dogme 95 ‘vow of chastity,’ which prohibits inter alia
the use of artificial lighting, bringing standard props to the shoot, and
the use of fixed camera and non-diegetic music.
Such examples lead us to ask, what bearing our knowledge of the
history of making of an artwork—of ‘provenential properties’ of the
work, as we may call them—has upon our attempts to properly appre-
ciate and evaluate the work as art. Under what conditions can such
knowledge be ‘artistically relevant’ in the sense of having such a bearing?
In the present context, our interest is more specialized. For to view at
least some artistic activities of the sort just canvassed as manifestations
of the creative powers of the artist is natural.
As writers on the nature of creativity have stressed, we view an action
or process occurring in a given practice as creative only if it manifests
novelty that we view as valuable in the context of that practice, and
does so in a way that is attributable to the intentional and imaginative
agency of the individual(s) concerned.5 Some of the foregoing cases
are paradigm examples of artistic creativity so construed—for example,
Turner’s experimentation with the pictorial representation of light in
the medium of oil paint whose conclusions are manifest in Snowstorm,6
and Vinterburg’s re-explorations of the possibilities of the cinematic
medium using his restricted cinematic ‘palette.’
Conversely, we might view with a more jaundiced eye the relevant
activities of Vermeer, Coleridge, and Hopkins on the basis of what we
learn, in that certain valued features of the artistic products will now
be seen as the result of mechanical, accidental, or externally driven
4
For a discussion of this example, see G. Iseminger, “An Intentional Demonstration,”
in Intention and Interpretation (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992), 76–96.
5
See for example, C. R. Hausman, “Criteria of Creativity,” in The Concept of Creativity
in Science and Art, eds. Dutton and Krausz (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1981), 75–90.;
B. Gaut, B. and P. Livingston, The Creation of Art (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2003), 8–11; Gaut, “Creativity and Imagination,” in Gaut and Livingston, The
Creation of Art, 149–151.
6
Consider also Monet’s experimentation in capturing l’effet du neige, culminating
in pictures where this is captured with no use of white pigment at all, or Morris
Louis’s exploitation of the possibilities of the newly developed acrylics in his staining
technique.
the artistic relevance of creativity 215
processes, rather than as manifestations of the artist’s creativity. Do these

judgments, which are perhaps most naturally seen as bearing upon our
assessment of the activities of the artists themselves, also have some
bearing on the appreciation and evaluation of their works? Is creativity,
conceived as a characteristic of the process whereby an artist generates
an artistic product, artistically relevant in the sense defined above?
How we answer this question seems to depend upon how we rule as
to the artistic relevance of provenential properties in general, and this
in turn, as we shall see below, will depend upon how we understand
those activities in terms of which we have defined artistic relevance,
namely, the proper appreciation and evaluation of artworks as art.
Our pretheoretical intuitions as to the artistic relevance of provenential
properties certainly vary. For, in spite of the interest accorded them by
critics and curators, there is considerable disagreement and uncertainty
within the philosophical community as to whether the sorts of prove-
nential properties cited above are artistically relevant.7 This suggests
that we should begin by asking which, if any, provenential properties
are artistically relevant, and, if this holds for some, but not all, such
properties, what principle serves to effect such a distinction. Given an
answer to these questions, we can turn to our more specific concern
with the artistic relevance of creativity.
II
Before putting such a strategy into operation, however, three preliminary

matters require attention. First, a little more needs to be said about the
notion of artistic relevance, A property is artistically relevant for a given
work W, we have said, if it bears upon the proper appreciation and
evaluation of W as art. Some properties bear their artistic relevance on
their sleeve, in that they are the very properties to which we attend in
our appreciative engagement with an instance of the work and which
thereby play a part in our assessment of its value—for example, the
representational or expressive content of a painting. Such properties
might be said to be directly artistically relevant for W. Other properties
of W, however, while not directly artistically relevant, may be said to
7
See for example, J. Crook and T. Learner The Impact of Modern Paints (Lon-
don: Tate Gallery, 2000); D. Bomford, Art in the Making: Degas (London: National
Gallery, 2004).
216 david davies
be indirectly artistically relevant if they play a role in determining those

properties of the work that are directly artistically relevant. A natural
assumption, which we will have cause to question, is that provenential
properties will have at best indirect artistic relevance, through their
bearing on those properties of a work that are the proper objects of
artistic appreciation and evaluation.
Second, we must counter a possible objection arising from the
broader philosophical literature on creativity. I assumed above that the
issue concerning the artistic relevance of creativity pertains to aspects
of a work’s history of making. But some have argued that creativity is
first and foremost a property of the artistic product, not of the process
generative of that product. Larry Briskman, for example, claims:
the scientific or artistic product is not creative because it was produced by a
creative person or a creative process, but rather . . . both the psychological
processes involved, and the person involved, are deemed to be creative
because they succeeded in producing a product deemed to be creative. It
is the creativity of the product which has, so to speak, logical priority. . . .
The creativity of the product resides not in its psychological origins, but
in its objective relations to other, previous, products.8
He offers two arguments for the priority of the product. First, he
maintains that, while we can study certain personality traits and cer-
tain psychological processes as facts, “we cannot identify these traits or
processes as creative ones independently of our standards and values.”9
This is because creativity is only rightly ascribed to that which we think
should be highly valued. But, he argues, such ascriptions of value can
be made only on the basis of a person’s ‘output,’ the ‘products’ of their
activity. Second, he argues that we cannot even describe the creative
process without referring to the products that are its outcome, since
‘intermediary’ products are the focus of the artist’s ongoing generative
activity. The creativity of an artistic product, Briskman maintains, can
only be assessed relative to the artistic background of a given artistic
act, since only thus can we determine whether a product meets two
preconditions for being creative: (1) being novel, and (2) being valuable
as a solution to a problem which is not soluble by appeal to established
methods and mechanisms. Noël Carroll, citing Briskman, has proposed
a similar view, stressing that creativity is possible only given a tradition
8
L. Briskman, “Creative Product and Creative Process in Science and Art,” in The
Concept of Creativity in Science and Art, eds. Dutton and Krausz, 135–136.
9
Ibid., 137.
which underwrites the intelligibility of novelty. Carroll contrasts his

view of artistic creativity:
with the perhaps more common view that creative artworks are the ones
that flow from genius. That conception of creativity correlates it with
certain inner psychological processes—whatever happens when genius
does its work. My conception of artistic creativity has more to do with
the place of the artwork in outwardly observable social and historical
processes—the evolution of the relevant artworld.10
But we can grant the ‘priority of the product,’ as argued for by Brisk-
man and Carroll, without impugning the suggestion that, in asking
about the artistic relevance of creativity, we should focus upon the
generative activity of the artist. For both Briskman and Carroll are
targeting the idea that creativity is a quality of psychological processes
occurring in the artist. I, however, am concerned with creativity as a
quality ascribable to a manifest process whereby an artist engages in an
ongoing interaction with an artistic medium. The latter process evades
Briskman’s second ‘priority’ argument, since it involves an engagement
with the very intermediary products in terms of which the creative
process has to be described. The first priority argument is also evaded,
in that we are ascribing creativity to the performative output of the art-
ist. Furthermore, since our characterization of the artist’s engagement
with the artistic medium will locate that activity in an artistic context
to which various artistic moves can be seen as responses, we can also
agree with Briskman and Carroll that creativity itself, and ascriptions
of creativity, make sense only against the background of a tradition.
Finally, to clarify our question about the artistic relevance of pro-
venential properties in general and to facilitate the discussion in the
remainder of the paper, it will be helpful to introduce some terminol-
ogy.11 I shall use the term ‘focus of appreciation’ to denote certain
aspects of the product of the generative act through which an artwork
comes into existence. The focus of appreciation is that which, as the
final outcome or product of a generative act on the part of one or more
individuals, is relevant to the appreciation of the artwork brought into
existence through that act. We can think of the focus of apprecia-
tion in the following manner. Artworks, we may say, come into being
10
N. Carroll, “Art, Creativity, and Tradition,” in The Creation of Art, eds. Gaut and
Livingston, 208–234.
11
I develop this terminology at much greater length in chap. 3 of my Art as Perfor-
mance (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004).
218 david davies
because something is done in a context where this doing counts as

doing something else. For example, an individual applies oil paint to a
canvas, and this counts as the production of a painting to which various
representational, expressive, and formal properties can be ascribed by
receivers. An artist, then, creates a work by generating something that
receivers will interpret as having certain properties that bear on the
work’s appreciation. We can call the thing that the artist produces which
is open to such interpretation the artistic vehicle—for example, the painted
canvas by Turner titled Snowstorm which hangs on the wall of the Tate
Gallery in London. We can then term the meaningful properties that
viewers ascribe to that vehicle in their attempts to appreciate the work
the artistic content they take to be articulated through that vehicle—for
example, what they take the canvas to represent or express or what
formal or material properties they take it to make manifest.
The provenential properties of a work, then, pertain to the artistic
activity whereby a vehicular medium has been manipulated with the
intention of articulating an artistic content. They will comprise both
general relational features of that activity—when and where the activity
took place, what other activities preceded or were contemporaneous
with it, etc.—and specific, generally non-relational features of the
activity—who performed it, what materials were employed, what specific
actions made up the activity, the order in which they were performed,
and the aims of the agent.
III
For philosophers who subscribe to what Gregory Currie has termed

‘aesthetic empiricism’ (AE), the answer to our question about the artistic
relevance of provenential properties is simple: only those features of
provenance that are directly perceptible in an otherwise unmediated
experiential engagement with a genuine instance of the work are
artistically relevant.12 Works, it is assumed, are given for appreciation
in an experiential encounter with a perceptible entity—a canvas on a
gallery wall, for example, or the sequence of sounds produced by an
12
G. Currie, An Ontology of Art (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1989), chap. 2. For an
AE response to our question about the artistic relevance of provenential properties,
see M. C. Beardsley, “On the Creation of Art,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 23
(1965): 291–304.
orchestra—and only properties of W that are available to receivers in

such an encounter are artistically relevant. A widely voiced criticism of
AE, however, is that it greatly impoverishes our appreciation of artworks,
because much of a work’s specific artistic content depends not just upon
the manifest properties of the artistic vehicle but also, in many subtle
ways, upon the artistic context in which that vehicle was produced with
the aim of articulating a specific artistic content.13 Thus, it may be said,
we can identify a work’s focus of appreciation, and thereby appreciate
the work, only if we locate the manifest product—the vehicle—in the
context of its history of making. In arguing against AE, critics have
offered hypothetical examples where what are arguably distinct works
with distinct artistic contents would be indistinguishable on empiricist
grounds. Whether we consider Arthur Danto’s gallery of perceptually
indistinguishable ‘red rectangles,’14 Levinson’s ‘musical doppelgang-
ers,’15 or philosophers’ appeals to Borges’s ‘textually indistinguishable
works,’16 the intended lesson is the same. We cannot properly appreci-
ate the artistic content articulated through a work’s artistic vehicle and
thus properly ascribe artistic value to the work without attending to
the history of making of that vehicle—its place in the wider oeuvre
of the artist, the artistic context in which the artist is working, and the
broader tradition upon which the artist is drawing.17
IV
My concern in the present context, however, is not to rehearse well-worn

objections to AE, but to look at the status of provenential properties
if AE is rejected. If we agree that some features of the history of mak-
ing of an artwork not given in an immediate experiential encounter
with the work’s artistic vehicle are, in this way, artistically relevant,
13
See, for example, J. Levinson, “What a Musical Work Is,” Journal of Philosophy
77 (1980): 5–28; Arthur Danto, Transfiguration of the Commonplace (Cambridge Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1981), chap. 1; Currie, An Ontology of Art, chap. 2; Davies,
Art as Performance, chap. 2, 3.
14
Danto, Transfiguration of the Commonplace, chap. 1.
15
Levinson, “What a Musical Work Is.”
16
J. L. Borges, Labyrinths (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1970), 62–71.
17
For those allergic to such hypothetical examples, consider the ‘white canvasses’
of Kasimir Malevich, Robert Ryman, Yves Klein, and Hélio Oiticica, the artistic
differences among which are in no way explicable in terms of perceptible differences
among the canvasses.
220 david davies
what principle determines which such features are artistically relevant?

The critique of AE suggests the following answer: those provenential
properties that determine contentful aspects of the work-focus. We
may describe such provenential properties as ‘focus-determining,’ If a
work, with vehicle V, has artistic content M because V, with manifest
properties p1, p2 . . ., was generated in context C, or using material X,
then these provenential properties are focus-determining.
The kinds of provenential properties cited at the beginning of this
paper, however, do not in any obvious way play such a focus-determin-
ing role. Such properties will include overpainting, visible only through
x-ray technology; the use of devices such as the camera obscura; early
drafts or sketches of works whose design elements are superseded in
the finished vehicle; failed or unrealized semantic intentions on the
part of artists; experiments with the vehicular medium on which art-
ists draw in their manipulations of that medium in a given work; and
more broadly, biographical facts about how the artist acquired various
skills, dispositions, or interests bearing upon those manipulations. To
take one example, the artistic content articulated in Vermeer’s paint-
ings do not appear to depend upon whether he employed the camera
obscura or whether he overpainted. However the artistic vehicle was
produced, and whatever changes it underwent, it seems to bear on
our grasp of the work’s focus of appreciation simply as the resulting
painted surface.
We might respond to this situation in two ways. First, we might insist
that, if provenential properties are to be artistically relevant, they must
enter in some way into our experiential engagement with the artistic
vehicle. Suppose we say that a property p of an artwork W is experientially
relevant to the appreciation of W just in case the belief that W has p
makes a difference to those experiential engagements with an instance
of W that bear upon its proper appreciation and evaluation. Then we
might insist that provenential properties are artistically relevant only if
they are experientially relevant. Term this an ‘experiential criterion’ of
artistic relevance. Such a criterion entails that provenential properties,
if artistically relevant, can only be indirectly so unless they are somehow
directly accessible in the receiver’s experiential engagement with an
instance of the work.18 The challenge, in this case, to one who wishes
18
Patrick Maynard (“Drawing as Drawn: An Approach to Creation in an Art,”
in The Creation of Art, eds. Gaut and Livingston, 53–86) argues that how a drawing is
made is indeed directly accessible in this way.
to artistically enfranchise provenential properties that are not in any

obvious way focus-determining is to show how they can nonetheless
be experientially relevant.
Second, we might claim that provenential properties can be artisti-
cally relevant independently of being experientially relevant, because
the ‘achievement’ of the artist in generating a particular focus of
appreciation is itself an appreciable feature of the work that bears upon
both its proper appreciation and its artistic value. We might claim for
example, that ‘achievement properties’ of the sort that might be ascribed
to Turner, Vermeer, and Vinterberg bear directly upon the apprecia-
tion and evaluation of their works independently of how, if at all, our
knowledge of such properties affects our experiential engagement with
instances of the work. The claim here will be that some provenential
properties can be directly artistically relevant in this way. We may term
this the ‘augmented criterion’ of artistic relevance, since it allows for
both experiential and non-experiential elements entering directly into
the proper appreciation and evaluation of a work as art.
It is easy to see how one might argue for the artistic relevance of such
properties as originality and creativity if one adopts some form of the
augmented criterion. One writer who has argued in this way is Jerrold
Levinson. He claims that not only is art-making an activity that can
involve achievement, but also that the resulting work is the embodiment
of this achievement. It follows, for Levinson, that the work is logically
and appreciably inseparable from the activity that generates it. Since
originality (and creativity) can be qualities of the artist’s generative
activity, they are aspects of the work, and, so Levinson further claims,
aspects of the work that bear upon its proper appreciation and evalu-
ation. Those who deny that originality (and presumably creativity) are
artistically relevant are, he claims, guilty of equating artistic value with
aesthetic value—value that pertains to “the experienced rewards that
a work affords its audience.”19
Levinson nicely brings out here the view of artistic value that under-
lies experiential criteria of artistic relevance, a view that I have elsewhere
termed ‘enlightened empiricism.’ The enlightened empiricist, while
acknowledging the failings of AE and taking appropriate account of the
epistemological relevance of provenance, continues to uphold the basic
principle of empiricist axiology: the artistic value of a work resides in
19
J. Levinson, “Elster on Artistic Creativity,” in The Creation of Art, eds. Gaut and
Livingston, 235–256.
222 david davies
qualities of the experience it elicits in an appropriately primed receiver.

I have argued elsewhere that we should reject enlightened empiricism,20
and I concur with Levinson in thinking that, once we have done so,
we can view without problem the originality and creativity manifest in
the artist’s generative activity as having direct artistic relevance. Where
I disagree with Levinson is over the implications of proceeding in this
way. Levinson (and Denis Dutton)21 maintain that we can accommodate
the direct artistic relevance of an artist’s achievement (qua process) by
taking the resulting product to somehow ‘embody’ that achievement.
Differently, Gregory Currie and I have argued, in separate ways, that the
rejection of enlightened empiricism and the espousal of an augmented
criterion of artistic relevance require that we identify the artwork not
with the product of the artist’s activity so viewed, but with the action-
type enacted, or the token ‘doing’ performed, by the artist.22
Rather than rehearse these matters here, however, I want to con-
sider the options open for the enlightened empiricist who favors an
experiential constraint on artistic relevance that might, but need not,
enfranchise certain provenential properties that are not, at least on the
surface, focus-determining. I shall briefly survey two possible constraints,
before elaborating upon a third that I think is more promising. As we
shall see, whether artistic originality and creativity can satisfy any of
these constraints, save in a very limited class of cases, is questionable.
Thus, if we wish to uphold the artistic relevance of creativity for works
in general, we must pursue the second strategy. If creativity is artistically
relevant, then, I shall suggest, it must be directly relevant in virtue of
satisfying an augmented criterion of artistic relevance.
Consider, then, the claim that, to be artistically relevant, a provenential

property must be experientially relevant—must make some difference to
how we experience the art object in arriving at a proper appreciation
and evaluation of the work. In the case of focus-determining properties,
20
D. Davies, “Against ‘Enlightened Empiricism,’ ” in Contemporary Debates in Aesthetics
and the Philosophy of Art, ed. Matthew Kieran (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 22–34.
21
D. Dutton, “Artistic Crimes: The Problem of Forgery in the Arts,” British Journal
of Aesthetics 19 no. 4 (1979): 304–314.
22
See Currie, An Ontology of Art, chap. 3; Davies, Art as Performance, esp. chap. 8.
we already have an experientially relevant sufficient condition for artistic

relevance which might be expressed as follows: a provenential property
p of a work W is artistically relevant if knowledge of p is necessary for
the receiver to grasp some feature f of W ’s artistic content, given W ’s
artistic vehicle. For example, knowing that one of Danto’s red squares
is by a formalist painter and is intended to be non-representational and
non-expressive is necessary if I am to grasp that the canvas exemplifies
its redness and squareness, but lacks any expressive or representational
content. Call this the focus-determining criterion of artistic relevance.
It might be suggested, austerely, that a provenential property p that
fails to satisfy this criterion can be experientially relevant only if there
is some manifest feature of the artistic vehicle that provides defeasible
evidence for p. Term this an ‘evidential’ criterion of the artistic relevance
of provenential properties. A painter’s use of a camera obscura might
satisfy this criterion if there is some perspectival distortion in the picture
of the kind produced by cameras in general: this would be defeasible
evidence that a camera obscura was used. Then we might consider a
disjunctive experiential criterion of artistic relevance for provenential
properties of works, whose disjuncts are the evidential criterion and the
focus-determining criterion.23 Term this disjunctive criterion C1.
The evidential component in C1 faces difficulties, however. First, its
extension is unclear. Suppose, for example, that I know how difficult
it is to represent a given object without using a certain kind of opti-
cal device. Then the excellence with which that object is depicted in
a painting might seem to be defeasible evidence of the use of such a
device. Indeed, this is precisely how David Hockney argues for the use
of a camera obscura to represent the chandelier in van Eyck’s Arnolfini
Wedding.24 Does this count as a legitimate application of the evidential
criterion? Second, on its most obvious reading, the evidential criterion
cannot admit the artistic relevance of provenential properties of which
the artistic vehicle once provided, but no longer provides, perceptual
evidence. For example, ‘having originally been painted’ as a property
of Greek statues, ‘having been completed in manner x,’ as a property
of damaged paintings or frescoes, and ‘having originally been brightly
colored,’ as a property of Turner’s watercolors, executed, by choice,
23
I take it that this is what Kathleen Stock’s proposal (“On Davies’ Argument from
Relational Properties,” Acta Analytica 20 [2005]: 24–31) amounts to, given the non-
empiricist gloss that she provides for talk of ‘manifest’ properties.
24
Hockney, Secret Knowledge.
224 david davies
using ‘fugitive’ pigments. To accord with our reflective artistic practice

in such cases, it seems that we must allow that a provenential property
that fails to satisfy the focus-determining criterion may be artistically
relevant now even when there is no present perceptual evidence. But
this calls into question the rationale for having an evidential criterion
of artistic relevance in the first place. If evidence need not be evidence
for us, why is it crucial to artistic relevance?
Derek Matravers has proposed an experiential criterion of artistic
relevance that eschews any kind of evidential criterion. He proposes,
instead, what might be seen as a development of the focus-determin-
ing criterion in C1.25 Generalizing from the example of a piece of
music played with the left hand, Matravers suggests that provenential
properties that are not obviously focus-determining can be artistically
relevant in virtue of the fact that the work product WP can possess
the following property:
It is appropriate that we have an experience-of-WP-as-being-
produced-by-method-Q.
I assume that this is intended to yield something like the follow-
ing criterion:
C2: A provenential property p is artistically relevant iff (or only
if ?) it is appropriate to experience the work-product as being pro-
duced by p.
This criterion, unlike the disjunctive C1, seems to apply to both focus-
determining and some non-focus-determining provenential properties
of works. Thus Vermeer’s presumed use of a camera obscura in pro-
ducing a painting is artistically relevant just in case it is appropriate,
in appreciating the work, to experience the canvas as having been so
produced. On the other hand, Coleridge’s consumption of opium
prior to writing “Kubla Khan” is not artistically relevant if it is not
appropriate to experience the text as having been written by someone
who had just consumed opium. As Matravers points out, if we accept
C2, then which provenential properties enter into the proper appre-
ciation of works will depend upon: (1) when it makes sense to claim
that a fact about the generative process can enter into experience of
the work-product in this way; and (2) when it makes sense to say that
25
D. Matravers, “Two Comments and a Problem for Davies’ Performance Theory,”
Acta Analytica 20 (2005): 32–40.
it is ‘appropriate’ to experience the work-product as having a given

provenential property.
Given that we currently lack a well-founded and generally accepted
account of what can enter into the content of experience, there will,
as he notes, be a crucial indeterminacy in this answer to our original
question about the bearing of provenance on appreciation. There is
a further aspect of C2 which requires clarification. According to C2,
which provenential properties are artistically relevant depends not only
upon how we view the possible contents of experience, but also upon
what makes it appropriate to experience the work as having been pro-
duced in a given manner. In the ‘played with the left hand’ example,
if we know the piece was composed for a pianist who only had a left
hand, the warrant for hearing it as played with the left hand is similar
to that for hearing a piece scored for a given instrument as played on
that instrument rather than as played on a perfect timbral synthesiser.
But what might make it appropriate to experience a Vermeer painting
as generated with the help of a camera obscura?
VI
C2 is on the right track, however, if we are to formulate a principled

and adequate experiential criterion of artistic relevance. Such a criterion
must tie artistic relevance in some way—but not evidentially—to our
experiential engagement with the product of artistic activity. Rather
than appeal here to norms prescribing what a work product should
be experienced as, we might tie artistic relevance to a determinate
role played in our appreciative engagement with the work-product in
something like the following manner:
C3: provenential property p of a work W is artistically relevant iff our
taking W to have p affects the way in which we experientially attend to the artistic
vehicle of W in correctly determining W’s focus of appreciation, and
in particular the artistic content articulated through that vehicle.
The restriction, in C3, to experiential attention that determines the focus
of appreciation is required because all sorts of information about a
work—intuitively quite irrelevant to its proper appreciation as art—may
affect how we ‘experientially attend to an artistic vehicle’ if this notion
is not so restricted. For example, I may look at a painting differently if
I know it was purchased for an immense sum, or was once stolen from
226 david davies
the gallery, or was painted in order to settle a gambling debt. But in

none of these cases does such experiential attention to the picture seem
to enter into determining the nature of the artistic vehicle or what the
picture represents, or expresses, or manifests as a design.
To put some flesh on this proposal, we must clarify how knowledge of
a vehicle’s history of making can affect the experiential attention through
which we determine the work-focus, and more particularly the artistic
content articulated in a work. With focus-determining properties, this
seems fairly clear. But our question is whether, and how, provenential
properties that are not focus-determining can nonetheless be artistically
relevant by C3. The following proposal merits consideration. What we
take a work to represent, express, or exemplify depends not merely
upon the undifferentiated manifold presented to us through the artistic
vehicle, but, more crucially, on the kind of order we find in the elements
making up that manifold, and the sense we find in that order. Faced
with such an array of elements, we must always ask, ‘why those elements
in that order?’ In our attempts to determine the order of elements in
an artistic manifold and the sense to be given to that order, we posit
an intentional process of ordering those elements to some purpose.
Knowledge of provenential properties that are not focus-determining
may then affect how we relate the elements in a manifold to such an
intentional process.
For example, early drafts or sketches may reveal how the original
conception of a work such as Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon differs
from its final form and thus affect the order and sense we see in the
latter, and evidence of pentimenti may clarify why the manifest aspects
of the painting are as they are.26 Many of the problematic provenential
properties cited at the beginning of this paper can be seen to be artisti-
cally relevant through applying C3 so construed. For example, where
we take some element in a work to be unintended, or where we take
a poem to be unfinished because its composition was interrupted, we
operate with different standards of adequacy in assessing whether an
interpretation of the work is sufficiently accountable to the elements
that make up the artistic manifold. Where the use of a camera obscura
or some other manipulative technique does manifest itself in some
perceivable feature of the artistic vehicle, we do not look for some
26
For a development of this idea in defense of a moderate intentionalist view
of interpretation, see P. Livingston, “Pentimento,” in The Creation of Art, eds. Gaut
and Livingston.
deeper explanation of why the vehicle possesses that feature. This is

why it can sometimes be relevant that there is an experienceable mark
of provenance, although this cannot serve as a criterion of artistic
relevance as wrongly assumed in C1. Similarly, knowing that Festen is a
Dogme 95 film, we do not require a more substantive explanation of
those features of the artistic vehicle that reflect adherence to the vow
of chastity in the making of the film.
On the other hand, it might be said that neither Turner’s maritime
adventures nor Coleridge’s consumption of opium satisfy C3’s con-
straints on artistic relevance. In neither case, it would seem, would
knowledge of such facts affect the experiential attention through which
we determine the artistic statement articulated through the artistic
vehicle. Note, though, that both of these provenential properties might
satisfy C3 under certain circumstances—where, for example, there are
certain distinctive features of verbal processing under the influence
of opium that can be cited to explain otherwise puzzling aspects of
the poem “Kubla Khan.” But this may be a strength of C3, since it
seems to be on a par with explaining puzzling features of a Renais-
sance painting (‘What is that dog doing there?’) in terms of what was
specified by a patron.
VII
Something like C3 is, I think, the most promising option if we seek an

experiential criterion of artistic relevance that will both accommodate
focus-determining properties of the sort advanced as objections to
AE, and provide us with a principled way of allowing some, but not
all, other provenential properties to have artistic relevance in appro-
priate circumstances. Expressed in terms of our earlier terminology,
C3 allows that provenential properties that are not focus-determining
in any direct sense can play a crucial role in our appreciation of the
contextualized product of the artist’s activity, by indirectly contributing
to the experiential attention through which we determine the focus of
appreciation. But clearly C3, if understood in the manner elaborated,
will deny artistic relevance to features of provenance that cannot be
seen to bear either directly or in this indirect way on our grasp of the
artistic content articulated in a work. This might apply to the extensive
experimentation upon which Turner drew in rendering light through
color in Snowstorm: while a knowledge of the conclusions which Turner
228 david davies
drew from such experimentation may indeed help us to make sense

of way in which pigment is distributed on canvas in the painting, it
is unclear that knowledge of the process whereby Turner arrived at
such conclusions can bear in this indirect way upon the experiential
engagement with the canvas whereby we determine the work’s focus of
appreciation. If we share Kenneth Clark’s judgment that the ‘major feat
of pictorial intelligence’ involved in Turner’s use of color to represent
light in Snowstorm is crucial to appreciating Snowstorm as a painting,27
then there may still be provenential properties for whose intuitive
artistic relevance C3 is unable to account. Similar reasoning might rule
against ascribing artistic relevance to Monet’s experimentation in using
the medium of oil paint to capture ‘l’effet de neige,’ or to Morris Louis’s
development of the ‘staining’ technique using acrylic paint that gives
his paintings their translucent qualities.
But—and here we can finally bring our reflections thus far to bear on
our central theme—while diverse activities entering into the history of
making of an artistic vehicle may, through C3, be seen to have artistic
relevance, it is difficult to see how this can be extended to the creativity
manifested in those activities. For, as we saw earlier, talk of the creativity
manifested in the activities generative of an artistic vehicle is talk of
something achieved in the carrying out of those activities—something
in the doing which is novel, and is viewed as making a valuable con-
tribution to artistic practice and the achievement of its goals, whatever
the latter be taken to be. C3 poses a direct challenge to the artistic
relevance of creativity so construed because it denies that features of
provenance can be artistically relevant simply in virtue of their bearing
on the doing generative of an artistic vehicle that articulates a particular
artistic statement. C3 entails that, unless they are somehow manifest in
artistic product, achievement properties can be artistically relevant only
indirectly, through their contribution to the experiential attention to the
artistic vehicle through which we try to grasp what is thereby articu-
lated. This appears to entail that it is only by virtue of contributing to
the achievement construed as product, rather than of being a feature of the
achievement viewed as process, that an artist’s generative achievement can
satisfy C3. But creativity as we are understanding it for the purposes
of this paper is a characteristic of the process, not of the product, even
27
Clark, Looking at Pictures.
though it is only in virtue of certain merits of the product as embedded

in its context of generation that the process is properly so viewed.
VIII
But can creativity or originality ever count as artistically relevant on an

experiential criterion such as C3? It will be illuminating here to consider
an argument offered against the artistic relevance of originality which
might seem to extend very naturally to creativity. Originality, Bruce
Vermazen has maintained, has no bearing on a work’s ‘artistic value,’
its value as a work of art.28 Originality can be thought to contribute to
artistic value only if it is taken to involve not just newness, but newness
in some respect that we take to be of independent value. He suggests
the following analysis:
A work is original if and only if it is new with respect to some property
p, that is, it has property p and no work (or no work in that medium),
so far as the maker knew, had p before that point, and property p is an
aesthetically valuable property.29 But then we may pose the following
question: ‘Where originality amounts to newness with respect to some-
thing good. . . . what reason is there to count the originality as a merit of
the work over and above the merit the thing or property has aside from
its originality?’30
Vermazen offers two arguments in support of his contention that there
is in fact no good reason to view originality as itself a merit. First, he
argues that, if originality is to make a separate contribution to the good-
ness of a work, we require a situation in which two works, O1 and O2,
satisfy the following three conditions: (1) O1 and O2 are alike in all their
aesthetically valuable properties; aside from originality; (2) O1 is new
in some respect in which O2 is not; (3) we feel compelled to say that
O1 is better. But, he argues, we have good reason to think there can be
no such situations. For consider Franz Hals’s portraits, which resemble
one another in style and differ only in their subjects. Does the first of
these portraits have a distinct artistic value in virtue of being the one in
which Hals initiated the style of portraiture manifest in the rest of the
28
B. Vermazen, “The Aesthetic Value of Originality,” Midwest Studies in Philosophy
16 (1991): 266–279.
29
Ibid., 271.
30
Ibid., 270.
230 david davies
oeuvre? Vermazen maintains that any preference for the first portrait
can pertain only to its historical value, not to its artistic value.
Vermazen’s second argument focuses on a possible counter-example
to his claim about the artistic relevance of originality. Russian formalists
held that the proper goal of a literary work is to defamiliarize either
the objects represented or the subject’s act of receiving the text. On
one version of this view, the poet’s task is to ‘deautonomize’ its act of
creation and the reader’s act of reception by means of foregrounding,
and successful foregrounding seems to require that the text of the poem
depart from what has been done before in striking ways. Thus, it might
be argued, striking originality in what the poet does is a necessary
condition for achieving the proper goal of poetry, and thus of artistic
value. Vermazen counters this line of argument by claiming that, if
originality is tied to foregrounding, it is not an enduring property of
the work even if it is an enduring property of the generative act of
the poet. For how a stylistic property of the text affects the readers
depends upon the background that they bring to their encounter with
the text. While certain stylistic features may have deautonomized the
reading experience for contemporaries of the poet, they will cease to
have that effect as readers become familiar with the poem, or as the
stylistic ‘novelties’ become an accepted part of the literary culture.
Thus foregrounding is not an enduring feature of the work required
for its proper appreciation, and originality, even if it is a precondition
for foregrounding, is not thereby artistically relevant.
Given the nature of Vermazen’s arguments, and given the conceptual
links between originality and creativity as characteristics of an agent’s
generative activity, it seems that, if these arguments count against the
relevance for artistic value of originality, they extend to the purported
artistic relevance of creativity. Where an artist’s creativity results in a
valuable innovation in the use of an artistic medium, for example, it
might be argued that appreciating and assessing the value of the work
itself depends only on grasping the artistic qualities realized through
the innovation and neither on the originality nor the creativity of the
artistic activity that brought that innovation about.
I think we have good reason to question at least the second of
Vermazen’s arguments, which rests on the assumption that the artistic
qualities rightly ascribed to a work in its proper appreciation depend
upon how its strikes the receiver in whatever context the receiver finds
itself. This assumption, or something like it, is necessary if, as Verme-
zen claims, we are to count the ‘foregrounding’ effect sought by the
formalist poet as a property of the poet’s action but not of the poem
because only receivers contemporary with the poet will achieve this
effect. But this assumption seems highly questionable if we look at the
kinds of properties we want to ascribe to works. Marcel Duchamp’s
Readymades, for example, strike the artistically informed modern viewer
as familiar, unthreatening, and almost endearing given the much more
extreme offerings of late modern visual art. But to appreciate Duchamp’s
works, and to correctly assess their artistic value, we must characterize
them as shocking, radical, provocative, and subversive. What matters
in determining the experienced artistic qualities of a work that bear
upon its appreciation and evaluation is how the work would affect
an appropriate receiver. In the case of certain affective properties that
depend upon the anticipated context of reception for the work, our
own responses may not track those of an appropriate receiver, and our
failure to experience a particular quality does not show that the work,
qua object of artistic appreciation, lacks that property or has lost it.
Rather, it only shows that certain appreciable properties of the work
may not be directly available to us since we fail to share the anticipated
context of reception for the work. We can recognize the shocking and
radical nature of Duchamp’s Fountain because we can gauge how the
work struck members of the target audience, not because we ourselves
find it shocking. So, returning to the case of the Russian formalist
poems, that certain stylistic features are foregrounded is a feature of
the poem and not just of the artist’s activity, even though they are not
foregrounded for us when we read the poem.
Suppose that we grant that originality is a precondition for foreground-
ing, and that foregrounding can be a property of the work. Vermazen’s
first argument can still hold that it does not follow that originality has
some independent bearing on a work’s artistic value. What contributes to
the work’s artistic value, he might claim, is the foregrounding itself, and
the work acquires no additional value, qua work, from the originality
that is a precondition for that foregrounding. But, even if we grant this
claim about artistic value, it seems that originality, in the case in ques-
tion, is artistically relevant in the sense of C3. Knowledge of originality
bears crucially upon the work’s proper appreciation, and thereby on its
proper evaluation. For foregrounding to work for a particular receiver,
the medium must be manipulated in a manner with which she is unfa-
miliar, and for foregrounding to be a property of the work itself this
must be the case for all appropriately informed receivers. But a given
receiver for whom a feature of the work is foregrounded can justifiably
232 david davies
impute foregrounding to the work only if she assumes that she is react-
ing in the way an appropriately informed receiver would react—in
other words, only if she recognizes that what is unfamiliar for her will
be unfamiliar for such a receiver—that is, that the relevant features of
the work are original for such a receiver. In other words, even if it is
foregrounding, and not originality, that contributes to a work’s artistic
value, it is only in virtue of recognizing the work’s originality that the
receiver can justifiably ascribe the property of foregrounding and the
consequent artistic value. So, in at least this special case, originality is
artistically relevant by C3.
Again, in this special case, the same considerations apply if we
consider those stylistic originalities that are rightly viewed as creative—
where the originality, given the context, is traceable to what the artist
intentionally did. For intending to do X is plausibly taken to be at least
a necessary condition for X’s being part of what one achieves, even if
some of the properties rightly attributed to a work are not intended by
the artist: for such unintended properties are not part of what the artist
achieved. But then, to the extent that we take what an artist achieves,
in the product sense, to bear on the appreciation of the artist’s work,
foregrounding will be part of the its concrete achievement only if the
artist’s manipulations of the medium are not only original for appro-
priate receivers but also intended to be original. The deliberate and
intentional generation of something novel that contributes to the value
of a work seems to be just what is involved in artistic creativity. So, in
the special case under consideration, the originality of a work and the
creativity of the artistic process seem to be artistically relevant in the
sense of C3 in that knowledge of both of these dimensions of a work
is required for its proper appreciation, even if we agree with Vermazen
that the originality (and by extension the creativity) does not make an
independent contribution to the work’s artistic value.
IX
Foregrounding, I have suggested, may represent an example of an appre-

ciable property of a work whose recognition presupposes the receiver’s
apprehension of both the originality of the work and the creativity of
the process generative of the artistic product. But this is a limited vic-
tory at best for the proponent of the artistic relevance of creativity. For
the argument offered above with respect to foregrounding seems to be
limited to the special case—it does not, for example, admit of any exten-
sion to the Franz Hals case cited by Vermazen. Furthermore, creativity
is deemed to be artistically relevant only indirectly, through its bearing
on the ascription of contentful features bearing on the work’s artistic
value. No artistic value has been shown to attach to creativity itself. As
suggested earlier, our reflections strongly suggests that, if a case is to
be made for the artistic relevance of creativity in any richer sense, that
case must be made by taking aspects of the generative process to bear
directly upon the artistic value of a work, rather than seeing any such
bearing as necessarily mediated by what was achieved or produced by
that activity. In other words, to defend the artistic relevance of creativ-
ity in anything other than the very limited sense for which I have just
argued, we need to espouse an augmented, rather than an experiential,
criterion of artistic relevance. But this, as I also suggested earlier, may
have wider ramifications for our conception of artworks.
PART THREE
FORMS AND DOMAINS OF CREATIVITY

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CREATIVITY: HOW DOES IT WORK?
Margaret Boden
I Introduction
Creativity is the ability to come up with ideas that are new, surprising,
and valuable.1 I am using ‘idea’ as shorthand, catchall term here. It
can be a concept, a poetic image, a scientific theory, or even a particu-
lar form of taxation, all of which are commonly called ideas. But it
can also mean a style of painting or dancing, a way of building
a bridge or skinning a cat, a millinery design, a cooking recipe, a
recipe for home-made bombs—or even a plan for delivering them to
maximum effect.
As that long list suggests, we find creativity in every area of life: not
just art, science, or business. Moreover, it is an aspect of normal adult
human intelligence. So every one of us has it, although some of us
display it more often, and more convincingly, than others do. By ‘more
convincingly,’ I mean that some people repeatedly produce ideas highly
regarded as valuable—and which, so far as is known, no one else has
ever had before. (They are ‘historically’ creative, or H-creative.) Most
people, by contrast, produce only moderately interesting ideas, many
of which are already known by other people, even if new for the indi-
vidual concerned. (They are ‘psychologically,’ or ‘personally,’ creative:
P-creative, for short.)
What different people regard as interesting varies, so new ideas
can be valuable in many different ways. Encyclopedia writers, gallery
curators, chemists, sculptors, property developers, entrepreneurs, and
advertising executives focus on different sorts of creative idea, differ-
ent sorts of value. But for all these groups, they are most interested in
H-creativity. However, if an idea is H-creative it must necessarily be
P-creative too.
1
Margaret Boden, The Creative Mind: Myths and Mechanisms (London, Routledge,
2004).
238 margaret boden
So the first step to understanding H-creativity is to understand

P-creativity. We need to ask how someone can come up with an idea
that they have never had before. Some of those ideas will turn out to
be H-creative also, but the core processes—though not the details—of
idea generation are much the same in all cases.
Understanding how P-creativity works would be interesting in itself,
as an exercise in psychology. But it would also be useful because if we
want to encourage creativity, in our schoolchildren or in the workforce,
we had better have some idea of just what sorts of mental process
are involved. We will see, in Section IV below, that different types of
creativity can be fostered in different ways. Although all of them can
be—and, sadly, too often are—discouraged in much the same way.
Some people appear to be offended by questions about how creativ-
ity works, believing that it is not possible for us to understand this. If
they merely mean that we cannot usually know, in every detail, how
this or that novel idea (poetic image, symphony, mathematical proof )
came about on a particular occasion, then they are right. Quite apart
from anything else, we do not usually know enough about the contents
of the individual creator’s mind—even if that individual is oneself.
But if they mean that we cannot understand the general principles by
which creative ideas arise, then they are mistaken. Creativity does not
work by magic or by divine inspiration. We cannot explain it in terms
of intuition. It is true, to be sure, that creativity involves intuition, but
to say that does not tell us much, since the word ‘intuition’ is just a
placeholder for some unknown psychological process, invisible even
to creative persons. If we want to understand how creativity is pos-
sible, how human minds can come up with ideas that are both new
and valuable, we cannot rely on appeals to intuition. Something more
constructive needs to be said. In other words, we need to understand
how intuition works.
Creativity is not the only mental ability that depends on ‘invisible’
(non-introspectible) processes. For instance, we are unaware of the pro-
cesses that enable us, most of the time, to speak in perfectly grammatical
sentences. But creativity seems especially mysterious because its results,
unlike grammatical sentences, are always surprising—and sometimes
utterly amazing. If one compares the surprise we experience in various
cases of creativity, one will find three different sorts of surprise.
We may be surprised because a new idea is statistically unusual,
contrary to commonsense expectations—like an outsider winning the
Kentucky Derby. We may be surprised because we had not realized that
creativity: how does it work? 239
the new idea had been a possibility all along. For example, compare
discovering a beautiful village tucked away in a hollow between two
spurs of the Motorway. Its location had always been marked on the
map, but we had not examined the whole map closely. Or, we may
be surprised by something that we had previously thought impossible,
and which we still see as utterly counterintuitive. For example, think
of the very first exhibition of Impressionist paintings, or imagine the
impact on non-physicists of the introduction of wireless, or television.
In such cases, a particular creative idea appears as if it simply could
not have arisen—yet it did. These three sorts of surprise correspond
to three ways of coming up with new ideas, three different answers to
our question, How does creativity work? In other words, they point to
three types of creativity—discussed in Section II, below.
Another kind of surprise focuses not on the nature or likelihood of
the idea itself but on its being offered to us as something valuable. As
remarked above, values in many areas are disputable—and even highly
changeable. Sometimes, they can change virtually overnight—due to
commercial decisions in the fashion industry for instance (enticing the
public to buy new clothes even though they are not strictly needed),
or to what some widely admired ‘celebrity’ happened to wear to a
high-profile party. At other times, the change may take years to hap-
pen. The first Impressionist paintings had to be shown in a special hall
because the official exhibition would not accept them. After having
been nearly universally rejected at first, they can now be seen every
day on birthday cards and boxes of chocolates. This gradual change
from disgusted rejection to clichéd acceptance is a special case of the
value-change that typically accompanies the third type of creativity
discussed below.
There may, of course, be some universal (or nearly universal) values,
more resistant to cultural change. Two possible examples are the prefer-
ence for symmetry and shininess. Quite apart from their cross-cultural
popularity, there are good biological reasons why valuing these two
characteristics has evolved.2 In addition, psychologists have identified
other naturally evolved tendencies to favor perceptible features, and
behave towards them in a particular way; certain shapes or textures,
for instance, suggest opportunities for locomotion, feeding, holding,
stroking, or courting. These nearly-universal values are prominent in
2
Margaret Boden, Mind as Machine: Myths and Mechanisms, two vol. (London: Rout-
ledge, 2006), vol. 1, 553–556.
240 margaret boden
craftworks, which is why the crafts are readily intelligible across cultures.3
But even biologically based values can be deliberately transgressed and
their opposites admired in their stead. Think of the highly asymmetrical
architecture of Daniel Libeskind, for example.
In short, the surprise we feel on encountering a creative idea is
sometimes due, in part, to the unfamiliar values that we are being
invited to adopt. Mostly, however, it is due to the novelty of the idea
in itself. We are surprised that it even happened, regardless whether
it is obviously ‘valuable.’ Here, the three sorts of surprise listed above
correspond to three different ways of coming up with new ideas, three
different answers to the question, How does creativity work?
II Three Types of Creativity
Three types of creativity are combinational, exploratory, and transfor-

mational.4 These types are distinguished by the types of psychological
process involved in generating the new idea. The exercise and appre-
ciation of each of these forms of creativity depends upon specific
cultural knowledge. Someone from a different culture may not even be
able to recognize the novelty involved, and a fortiori may not be able to
understand or value it. The ‘someone from a different culture’ need
not be a foreigner: they may be your next-door neighbor, equipped
with a range of knowledge and cultural interests different from yours.
If so, they will have to undergo a learning process if they are ever to
understand the novelty and to appreciate its value.
Combinational creativity involves the generation of unfamiliar (and
interesting) combinations of familiar ideas. In general, it gives rise to
the first type of surprise mentioned above. Just as one does not expect
the outsider to win the Derby because that is, statistically unusual, so
one does not expect ideas X and Y to be combined. On the contrary,
they are normally regarded as being mutually irrelevant.
Everyday examples of combinational creativity include visual collage
(in advertisements and MTV videos, for instance), much poetic imagery,
all types of analogy (verbal, visual, or musical), and the unexpected
juxtapositions of ideas found in political cartoons in newspapers. Each of
3
Margaret Boden, “Crafts, Perception, and the Possibilities of the Body,” British
Journal of Aesthetics 40 (2000): 289–301.
4
Boden, The Creative Mind, chap. 3–6.
these can sometimes be both startlingly novel and hugely appropriate—

highly creative. Think of the most telling images in your favorite poetry,
or of the last newspaper cartoon that made you laugh aloud on your
train journey. In either case, the two (or more) conjoined ideas are not
obviously relevant to each other—hence part of your surprise. Yet, on
further consideration, you can see that they allow an interpretation
wherein they are closely, perhaps very closely, linked—hence the other,
and especially satisfying, part of your surprise.
Many attempts to define creativity, even within the specialist psycho-
logical literature, confine it to this first type alone. Thinking that forming
unfamiliar combinations is the only creative game in town is a mistake,
for exploratory and transformational creativity are different. They are
both grounded in some previously existing, and culturally accepted,
structured style of thinking—what one can call a ‘conceptual space.’
Of course, combinational creativity depends on a shared conceptual
base—but this is, potentially, the entire range of concepts and world
knowledge in someone’s mind. A conceptual space is both more limited
and more tightly structured. It may be a board game, for example,
or a particular type of music or painting, or a way of visualizing the
structure of molecules in chemistry.
In exploratory creativity, the existing stylistic rules or conventions are
used to generate novel structures (ideas), whose possibility may or may
not have been realized before the exploration took place. To continue
the analogy mentioned in Section I, you may or may not have had
some reasons to expect to find an unknown village nestling between
the Motorways. The vast majority of creative work in the arts and sci-
ences is of this kind (philosophers of science call exploratory creativity
‘normal’ science).5
Exploratory creativity is not to be sneezed at. There are three rea-
sons for this. First, most artists and scientists spend their working time
engaged in exploratory creativity. Only very few go beyond it, and they
do so only occasionally. Second, exploratory creativity can produce
highly valued (beautiful, useful, interesting) structures, or ideas. Even if
you were already familiar with nineteenth-century Impressionism, upon
entering a room full of previously-unseen Impressionist canvasses, only
a mind-numbing glut of chocolate boxes would lead you to say “Oh
no! Not more Monets!”
5
Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago, Ill., University of
Chicago Press, 1962).
242 margaret boden
Finally, exploratory creativity can often offer surprises deeper than

merely seeing the previously unseen. For it need not be a matter of
adopting the current style unthinkingly. It can also involve the deliberate
search for, and testing of, the specific stylistic limits concerned. To do
that is to discover just which types of structure can be generated within
this space, and which cannot. If you have ever visited a retrospective
exhibition of a painter’s life-work, with canvasses arranged chronologi-
cally, you will have seen this process. (Had it not, there would be little
interest in showing the years-long collection of work. Only a doting
family member, with more money than sense, would have arranged
such an exhibition.)
In testing the potential and limits of the adopted style, exploratory
creativity sometimes involves varying it too. Some of the rules, con-
ventions, or constraints that define the style can be slightly altered or
‘tweaked’ (again, this is readily visible in a retrospective exhibition). In
that case, the new ideas that arise would not—could not—have arisen
without the tweaking. Nevertheless, they will clearly be ‘of a piece
with’ (in the same general style as) the earlier, more familiar, examples.
As such, they will be readily intelligible, in terms of the methods of
interpretation already in place to understand the style. They may cause
an extra frisson of excitement, but no amazement—and certainly no
bewildered incomprehension. Instead, amazement, bewilderment, and
incomprehension are caused by transformational creativity. For it is this
which leads to ‘impossibilist’ surprise because some deep dimension of
the thinking style, or conceptual space, is altered—so that structures
can now be generated which could not be generated before, and which
are not all of a piece with the previous style.
Imagine altering the rule of chess that says pawns cannot jump over
other pieces so they are now allowed to do this, as knights always were.
The result would be that some games could now be played, which were
literally impossible before. Similarly, to start painting abstract pictures,
where previously the paintings had all been representational, is to invite
incomprehension as well as to cause surprise. The greater the altera-
tion, and the more fundamental the stylistic dimension concerned, the
greater the shock of impossibilist surprise.
The distinction between tweaking and ‘transforming,’ and therefore
between exploratory and transformational creativity, is a matter of
degree. After all, I said above that the novel ideas occurring after the
exploratory tweaking ‘could not have arisen’ before. However, in explor-
atory creativity, the variation in style is relatively minor and relatively
superficial. That is why the result is readily intelligible, even though it

is a novel variation as well as a novel structure. It is also why the result
is immediately accepted as valuable, not rejected as disturbing—still
less, as absurd.
Transformational creativity is different, because here the variation is
greater and the stylistic dimension being varied is deeper. The resulting
change is so marked that the new idea may be difficult to accept, or
even to understand. Sometimes, many years will have to pass before it
can be valued by anyone outside a small group of aficionados. Picasso’s
pioneering cubist canvas of Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, for instance, was
initially spurned even by his close circle of fellow artists. He kept it
hidden in his studio for several years before exhibiting it.
Even in transformational creativity, not every dimension of the style
will have been changed. So there will be both structural continuities
and structural discontinuties between the untransformed space and its
seemingly impossible successor. The nature of these continuities and
discontinuities will affect the valuation of the new idea. Consider our
example of the transformed chess game, for instance. If some feature
of the game, which you had enjoyed before the change, is retained,
then you will find something to enjoy in the transformed version. You
may, however, be so averse to jumping pawns—perhaps doing so makes
you feel giddy—that you decide to revert to old-style chess. Transfor-
mationally creative thinkers may add new rules and drop or vary old
ones. They may then engage on a lengthy process of exploring the
new style more fully.
One illustrative example concerns the composer Arnold Schoenberg.6
He transformed the space of Western tonal music by dropping the
fundamental home key constraint: no longer did every composition
have to favor one of a finite number of sets of seven notes (the major
and minor scales). Atonality was born. But besides dropping this con-
straint, Schoenberg experimented by adding new ones. At one point,
for instance, he said that each composition should contain every note
of the chromatic scale. Musical exploration could then ensue on this
basis. But the more radical transformation was the decision to drop
the constraint of a home key. In general, transformational creativity
is valued more highly than the other two types. (That is less true in
literature than the other arts because language offers scope for especially
6
Charles Rosen, Arnold Schoenberg (New York: Viking, 1975).
244 margaret boden
rich creative combinations the theme of human motivation offers huge

exploratory potential.)
However, novel transformations are relatively rare. We usually
remember artists and scientists whose names are recorded in history
books above all for changing the accepted style. (Again, that is some-
what less true of writers.) The three types of creativity are analytically
distinct, in that they involve different types of psychological process for
generating P-novel ideas. But these processes sometimes occur together.
For instance, an advertising graphic may both explore a recognizable
visual style (specific to the brand concerned) and combine two or
more images normally kept apart. That is partly why it is usually more
sensible to ask whether this or that aspect of an artwork or scientific
theory is creative, and in what way, rather than asking, Is this new idea
creative: yes or no?
III Creativity in Computers?
If we could say ‘just which’ psychological processes underlie creativ-

ity, we should be able to model them in computers. Indeed, over the
last twenty years, an increasing amount of work has been done in
this area.7 I am not referring to computer art, which began during
the late 1950s and has burgeoned since then. For computer art (with
a few exceptions) is done only with the aim of producing something
visually/musically interesting, not with the aim of understanding how
human artists’ minds work.
Modeling creative processes as such is a different enterprise. All three
types of creativity have been modeled in this way. The most success-
ful examples concern exploratory creativity. This requires, of course,
that the programmer, or a close collaborator, knows enough about
the domain concerned (math, chemistry, graphics, music) to be able
to identify the constraints that define the style being investigated. For
example, only someone very familiar with Bach fugues, and preferably
with what musicologists have written about them, could write a plau-
sible fugue-generating program. Many people believe that no program
could possibly generate ‘plausible’ Bach fugues, or Chopin nocturnes.
They are wrong. The composer, David Cope, wrote a program in the
7
Boden, The Creative Mind, chap. 6–8, 12; Boden, Mind as Machine, vol. 2, 1059–1068.
1980s, which could produce very convincing pastiches of a wide range

of famous composers. Indeed, it is not clear that ‘pastiche’ is always
the right word. For when these pieces are played by human musicians
in the concert hall, they often ‘fool’ even the best musical experts.8
Similarly, an architectural program based on Frank Lloyd Wright’s
Prairie House style has come up with every one of the 40-odd houses
he designed, plus others—clearly within the same general style—which
no one, Wright included, has ever seen before.9 One can certainly say
that these house designs and musical compositions are new. That is,
they are newly discovered structures within the space of possibilities
defined by the style concerned. Moreover, they are valuable: after all,
exploratory creativity in general is grounded in some already accepted
(valued) style.
But the style itself is not new. In other words, these programs model
exploratory, not transformational, creativity. Whether a computer could
ever come up with a new style is a hotly disputed question. It is not
obvious that it could not, because some programs are able to alter their
own rules in unpredictable ways, so that they can generate structures on
Tuesday, which they could not have generated on Monday. These are the
so-called evolutionary programs, which contain mechanisms—‘genetic
algorithms’—that can make random changes in the program’s rules and
select the most promising for further ‘breeding.’ Sometimes, the selec-
tion is done at each generation by a human being. But sometimes, the
programmer chooses a list of criteria—the ‘fitness function’—by means
of which the program itself selects the winners automatically.
There are three problems with these self-transforming programs,
however. First, if the ‘mutations’ allowed are so radical that a seemingly
new type of structure does result then it may be so different from what
went before that the human beings using the program see it as having
little or no value. Second, radical transformations will not lead to a
sustained new style (unless the transformed program is immediately
‘frozen’ by the programmer) because another, very different, radical
change may happen within a few generations. Third, some people argue
that genuine novelty is not available even from evolutionary programs,
because every structure generated by the computer must lie within the
8
David Cope, Computer Models of Musical Creativity (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT
Press, 2006).
9
Hank Koning and Julie Eisenberg, “The Language of the Prairie: Frank Lloyd
Wright’s Prairie Houses,” Environment and Planning 8, no. 3 (1981): 295–323.
246 margaret boden
possibility-space defined by the program itself. (If the program is allowed

to interact with the physical world, however, a genuine novelty may arise:
for instance, a new—not merely an improved—type of sensor.)10
One might think that there would be no problem modeling combi-
national creativity on a computer. After all, a computer program could
come up with novel combinations of ideas until kingdom come. It could
even do this by using mechanisms broadly comparable to associative
memory in human beings.11 Here, however, the problem—again—is
the assignment of value. Most of the associations produced by the
program will have little or no interest for human users. Conceivably,
someone looking for novel ideas for an advertising campaign might
find it worthwhile to sift through the novel associations generated by a
computer—but they would probably be far better off relying on their
own powers of association and world-knowledge. (Kim Binsted and
Graeme D. Ritchie discuss an example of computerized combinational
creativity used for generating simple jokes.)12
Computer models of creativity can help us to think clearly about how
creativity works. That is true even in the cases where their performance
is disappointing, for then we can ask just why they failed to come up with
the expected results. We have seen that they can sometimes give results
that match human creativity, especially of the exploratory type. Whether
even those examples are ‘really’ creative, however, is a quite different
question—philosophical, not scientific. Maybe only the programmers
are truly creative and we should attribute any apparent ‘creativity’ in
the computer to them. That very common opinion is often based one
or more of four highly controversial philosophical assumptions (about
consciousness, brain-stuff, and meaning, for example).13 We cannot go
into them here, but notice that, being ‘highly controversial,’ we can-
not take them for granted. There is a fifth reason for people denying
that computers can be creative, which is that they doubt whether even
human creativity can be scientifically understood. If the argument of
the previous sections is correct, however, they are mistaken.
10
Jon Bird and Paul Layzell, “The Evolved Radio and its Implications for Modeling
the Evolution of Novel Sensors,” in Proceedings of Congress on Evolutionary Computation,
CEC ’02 (Brighton, UK: Sussex University, 2002), 1836–1841.
11
Boden, The Creative Mind, chap. 6.
12
Kim Binsted and Graeme D. Ritchie, “Computational Rules for Punning Riddles’
Humor,” International Journal of Humor Research 10 (1997): 25–76.
13
Boden, The Creative Mind, 286–300.
IV How Creativity Can Be Encouraged
If we want to know how creativity can be discouraged, the answer is

simple. Since all types of creativity involve novelty and surprise, any
cultural attitudes that punish people for providing these will thereby
hinder their creativity. Suppose that someone—schoolchild or adult—
comes up with an unexpected (surprising) answer to a question. If their
answer is immediately dismissed as a ‘mistake,’ or—still worse—if the
individual is scorned as ‘stupid,’ they will be much less likely to offer
new answers (or perhaps any answers) in the future.
Of course, people do sometimes make mistakes. But there are ways
of conveying this without also implying that the person is stupid.
Indeed, there are often ways of conveying it in a constructive fashion,
so that the person can see how their (mistaken) idea could have been
on the right lines if the question/problem had been slightly different.
The more one hopes for truly surprising ideas, the more important it
is not to undermine people’s self-confidence. Evidence suggests that
what makes for an especially H-creative person is not their having any
special idea-generating mechanisms in their heads. Rather, it is their
motivation, self-confidence, and single-minded commitment to the
domain in question.14
Indeed, high-profile H-creators are often monsters of egotism and
selfishness.15 In the case of transformational creativity in particular, this
makes sense. For transformational creativity (by definition) breaks the
commonly accepted rules, and challenges other people to adopt new
values in accepting the novel idea. It is therefore likely to meet with
incomprehension, bewilderment, and even scorn.
The H-creator needs plenty of self-belief to weather such storms.
Turning to the happier topic of how to encourage creativity, the answer
is not quite so simple. For here, we must distinguish carefully among the
three types. The sort of experience or training best suited to fostering
one type will differ from that best suited to fostering another.
Combinational creativity, as we have seen, depends on two things:
making unfamiliar combinations of familiar ideas, and doing so aptly,
or appropriately. Several forms of encouragement are relevant here.
14
David N. Perkins, The Mind’s Best Work (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1981); Boden, The Creative Mind, chap. 10.
15
Howard Gardner, Creating Minds: An Anatomy of Creativity Seen through the Lives of Freud,
Einstein, Picasso, Stravinsky, Eliot, Graham, and Gandhi (New York: Basic Books, 1993).
248 margaret boden
The first is to enlarge the variety of concepts in the person’s mind.

Someone who does not possess a host of concepts, drawn from a
wide range of domains, will be very unlikely to come up with startling
new combinations. So an essential part of helping someone to be
creative in this particular way is to widen their general knowledge,
encouraging them to engage in many different interests and activities,
and perhaps also to draw on more than one culture. However, there
is no guarantee that a well-stocked mind will generate large numbers
of novel associations.
In addition, then, one should foster a habit of experimenting with
unfamiliar conceptual ‘mixtures.’ For example, a child (or adult) could
be given two or more ideas drawn—possibly at random—from different
areas, and asked to make up a story, or compose a sentence, in which
all those ideas feature. Or one could encourage the person to ask, What
does that remind you of ? in the expectation that at least a dozen things
will come to mind. In this sort of way, the various exercises recom-
mended in the many self-help books on creativity can induce people
to think more adventurously than they normally do.16
Finally (the most difficult of all), one should help the person to learn
how to judge the results, to pick out the more interesting combinations.
This may involve making explicit comparisons and contrasts between the
newly joined ideas, a process helped by giving the person the experience
of existing examples of combinational creativity and asking them just
what is ‘interesting’ about the different cases. Careful consideration of
the imagery in poems, for instance, can awaken the reader to conceptual
connections that they had not consciously realized before.
Self-help books on creativity usually provide helpful hints on how to
assess novel mixes of ideas. As for exploratory creativity, mere general
knowledge and richness of associations will not be enough. Persons will
also need prolonged experience of, and perhaps special training in, the
thinking style concerned. If that style is interestingly complex, or if it
requires special skills (such as mixing oil paints, playing a keyboard, or
synthesizing chemical molecules), it may take years to become compe-
tent in it, so that one can produce new structures satisfying the stylistic
constraints in question. Learning how to test and tweak the style will
take even longer. (Renowned composers, even including child prodigies
16
Tony Buzan, Mind Maps at Work: How to Be the Best at Work and Still Have Time to
Play (London: Thorsons, 2004); Edward De Bono, De Bono’s Thinking Course (London:
BBC, 1982); De Bono, Six Thinking Hats (London: Penguin, 2000).
such as Mozart, seem to need about twelve years of total immersion

in music before they can write something ‘creative’ rather than merely
competent. On the other hand, even ‘ordinary’ people, if given enough
training, can reach unusual heights in musical creativity.)17
It follows that exploratory creativity is not primarily an exercise in
‘free thinking.’ Indeed, even combinational creativity is not wholly
unconstrained, since the novel association (which may have been—
though usually is not—produced by random processes) must be evalu-
ated for aptness. In other words, the belief that one can best equip
children (or adults) for creativity by encouraging them to ignore all
conceptual constraints and think only ‘for themselves,’ is mistaken. As
that term ‘constraints’ suggests, creativity involves personal discipline
as well as freedom. Where exploratory creativity is in question, that
discipline may require years of painstaking practice. Ultimately, to be
sure, the style may become so familiar that the person can explore it
effortlessly. But a great deal of effort will have been needed to learn it
in the first place.
Transformational creativity, as we have seen, is built on the explor-
atory variety. For here, the style is not merely tested and tweaked, but to
some extent transcended. That is done by altering, adding, or deleting
dimensions of the original conceptual space, which implies that those
dimensions must already have been learnt by the person concerned.
Some forms of alteration will apply only to a specific dimension of
a specific conceptual space. For instance, we saw in Section II that
Schoenberg altered tonality partly by insisting on using every note of
the chromatic scale.
Others are more general: these include the negation of an existing
dimension, or its deletion, or its iteration. For instance, in discovering
the structure of benzene, the chemist Friedrich von Kekule transformed
his idea of a chemical molecule from an open string to its opposite, a
closed string.18 Schoenberg dropped the seven-note scales that defined
tonal music.
One way of encouraging transformational creativity is to present
the person with many such examples, asking them to consider just
what dimension/s has/have been changed, and how. Once they under-
stand the nature of transformational creativity they will be in a better
17
Joseph H. Kunkel, “Vivaldi in Venice: An Historical Test of Psychological Proposi-
tions,” Psychological Record 35 (1985): 445–457.
18
Boden, The Creative Mind, 25–28, 62–71.
250 margaret boden
position to experiment with it. As always, however, they will also need
to be able to evaluate their own novel ideas. Learners are especially
likely to resist this form of creativity—perhaps rightly so: not all trans-
formations are valuable. Whereas mere exploratory tweaking is unlikely
to destroy the interest of the novel idea (although it may lessen it), a
radical transformation can do so.
It would be helpful, too, if the ‘transformational’ creator could be
encouraged to present ideas in ways that will help other people to
understand and accept, them. Understanding requires a realization
of the similarities between the new style and the previous one, and a
sensitive explanation on the part of the originator should be able to
provide this. Acceptance is even more elusive, and may require addi-
tional persuasion on the part of the creator, for which there can be
no set formula.
Here we come full circle, for the self-confidence needed to persevere—
and perhaps eventually to persuade—in transformational creativity
is the greatest of all. Whichever form of originality we are trying to
encourage, however, the person’s motivation must be fostered in addi-
tion to their ‘brain power.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE THREE DOMAINS OF CREATIVITY1
Arthur Koestler
I Introduction
This paper attempts to give a condensed outline of a theory I have

set out in detail in my book on creativity and to carry that theory to
the next step.2 The proposition I shall submit is, in a nutshell, that the
conscious and unconscious processes which enter into all three forms of
creative activity have a basic pattern in common. When I speak of three
forms of creativity, I mean the domains of artistic originality, scientific
discovery, and comic inspiration. I believe that all creative activity falls
into one or another of these three categories or, more frequently, into
some combination of them. If you speak, for instance, of cooking as
‘creative,’ you automatically imply that cooking is either an art, or a
science, or both.
As a first step toward describing that pattern, let us try something
simple like this: The creative act consists in combining previously
unrelated structures in such a way that you get more out of the emer-
gent whole than you have put in. This sounds like making a perpetuum
mobile, and in a sense it is, because mental evolution, like biological
evolution, seems to contradict the second law of thermodynamics,
which contends that the universe is running down as if afflicted by
mental fatigue. But we will not go into this; instead, let me illustrate by
a few schoolbook examples what I mean by combining two previously
unrelated structures.
1
Originally appeared in Challenges of Humanistic Psychology, ed. James F. T. Bugental
(New York: McGraw-Hill, 1967), 30–40; reprinted in The Concept of Creativity in Science
and Art, eds. D. Dutton and M. Krausz, eds., (The Hague/Boston/London: Martinus
Nijhoff Publishers, 1981), 1–17, all rights reserved.
2
Arthur Koestler, The Act of Creation (New York: Macmillan, 1964).
252 arthur koestler
II Association and Bisociation
The motions of the tides have been known to man since time immemo-
rial. So have the motions of the moon. But the idea to relate the two,
the idea that the tides were due to the attraction of the moon, occurred,
as far as we know, for the first time to a German astronomer in the
seventeenth century, and when Galileo read about it, he laughed it off
as an occult fancy.3 Moral: The more familiar each of the previously
unrelated structures are, the more striking the new synthesis and the
more obvious it seems in the driver’s mirror of hindsight.
The history of science is a history of marriages between ideas,
which were previously strangers to each other, and frequently consid-
ered incompatible. Lodestones—magnets—were known in antiquity
as some curiosity of nature. During the Middle Ages, they were used
for two purposes: as navigators’ compasses and as a means to attract
an estranged wife back to her husband. Equally well known were the
curious properties of amber, which, when rubbed, acquires the virtue
of attracting flimsy objects. The Greek word for amber is elektron, but
the Greeks were not much interested in electricity, nor were the Middle
Ages. For nearly two thousand years, electricity and magnetism were
considered separate phenomena, in no way related to each other.
In 1820, Hans Christian Oersted discovered that an electric current
flowing through a wire deflected a compass needle, which happened to
be lying on his table. At that moment the two contexts began to fuse
into one—electromagnetism—creating a kind of chain reaction which
is still continuing and gaining in momentum; forever amber.
From Pythagoras, who combined arithmetic and geometry, to Ein-
stein, who unified energy and matter in a single sinister equation, the
pattern is always the same. The Latin word cogito comes from coagitare,
‘to shake together.’ The creative act does not create something out of
nothing, like the God of the Old Testament; it combines, reshuffles,
and relates already existing but hitherto separate ideas, facts, frames
of perception, associative contexts. This act of cross-fertilization—or
self-fertilization within a single brain—seems to be the essence of
creativity. I have proposed for it the term bisociation. It is not a pretty
word, but it helps us to make a distinction between the sudden leap
3
I owe the term “Haha reaction” to Dr. Brennig James’s paper, “The Function of
Jokes,” (unpublished), which he kindly sent me.
the three domains of creativity 253
of the creative act and the more normal, more pedestrian, associative
routines of thinking.
The difference between the two could be described as follows: Orderly
thinking (as distinct from daydreaming) is always controlled by certain
rules of the game. In the psychological laboratory, the experimenter
lays down the rule: ‘name opposites.’ Then he says ‘dark,’ and the
subject promptly says, ‘light.’ But if the rule is ‘synonyms,’ then the
subject will associate ‘dark’ with ‘black’ or ‘night’ or ‘shadow.’ To talk
of stimuli in a vacuum is meaningless; what response a stimulus will
evoke depends on the game we are playing at the time.
But we do not live in laboratories where the rules of the game
are laid down by explicit orders; in normal life, the rules control our
thinking unconsciously—and there’s the rub. When talking, the laws of
grammar and syntax function below the level of awareness, in the gaps
between the words. So do certain simple rules of common or garden-
variety logic and of courtesy and convention, and also the complex
and specialized rules which we call ‘frames of reference’ or ‘universes
of discourse’ or ‘thinking in terms of ’ this or that—of physiological
explanations or ethical value judgments. All thinking is playing a game
according to fixed rules and more or less flexible strategies. The game
of chess allows you a vast number of strategic choices among the
moves permitted by the rules, but there is a limit to them. There are
hopeless situations in chess when the most subtle strategies will not save
you—short of offering your opponent a jumbo-sized martini. Now in
fact there is no rule in chess preventing you from offering your opponent
a martini. But making a person drunk while remaining sober oneself
is a different sort of game with a different context. Combining the
two games is a bisociation. In other words, associative routine means
thinking according to a given set of rules, on a single plane, as it were.
The bisociative act means combining two different sets of rules, to live
on several planes at once.
III Three Kinds of Reactions
I do not mean to belittle the value of law-abiding routines. They lend

coherence and stability to behavior and structured order to thought.
But they have their obvious limitations. For one thing, every game
tends to become monotonous after awhile and fails to satisfy the artist’s
craving for self-expression and the scientist’s search for explanations. In
254 arthur koestler
the second place, the world moves on, and new problems arise which
cannot be solved within the conventional frames of reference by apply-
ing to them the accepted rules of the game. Then a crisis occurs: The
position on the scientist’s checkerboard is blocked; the artist’s vision
is blurred; the search is on, the fumbling and groping for that happy
combination of ideas—of lodestone and amber—which will lead to
the new synthesis.
The Aha Reaction. Gestalt psychologists have coined a word for that
moment of truth, the flash of illumination, when bits of the puzzle
suddenly click into place. They call it the Aha experience. One may
regard it as a synonym for the ‘Eureka!’ cry. Imagine it written on a
blackboard, thus:
Aha
We shall see in a moment the reason for this display. There is an empty
panel on each side—for the Aha response represents only one type of
reaction after the bisociative click. There are others. Let me tell my
favorite anecdote:
A nobleman at the court of Louis XV had unexpectedly returned from a
journey and, on entering his wife’s boudoir, found her in the arms of a
bishop. After a short hesitation, the nobleman walked calmly to the win-
dow and went through the motions of blessing the people in the street.
“What are you doing?” cried the anguished wife.
“Monseigneur is performing my functions,” replied the nobleman, “so I
am performing his.”
Well, some readers will be kind enough to laugh; let us call this the
Haha reaction:4
Haha Aha
The Haha Reaction. Now let us inquire into the difference between the
Haha and the Aha reactions. Why do we laugh? Let me try to analyze
first the intellectual and then the emotional aspect of this odd reaction.
The nobleman’s behavior is both unexpected and perfectly logical—but
of a logic not usually applied to this type of situation. It is the logic
of the division of labor, where the rule of the game is the quid pro quo,
the give-and-take. But we expected, of course, that his reactions would
4
I owe the term Haha reaction to Dr. Brennig James’s paper, “The Function
of Jokes.”
be governed by a quite different logic or rule of the game. It is the

interaction between these two mutually exclusive associative contexts,
which produces the comic effect. It compels us to perceive the situa-
tion at the same time in two self-consistent but habitually incompatible
frames of reference; it makes us function on two wavelengths simulta-
neously, as it were. While this unusual condition lasts, the event is not,
as is normally the case, perceived in a single frame of reference but is
bisociated with two.
But the unusual condition does not last for long. The act of discov-
ery leads to a lasting synthesis, a fusion of the two previously unrelated
frames of reference; in the comic bisociation, you have a collision
between incompatible frames, which for a brief moment cross each
other’s path. But whether the frames are compatible or not, whether
they will collide or merge, depends on subjective factors, on the attitudes
of the audience—for, after all, the colliding or merging takes place in
the audience’s heads. The history of science abounds with examples
of discoveries greeted with howls of laughter because they seemed to
be a marriage of incompatibles—until the marriage bore fruit and
the alleged incompatibility of the partners turned out to derive from
prejudice. The humorist, on the other hand, deliberately chooses dis-
cordant codes of behavior or universes of discourse to expose their
hidden incongruities in the resulting clash. Comic discovery is paradox
stated—scientific discovery is paradox resolved.
Let me return for a moment to our poor nobleman blessing the crowd
through the window. His gesture was a truly original inspiration. If he
had followed the conventional rules of the game, he would have had to
beat up or kill the bishop. But at the court of Louis XV, assassinating
a Monseigneur would have been considered, if not exactly a crime,
still in very bad taste. It simply could not be done; the chessboard was
blocked. To solve the problem, that is, to save his face and at the same
time to humiliate his opponent, the nobleman had to bring into the
situation a second frame of reference, governed by different rules of
the game, and combine it with the first. All original comic invention
is a creative act, a malicious discovery.
The Emotional Dynamics of Laughter. The emphasis is on malicious,
and this brings us from the logic of humor to the emotional factor in the
Haha reaction. When the expert humorist tells an anecdote, he creates
a certain tension, which mounts as the narrative progresses. But it
never reaches its expected climax. The punch line acts like a guillotine,
which cuts across the logical development of the situation; it debunks
256 arthur koestler
our dramatic expectations, and the tension becomes redundant and

is exploded in laughter. To put it differently, laughter disposes of the
overflow of emotion which has become pointless, is denied by reason,
and has to be somehow worked off along physiological channels of
least resistance.5
I shall not bore you with physiological explanations because if you
look at the coarse and brutal merriment in a tavern scene by William
Hogarth or Thomas Rowlandson, you realize at once that the revelers
are working off their surplus of adrenalin by contractions of the face
muscles, slapping of thighs, and explosive exhalations of breath from the
half-closed glottis. The emotions worked off in laughter are aggression,
sexual gloating, conscious or unconscious sadism—all operating through
the sympathicoadrenal system. On the other hand, when you look at a
clever New Yorker cartoon, Homeric laughter yields to an amused and
rarefied smile; the ample flow of adrenalin has been distilled into a
grain of Attic salt. Think, for instance, of that classic definition: What
is a sadist? A person who is kind to a masochist.
The word “witticism” is derived from ‘wit’ in its original sense of
‘ingenuity.’ The clown is brother to the sage; their domains are con-
tinuous, without a sharp dividing line. As we move from the coarse
toward the higher forms of humor, the joke shades into epigram and
riddle, the comic simile into the discovery of hidden analogies; and
the emotions involved show a similar transition. The emotive voltage
discharged in coarse laughter is aggression robbed of its purpose; the
tension discharged in the Aha reaction is derived from an intellectual
challenge. It snaps at the moment when the penny drops—when we
have solved the riddle hidden in the New Yorker cartoon, in a brainteaser,
or in a scientific problem.
The Ah Reaction. Let me repeat, the two domains of humor and dis-
covery form a continuum. As we travel across it, from left to center, so
to speak, the emotional climate gradually changes from the malice of
the jester to the detached objectivity of the sage. If we now continue
the journey in the same direction, we find equally gradual transitions
into a third domain, that of the artist. The artist hints rather than states,
and he poses riddles. So we get a symmetrically reversed transition
toward the other end of the spectrum, from highly intellectualized art
5
For a review of the theories on laughter, see Arthur Koestler, The Act of Creation
(New York: Macmillan, 1969), chap. 1–2; Koestler, Insight and Outlook (New York: Mac-
millan, 1949), pt. 1, Appendix 2.
forms toward the more sensual and emotive, ending in the thought-free
beatitude of the oceanic feeling—the cloud of unknowing.
But how does one define the emotional climate of art? How does
one classify the emotions which give rise to the experience of beauty?
If you leaf through textbooks of experimental psychology, you will
not find much mention of it. When behaviorists use the word ‘emo-
tion,’ they nearly always refer to hunger, sex, rage, and fear and to the
related effects of the release of adrenalin. They have no explanations to
offer for the curious reaction one experiences when listening to Mozart
of looking at the ocean or reading for the first time John Donne’s
Holy Sonnets. Nor will you find in the textbooks a description of the
physiological processes accompanying the reaction: the moistening
of the eyes, perhaps a quiet overflow of the lachrymal glands, the
catching of one’s breath, followed by a kind of rapt tranquility, the
draining of all tensions. Let us call this the Ah reaction and thus
complete our trinity.
Haha! Aha Ah. . . .
Laughter and weeping, the Greek masks of comedy and tragedy, mark
the two extremes of a continuous spectrum; both are overflow reflexes,
but they are in every respect physiological opposites. Laughter is medi-
ated by the sympathicoadrenal branch of the autonomous nervous
system, weeping by the parasympathetic branch. The first tends to
galvanize the body into action; the second tends toward passivity and
catharsis. Watch how you breathe when you laugh: long, deep intakes
of air, followed by bursts of exhalatory puffs—‘Ha, ha, ha.’ In weeping,
you do the opposite: short, gasping inspirations—sobs—are followed
by long, sighing expirations—‘a-a-h, aah.’6
IV Self-Assertion and Self-Transcendence
In keeping with this, the emotions, which overflow in the Ah reaction,

are the direct opposites of those exploded in laughter. The latter belong
to the familiar adrenergic hunger-rage-fear category; let us call them
the aggressive-defensive or self-assertive emotions. Their opposites we might
call the self-transcending or participatory or integrative emotions. They are
6
Cf. Koestler, The Act of Creation, 271, 284; and, for a bibliography on the psychol-
ogy and physiology of weeping, 725–728.
258 arthur koestler
epitomized in what Sigmund Freud called the ‘oceanic feeling’: When

you listen to a Johann Sebastian Bach toccata thundering through the
cathedral, you experience that expansion and depersonalization of
awareness in which the self seems to dissolve like a grain of salt in a
lot of water.
This class of emotions shows a wide range of variety. They may be
joyous or sad, tragic or lyrical; but they have a common denomina-
tor: the feeling of participation in an experience which transcends the
boundaries of the self. That higher entity, of which the self feels a
part, to which it surrenders its identity, may be nature, God, the anima
mundi, the magic of forms, or the ocean of sound.
The self-assertive emotions are expressed in bodily actions; the
self-transcending emotions operate through the passive processes of
empathy, rapport, projection, and identification. In laughter, tension is
suddenly exploded, emotion debunked; in weeping, it is drained away
in a gradual process, which does not break the continuity of mood.
The self-transcending emotions do not tend toward action but toward
quiescence and catharsis. Respiration and pulse rate are slowed down;
‘entrancement’ is a step toward the trancelike states induced by con-
templative techniques or drugs. The self-transcending emotions cannot
be consummated by any specific, voluntary action. You cannot take
the mountain panorama home with you; you cannot merge with the
infinite by any exertion of the body. To be ‘overwhelmed’ by awe and
wonder, ‘enraptured’ by a smile, ‘entranced’ by beauty—each of these
verbs expresses a passive surrender. The surplus of emotion cannot be
worked off in action; it can be consummated only in internal, visceral,
and glandular processes.7
The participatory or self-transcending tendencies, these stepchildren
of psychology, are as powerful and deeply rooted in man’s nature as his
self-assertive drives. Freud and Piaget, among others, have emphasized
the fact that the very young child does not differentiate between ego and
environment. The nourishing breast appears to it as a more intimate
possession than the toes of its own body. It is aware of events but not
of itself as a separate entity. It lives in a state of mental symbiosis with
the outer world, a continuation of the biological symbiosis in the womb.
The universe is focused in the self, and the self is the universe—a con-
dition which Jean Piaget called ‘protoplasmic consciousness.’ It may be
7
Ibid., 285–300.
likened to a liquid, fluid universe, traversed by dynamic currents, the

rise and fall of physiological needs causing minor storms which come
and go without leaving solid traces. Gradually the floods recede, and
the first islands of objective reality emerge; the contours grow firmer
and sharper; the islands grow into continents, the dry territories of
reality are mapped out; but side by side with it, the liquid world coex-
ists, surrounding it, interpenetrating it by canals and inland lakes, the
vestigial relics of the erstwhile symbiotic communion. Here, then, we
have the origin of that oceanic feeling which the artist and the mystic
strive to recapture on a higher level of development, at a higher turn
of the spiral.
V Art and Self-Transcendence
Children and primitives are apt to confuse dream and reality; they not
only believe in miracles but also believe themselves capable of perform-
ing them. When the medicine man disguises himself as the rain god, he
produces rain. Drawing a picture of a slain bison assures a successful
hunt. This is the ancient unitary source out of which the ritual dance
and song, the mystery plays of the Achaeans, and the calendars of the
Babylonian priest-astronomers were derived. The shadows in Plato’s
cave are symbols of man’s loneliness; the paintings in the Altamira
Caves are symbols of his magic powers.
We have traveled a long way from Altamira and Lascaux, but the
artist’s inspirations and the scientist’s intuitions are still fed by that same
unitary source—though by now we should rather call it an underground
river. Wishes do not displace mountains, but in our dreams, they still
do. Symbiotic consciousness is never completely defeated but merely
relegated underground to those unconscious levels in the mental hier-
archy where the boundaries of the ego are still fluid and blurred—as
blurred as the distinction between the actor and the hero whom he
impersonates and with whom the spectator identifies. The actor on the
stage is himself and somebody else at the same time—he is both the
dancer and the rain god.
Dramatic illusion is the coexistence in the spectator’s mind of two
universes, which are logically incompatible; his awareness, suspended
between the two planes, exemplifies the bisociative process in its most
striking form. All the more striking because he produces physical
symptoms—palpitations, sweating, or tears—in response to the perils
260 arthur koestler
of a Desdemona whom he knows to exist merely as a shadow on the

television screen or as dry printer’s ink in the pages of a book. Yet let
Othello but get the hiccups, and instead of coexistence between the
two planes juxtaposed in the spectator’s mind, you get collision between
them. Comic impersonation produces the Haha reaction because the
parodist arouses aggression and malice; dramatic stagecraft achieves
the suspension of disbelief, the coexistence of incompatible planes,
because it induces the spectator to identify. It excites the self-tran-
scending and inhibits or neutralizes the self-assertive emotions. Even
when fear and anger are aroused in the spectator, these are vicarious
emotions, derived from his identification with the hero, which in itself
is a self-transcending act. Vicarious emotions aroused in this manner
carry a dominant element of sympathy, which facilitates catharsis in
conformity with the Aristotelian definition—‘through incidents arousing
horror and pity to accomplish the purgation of such emotions.’ Art is
a school of self-transcendence.
We thus arrive at a further generalization: The Haha reaction signals
the collision of bisociated contexts; the Aha reaction signals their fusion; and the
Ah reaction signals their juxtaposition.
This difference is reflected in the quasicumulative progression of
science through a series of successive mergers, compared with the
quasi-timeless character of art in its continuous restatement of basic
patterns of experience in changing idioms. I said ‘quasi’ because it can
be shown that this, too, is a matter of degrees, because the progress
of science is not cumulative in the strict sense. It is moving in a dizzy,
zigzag course rather than in a straight line.8 On the other hand, the
development of a given art form over a period of time often displays
a cumulative progression.9 I shall return to this in a moment, but first
let me briefly mention a few more types of the combinatorial activities
which enter into the fabric of art.
VI Bisociative Structures in Art
When we listen to poetry, two frames of reference interact in our minds:

one governed by meaning, the other by rhythmic patterns of sound.
8
See T. S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1962); K. R. Popper, The Logic of Scientific Discovery (London: Hutchinson, 1959).
9
See E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion (London: Phaidon Press, 1962).
Moreover, the two frames operate on two different levels of awareness:

the first in broad daylight, the other much deeper down. The rhythmic
beat of poetry is designed, in the words of Yeats, ‘to lull the mind into
a waking trance.’ Rhythmic pulsation is a fundamental characteristic
of life; our ready responses to it arise from the depths of the nervous
system, from those archaic strata which reverberate to the shaman’s
drum and which make us particularly receptive to, and suggestible by,
messages which arrive in a rhythmic pattern or are accompanied by
such a pattern.
The rhyme has equally ancient roots. It repeats the last syllable of a
line. Now the repetition of syllables is a conspicuous phenomenon at
the very origins of language. The young child is addicted to babbling,
‘obble-gobble,’ ‘humpty-dumpty,’ and so on. In primitive languages,
words like ‘kala-kala’ or ‘moku-moku’ abound. Closely related to it is
association by pure sound. The rhyme is in fact nothing but a glorified
pun—two strings of ideas tied together in a phonetic knot. Its ancient
origins are revealed in the punning mania of children and in certain
forms of mental disorder and in the frequent recurrence of puns in
dreams. ‘What could be moister than the tears of an oyster?’ The
statement that the oyster is a wet creature and that therefore its tears
must be particularly wet would not make much of an impression, but
when meaning is bisociated with sound, there is magic. This is what
I meant when I said that routine thinking involves a single matrix,
whereas creative thinking always involves more than one plane. Need-
less to say, it is difficult to identify with an oyster, so the reaction will
be Haha, not Ah.
Thus rhythm and meter, rhyme and euphony, are not artificial orna-
ments of language but combinations of contemporary, sophisticated
frames of reference with archaic and emotionally more powerful games
of the mind. In other words, creative activity always implies a temporary
regression to these archaic levels, while a simultaneous process goes on
in parallel on the highest, most articulate and critical level: the poet is
like a skin diver with a breathing tube.
The same applies, of course, to poetic imagery. Visual thinking is
an earlier form of mental activity than thinking in verbal concepts;
we dream mostly in pictures and visual symbols. It has been said that
scientific discovery consists in seeing an analogy where nobody has
seen one before. When in the Song of Songs, Solomon compared the
Shulamite’s neck to a tower of ivory, he saw an analogy which nobody
had seen before; when Harvey compared the heart of a fish to a
262 arthur koestler
mechanical pump, he did the same; and when the caricaturist draws a
nose like a cucumber, he again does just that. In fact, all combinatorial,
bisociative patterns are trivalent—they can enter the service of humor,
discovery, or art, as the case may be.
Let me give you another example of this trivalence. Man has always
looked at nature by superimposing a second frame on the retinal
image—mythological, anthropomorphic, scientific frames. The artist
sees in terms of his medium—stone, clay, charcoal, pigment—and in
terms of his preferential emphasis on contours or surfaces, stability or
motion, curves or cubes. So, of course, does the caricaturist, only his
motives are different. And so does the scientist. A geographical map has
the same relation to a landscape that a character sketch has to a face.
Every diagram or model, every schematic or symbolic representation of
physical or mental processes is an unemotional caricature of reality—at
least unemotional in the sense that the bias is not of an obvious kind,
although some models of the human mind as a conditioned-reflex auto-
mation seem to be crude caricatures inspired by unconscious bias.
In the language of behaviorist psychology, we would have to say
that Cézanne, glancing at a landscape, receives a stimulus, to which
he responds by putting a dab of paint on the canvas, and that is all
there is to it. But in fact, the two activities take place on two different
planes. The stimulus comes from one environment, the distant land-
scape. The response acts on a different environment, a square surface
of 10 by 15 inches. The two environments obey two different sets of
laws. An isolated brushstroke does not represent an isolated detail in
the landscape. There are no point-to-point correspondences between
the two planes; each obeys a different rule of the game. The artist’s
vision is bifocal, just as the poet’s voice is bivocal, as he bisociates
sound and meaning.
VII Extraconscious Factors in Discovery
Let me return for a moment to science. I said at the beginning of

this paper that the essence of discovery is the coagitation, the shaking
together, of already existing frames of reference or areas of knowledge.
Now we arrive at the crucial question: Just how does the creative mind
hit upon that happy combination of ideas, which nobody had thought
of combining before?
Artists are inclined to believe that scientists reason in strictly ratio-

nal, precise verbal terms. They do, of course, nothing of the sort. In
1945, a famous inquiry was organized by Jacques Hadamard among
eminent mathematicians in America to find out their working meth-
ods.10 The results showed that all of them, with only two exceptions,
thought neither in verbal terms nor in algebraic symbols but relied on
visual imagery of a vague, hazy kind. Einstein was among those who
answered the questionnaire; he wrote:
The words of the language as they are written or spoken do not seem
to play any role in my mechanism of thought, which relies on more or
less clear images of a visual and some of a muscular type. It seems to be
that what you call full consciousness is a limiting case which can never
be fully accomplished because consciousness is a narrow thing.
Einstein’s statement is typical. On the testimony of those original think-
ers who have taken the trouble to record their methods of work, not
only verbal thinking but conscious thinking in general plays only a subordinate part
in the brief, decisive phase of the creative act itself. Their virtually unanimous
emphasis on spontaneous intuitions and hunches of unconscious origin,
which they are at a loss to explain, suggests that the role of strictly
rational and verbal processes in scientific discovery has been vastly
overestimated since the Age of Enlightenment. There are always large
chunks of irrationality embedded in the creative process, not only in art
(where we are ready to accept it) but in the exact sciences as well.
The scientist who, facing his blocked problem, regresses from pre-
cise verbal thinking to vague visual imagery seems to follow William
Wordsworth’s advice: “Often we have to get away from speech in
order to think clearly.” Words crystallize thoughts, but a crystal is no
longer a liquid. Language can act as a screen between the thinker
and reality. Creativity often starts where language ends, that is, by
regressing to preverbal levels, to more fluid and uncommitted forms
of mental activity.
Now I do not mean, of course, that there is a little Socratic demon
housed in the scientist’s or artist’s skull who does his homework for him;
nor should one confuse unconscious mentation with Freud’s primary
process. The primary process is defined by Freud as devoid of logic,
10
J. Hadamard, The Psychology of Invention in the Mathematical Field (Princeton: Prince-
ton University Press, 1949).
264 arthur koestler
governed by the pleasure principle, apt to confuse perception and hal-

lucination, and accompanied by massive discharges of affect. It seems
that between this very primary process and the so-called secondary
process governed by the reality principle, we must interpolate a whole
hierarchy of cognitive structures, which are not simply mixtures of
primary and secondary, but are autonomous systems in their own
right, each governed by a distinct set of rules. The paranoid delusion,
the dream, the daydream, free association, the mentalities of children
of various ages, and of primatives at various stages, should not be
lumped together, for each has its own logic or rules of the game. But
while clearly different in many respects, all these forms of mentation
have certain features in common, since they are ontogenetically, and
perhaps phylogenetically, older than those of the civilized adult. They
are less rigid, more tolerant, and more ready to combine seemingly
incompatible ideas and to perceive hidden analogies between cabbages
and kings. One might call them ‘games of the underground,’ because
if not kept under restraint, they would play havoc with the routines
of disciplined thinking. But under exceptional conditions, when disci-
plined thinking is at the end of its tether, a temporary indulgence in
these underground games may suddenly produce a solution—some
farfetched, reckless combination which would be beyond the reach of,
or seem to be unacceptable to, the sober, rational mind. The place for
the rendezvous of ideas is underground.
Illumination and Catharsis. What I have been trying to suggest is that
the common pattern underlying scientific discovery and artistic inspira-
tion is a temporary regression, culminating in the bisociative act, that
is, the bringing together of previously separate frames of perception
or universes of discourse. I suppose that is what Ernst Kris meant by
his frequently quoted but somewhat cryptic remarks about regression
in the service of the ego.11 The boundaries between science and art,
between the Ah reaction and the Aha reaction, are fluid, whether we
consider architecture or cooking or psychiatry or the writing of history.
There is nowhere a sharp break where witticism changes into wit or
where science stops and art begins. Science, the hoary cliché goes, aims
at truth, art at beauty. But the criteria of truth, such as verification by
experiment, are not as hard and clean as we tend to believe, for the same
experimental data can often be interpreted in more than one way.
11
E. Kris, Psychoanalytic Explorations in Art (New York: International Universities
Press, 1952).
That is why the history of science echoes with as many bitter and
venomous controversies as the history of literary criticism. Moreover,
the verification of a discovery comes after the act; the creative act itself
is for the scientist, as it is for the artist, a leap into the dark, where
both are equally dependent on their fallible intuitions. The greatest
mathematicians and physicists have confessed that, at those decisive
moments when taking the plunge, they were guided not by logic but
by a sense of beauty, which they were unable to define. Vice versa,
painters and sculptors, not to mention architects, have always been
guided, and often obsessed, by scientific or pseudo-scientific theories and
criteria of truth: the golden section, the laws of perspective, Dürer and
Leonardo’s laws of proportion representing the human body, Cézanne’s
doctrine that everything in nature is modeled on the cylinder and
cone, Braque’s alternative theory that cubes should be substituted for
spheres, Le Corbusier’s modulator theory, Buckminster Fuller’s geodesic
domes. The same goes, of course, for literature, from the formal laws
imposed on Greek tragedy to the various recent and contemporary
schools—romanticism, classicism, naturalism, symbolism, stream of
consciousness, socialist realism, the nouveau roman, and so forth—not
to mention the intricate rules of harmony and counterpoint in music.
The English physicist Paul Dirac, a Nobel laureate, said recently, “It is
more important to have beauty in one’s equations than that they should
fit experiment.”12 The counterpart to this is the statement by Georges-
Pierre Seurat on his pointillist method, “They see poetry in what I have
done. No, I apply my method, and that is all there is to it.” In other
words, the experience of truth, however subjective, must be present for
the experience of beauty to arise, and vice versa: An elegant solution
of a problem gives rise in the connoisseur to the experience of beauty.
Intellectual illumination and emotional catharsis are complementary
aspects of an indivisible process.
VIII Regression and Rebound
I would like to conclude this discussion with a remark, which is no more

than a hint, to place the phenomena of human creativity into a wider
biological perspective. I have talked of temporary regression, followed
12
P. A. M. Dirac, “Evolution of the Physicist’s Picture of Nature,” Scientific American
208 (1963): 45–53.
266 arthur koestler
by a rebound, as a characteristic of the creative act. Now biologists are

familiar with a similar phenomenon on lower levels of the evolution-
ary scale. I mean the phenomenon of regeneration.13 It consists in the
reshaping of bodily structures—or the reorganization of functions—in
response to traumatic challenges from the environment. It involves the
regression of bodily tissues to a quasi-embryonic state and the release
of genetic growth potentials which are normally under restraint in
the adult organism—just as in the moment of discovery the creative
potentials of the earlier forms of intuitive thinking are released from
the censorship of the conscious adult mind. Psychotherapy reflects the
same process on a higher level. It aims at inducing a temporary regres-
sion in the emotionally traumatized patient in the hope that he will
regenerate into a pattern, which eliminates the conflict. The creative
act could be called a kind of do-it-yourself psychotherapy where the
traumatic challenge is intellectual instead of emotional, for instance, new
data which shake the foundation of a well-established theory, observa-
tions which contradict each other, problems which cause frustration
and conflict—or the artist’s perplexities in trying to communicate his
experiences through the blocked matrices of conventional techniques.
And finally, we find the same pattern reflected in the death-and-res-
urrection motif in mythology, in Toynbee’s Withdrawal and Return, in
Jung’s Night Journey. Joseph is thrown into a well, Mohammed goes out
into the desert, Jesus is resurrected from the tomb, Jonah is reborn out
of the belly of the whale. The mystic’s dark night of the soul reflects
the same archetype. It appears to be a principle of universal validity
in the evolution of individuals and cultures.
13
Koestler, The Act of Creation, 447–474.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CREATIVITY IN SCIENCE1
Rom Harré
I Novelty and Creativity
To create is to produce or generate what did not exist before, and most
importantly, it is to produce not only an individual that did not exist
before but one of a new and hitherto unknown kind. In science the
most obvious product of creativity is a sort of discourse, the flow of
theory. But theory is itself a secondary product, a description of potent
things and products which produce the phenomena we experience. And
yet, at least initially, the potent things and processes described in theory
are not part of that experience. It is in our conceiving of ideas about
them, by imagining possible potent things in which and among which
causal activity occurs, that creativity is exercised.
But if theory is to provide understanding, it must be intelligible, and
that intelligibility must derive ultimately from the intelligibility of the
novel entities and forms conceived in the creative scientific imagination.
So novelty must be tempered by connection with the known, or at least
with that amongst the known which we take to be intelligible. What it
is for something to be intelligible will emerge in the course of the
discussion. But the only possible connection that would allow both
intelligibility and novelty is that of analogy. New things and processes
must be like known things and processes in some ways, but must be
unlike them in others. The forms of unlikeness may be very various.
Unlikeness may derive from the absence of some common property,
as photons have no rest mass, or it may derive from a combination of
a set of properties never found together in ordinary experience, as the
spatio-temporal continuum must be both continuous and infinitely
divisible. Sometimes, as in the latter case, the resolution of the consequent
1
Originally published in The Concept of Creativity in Science and Art, eds. D. Dutton
and M. Krausz (The Hague/Boston/London: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1981),
268 rom harré
paradoxical intuitions is achieved only by proofs of consistency created

in the formal domain of mathematics.
In this chapter, I shall follow the creative scientific imagination in
some of its acts and examine some of the constraints and disciplines
which have developed to banish fantasy from the theorizing of scientists.
These, we shall see, derive from stricter and stricter ideas of what is
possible. And in doing this we shall be pursuing the philosophical issue
of realism, since we shall soon confront the problem that the realm of
the real seems to extend far beyond the realm of the experienceable.
II False Theories of Creativity
The importance of creativity will vary with different views of science.

In a simple inductivist or positivist view of science, the passage from
fact to theory is achieved by a purely formal addition of generality to
observed fact, and logical axiomatization of the ‘laws’ so derived.
Scientific creativity is then, at bottom, no more than formal invention.
To someone taking science seriously as it appears to be, namely an
intellectual enterprise in which ever-new content is added to the rev-
elations of experience, the creativity involved in the invention of new
concepts can only be an illusion of the advancement of possible expe-
rience for an inductivist. On the positivist view, this burgeoning of new
concepts can have at best a literary purpose, providing a kind of attrac-
tive appearance to propositional structures and linking concepts that
have only logical importance as bridges from one observation statement
to another. Indeed, the creative act is strictly dispensable, since all that
is essential to science is contained in descriptive concepts and the
logical and grammatical particles that are the connectives of their
structure as a discourse, if we follow the inductivist-positivist view.
According to realist views of science, the concepts of theory do refer
to possible real processes in real structures of things, and thus the
introduction of a novel concept enlarges the possibility of experience
and adds something to our conception of the world. But realist phi-
losophers of science differ fundamentally on the issue of whether the
appearance of a new theory or of its component concepts in the
scientific community, and presumably once in the mind of an indi-
vidual scientist, is a process which is susceptible to rational analysis,
and then to reduction of the obedient following of certain canons.
Thus some realist philosophers hold a purely psychological (and thus
creativity in science 269
serendipitous) theory of scientific creation. According to Arthur Koes-

tler in The Sleepwalkers,2 scientific invention is some kind of accidental
occurrence mediated by psychological processes, mysterious to the
inventor himself, and amenable only to the kind of analysis he provides
of Kepler’s mind: part history, part biography, and part psychology. But
his analysis of Kepler’s intellectual life lays bare certain preparations,
which anyone must undertake if he is to hope for a ‘discovery,’ in the
sense of the invention of a new concept bringing order to the data.
Kepler already had the ellipse, as a form, both geometrical and ana-
lytical, before he could creatively apply it to the problem of making
sense of the orbit of Mars. There is then a two-stage process, the
invention or acquisition of the required concept, and then the novel
use of this concept bringing out something new in the data. In just this
way in microsociology, once we have acquired Goffman’s concept of the
‘with,’ the symbolically displayed pairing, etc., of people in public places,
the world is suddenly full of withs.3 And what is more, not only must
the specific form of the image or concept be present to the mind of the
creator, but it must inhabit a mind prepared for that kind of form, as
Kepler’s was prepared for an orbit of harmonious proportions, by his
adherence to a general metaphysics, or supra-theory, according to
which all the processes of nature were compounded of processes involv-
ing forms having harmonious proportions. As I shall argue in detail later,
Kepler’s situation corresponds precisely with the scheme for rational
analysis of scientific invention which merges from the theory I shall
propose. Kepler had already studied a highly specific analogue of the
orbit of Mars, namely the geometrical ellipse, and was thoroughly
acquainted with its properties, and with the various consequences which
followed from such properties as the ratio of semi-diameters. And, from
his earliest studies, he had been convinced of the verisimilitude of a
world picture of the universe, in terms of which the attempt to find a
regular geometrical form to correspond to and represent the orbit of
Mars made perfect sense.
In the same vein, the fallibilist theory of Karl Popper rightly lays
stress on the role of invention in science and the role of the imagina-
tion in that invention.4 But the discipline under which that faculty works,
2
Arthur Koestler, The Sleepwalkers: A History of Man’s Changing Vision of the Universe
(London: Hutchinson, 1959).
3
E. Goffman, Relations in Public (New York: Harper and Row, 1972).
4
K. R. Popper, Conjectures and Refutations (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1963).
270 rom harré
making it the imagination of a scientist, rather than the fantasy of a

crank, is left unanalyzed by Popper, and assigned to the ‘psychological.’
This unfortunate move is clearly connected with Popper’s very narrow
vein of rationality, identified by him throughout his works with adher-
ence to the canons of deductive formal logic. Of course the way inven-
tion occurs in science must be a topic for psychological study alone,
and can conform to no schema, and have no canons of rationality, if
rationality is confined to the principles of deductive logic. But one must
take great care to distinguish the bogus claim to rationality of the
inductivist, who purports to pass beyond experience in the dimension
of generality, and the genuine claim of the realist, who sees the imag-
ination of scientists generating conceptions of things, properties and
processes that pass beyond any actual experience, not because they
make some claim to universality, but rather provide an inkling of the
way the world is here and now in those regions like the very small and
the very distant, to which we have neither sensory nor instrumental
access. The defender of the rationality of creativity seeks the canons
of reasonableness in accordance with which such imaginative construc-
tions of conceptions of the unknown can be rated proper or improper,
plausible or implausible.
III Science as Icon of Natural Structures and Powers
An adequate theory of scientific creativity can come only from a prop-

erly constituted view of what is being created. As in most issues in the
philosophy of science, all will depend upon how far one regards the
analysis of theories to be primarily a matter of laying bare their logi-
cal form. This article is written from very much the view that little of
interest to the understanding of science and its modes of thought can
be found by a search for logical form. Scientific thought cannot be
understood in terms of the content-free principles of formal logic, be
they deductive or inductive, if indeed there are any content-free prin-
ciples of the latter sort. So if we regard theories, primarily, to be
considered as formally ordered structures of propositions, we shall look
only for the sources and means of creation of those structures. We have
already seen how this leads to a stultifying psychologism.
In my view, a theory must be considered as it conforms to certain
principles of content, and it must be analyzed for philosophical pur-
poses, so as to bring out the various sorts of propositions it involves,
classified by reference to the kind of thing they assert about the world.
The logical form of such propositions and the logical structure of the
discourse within which they appear is not, of course, irrelevant to our
understanding of them, but, I hold, is far from exhaustively determin-
ing all that a philosopher might want to say about them.5 Thus, for
example, a causal proposition cannot be identified by its form alone,
say that of a conditional, but is only truly causal if it explicitly or
implicitly refers to an existing natural agent potent to bring about the
causation when unconstrained and suitably activated. Thus, ‘ignition
of petrol causes combustion’ is intelligible as a causal proposition on
two counts, neither of which can be dispensed with: it has the form
‘If i then c,’ and it refers to ‘petrol’ an inflammable liquid. Our under-
standing of the proposition as causal depends upon our understanding
of petrol as inflammable, that is, as something which naturally tends
to burn in natural conditions when lighted.
Let us first ask in the most general way, but with more care than is
usually applied to these matters: What is the content of a theory? We
shall avoid, for the moment, the few very general, very atypical theories,
that one finds in fundamental physics, be it classical or modern, and
stay with the kind of theory that is typical of chemistry, or medicine,
or physiology, or social psychology (of the reformed, ethogenic, sort).
Commonly then, in addressing a theory, we confront a discourse which
seems to be describing some arrangement of things with certain definite
properties, the modulations and changes of which are responsible for
the phenomena we are theorizing about. It might be that the distribu-
tion and form of animals and plants, both geographically and geo-
logically, requires explanation. Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel
Wallace produced theoretical discourses describing a process, which,
repeated billions of times, was responsible for the phenomena, as they
saw them, in the light of the theory.
Already much has emerged. Notice first how readily one slips into
speaking as much of an explanation as a theory in this sort of example.
I shall return to this point. Notice too that the way the observations of
naturalists present themselves to the great biologists, the form of order
they saw in them (such as spotting the gradation of the size and form
of the beaks of Galapagos finches) was a product of holding the theory.
This is not just a psychological observation, and we must pause to
5
Rom Harré, “Surrogates for Necessity,” Mind 82 (1973): 358–380.
272 rom harré
examine it further, for here a crucial moment of creativity occurs, one

liable to be overlooked in our awe in the face of the invention of the
grand design.
Recall, if you will, the discussion of the inductivist view of science
and the narrow margin of creativity it allowed, doing science simply
being the generalization of regularly recurring observational correla-
tions. Mill, the hero of the inductivist view, describes this process as
generalizing over similar cases. The important point to notice here is
that he takes similarity for granted. The development, skeleton by
skeleton, from eohippus to horse, is similar, for evolutionists, to the
development, beak by beak, of one species of finch into another. But
why should they be regarded as similar? And in what respects? Their
similarity for evolutionists is problematic, and needs to be explained.
Taking it for granted, Mill sees scientific method as imposing only a
purely formal concept, generality, upon our scientific knowledge.
We must turn to the hero of neo-Kantian realism, William Whewell,
for a resolution of what is problematic in the inductivist view.6 For
Whewell, scientific method is creative not only as to logical form, gen-
erality, but also as to content. A science, he holds, is produced by the
existence of an ‘idea,’ an organizing conception, which is brought to
the phenomena, and creates both the possibility of perceiving simi-
larities, which bring the phenomena into the same class, and supplies
the generalities, all at once. In controversy with John Stuart Mill, he
cited Johannes Kepler’s discovery of the orbit of Mars, involving the
ellipse, not as a generalization of the known positions of the planet in
the star charts, but as a prior idea which provided organization to those
positions (in some cases this may be sufficiently sensory to be called a
gestalt) under which they became moments in the career of a planet
along an elliptical orbit. So the gradation of the beaks of finches is
both a product of, and evidence for, the idea of continuous evolution
of species one from another.
But the Darwin-Wallace theory was not just the idea of gradual but
accumulated change, the idea of organic evolution, which had been
held in other forms prior to their development of it. Their theory
purported to describe a process occurring over and over again in nature.
But neither had observed this process; indeed, it has scarcely been
observed today, outside the glass walls of drosophila boxes. (Ford’s
6
See W. Whewell, The Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences, new ed. (London: Cass, 1967).
butterflies and industrial melanism are recent exceptions.) How could

Darwin and Wallace describe the process of evolution in such detail if
they had never, and given the time span of the process never could,
observe it? What were they describing? What stood between them and
the almost untold aeons of minute changes in millions of species on
millions of hectares of the earth’s surface that they reduced to order?
Clearly they shared an imaginative conception of the organic history
of the earth and the natural forces and processes that shaped it. I am
not interested, for the moment, in the question of from whence they
derived that conception, but in the role of the conception itself.
It is this conception which stands between their limited experience
of organic biology, and the utterly out-of-reach organic history of the
earth. This again is not just a psychological observation about the
personal thought forms of a couple of Victorian giants. By looking
very carefully at the form such conceptions commonly take, we shall
see how the necessary intermediary between ignorance and the unex-
perienceable is created, and so how theories can come to have content
beyond the description of experienced phenomena. The conception
which lies between ignorance and reality I shall call an icon of that
reality. It is not a delineation since that reality is usually not known,
though it may come to be known. In general, a theory describes an
icon as a representative and surrogate for that reality. I choose the word
‘icon’ in preference to the more commonly used ‘model,’ since the
latter has long ceased to be univocal. I also want to draw attention to
the frequent sensory or imaginative character of the bearers of concep-
tions of unexperienced reality, though as we shall see, these develop
away from the sensory into abstract forms. Darwin and Wallace ‘formed
a picture’ of the organic process, a picture which by their description
of an icon of the organic process they convey to us. Of course, psy-
chological idiosyncrasy is such that no psychological generalizations
about how their conception of nature was present to their minds
or ours, their readers, is intended. In particular, I do not intend to
suggest that they or we must literally visualize the icon of reality at the
heart of a theory. But by keeping a sensory connection, by the use of
this word, I want to emphasize that nature must be conceived as a
process in time, and a structure in space, of individual organisms,
geographical and meteorological forms, ecological interrelation, and
the like. Darwin and Wallace attempted to conceive of the reality and
to convey their conception to us, though neither they nor we can expe-
rience that reality.
274 rom harré
What then of the supporting evidence that these great men cite in
their works? What relation does it bear to the conception of unexpe-
rienced processes responsible for all the phenomena of organic change?
We know from the arguments of the Humean tradition that it can
provide no logical support for the generalization of the theory or for
the claim of the theory to universality within its domain. To understand
the role of evidence in science we need to take a radically different
view of it, more radical than Popper’s fallibilism. I shall try to show
by examples that a great scientist cites supporting evidence, not as
premises or even as evidence in the legal sense, but as anecdotes, illus-
trative of the power of the theory to make certain widely-selected
phenomena intelligible. Conceiving of the citation of evidence as
anecdote brings the explanatory power of the theory to the fore, and
raises the philosophical problem of what it is to make the phenomenon
intelligible. So Darwin’s account of the gradations of beak shape among
finches from different islands in the Galapagos group appears not as a
premise from which his theory might be inferred, together with all the
other available evidence, but rather as an anecdote illustrative of the
power of the icon to make the phenomena intelligible.
This can be shown in other cases in just as striking a fashion. In a
currently influential work, Asylums, Erving Goffman sets out a theory
of institutions, based upon the idea that an institution should be con-
ceived both as a device for fulfilling its official functions, that is, as a
hospital is a place where the staff cure people, and as a setting for the
staging of dramas of character, where personas are created and
defended, so that a hospital is a place where people perfect dramatic
performances as ‘surgeon,’ ‘nurse,’ and, of course, ‘patient,’ learning
to conform to and excel in these dramaturgically conceived ‘roles.’7 In
his discussion of those closed institutions he calls ‘asylums,’ Goffman
cites instance after instance of people doing things that become intel-
ligible only if conceived on his dramaturgical model, his icon of the
nunnery or the barracks or the hospital as a theatre. Each citation is
an anecdote, in which the power of the dramaturgical theory to make
phenomena intelligible is illustrated. At the same time, it becomes plain
that certain structures and textures of life in such places become visible,
7
Erving Goffman, Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other
Inmates (Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor Books, 1961).
stand out from other phenomena, only if that life is examined by

someone with that icon of the institution in mind.
I can sum up this theory of science in the phrase ‘icon and anecdote,’
bound into a single discourse by the explanatory power of the icon, its
power to make our experience of the world intelligible, since above all
our scientific icons are depictions of the productive processes which
bring the patterns of phenomena into being. We must also keep in
mind that our experience is only wholly what it is when we conceive
of the world that way. Thus, understanding its genesis makes the order-
ing of experience in classificatory systems intelligible. In science, for
every phenotype we find convenient to extract from experience, we
must conceive a genotype, for every nominal essence we use in practice
to select and identify things and samples of materials, we must conceive
a real essence. I was pleased to read in Claude Lévi-Strauss the follow-
ing elegant statement of the icon and anecdote theory:
Social science is no more founded on the basis of events than physics is
founded on sense data: the object is to construct a model and study its
property and its different reactions in laboratory conditions in order later
to apply the observations to the interpretation of empirical happenings
which may be far removed from what has been forecast.8
Creativity, then, must be at its most seminal in the origin of concep-
tions of the unexperienced, icons of the reality beyond but productive
of our experience.
But why not just study the discourse, and never mind about the icon?
First, it is assumed that a discourse can contain all that is in the object
of the discourse, so that all relations relevant to the internal structure
of the discourse are supposed to be somehow present within it. But
there may be relations in the discourse, relations which we know and
use, say between predicates, where two predicates permeate each
other’s sense, or relations of analogy between predicates deployed in
an argument, which are dependent on prior icon relations, appearing
in the icon as coexisting properties, or likeness and unlikeness between
things. Thus, the co-presence of a pair of properties in an icon becomes
the source, in a diachronic process of meaning assimilation, of syn-
chronic internal relations between two predicates, relations which may
be quite crucial to understanding how the discourse is structured and
how its development would be justified. Such relations can never be
8
C. Lévi-Strauss, Triste Tropiques, trans. J. and D. Weightman (London: Cape, 1974).
276 rom harré
reached by the analysis of a discourse into its logical form, since a

fortiori logical form extracts from all material relations between predi-
cates, and yet it may be just those relations upon which the coherence
of the discourse as a scientific theory rests.
IV Two Epistemological Regions
‘Beyond our experience,’ you say. ‘But surely traditional epistemology

teaches us that we have no knowledge of what is beyond our experi-
ence.’ There are two epistemological barriers, which scientists regularly
overleap in their practice. The one is that erected by positivists between
actual and possible experience, the other by the critical philosophy
between all actual and possible experience and the realm beyond all
possible experience. I shall try to show that our powers and techniques
of creativity are such that we can, at first tentatively and cautiously,
and finally boldly, trust ourselves to pass beyond them, and dwell in
thought, in worlds accessible only to our creative imagination.
The realm of actual experience is limited in two ways. We are
confined to the senses we actually possess, and invariants we can express
between them, so hand, eye, and ear conspire to provide our experience
of a bell. But without conception, perception is blind. And what we
can actually identify within and across our sensory fields depends upon
the sort of concepts with which we are mentally prepared for the world.
As Kant had it and contemporary psychology confirms, our experience
is a product of schematic ordering and supplementing our sensations,
the schemata being of conceptual and perhaps even of a linguistic
origin.9 All this is commonplace. But it is not difficult to imagine things,
and structures and processes and properties, that are too far, too small,
too fast, or too slow, or even too big to be experienced by us as we are
presently constituted, though the Gibsonian invariants in the objecthood
of these entities are just the same invariants as in the objects of ordinary
experience. Locke talks of what we might see with microscopic eyes,
or hear with a more acute sense of hearing, and Peter Geach has
speculated on the colors we would see were our eyes sensitive to a
broader spectrum of electromagnetic radiation. In this way we can
9
See J. J. Gibson, The Senses Considered as Perceptual Systems (London: George Allen
and Unwin, 1968).
conceive of a realm of possible experiences, and populate it in our

imagination with objects undergoing processes which we do not, but
might, experience.
But theories describe icons of structures and processes which would
be experienced within that very realm. Kepler conceived of a fine
structure for the snowflake which would be a natural form of packing
for minute ice particles (water molecules, if neat little spheres) and
which would, if much repeated, yield the universal hexagon. August
Kekulé conceived of a structure in space in which the carbon atoms
of benzene would form a stable ring, and William Harvey completed
his sanguinary plumbing with minute imagined vessels, closing the
hydraulic circuit, while Jan Baptist Van Helmont conceived of disease
as the invasion of the body by an army of invisible minute organisms.
These men populated a world of possible experience with fabulous
creatures of their imagination just as Mohammedans filled the air with
djinni, Descartes ignited a furnace in the heart, and Immanuel
Velikovsky supposed a radically different history for the earth. So enter-
ing a realm of possible experience in the imagination is fraught with
hazard, for the imagination is as capable of fantasy as of sober specu-
lation. I shall return to examine the discipline to which it is subjected
in science and from which we shall extract the fragments of a creative
criterion. It is because of the existence and acknowledgment, and
ultimate justifiability, of this discipline that we can override the extremes
of positivism, which would have us conceive of science as no more
than the ‘mnemonic reproduction of facts in thought.’ Let us call the
activity of thought in populating the realm of possible experience the
work of the reproductive imagination.
But the scientific imagination does not confine itself to the same
realm of creation as is continuous with the realm of perception. It
attempts to conceive of the structure of the world beyond all possible
experience. Scientific thinkers are driven to attempt this ultimate bar-
rier to knowledge by two factors. The first is simple. Our ordinary
experience is full of instances of phenomena whose effects are inexpli-
cable by any work of the reproductive imagination. Electric and mag-
netic phenomena are the most striking examples. We are simply not
equipped with sense organs sensitive to the magnetic influence.
First attempts to solve the problem of the mechanism of the magnetic
influence involved the work of the imagination at its reproductive stage,
leading to a proliferation of magnetic fluids, particles and the like,
clearly denizens of the realm of possible experience. Norman Gilbert
278 rom harré
went further. Gilbert’s imagination leapt the barrier of all possible

experience, leading him to postulate the orbis virtutis, a shaped, structured
field of potentials or directive powers. A structured field of powers was
something, though spatially extended and temporally enduring, that
was clearly not, as such, an object of possible experience, given our
lack of magnetic sensibility. Eventually Michael Faraday offered to the
visual sense a picturable icon in the lines of force technique for repre-
senting the field.
Not only is the perception of the magnetic influence beyond the
range of any of our sensory fields, but magnetism, like electricity and
gravity, forces the creative imagination to the transcendental stage, since
there is a conceptual, not just a contingent, difficulty about the percep-
tion of fields. A field is a distribution of potentials, and though we
speak of the energy of the field at a point, that energy is not manifested
in any kind of action. Thus a field is a fortiori imperceptible, its existence
known only from its manifestations, and from the presence of field
generators, like conductors carrying a current, iron atoms, lumps of
matter, and the like, the laws of structure of whose produced fields we
have discovered by examining the manifestations of the field on other
similar occasions. The icons which represent fields, like rotating tubes
of moving, elastic fluids, are not representative of objects or processes
in the realm of possible experience, and to suppose them to be so would
be a major epistemological error.
But the matter is more complicated. The transcendental imagination
is required to generate not only distributed potentials, but to conceive
an intermediary between potential and action, not as far beyond pos-
sible experience as the potential, but in its realm. At some definite point
in the room there is a gravitational potential. But at this moment no
test body is at that point. Suppose we now bring a test body to that
point, say an alabaster egg, and support it there on a platform. There
is still no action, but since action is now possible if the platform is
removed, we are obliged to postulate another entity—the tendency to
fall acquired by the alabaster egg from the gravitational field. We know
that the egg acquires the tendency from the field, since on the moon,
for example, we have good reason to think that the egg’s tendency to
fall will be much diminished, so the tendency is not an intrinsic prop-
erty of the egg. And we can easily check whether the egg has indeed
acquired the tendency by removing the platform and seeing if, indeed,
the egg does fall. If we replace the platform by a hand under the egg
we might claim to be experiencing the tendency of the egg to fall, but
we could hardly claim that it is an experience of the potential of the

field, since that potential will be there when the egg is removed, and
then we feel no tendency for downward fall. The tendency, then, is not
so far from the edge of the boundary of all possible experience as is
the potential, and may indeed be held to within the realm of possible
experience if the experience of weight and pressure to which we apply
our powers of resistance, frustrating action, is accepted as the experi-
ence of a tendency, and I cannot think of any argument that would
oblige us to deny this.
Contemplating the egg has led us to a complex icon of the whole
situation, and in supposing it to be a delineation of the real, the sub-
sequent fall of the egg becomes intelligible, as does the dent it makes
in the velvet cushion upon which it usually rests. There are two mate-
rial things, the earth and the egg, and two immaterial things, the
gravitational field, our conception of which is certainly a product of
the imagination in its transcendental phase, and the tendency caused
in the egg by the power of the field, a thing arguably on the border
of the realm of possible experience.
V Two Acts of Creative Imagination
I shall try to show that though the creative imagination of scientists is,
in a certain sense, free, and indeed we shall come to see in exactly what
sense, nevertheless, analytical schemata can be constructed to represent
the dynamics of concept-construction, in an idealized form, and from
which canons, exemplified in rules, can be abstracted. The essential
point to be grasped, in considering the acts of the imagination in its
reproductive phase, is that in producing an icon of a possible reality,
the imagination is not modeling something known, but something which
is in its inner nature unknown. We know how the mysterious structures
and things behave, since they have produced the patterns of phenom-
ena we wish to make intelligible, so at least our icon must depict a
possible being which behaves analogously to the unknown real being.
But simply to conceive possible realities in terms of their behavior
is no advance on positivism, since we already know the behavior pat-
terns of things and express these in the laws of nature. The task of
the reproductive imagination is deeper, for it must enable us to gener-
ate a conception of the nature of the objects which behave exactly like,
or in various degrees analogously to, the real things actually in the
280 rom harré
world. The forms of thought involved in this act of the reproductive

imagination can be idealized and schematized by distinguishing between
the subject of the conception, what the icon is a model of, and the
source of the conception, what the icon is modeled on. Since the nature
of the subject is unknown in the sense of beyond all actual experience,
the relation between subject and icon can be mediated only by likeness
of behavior: a swarm of molecules behaves like a real gas behaves, a
person in a shop behaves like an actor playing ‘person in a shop,’ the
evolutionary process produces results like a plant breeder produces. But
the creative act of the reproductive imagination is to produce an icon
of the unknown nature of the real world, and this icon must be at least
capable of being recognized and understood as a plausible depiction
of a possible generating mechanism for the patterns of behavior whose
explanation is our problem. So if we imagine an evolutionary process
as consisting of minute variations in form and function generation by
generation, and certain of these variations leading to greater reproduc-
tive rates in their possessors, we have conceived a mechanism (or at
least the rough outlines of a mechanism) which would generate the
pattern we call ‘the evolution of species,’ which is itself a product of
an act of structuring upon the individual bits of knowledge about form
and structures of individual organic specimens.
But the natures of things imagined and the generative mechanisms
they severally constitute must be plausible, both as generators of
the observed patterns and as possible real existents. Thus, not any
sources will do. Sources of models, as icons of reality, must conform
to two criteria:
(1) They must be the kinds of things, structures, processes, and prop-
erties the current world picture regards as admissible existents—gases
rather than imponderable fluids (1800), material atoms rather than
atmospheres of heat (1850), electric charges rather than solid atoms
(1920), neural networks rather than mental substance (1960), and
so on. The metaphysics of science consists in the discussion of the
coherence and plausibility of the world pictures, literally concep-
tions of structures, that occupy space and endure for a time, and
any possible systems they may form, which serve as general sources
for conceptions of possible realities, though, in one of the examples
I have cited, that of elementary electric charges, we are on the
borders of possible experience.
(2) Having thus conceived proper kinds of things, we need to be able

to imagine plausible laws for their behavior. And we find such laws,
or closely analogous laws, in existing science. Electrons obey, for us,
Coulomb’s law, the law obeyed by the charges on suspended pith
balls. Gas molecules obey Isaac Newton’s laws of motion, the blood
in Harvey’s imagined tubules obeys the ordinary laws of circulating
fluids. It is thus that the disciplined imagination works in reproduc-
ing a version of experienced reality in the realm of possible expe-
rience. This kind of representation may, in certain cases, turn out
to be not just a representation to fill a gap but a depiction of real-
ity itself.
But what about the human imagination in its transcendental employ-

ment, its transcendental phase so to speak? The first point to notice is
that the behavioral constraint is the same in both phases. The world
as conceived beyond all possible experience must behave just as the
real world behaves, or in a very similar manner. So the dispositions we
assign to reality in our imagination must be closely analogous to the
dispositions we find the real world to have. But if these dispositions are
to be grounded, that is, to be powers and liabilities, dispositions
grounded in the nature of things, must we not try to conceive of natures
of things the details of which must lie beyond the boundary of all pos-
sible experience, and if that nature is beyond all possible experience,
how are we to conceive it? Yet it is my contention that physicists, cos-
mologists, and psychologists both can and do achieve creative acts of
the imagination in the transcendental phase of activity, and that we
can follow them. How is this possible?
The first point to notice is that the world beyond all possible experi-
ence can share one kind of attribute with the objects of the world of
possible experience, namely structure. It is this attribute that makes for
the possibility of intelligibility of conceptions of that world, and of
course for its mathematical description. Objects in the experienceable
world must have both sensory qualities, or considered in themselves, at
least the power to manifest themselves sensorily, and they must have
structure (structure which need not be, though it often is, spatial), while
processes in that world, to rise above the dead level of imperceptible
uniformity, must have both powers of sensory manifestation within
thresholds that allow us to say they have structure in time. (Compare
the difficulty that was once experienced in knowing whether the Aus-
tralian aborigines had melody, when the multi-toned structure of their
282 rom harré
tunes is within a semi-tone, our normal unit of melodic differentiation.)

In the world beyond all possible experience, there are, a fortiori, no
powers of sensory manifestation, though two connections must remain
with the world of experience. In the one there must be an actual causal
connection, in that the objects in that world must have powers to affect
objects in such a way as to change or stimulate or release their powers
to manifest themselves or changes in themselves to us. And secondly,
more germane to the issue of conceivability, both synchronic and dia-
chronic structure may be attributable. For example, in Medieval chem-
istry, the four principles which had the power to manifest themselves
in warmth, coldness, wetness and dryness, though not perceptible
themselves as such, nevertheless were imagined to be present in things
and materials in definite proportions (non-spatial synchronic structure)
which might be changed, and so change the nature of the substance,
a process, if intelligible, having diachronic structure.
The role of icons in conceiving quality-less structure thus becomes
both clear and shows itself to be equivocal: for icons, if based upon
the reproductive power of the imagination, but passing into the tran-
scendental phase, will constrain conceived structure to the structures
of possible experience. The imagination, in its transcendental phase,
must proceed to acts of abstraction and generalization to pass beyond
this constraint, and of course the acts of the imagination in this phase
are identical with abstract mathematical creation. In the very last
analysis, icons of the world beyond all possible experience may be
required to have the character of abstract mathematical structures. But
of what?
We have already noticed how, in science, dispositions are grounded
in hypotheses about the natures of the individuals which manifest these
dispositions. If the individual is a source of action such as a material
thing as the ultimate source of the gravitational field, or an acid, rela-
tive to chemical analysis at the molecular level, then the grounded
disposition is a power. But if, as we move into the transcendental phase,
we have left behind all properties other than structural with which we
might ground dispositions, then those structures in which all secondary
dispositions are grounded must be of primary or pure dispositions, that
is, of ultimate powers, that is, in the elements of the most fundamen-
tal conceivable structures, powers, and dispositions must coincide. In
natural science, fields are the best example of structures of pure
powers. Icons, such as Maxwell’s tubes of fluid, may be required for
conceiving structures of potentials, but here at least they are but dis-
pensable models of our abstract conceptions of reality. They are, at
best, a system of metaphors for holding onto the sense of the abstract
objects, and it is to this role that another aspect of the sense of the
notion icon is directed. An icon as a religious painting is not just a
picture of some worthy person, but is a bearer of meaning, generally
abstract with respect to that which it depicts. In their transcendental
employment the models generated by this phase of the imagination
are truly icons.
VI Disciplining the Fantasy
Common sense would have it, no doubt, that the test of the imagina-
tion in conceiving objects in the realm of possible experience is whether,
when our senses are extended by the development of some device, such
as the stethoscope or the microscope, the hypothetical object or process
appears, that is, it is a matter of whether and to what extent reality,
when it is revealed in experience, matches the icon. But common sense
needs defense. There is a tradition in philosophy of casting doubt upon
the authenticity of what is perceived, by insisting that only the existence
of and properties of the immediate elements of various sensory fields
involved are known for certain. Happily, as far as stethoscopes, probes,
microscopes, telescopes, and slow motion film are concerned, one can
establish a gradual transition from the objects and processes of unaided
perception, to the sounds, shapes, colors, motions, and so on, brought
into our experience with the help of instruments. One can hear the
same sound with or without the stethoscope, but one can also hear
clearly sounds heard only faintly or not at all without it. Thus, we
establish a continuity of the existence of percepts. By this achievement,
the world of possible experience penetrated by instrumental aids
is made one with the world of actual experience, so the extended
world is no more nor less dubious or inauthentic than the world of
unaided perception, the ordinary world. And this is all we need for
the control of creativity at the reproductive phase of the work of
the imagination. Philosophers may continue to argue about the epis-
temological and metaphysical status of material objects, but their dis-
putes and distinctions cannot detach bacteria from bodies, nor galaxies
from ganglia.
284 rom harré
But discipline in the world imagined to lie beyond all possible expe-
rience cannot be based wholly upon instruments. However, there is a
kind of penumbral region, wherein structure is simply spatial, where
structures whose elements are beyond all possible experience may
nevertheless be displayed. I have in mind the photographs of molecu-
lar structure obtained by field ion microscopes, or the tracks of ‘par-
ticles’ observed in cloud chambers. While the phenomenal properties
of the structure are linked to its elements only by long and sometimes
ill-understood causal chains, the structure so projected is at worst iso-
morphic with the structure of the thing or process being examined, at
best that very structure itself. However, if we consider cases deeper into
the inexperienceable, only reason can come to the aid of the creative
imagination, and that only a posteriori. At the deepest level, the best that
we can do is show by argument that the structure of elementary pow-
ers we have imagined as the ultimate structure of the world fulfills
certain necessary conditions for the possibility of our having the kind
of experience we do have, and there may be a still more general form
of argument which would link certain structures (and certain powers)
to the possibility of any experience at all. In fulfilling these conditions,
the world as we experience it is made intelligible.
A process or structured object becomes intelligible if the following
conditions are met:
(1) From the imagined fundamental world structure the form of the
process or object can be deduced, that is, from the tetrahedral
distribution of the valences of the carbon atoms the observed form
of the diamond can be deduced with the help of certain ancillary
hypotheses, that is, the structure of the valences provides a reason,
relative to accepted physics, why diamond has the form it has. Form, as
we may say, is inherited from form. The intelligibility of the form
of diamond comes not just from the fact that the proposition
expressing this stands in a certain logical relation with some other
propositions, but that among those other propositions are some
descriptives of some underlying and fundamental form, that is a
structure of units or elements that are, for that case, not further
decomposable. Thus, to cite structure is to make intelligible, and
by linking structure via the deductive link, which has the effect of
preserving content, that intelligibility which derives naturally from
citation of structure alone, is transferred to the form of the diamond.
But sensory qualities, like color or timbre, cannot be so made intel-
ligible, only their associated forms, wavelength, or harmonic struc-

ture, can be referred to more fundamental forms and so acquire
intelligibility. It is a prime rule of science that qualitative difference
should be explained in terms of structural difference, and in so
doing, the only final form that an explanation could take is achieved.
In short, only form or structure is intelligible in itself. Philosophical
argument for this proposition could do no more than take the form
of the analysis of all satisfactory explanatory forms and the exhibi-
tion that their satisfaction derives from that feature.
(2) In the nodes of the imagined world structure, there are agents, that
is the structure is a structure of sources of activity, as for example
a complex formed from repressed traces of disagreeable experiences,
a concept which represents a state of the world beyond all possible
experience, is a structure of agents, its elements having power to
effect changes in behavior, so that the complex itself becomes a
structured agent, the source of the pattern of neurotic or compul-
sive behavior, making it intelligible by showing that the form of the
behavior is a direct transformation and manifestation of the form
of the complex.
VII Society as Created Icon
But when we create icons in the pursuit of the social sciences, we can-
not take it for granted that there is a real structure, some independent
world, of which that icon, however imperfectly, is a representation.
Indeed, both the existential status of society and the significance of
societal concepts is highly problematic and cannot be taken for granted.
We speak of the nation, the army, the middle class, as we were speak-
ing of the island, the Thames valley, and so on. Our power to create
societal concepts is, as we shall see, a creativity of another kind.
I shall approach this difficult problem through two examples, illustrat-
ing different facets of the role of societal concepts, and their associated
icons in our lives. Both examples will illustrate how we are unprepared
to live in an unintelligible environment, that is, an environment which
does not either exhibit structure or clearly manifest an underlying
structure. Imagine a large complex of buildings unified by a boundary
wall, and a common calligraphy in the labels displayed at various
entrances (that a hole in a wall is an ‘entrance’ is also a social, not
a physical, fact, so in this analysis an underlying and unexamined
286 rom harré
ethnomethodology is being taken for granted, but at least by me, know-

ingly). People move in and out, some prone on stretchers, others arrive
with every mark of respect in Rolls Royces. Inside, uniforms are much
in evidence. Many people are in bed, and even some of those who are
walking around are wearing pajamas and dressing gowns. What on
earth is this strange place and what is going on? The innumerable
momentary interactions and sayings of individuals, or rather some part
of them, are made immediately intelligible by the hypothesis that this
is a hospital, that is, the whole begins to exhibit structure. The introduc-
tion of this concept is strictly comparable to, though much more
complex than, the introduction of the concept ‘galaxy’ which made
the appearance of the night sky intelligible by referring its observed
form to an underlying and aesthetically pleasing structure, the spiral
form of the stars in the galactic plane. As ethnomethodologists have
insisted, there is always an everyday problem of intelligibility, which it
behooves sociologists to contemplate, since it is nearly always solved by
those involved. Sometimes the continuous everyday solution needs
supplementation by a stroke of scientific genius, as when Irving Goff-
man made us realize that many flurries of activity, unintelligible within
the official theory which glosses ‘hospital’ as ‘cure-house,’ become intel-
ligible within a single supplementary theory in which the institution is
glossed as a setting for dramas of character. Each theory generates a
rhetoric, a unified theory of explanatory concepts, with an associated
grammar (in which rhetoric do we put the socio-grammatical rule that
the superintendent can refer to the hospital as ‘my hospital,’ and to
whom?). Rhetorics are drawn on in accounting sessions, in which in
the course of talk the momentarily mysterious is made intelligible by
allowing itself to be so described as to find a place in a structure, this
time of meaningful activities within semantic fields recognized as
legitimate in the rhetoric. Finally, one should notice that the official
theory may find expression in what is literally an icon or icons, diagrams
on suitable walls, in which structure, as officially conceived, is laid out.
Nowhere on such charts appears such power and influence structures
as that of the janitor in a school, where the boiler-room society over
which he provides is the apex of the counter-hierarchy, and in which
such officially-defined figures as the headmaster carry very little weight.
The position implicit in the example above, which it should be clear
is not at all the same as the old theory of methodological individualism,
can claim at least one systematic exposition in the past, namely, that
of Leo Tolstoy in the sociological chapters in War and Peace. As a mark
of my admiration for his formulation of the theory, I have called it the

‘Borodino Theory,’ since he broaches it explicitly in his analysis of that
battle and in his recurring theme of the contrast between the manner
of generalship of Napoleon and of Mikhail Larionovich Golenishchev-
Katusov. As Tolstoy sees it, the Battle of Borodino is a middle-scale
social event within an inexplicable, very diffuse, and very-large scale
human movement, the periodic movement of very large numbers of
people from West to East and East to West. This migratory oscillation
has no name, and is not mentioned in historians’ accounts of the affair.
They are concerned with nations, armies, generals, governments, and
the like. And their role, according to Tolstoy, is to impose order and
intelligibility upon meaningless eddies in the groundswell, such eddies
as the Battle of Borodino. The battle becomes, in War and Peace, both
an instance of Tolstoy’s theory, an anecdote showing its power to make
phenomena intelligible, and a kind of model for the analysis for all
middle-scale human events.
The battle is joined by accident in conditions which prevent either
commander getting a clear view of the battlefield and its changing
dispositions. Both commanders are surrounded by eager staff officers
and constantly receive messages from the officers on the field. But by
the time the message, usually in garbled form, has reached the com-
mander, the situation it described has changed. Napoleon nevertheless
issues detailed orders throughout the day based on the ‘information’
he receives—but these orders rarely reach their destination, and even
more rarely are intelligible to the commander they are intended for,
and even more rarely still enjoin courses of action still possible by the
time they arrive. But on the French side, a great flurry of command
goes on. Katusov, on the other hand, does nothing, he believes no
messages, he issues no orders. He waits for the issue to be decided. But
as a final irony, no issue is resolved, at least in the final dispositions of
that battle, though as Tolstoy points out the French losses that day
turned out to be fatally weakening to their army.
But, asks Tolstoy, what do historians make of that battle? They impose
order upon it. They represent the haphazard movements on the
battlefield, enjoined by the exigencies and impulses of the moment as
splendid tactical moves, flowing from the genius of the commanders,
and brought about by their orders. ‘The Battle’ as a structured, ordered,
hierarchical social entity, is a product of retrospective commentary; in
the technical language of the new sociology, it is an account. A series
of flurries, intelligible as the mutual actions of individual men at the
288 rom harré
microlevel, become elements in a larger structure, by an act of the

creative imagination. In terms of this, commentaries upon and expla-
nations of actions are contrived for happenings which are no longer
conceived as closed entities, but as elements in a larger structure having
relations with other elements of that structure, for example, with the
thoughts and orders of the commanders. But that larger structure has
its being only in the imagination of those who share the theory, a
theory, of course, which any member can hardly fail to share. Only
one who follows at least one step on the phenomenological path, one
who, like the ethnomethodologists, wishes to subject the natural attitude
and its products, battles, to scrutiny, can come to this. Ironically, it is
in the social sciences that the positivist theory of theoretical concepts
has its only plausible application, since in the social sciences, the Boro-
dino Theory would counsel us to treat societal concepts as serving only
the interests of an imposed intelligibility, and not being referential terms
pointing outside the theory to real existents.
The creative imagination of the social scientist is the most potent of
all, for he can create an icon whose close simulacrum of a real world
is so potent that people will live their lives within its framework, hardly
ever suspecting that the framework is no more than a theory for mak-
ing the messy, unordered flurry of day-to-day life intelligible, and so
meaningful and bearable.
VIII Evolutionary Epistemology
But sciences and societies have a history. And the question as to why
a particular form appears, makes itself visible in various manifestations,
at a particular time and in particular circumstances, must be tackled.
To get clear on the basis for a diachronic analysis, one must distinguish
the productive process of a ‘next stage’ from the sequence of those
stages. Only by clearly separating them can the problem of their several
intelligibilities be solved. In general, I would wish to claim that just as
in the sequential stages of plant and animal life there is no pattern
from which a law of those stages can be inferred, that is, they have no
intelligibility as a progression, so there is no pattern in the sequence
of stages of sciences or societies. Patterns are discerned and described,
but I would wish to argue that these reflect current ethnographies and
current obsessions—God’s will working itself out in history, economic
determinism, and the like—the projection of which on the sequence
of stages is the source of historicism. But that does not mean to say
that the process of historical change cannot be understood, and that
it cannot be made intelligible. I follow Stephen Toulmin in his claim
that the general form of all historical explanations was invented by Darwin
and Wallace, a form which allows for the intelligibility of a historical
sequence without falling prey to historicism.
The form of our understanding of the diachrony of social and
scientific creativity will be evolutionary in the natural selection mode.
Thus the origin of new forms, be it animal, vegetable, or structures in
thought, will be taken to be (relatively) random, with respect to the
environment in which those forms will be tested. Thus, in the moment
of inception, all novel forms will have the character of random muta-
tions, and thought forms, fantasies, will be taken to be innumerable.
We shall return in a moment to the important issue of how far the
inception of thought forms is disconnected from their environment, and
we shall find that it is not quite so clearly free as organic mutation.
But by what sort of environment are they selected? We must acknowl-
edge the complexity of that environment. New ideas are contemplated,
deliberated upon by people, and in the course of these deliberations
are accepted or rejected, or sometimes merely forgotten, or abandoned
because of the appearance of a novelty more in fashion. Sometimes
they are tested, as to what further intelligibility they lend to what we
think goes on, and sometimes even as to what they lead us to think
there is. Sometimes ideas are rejected out of hand, as silly, threatening,
‘unintelligible,’ ‘obscene,’ and so on. How is some order to be brought
to this multiplicity?
The credit for the introduction of the basic idea of evolutionary
epistemology must go to Popper, and hindsight, I feel sure, will regard
this as his great contribution to philosophy. Effectively, Popper proposed
to bring order to the selecting environment by the use of a principle
of formal logic.10 The instrument of natural selection upon ideas whose
appearance is serendipitous with respect to that environment, and of
only psychological interest, is the principle of modus tollens, that a
proposition which has false consequences is false. By itself, ‘falsification’
is just a logical principle, but in Popper’s works it is uncritically coupled
with an epistemological principle—‘rejection’—that is, whatever is
10
K. R. Popper, Objective Knowledge, an Evolutionary Approach (Oxford: The Clarendon
Press, 1972).
290 rom harré
falsified must be rejected as knowledge. Popper’s particular version of

the evolutionary natural selection theory comes to grief on that coupling,
since it cannot be taken for granted and it turns out to rest on two
levels of theory, one metaphysical and the other scientific.
In order to pass from falsification to rejection, one must suppose that
the falsified principle, hypothesis, or theory is not worthy to be accepted
as knowledge. This requires recourse to an assumption about the stabil-
ity of the universe, a metaphysical assumption that the universe will
not so change in the future as to behave in such a way that the falsified
principle is then true. But this is a principle to which Popper cannot
have recourse, since it is a form of the general inductive principle of
the uniformity of nature, the negation of which leads to an evolution-
ary epistemology for science in the first place.
But even if the passage from falsification to rejection be granted, say,
as a principle, itself a mutation surviving in a hostile environment by
virtue of its power to make scientific method intelligible, the application
of the principle depends upon assuming some embracing scientific
theory as true. In general, falsification is itself an interpretation of a
yet more fundamental relation, namely contradiction. The product of
a ‘testing’ is a contradiction. ‘All A is B’ is in contradiction with ‘This
A is not B.’ To assign ‘false’ to the principle, to make this its test, requires
that we assign ‘true’ to ‘This A is not B,’ that is, the assignment of a
truth-value to the general proposition depends upon a prior assignment
of a truth-value to the particular. That is what makes this a test of the
general proposition. But it is notorious that the result of any experiment
is very far from being a ‘brute fact,’ and we might as easily have assigned
the truth-value the other way. In practice, ‘This A is not B’ gets true
or false in priority because it is embedded in a more embracing or
otherwise more attractive theory than ‘All A is B,’ which is, for the
purpose of the test, detached or isolated in some way. Thus the passage
from contradiction to falsification is not unequivocal. (Popper did, of
course, attempt a ‘basic statements’ theory to anchor truth somewhere,
but has been forced to relativize it, which is to give it up.) It seems that
Popper’s own attempt to give body to the general theory of which he
was the originator is too much dependent on logicist assumptions as
to what is rational, and on the uncritical acceptance of the transitions
contradiction to falsification, and falsification to rejection.
Toulmin, by contrast, is prepared to include a much wider range of
items in the selection mechanism, and furthermore, makes an important
and interesting concession to a mild teleology, unthinkable in the Pop-
perian theory.11 The appearance of a mutant idea, for Toulmin, is not

wholly detached from what has gone before in the realm of ideas, not
unconnected with the tests and trials to come. As we get the idea of
the kind of tests an innovation is to face, we censor what one might
call ‘first fantasy,’ so that only plausible ideas are offered for the com-
munity to test. And synchronic creativity, as I have described its struc-
ture in Part I, involves a disciplinary feature in the very process of
creation itself, which ‘close-couples’ the new creation to the old. Muta-
tion occurs, then, within a very narrow range.
What of the selection mechanism itself ? Institutional and social fac-
tors become prominent once we move away from a simple logicism.
Clearly, an idea will have a better chance of discussion and consider-
ation if it is proposed by someone in a certain place in the institution,
be it the society of scientists or the board of a company or the general
meeting of a commune. And greater effort will be made to make the
world conform to the idea before it is rejected. This latter feature is
very prominent in the natural history of political ideas, where the
‘world’ in which the idea will run its course is a human construction
which can, within certain limits, still unknown, be reconstructed so as
to preserve the idea unrefuted.
Toulmin’s particularization of the theory is not without difficulties
as well. He chooses to discuss the problem, not in the propositional
ontology of Popper, but with concepts as his individuals. However, this
leads to considerable difficulties and unclarities in his statement of the
theory, occasioned by the problem of individuation of concepts. The
problem is central, since he treats ‘population of concepts’ as strictly
analogous to ‘population of organisms.’ But what is the ‘individual’
concept? Is it the concept of an individual person, so that my concept
of the atom is a different concept from yours, even though our concepts
may match throughout their semantic fields? This would seem to be
the natural interpretation, so that a concept would reproduce itself by
being more and more replicated in the minds of others. But he also
speaks sometimes as if it was the concept we shared, which is the
individual which is naturally selected, and its progeny, not as its repli-
cas in other people’s minds, but the further logical and conceptual
descendents that it spawns. It seems clear that this second interpretation
must surely be a mistake, and that one must stick to the individuation
11
S. E. Toulmin, Human Understanding, vol. 1 (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1972).
292 rom harré
of a concept as my concept, and apply the species notion to link, under

the same phenotype, my concept and yours when they are, as concepts
go, alike.
I hope I have said enough to indicate that both the diachrony of
theories and societies can be understood in a general way by the strict
application of the evolutionary analogy and the idea of selection, but
that the final account of the balance between rational, societal, and
other factors in the selective environment has yet to be struck.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CREATIVE INTERPRETATION OF LITERARY TEXTS
Thomas Leddy
I Introduction
The question I wish to consider is the nature of creativity in literary

interpretation. The issue comes from thinking about the debate sur-
rounding constructivism.1 Some authors have held that literary works
are, in a sense, constructed not simply by the writer, but also by the
interpreter. This view has been much attacked, for instance, in two
recent introductions to aesthetics.2 The issue, of course, is a deep one
and cannot be easily resolved or dismissed. It goes to the great debates
of our time between realists and anti-realists and between objectivists
and relativists.
Constructivism presents two obvious problems. First, if constructiv-
ists believe that interpretations actually change the meanings of works
of art, then works of art created at one time could be transformed by
an action at a much later time; this seems counterintuitive.3 Second, if
1
One critique of constructivism is Robert Stecker, “The Constructivist’s Dilemma,”
Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 55, no. 1 (1997): 43–51. Stecker elaborates his ideas
further in Interpretation and Construction: Art, Speech and the Law (Malden, Mass.: Black-
well, 2003). A central text is Michael Krausz, ed., Is There a Single Right Interpretation?
(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2002). A nice recent version of
constructivism is found there in Jitendranath Mohanty’s, “Intentionality, Meaning, and
Open-Endedness of Interpretation,” 63–75, where he says, “A reason why in these cases
[for example, poetry] there is no final interpretation is that while the text as printed
matter . . . is a work complete in itself, as an aesthetic object it is constituted by the
printed text and the responses of the reader. . . . The total aesthetic object, growing as
it does through time and history, demands ever new interpretations” 75.
2
Robert Stecker, Aesthetics and the Philosophy of Art (Lanham, Md.: Rowman, and Little-
field, 2005); Stephen Davies, The Philosophy of Art (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 2006).
3
Opponents do not consider that this happens in everyday discourse, for example
when I say “I meant by X so-and-so.” Peirce, saw this when he said, “Every utterance
naturally leaves the right of further exposition in the utterer; and therefore, insofar
as a sign is indeterminate, it is vague, unless it is expressly or by a well understood
convention rendered general.” Charles Sanders Peirce, “Issues of Pragmaticism,” in
Pragmatism and Classical American Philosophy, 2nd ed., ed. John J. Stuhr (New York: Oxford
University Press, 2000), 119.
294 thomas leddy
what is meant is that each interpreter constructs its own text, which
then is the one that is interpreted, then there is no basis for disagree-
ment since they are talking about different texts. These are serious
problems. Still, the idea of constructivism intrigues, not least because
it includes a dynamic element lacking in competing theories. Most
non-constructivist theories see interpretation as involving the production
of an accurate representation of a meaning which has always existed,
unchangingly (since the work’s creation), whether in the text, in the
mind of the author, or within the cultural context of original reception.
This leaves out the possibility of creative interpretation, except in the
shallow sense that one could be creative in coming up with a way to
find or describe the pre-existent meaning.
My thought is that creative interpretation is not only possible but
also better than interpretation that is not creative. I am speaking of
the kind of interpretation that creates as it interprets, and thus that
constitutes an understanding of the text in a novel and valuable way.
There is a strong distinction between an interpretation that is merely
‘correct’ and one that brings the text alive through connecting it with
lived experience while still remaining consistent with the text. The
second sort is better in general, although the first might serve some
purposes. Interpretations are only going to be live if they achieve a
higher level of creativity, one that is both discovery and invention.4
Interpretations of literary texts are more or less creative in this sense.
More creative interpretations bring out the evolving meaning of the
work in its interaction with the surrounding environment.
To accomplish my task, we need to avoid four possible misinterpre-
tations concerning the term ‘creative’: (1) Creative is not understood
here to simply mean conducive to more aesthetic pleasure. (2) Although
we sometimes use the term creative in a negative way, I use it here
only in the positive sense. (3) Although people sometimes understand
the most creative interpretations to be the ones that make the most
unusual connections, this approach to defining creative is problematic
in that it emphasizes the element of novelty in creativity over that of
value.5 (4) To conclude that either an interpretation is creative or it is
4
This emphasis on discovery and invention is consistent with what Michael Krausz
has called constructive realism; see his “Constructive Realism: An Ontological Byway”
in Interpretation and Transformation: Explorations in Art and the Self (New York: Rodopi,
2007), chap. 7.
5
Annette Barnes, On Interpretation: A Critical Analysis (Cambridge: Basil Blackwell,
1988), 99.
creative interpretation of literary texts 295
correct is a false dichotomy. A condition for an interpretation to be

creative, on my view, is that it be true, although true in a deeper sense
than merely being correct.
Some constructivists and pluralists prefer not to use the term ‘true’
for literary interpretations. I have a broad notion of truth that makes
me comfortable with calling some literary interpretations true, or truer
than others are. To argue this here is beyond the scope of this chapter,
but just so that the reader understands where I am coming from, by
truth I mean: truth is a triune concept, all sides in constant, necessary,
often fruitful, and sometimes harmful conflict. One side expresses one-
to-one fit of elements between the candidate for truth (proposition,
picture, etc.) and that to which it is said to be true. The second is best
expressed by William James’ idea that truth is that which is good in
the way of believing. The third is the quality of heightened reality we
experience when we believe we have captured the essence of something
(for example, conceptually or through art). None of these is reducible
to any of the others. They are equally important sides of truth. Exclu-
sive focus on one side of truth neglects its rich and full character and
leads to difficulties.
My view is somewhat different from other forms of constructivism
in that I hold that each interpretation actualizes a potential presented
by the text, the potential changing over time. Actualization is a kind
of construction since each interpretation is itself constructed. As Dewey
said, “there is a difference between the art product (statue, painting or
whatever) and the work of art. The first is physical and potential; the
latter is active and experienced. It is what the product does, its work-
ing.”6 By ‘text,’ I mean the sequence of words on paper (or the
equivalent) plus the dictionary or dictionary-like meaning the words
had at the time of creation.7 Text does not mean the sequence of words
plus the meaning of those terms as expressed in interpretations of the
text. The name for that entity is ‘work.’ Competing interpretations are
of the same text. The text remains relatively unchanged over time, its
most notable change being revision by the author. However, the mean-
ing of the text changes over time. Thus, the meaning of the text is not
6
John Dewey. Art and Experience (New York: Capricorn Books, 1934), 162. As
Michael Krausz says, “Dewey defines a work of art as a complex, co-created by the
experiencing viewer and the art product.” Limits of Rightness (Lanham: Rowman and
Littlefield, 2000), 30.
7
See Stephen Davies, The Philosophy of Art, for a discussion of this distinction. Davies,
however, uses “text” to refer simply to the sequence of words.
296 thomas leddy
equivalent to the sequence of dictionary meanings of the sequence of

words in the text.
All interpretations are creative to some degree, but the term ‘creative
interpretation’: should be limited to the more creative of these. Creative
interpretation, as creative anything, is not only novel but valuable: a
merely novel interpretation would not deserve the term creative. Also,
a creative interpretation must be true to the text. One can creatively
talk about a text and not be true to the text but that is not creative
interpretation of the text.
Some think that creative interpretations of texts are not as good as
less creative interpretations. For instance, it might be argued that there
could be a creative interpretation of Animal Farm8 that said that it is not
about totalitarianism. On this view, although such an interpretation
would certainly be novel, it would not, and indeed could not, be prefer-
able. I think that although such an interpretation would be hard to
construct and defend, it would still be preferable to a less creative one
if it still accurately and comprehensively drew on the text. That it is
preferable is not due to its providing greater aesthetic satisfaction but
to ways in which it more deeply engages in human issues. Such inter-
pretations, I will argue in what follows, emerge typically from dialogi-
cal encounters in which apparent incompatibility of interpretation is
in some way resolved in a more dynamic way than mere defeat, sub-
sumption, or conjunction.
One final preliminary note: The view I am proposing is opposed to
a strict distinction between significance and meaning.9 It is often thought
that the significance of a work is simply its importance, and that whereas
a work’s significance can change over time, its meaning cannot. Sig-
nificance, however, is not just value or importance: it is also meaning.
When we say that something has a certain significance we are not just
saying that it has a certain importance, but that it has a certain impor-
tant meaning. Works of art have significance because they can be related
in fundamental ways to our lives: they are not just historical documents
that we appreciate from an objective distance.
8
George Orwell, Animal Farm (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1946).
9
It is instructive that even Davies, who holds to this distinction, uses the term
“significance” in its broader meaning when he says in the first line of his chapter on
interpretation “When the significance of something is not apparent on its face, interpre-
tation is involved in seeking to explain and understand it.” The Philosophy of Art, 108.
II The Book Group
For the last twenty-two years, I have belonged to a book group, which
discusses literary works on a monthly basis. Some things seem evident
to me based on this experience. My experiences with this group will
be my guide for what I will say in this paper. In this, I depart from
typical discussions of literary interpretation which seem to be almost
exclusively derived from observing the activities of literary critics or of
people who are simply reading in private. I choose the book-group over
literary critics and private readers as my exemplar, first because I believe
a dialogical element to understanding literary works, fairly obvious in
the context of a book-group discussion, may be only implicit in the life
and work of a literary critic. Second, literary critics and the aestheti-
cians who focus on them often fail to see the forest for the trees, tend-
ing to focus on little things while missing the big picture. Third, I believe
aesthetics should not ignore everyday life situations of which my book-
group activity is an example.
It is understood within my book-group that each of us has our per-
sonal interpretation of the work. One’s basic interpretation is what one
understands the work to mean, one’s ‘take’ on the work, one’s ‘reading.’
It can be expressed, in different ways: (1) as a series of answers to ques-
tions like ‘How do you understand this passage?’ or ‘How do you explain
this?’; (2) as a series of reactions, positive or negative, to the interpreta-
tions of others; as something that follows after a phrase like ‘I think
the author was trying to say that . . .’ or ‘The main point of the book
seems to be . . .’; or (3) as recommendations or suggestions to others on
how to read the work. One can also produce a second-level interpreta-
tion, which takes the form of an essay, and this in turn can be called
‘one’s interpretation of the work.’10
One thing I take from this is that one’s interpretation of the text
should not, as some philosophers assume, be strongly distinguished
from one’s understanding of it. Interpretation, for example, should not
be limited to something we do when we feel particularly puzzled or
confused.11 For, even when we do not feel confused, and would insist
10
This would take us beyond the book-group, but not too far, for sometimes book-
group members end up posting written accounts of the work to the group.
11
David Novitz, “Against Critical Pluralism,” in Is There a Single Right Interpretation?
Krausz, ed., 101–121, is an example. I criticized an early view of Novitz’s in my “Robust
Realism Rejected,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 42, no. 3 (1984): 317–319.
298 thomas leddy
that we are merely describing what is there, someone else might

legitimately see what we are doing as interpretation. Also, although the
word ‘interpretation’ does sometimes refer to resolving ambiguous terms
and other linguistic puzzles, this is not what we generally mean by
‘interpretation of the text.’12 Instead, such interpretation is the cognitive
side of experiencing a literary work when that experience is understood
as extending beyond the initial reading to further thought and talk
concerning the text’s meaning.
Equally problematic is a rigid distinction between interpretation and
evaluation. Admittedly, my book-group distinguishes between the time
in which we are discussing the text (giving our interpretations of it and
our thoughts about the subject matters covered by it) and the time in
which we give our final evaluations. Yet, one cannot really say whether
any particular statement made by a group member is purely interpre-
tive or purely evaluative. Terms we use in interpreting the text often
have evaluative connotations, and our interpretations are often offered
in support of our evaluations (sometimes after giving evaluations, but
sometimes in anticipation). That there are different evaluations of the
text is often associated with the fact that there are different interpreta-
tions. In short, the classical distinction between interpretation and
evaluation softens a great deal on closer inspection and in the context
of actual discussion of a literary text.
The distinction between interpretation and description is also subject
to such softening. Sometimes philosophers talk about the importance
of identifying the work—under a description.13 This is often motivated
by the thought that the descriptive level is objective and provides a
basis for evaluating interpretations. I do not think that there is a clearly
descriptive level of a text independent of interpretation. At best, there
are inferences to which all members of the group can agree. Alan
Goldman says that descriptions can be known to be true. He offers as
an example that we know that Jean Brodie is manipulative.14 But I have
actually attended a discussion of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, during
which even that claim was contested. Someone could argue that the
12
John Gibson, “Interpreting Words, Interpreting Worlds,” Journal of Aesthetics and
Art Criticism 64, no. 2 (2006): 439–450.
13
Davies, The Philosophy of Art, is one example.
14
“Interpreting Art and Literature,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 48, no. 3
(1990). Brodie is the lead character in Muriel Spark, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (New
York: Harper, 1999).
term ‘manipulative’ is, although understandable, not quite right, or has

misleading connotations.
Contra many aestheticians, I do not believe that identification of the
work is usually much of an issue. In our book-group, it is widely under-
stood that we have all read the same work. On rare occasions, the
members might come into the room with different editions or transla-
tions, and in these cases we sometimes feel as if we are talking about
different works. For instance, we recently discussed Henry James’ Daisy
Miller,15 some of us having read one or the other of his two authorized
editions, and this caused some confusion. But that kind of problem is
easily resolved, for example, by switching back and forth. (The case of
different translations is more problematic since the translator’s choice
of words already presupposes an interpretation of the original.) We
also understand that the words need to be read with the meaning they
would have had during the time of writing: for example, that we may
not interpret the term ‘plastic’ in an eighteenth century text to mean
the same as plastic today. We also recognize that much of a word’s
meaning, as it appears in a particular sentence in a literary work, is
based on how it has been modified by the context of surrounding words
in that work.
Even when we have read a shared text, we almost always disagree
about the meaning and evaluation of the work as the discussion devel-
ops. Sometimes we support our respective positions by referring to
specific passages. However, we also often disagree about the meaning
of those passages. Thus, although one could speak of a level of descrip-
tion as distinct from a level of interpretation, this is relative. That is,
the level of description is simply whatever everyone in the group con-
siders to be fact. The same material or type of material that is consid-
ered by the group to be fact might be considered interpretation by a
new member. When such a person comes into the group, what was
considered fact becomes interpretation relative to the new situation. Also,
what was once considered to be fact might shift to being considered
interpretation during the course of our debate. In general, description
is never independent of interpretation since it is never independent of
worldview. For something to be description, and not mere transcription,
different words from those found in the text must be used, and this
15
Henry James: Daisy Miller, Washington Square, Portrait of a Lady, The Bostonians, The
Aspern Papers (Chapelle Designers, 2004).
300 thomas leddy
requires choice. Such choice is inevitably determined by various larger

contexts, whether cultural or personal.
Over the years, the members of our group have come to know that
each of us has a point-of-view, a typical set of concerns, and a typical
way of reading and evaluating a text. We are quite familiar with the
points-of-views expressed previously by members of the group. One
member, for example, has been strongly influenced by Buddhism.
Although his way of seeing things is more complicated than that, let
us say, for simplicity’s sake, that he takes a Buddhist point-of-view in
reading and evaluating any literary work. For example, when we read
The Schopenhauer Cure by Irvin Yalom,16 he read the passage in which
the character Pam spends some time in an ashram in India as central
to understanding the text as a whole, even though this only took up a
few pages and seemed relatively unimportant to others. When we read
George Bernard Shaw’s A Black Girl in Search of God,17 commonly seen
as an indictment of religion in general, he interpreted the ending as
providing a Buddhist-like message. And in our discussion of Walter
Mosley’s The Man in My Basement he stressed the lead character’s special
contemplative attunement to nature, a point missed by many other
group members.18 Moreover, if he interprets the work to be making a
Buddhist point, he tends to evaluate it more highly as long as it also
meets certain formal criteria.19
Each of the other members has its point-of-view, although it is not
always so easy to specify. There will always be disagreements between
readers based on point-of-view. Indeed, we can assume generally that,
given any two readers of a text, there will be at least two interpretations
based on different points-of-view. Note that this is not just a matter of
different readers holding to different literary theories or standards.
Theorists who focus exclusively on academic interpretation tend to
assume that this is the only relevant issue. However, differing interpre-
tations may have to do more with general attitudes or even with com-
peting philosophies of life. My overall claim is that to truly understand
16
Irvin D. Yalom, The Schopenhauer Cure (New York: HarperCollins, 2004).
17
George Bernard Shaw, The Adventures of the Black Girl in Her Search for God (New
York: Capricorn Books, 1959 © 1933).
18
Walter Mosley, The Man in My Basement: A Novel (Boston: Little, Brown, 2004).
19
Michael Krausz has observed that Buddhists might well have different aims in
interpretation than tracking truth, for example, creation of a more caring world (Limits
of Rightness, 115–116). This view would be consistent with what I say here, especially
given my definition of truth and my comments at the end of this paper.
the nature of interpretation, we need to deepen our understanding of

the relationship between readers who have such broadly different points-
of-view, as is the case with my Buddhist friend and me.
A typical example of a claim that ignores the actual social dynamic
of interpretive debate is Novitz: “to accept as jointly admissible two
conflicting interpretations that attribute different and exclusive proper-
ties to one and the same object is effectively to concede that one does
not properly understand.”20 It is not at all clear what is supposed to be
happening here. Who is doing the accepting? What does ‘accepting’
mean in this instance? What does ‘admissible’ mean? Is one accepting
someone else’s interpretation that conflicts with one’s own, or is one
just coming upon two incompatible interpretations not one’s own, for
example, offered by two other competing members of the book group,
and trying to accept both at once? If the first is true, can one accept
a conflicting interpretation and still believe it incompatible with one’s
own? And, if so, how does one know that there is here an issue of
p and -p, or does one just interpret one interpretation as a -p to the
p of the other?
I do not accept the view that my interpretations and that of my
Buddhist friend are incommensurable. Some social conventions, includ-
ing our shared language and the authority given to text itself, provide
a basis for discussion. (I take the text to be relatively interpretation-inde-
pendent. Except when one it talking about ancient fragments, say of
Sappho, there is practically no debate over what words actually appear
on the page. However, there is room for debate over which of several
dictionary meanings from the time is relevant. Such a choice often does
depend on one’s interpretive stance.) This is so even though our differ-
ences may not be finally resolved. Although each of us has our own
conceptual scheme, our own way of seeing things, communication is
still possible. It happens by way of each person’s interpretation of what
the other is saying.
Most philosophers commonly believe that literary pluralism must
hold, and paradoxically, that incompatible interpretations must be true,
thus violating the principle of non-contradiction.21 This does not ana-
lyze the problem in the right way. We should view it in terms of what
20
Novitz, “Against Critical Pluralism,” 117.
21
With Robert Stecker, I hold that to say two interpretations are incompatible is to
say that they contradict each other. See his “Incompatible Interpretations,” The Journal
of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 50, no. 4 (1992): 291–298.
302 thomas leddy
actually happens in the process of two or more people reading the same
text with each successively offering an interpretation of it in mutual
response. Part of what happens here is that the two are also interpret-
ing each other.
We could pursue various strategies. I might try to understand as
much of what my friend says as possible as actually true, charitably
reading his interpretation of the text.22 This could be a good thing.
However, such a reading may be, from another perspective, a distortion.
We can resolve this issue by insisting that charitable reading is not
always good and that it should be evaluated in terms of whether it
increases understanding. In a charitable reading, what gives meaning
to my interlocutor’s pronouncements is what gives significance to the
text for me.
Although no two ways of seeing a text are ultimately incommensu-
rable (as it is possible to reach agreement, or at least mutual under-
standing, through an on-going exchange, with the text as the standard)
two or more competing interpretations may be incompatible for a time.
Most discussions about incompatibility are vague because they fail to
note that true incompatibility usually requires someone in a debate to
interpret someone else’s claim to be stating the exact opposite belief:
-p to p. This kind of strict disagreement does sometimes happen in the
book-group.
For example, I sometimes believe that my Buddhist friend’s interpre-
tation of a particular passage is false, and I sometimes even believe
(when in an uncharitable mood) that his entire way of seeing the text,
or even things in general, is false. If I say, for example, that his inter-
pretation of a sentence or some larger unit of the text is false, then at
that time, and on that point, our interpretations are incompatible: we
have a case of p and -p. However,—this may appear to be a surprising
thing to say—this is not very friendly. It is not an accident that the term
‘incompatibility’ does not just refer to contradiction but also to the
inability of two individuals to get along. The role of friendliness and
unfriendliness in interpretive debate is under-appreciated in theory of
interpretation. This is not to say, however, that one should never inter-
pret in an unfriendly way.
22
Readers may think of Donald Davidson here. A nice discussion of implications of
Davidson’s theory is to be found in Reed Way Dasenbrock, “Do We Write the Text We
Read?” in Falling into Theory: Conflicting Views on Reading Literature, ed. David H. Richter
(Boston: Bedford Books, 1994), 237–248.
Reading one’s ‘interpretations as false is not the only possible

approach. Benefits may be gained from taking their interpretations as
true, or at least in a more positive way. One might learn something in
the process. So, although we might speak of tension between opposing
interpretations, it is a bit extreme simply to speak of this tension in
terms of incompatibility, as though whether two interpretations actually
contradict each other is something written in stone. To put it another
way, incompatibility is a move in the language-game of interpretive
discussion. One constitutes another’s interpretation as incompatible
with one’s own. Interpreting someone’s claim as a -p to one’s p is a
decision.23 (So too is taking two interpretations neither of which is one’s
own as incompatible with each other.) Of course, incompatibility is not
always one’s own decision: others may understand their position as
a -p to your p!
One difference between debates in literary journals and debates in
book-groups, or even in a seminar room, is that the first is written in
something very much like stone. If someone claims in a published
writing that another person’s interpretation is false, that claim will
remain on the record for as long as the record persists. But in a verbal
discussion, anyone who makes such a claim is always free to modify it
in the course of discussion, and is even free to claim that actually
contradicting the other theory was never intended—this reversal is typi-
cally accepted. That is, history is more fluid within the context of
verbal than written discussion.24
I do not have to assume that most of my friend’s statements are true.
Sometimes it is useful to assume, in a dramatically different kind of
move, that many or even most of his statements are false. For example,
I might bear in mind that all of my friend’s statements contain words
that have meanings that are holistically affected by every other state-
ment my friend makes and by my friend’s overall position. For example,
I might say that Buddhism colors all of my friend’s statements and
positions. I might reject his interpretation of the text because I reject
the whole perspective from which it comes. This more negative approach
23
Christy Mag Uidhir, in commenting on an earlier version of this chapter, has said
that this implies that no incompatible interpretations simpliciter are possible. My posi-
tion might be better stated as that the notion of incompatible interpretations simpliciter
is incoherent. “Simpliciter” refers to something unconditional or ultimately simple: but
nothing in human experience falls into this category.
24
Peirce’s point in “Issues of Pragmaticism” is relevant here.
304 thomas leddy
is sometimes useful because it forces one to sharpen one’s arguments,

look for new evidence, and clarify one’s position.
Some philosophers have argued that although there is nothing wrong
with interpreting texts according to an ideology if there are aspects of
the text that could not have been influenced by that ideology. It would
be wrong to understand, for example, Western texts written prior to
any influence of Buddhism in terms of Buddhism.25 I do not think this
is helpful. Buddhists simply have their own way of looking at things,
and they tend to focus on certain aspects of the text as they construct
their understanding and evaluation of it from that point of view. Am
I any different from a Buddhist in this respect? No, although my own
perspective may be less clearly or easily labeled. We all interpret things
by our own lights.
Interpretations change over time; ideally, they improve in the process.
Of course, once an interpretation is written down and presented to the
public, it is frozen in time, although, even here, we can speak of it as
evolving if the writer produces a revised version later, or if the inter-
pretation itself is subject to a history of interpretation. My interpreta-
tion of a text is constantly evolving (‘changing for the better,’
‘expanding,’ ‘deepening’) not only while reading it but also during the
group’s discussion. This does not mean, however, that the interpretation
is coming any closer to the ‘one correct meaning.’ Part of this evolution
is the result, as I have suggested, of interaction between my interpreta-
tion and my understanding of the interpretations of others. Sometimes
this happens through my taking the interpretations of others as being
incompatible with my own and thus as providing a challenge to my
own interpretation, which I must then defend. Sometimes it happens
through my interpreting other interpretations as compatible with mine,
or even as enhancing mine. I might, for instance, want to incorporate
some aspects of my Buddhist friend’s interpretation into my understand-
ing, recognizing that in doing so, I am probably not being faithful to
his interpretation as I do not accept his perspective. When I take my
interpretation and another’s as incompatible, so that, taken together, there
is a p and -p situation, then I naturally seek resolution of the conflict,
and this, in a way, distances me from my own interpretation. I may then
resolve the conflict by rejecting or modifying my own interpretation.
25
For example, Davies, The Philosophy of Art. For an earlier discussion, see my
“Against Surface Interpretation,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 57, no. 4
(1999): 459–465.
By using imagination, we respond positively to another’s interpreta-

tion. We might act, for instance, as if the other person’s interpretation
is true by our lights. I might do this by taking one of my friend’s terms
as a metaphor for something else. Or I might systematically substitute
in my mind one of my terms for one of his. Done crudely, this will
seem like a distortion. But done with delicacy, it may be seen as a
friendly accommodation. It might, alternatively, be seen as capitulation.
Yet, however it is seen by others, it may nonetheless help to deepen and
expand my position. Another imaginative approach is to stand back
and say something like ‘although inconsistent with each other, both
interpretations can legitimately apply to the work.’
Members of our book-group operate under two assumptions that
appear contradictory: one, that there is an ideally correct interpretation
(singularism in Michael Krausz’s terminology), and the other, that there
may be multiple good interpretations of the text that compete with
each other (multiplism). Krausz distinguishes multiplism from critical
pluralism, where pluralism holds that two or more interpretations are
equally preferable amongst admissible interpretations. If pluralism is
defined this way, multiplism, I believe, is the better theory.26 We can
still hold that although there are competing good interpretations, and
there is no one final interpretation, some good interpretations are bet-
ter than others are. But this, in itself, does not resolve the apparent
contradiction between the two assumptions.
Although singularism and multiplism appear to conflict, they do not
have to. They do not have to if we take singularism as only metaphor-
ically true. Once this move is made, not only do they not conflict in
any deep way, they actually work together. It could even be argued that
they are both required for the group discussion to work as an interpre-
tation-enriching mechanism. Although they cannot work together when
operating at the same time (this would just give a contradiction), one
can (and, arguably, should) alternate between stances.
The notion of an ideal correct interpretation might even be neces-
sary for interpretive discussion. Without it, one could not have disagree-
ment about the meaning of the text, and such disagreement is needed
for advancement in understanding. One also needs to have such a
notion if one is to be willing to give up or to revise some aspect of
26
Michael Krausz, “Interpretation and Its Objects: A Synoptic View,” in Interpretation
and Its Objects: Studies in the Philosophy of Michael Krausz, ed. Andreea Ritivoi (Amsterdam,
Rodopi, 2003), 13.
306 thomas leddy
one’s own interpretation. Moreover, we expect all good interpretations

to be consistent with the facts of the text, although, as I said earlier,
what constitutes fact depends on group agreement, unless we are just
talking about the actual sequence of words. We also think that the best
interpretations are the ones that resolve the most interpretive difficulties
or the most important ones while doing this.
But the singularist ideal should not be taken too literally. The ideal
interpretation is a myth, a fiction, or, to put it in a more pleasantly, an
abstract entity with no real content. No one has ever described one.
How would we even know if we got its description right? There is no
definitive experiment that could reveal its nature. Belief in such an
entity (as something real and describable) is based on nothing but faith.
There has never been agreement concerning the one final interpreta-
tion of a text. There has never been more than partial and temporary
agreement on interpretations of parts of texts. When philosophers give
examples of interpretations they think everyone will agree to, and which
they believe to be patently objectively right, I always think, let him join
my book group! Nor has any agreement ever precluded future disagree-
ments. The ideal interpretation is regulative, not actual. (I am using
the term ‘regulative ideal’ differently from David Novitz in “Against
Critical Pluralism,” who seems to believe that such a thing must really
exist in the way, for example, a Platonic Form exists.)
Why do so many philosophers believe otherwise? I think because
they do not focus on interpretations of entire texts. It is often assumed
that interpretation theory should be modeled after interpretation of
individual words or sentences. The idea is probably that novels, for
example, are made up out of sentences, so if you understand how to
resolve an interpretive dispute about a sentence in a novel, you will
understand how to interpret a novel as a whole. But interpretive disputes
about sentences are really very different. Annette Barnes is one phi-
losopher who fails to see this. She speaks of debates by scholars over
whether there is a contradiction in John Milton’s “Millions that stand
in arms could not at the same time sit ling’ring” since one cannot both
stand and sit at the same time.27 Yet, to base one’s theory of literary
interpretation on such an example seems to miss the forest for the trees.
Although I am willing to grant that, at the level of individual words
and short sentences, theories of interpretation of this sort would be
27
Barnes, On Interpretation, 120.
appropriate, I do not see how this must also be so at the macro-level

of the paragraph, novel, opus, or genre. There may be two reasons
why Barnes takes this position: (1) analytic philosophy in general, of
which her work is representative, tends to take sentences as primary;
(2) most of her examples are from poetry, which tends to thrive on
ambiguity and hence interpretive possibilities generated by single words
and short phrases.
Here is an example of how focusing on the micro-level of individual
sentences can mislead. Barnes favors the intentionalist theory of liter-
ary interpretation. This theory would, she believes, have us interpret
Dante’s phrase, ‘blaze of light,’ as it appears in his Inferno, in terms of
the Catholic theology of the time.28 This is fine. However, this does not
resolve the dispute over whether the overall interpretation of this pas-
sage should be ultimately in Catholic, Marxist, or some other terms.
It might be fine to give Catholicism primacy in interpreting blaze of
light but equally fine to give Marxism primacy in interpreting the work
as a whole. Following this approach, Marxist critics would interpret
blaze of light in terms of their understanding of the appropriate
Catholic construal of the individual passage.
III Ontological Implications and Creativity Theory
How much difference will it make in interpretive practice whether one

believes in the meaning as real or as ideal? Those who believe in it as
something more than merely regulative might benefit from a sense of
certainty, but will be harmed by a tendency to assume that their inter-
pretation is an accurate representation of the ideal. This assumption
will tend to hinder growth.
Theorists are coming to recognize that resolution of the difficulties
surrounding singularism versus multiplism, and realism versus relativ-
ism, can only occur at the level of ontology. My strategy has been to
use the ideas of possibility, potentiality, and actualization borrowed
from Aristotle. Unlike Aristotle, I do not think that potentiality is only
realizable in one proper actualization. A text has potentiality that
changes over time. The many interpretations of a text are all actualiza-
tions of possibilities directed toward the regulative ideal. This handles
28
Ibid., 53.
308 thomas leddy
the realist objection to pluralism that “there is just one set of properties
that a work of art has at one time.”29 The set of properties is a set of
potentialities that is generally actualized pluralistically. These properties
are generated by the text in its interaction with the world via its inter-
pretations by readers. Each reading of a text is a construction insofar
as it creates an understanding of it.
My view should not be confused with what Sondra Bacharach has
called ‘epistemic historicism,’30 which holds that all of the properties
that emerge later were already there latently in the work. Arthur Danto
for instance holds that a work has all of the style properties from the
start, and that these only become apparent with further art-historical
development. Against epistemic historicism, my position is what Bacha-
rach calls ‘metaphysical historicism,’ in which the properties change
historically, although the relevant properties are not ordinary properties
but potentialities. A nice aspect of metaphysical historicism is that it
does not require backwards causation.
However, Bacharach offers her thesis as an alternative to relativism,
whereas I accept relativism. Also, Bacharach appears to believe that
the properties are really there in a time-indexed way, whereas I view
them as potentialities. Possibilities, on my view, are not latent properties
that are always there. Instead, they are to be found in a gestalt that
includes not only the text but background factors that change with time
relative to the reader and the act of reading.
In all of this, I do not think it much matters whether one is trying
to interpret the actual intentions of the author, the intentions of a
hypothetical author, or the meaning of the text as something that is in
some sense independent of the author or the time. All of these are
legitimate goals; the only problem with their respective associated
theories is that they insist that the goals of the other theories are not
legitimate. Better interpretations, I think, come through utilizing a good
mix of these strategies, perhaps by alternating them.
Proponents of these theories often argue that only with their theory
can the one definitive interpretation be established. However, each
method by itself generates competing interpretations based on compet-
ing points of view. If actual intentionalism won out over all the other
theories, this would not lessen the number of interpretations of texts.
29
Novitz, “Against Critical Pluralism,” 115.
30
Sondra Bacharach, “Towards a Metaphysical Historicism,” The Journal of Aesthetics
and Art Criticism 63, no. 2 (2005): 165–173.
The intended meaning of the author is just another abstract ideal which
exists as potential and can be actualized in a variety of ways in our
interpretations of it. It is just that the game, in this case, allows that we
delve into the writer’s biography and notes, while this is not allowed if
we operate by the rules of, for instance, hypothetical intentionalism.
It is said by some, and the idea is associated with constructivism,
that the properties of the literary work change. To what extent is this
true? Properties change in the sense that the range of possibility for
interpretation changes. The text itself does not change, nor do the
circumstances of its creation. The range of possibilities changes partly
because of the history of interpretation of the text. But the importance
of this history may be overrated since only academic readers pay much
attention to it. More important is just cultural history, which includes,
among other things, the history of theories of interpretation. As new
styles of interpretation, but more importantly, as new styles of thinking
arise, new ranges of interpretation are possible, and others fall out. We
approach a text with radically different assumptions based on the kind
of world in which we exist.
I view creativity as a process that is continuous from the initiation
of the work by the writer (or other artist) through the so-called comple-
tion of the work, and then on into the interpretive activity of its read-
ers and critics.31 Although the term creative interpretation is often
associated with those who believe that the reader, or a certain kind of
reader, is in some sense the true creator, this is not my position. I have
no problem with the reader approaching the text in a way that utilizes
the writer’s words in ways definitely not intended by that writer. But I
have no sympathy with the idea that readers can simply intend the
work in their own way. The reader does not replace the writer as the
creative artist. But neither is the reader to be excluded from the creative
process. Instead, readers continue the creative process begun by the writer
through their interpretation of the work.
Many singularists are willing to admit that there is some sort of
legitimate process in which readers add material to the text, filling in
the gaps left by the author, to create something of their own. For
example, if the author does not mention the color of the hero’s hair,
the creative or ‘elaborative’ reader will, singularists suggest, imagine
31
For elaboration, see my “A Pragmatist Theory of Artistic Creativity,” The Journal
of Value Inquiry 28 (1994): 169–180.
310 thomas leddy
the hero’s hair color. Sometimes it is thought that such readers are
actually just using the text as a jumping off point for something of
theirs, as a collage artist might use works of art produced by others in
its new work of art.32 The strategy depends on a false dichotomy because
it assumes that the only legitimate alternative form of reading is just a
form of puzzle-solving.
Another dimension of creativity is the creativity of the culture. The
culture is creative through the writer and the reader. In particular, I
believe that the reader and the writer share in what I have called in
an earlier paper ‘the Socratic quest.’33 They search out (discovering and
creating simultaneously) the evolving essences of things. The debates
over interpretations are actually, indirectly (often not even that indi-
rectly), debates over essences, which themselves change as the debate
moves on. This is why debates over interpretation are important: they
help us shape and reshape our world. That is why we often name the
competing interpretations after major worldviews: Marxism, Freudian-
ism, Buddhism, and so forth. In interpreting a literary work we are
interpreting ourselves and our worlds.34 To understand creativity in the
arts we must understand it in terms of these layers of dialectical con-
frontation, between interpreters, between artist and writer, and between
all of these and various forces within the culture. This is why interpre-
tation of literary works can never work on the same model as inter-
pretation of natural phenomena.35
The subject matter explored in a text has its own development, its
own history. The key concepts of the text exert their own power. They
may exemplify changing perspectives in a history of changing perspec-
tives. This dimension cannot be neglected. A novel that raises the
question of suicide encourages discussion of suicide. Everyone knows
this, but aestheticians do not often view the discussion of suicide gen-
32
Novitz, “Against Critical Pluralism.”
33
Thomas Leddy, “The Socratic Quest in Art and Philosophy,” The Journal of Aesthetics
and Art Criticism 51, no. 3 (1993): 399–410. See also my “Metaphor and Metaphysics,”
Metaphor and Symbolic Activity (Special Issue on Metaphor and Philosophy) 10, no. 3
(1995): 205–222; and my “Metaphor and The Philosophy of Art: Dynamic Organi-
cism,” Theoria et Historia Scientarium, International Journal for Interdisciplinary Studies: special
issue Metaphor, ed. Tomasz Komendzinski, 6 (2002/1): 43–64 for further discussion.
34
See Charles Guignon, “Truth in Interpretation: A Hermeneutic Approach,” in
Is There a Single Right Interpretation? ed. Krausz, 264–284, for a similar view that draws
from Heidegger and Gadamer.
35
This point is in accord with Joseph Margolis’, “ ‘One and Only One Correct
Interpretation’ ” ibid., 26–44.
erated by a novel as part of literary interpretation. Debates in a book

group can be intense because at issue is not just the meaning of the
text in a very narrow sense but more importantly its meaning in rela-
tion to the meaning of readers’ lives—its significance for them. Inter-
pretations do not just get us to appreciate items within the world of
the work, instead, they get us to engage in debates about our shared
world. The world of the work is always a metaphor for the world
itself, and understanding the work is a way to understand the world.
Put another way, interpretations are not just about the text: they
are about the world and about our lives in that world. What is really
at issue in a literary debate sometimes is whether or not one should
be a Buddhist.36
36
Thanks to Dave Cellers, Stephen Davies, Karen Haas, Michael Krausz, Christy
Mag Uidhir, and Richard Whittaker, for comments on earlier drafts of this chapter.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CREATIVITY IN PHILOSOPHY AND THE ARTS
John M. Carvalho
Perhaps no other human capacity is so highly prized by us as creativ-

ity. Can there be no other explanation for this above average esteem
than that creativity approaches and trades on the power of being God?
It is certainly not superficial to claim that those who exercise their
creative capacities and those who witness the execution of those
capacities elevate themselves or feel themselves elevated above their
mundanely human existence. In the presence or the thrall of creativity,
we are understandably tempted to say that humans are inspired either
to emulate the divine model—“How could there be gods,” Friedrich
Nietzsche asked, “and I not want to be one?”—or to fill the void left
by the God Nietzsche said was dead with their own sense of a divine
purpose. Romanticism and the cult of the genius formed a movement
from this becoming present and absent of God in art. (Are they not
all romantics who believe that divine omniscience, omnipotence and
grace can be replaced with the genius of poetry, technique and style?)
Even those we would not call romantics commonly claim nothing
less for creativity than an elevation of the human spirit to divine
or quasi-divine standards. The creative talent of Mozart and the
elevated feeling one can have while listening to Mozart’s music are
the stock (if trite) evidence adduced in support of this claim, but
have we no other way of accounting for what we give and what we
get from creativity?
In an entry for the recently published Oxford Handbook of Aesthetics,
Philip Alperson tries to distance this common view of human creativ-
ity from the classical conception of God divinely making something
out of nothing, ex nihilo. He associates creativity on a human scale,
instead, with making out of something, ex non nihil, something else that
is exceptional, original, and rare. We call works of art creative, he says,
if “they add something of interest to the world. That is a chief part
of what distinguishes the creative from the routine, the pedestrian, the
314 john m. carvalho
derivative, and the merely novel.”1 Creativity, Alperson tells us, adds
something to the world that is not only new but meaningful, but also,
he says, the realization of a distinctly human power that is the posses-
sion of distinguished human beings. What exactly this power is, he
concludes, what distinguishes it from all the other distinctly human
powers and traits, and how it comes to distinguish certain human beings
from others, has not been satisfactorily decided. Could that be because
there is still something extra-human about the power that distinguishes
creative human beings from the rest of us clinging to Alperson’s
account? Can we not advance on this common and still romantic view
that finds creativity only in what adds to our world by exceeding the
routine and derivative? Can we find something creative, instead, in
what subtracts the mundane and pedestrian from our experience of
the world? Can we press this alternative further by considering creativ-
ity in fields other than art, fields like science, or even philosophy?
Though the subject of his handbook entry is creativity in art, some
of what Alperson attributes to creativity there appears to be applicable
to the conceptual and theoretical processes that characterize philosophy.
The idea, for example, that creativity in art begins with the awareness
of a problem, and that it proceeds through deliberation and inspiration
to a concretely elaborated result, compares favorably with the way
philosophers work. A philosopher might identify a problem, ruminate
on some of the received wisdom on the subject, and finally elaborate,
in an essay or a book, some intuition that provided its inspiration.2
Alperson points out, however, that this general account of creativity
does not appear to be equipped to capture the significant degree of
originality, profundity, and insight we ordinarily associate with it. Nei-
ther does it account for the important “social, historical, and cultural
context of artistic creativity.”3 For this reason, Alperson concludes his
essay by worrying that a general description of creativity in art may
not be forthcoming. Still, something remains to be learned from the
1
Philip Alperson, “Creativity in Art,” in The Oxford Handbook of Aesthetics, ed. Jerrold
Levinson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 245–257; quote from 246.
2
The outline for such a view could be drawn from the work of Graham Wallas, The
Art of Thought (London: Jonathan Cape, 1926); Catherine Patrick, “Creative Thought in
Artists,” Journal of Psychology 4 (1937): 35–73; Vincent Götz, “On Defining Creativity,”
Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 39 (1981): 297–301, as interpreted by Alperson’s
reading of Monroe Beardsley, “On the Creation of Art,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art
Criticism 25 (1966): 159–165).
3
Alperson, “Creativity in Art,” 251.
creativity in philosophy and the arts 315
comparison with philosophy Alperson’s analysis invites. Is it possible

that philosophy, by bringing to clarity an otherwise inchoate intuition,
might exhibit creativity in a way that is sensitive to its social, historical,
and cultural context even as it gratifies our desire for aesthetic delecta-
tion? Might an account of creativity in philosophy along these lines
lead us back to a patently non-romantic, ‘ungodly’ understanding of
human creativity in art?
In the following, I will explore what might make philosophy creative,
and how philosophy might, with a sensitivity to its context, gratify our
aesthetic sensitivity to pleasure, not by adding or isolating something
rare and exceptional, but by tearing away what covers up or obscures
something irregular and an exception. Comments Gilles Deleuze makes
comparing creativity in philosophy and art will guide my exploration.
Deleuze introduces exactly these terms—subtraction, the irregular, the
exception—in the short essay, “On the Creative Act,” and in his last
collaborative work with Félix Guattari, What is Philosophy?4 In these
texts, Deleuze argues that artists think as much as they create, and
philosophers create inasmuch as they think. Artists, great artists, he says,
think with the images they create, while philosophers worthy of the
name create concepts when they think. What it means for art to think
in this way, I explore elsewhere. What it means for philosophy to cre-
ate on these terms we can begin to glean from a consideration of
Deleuze’s claim that we create more by removing or subtracting some-
thing from our experience of the world than, as Alperson argues, by
adding something of interest and lasting value to it? Is one or the other
of these general accounts suited to describing creativity in both phi-
losophy and the arts? By the end of these remarks, I hope to reconcile
these apparently competing senses of creativity and arrive at a sense
that fits philosophy and the arts and improves on the extant literature
by clarifying what appears at first as an exotic interpretation of it.
To think of philosophy as essentially and not just occasionally creative
is certainly exotic. If philosophy begins with wonder, as Aristotle
famously says, it is generally thought to be a wondering about nature
and the nature of experience. The purpose of this wondering is to
learn what there is to know about nature and human nature, the truth
4
Gilles Deleuze, “What is the Creative Act?” in French Theory in America, eds. Sylvère
Lotringer and Sande Cohen (New York: Routledge, 2001), 99–107; Gilles Deleuze and
Félix Guattari, What Is Philosophy? trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchell (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1994).
perhaps which, when philosophy does its job, we do not create or invent,
but discover—because it is there in nature to be found. The conditions
for the possibility of knowledge in Immanuel Kant are pure concepts
of the understanding, not created by the understanding, but given there
and which, by giving sense to the syntheses of the imagination, are the
source of the judgments we make about nature. Yet, where would Kant
be without the concept of an understanding that negotiates the demands
of pure, a priori concepts and the syntheses in the imagination of the
perception of a phenomenal world? Where would Kant be without a
host of concepts created to make his transcendental philosophy make
sense? Where would Kant be without the concept—rare, exceptional
and original with Plato—of the truth of a thing embodied in a Form
external to its material reality and a Form of the Good which, though
it could not be known, gave the power of being known to the Forms
and everything informed by Forms? Where would we be without the
concept of the dialectic created by Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel to
show how Kant’s synthetic a priori judgments sustain the Cartesian
intuition about the ego cogito against the skepticism of Hume? This short
inventory (which we could expand easily) suggests that philosophy at
its best is creative—so far—because it adds something of lasting value
to our experience and understanding of the world. Whether there is a
subtractive dimension to this creativity remains to be seen.
Deleuze makes the case for the creation of concepts as the sine
qua non of philosophy in an essay, a lecture really, transcribed, col-
lected, and translated for a handbook called French Theory in America,
where he declares:
Philosophy is not made for reflection; it is not made to think about other
things. . . . If philosophy exists it is because it has its own content. If we ask
ourselves what the content of philosophy is it is very simple. Philosophy
is a discipline equally as creative, equally as inventive as all the other
disciplines. Philosophy is a discipline that consists of creating or inventing
concepts. Concepts do not just exist. . . . Concepts must be fabricated.5
Deleuze, here, reprises and abbreviates the themes he articulated with
Guattari in What is Philosophy? For Deleuze and Guattari, stupidity not
ignorance is the default state of human reason. The ignorant man
knows he does not know and so has already started to think, but the
stupid man—perhaps also the ‘wise’ man—believes he knows, because
5
Deleuze, French Theory in America, 99.
he can recite the litanies of received opinion or ‘wisdom,’ and so refuses

to think. Truly great thinkers, Deleuze says, do not think or reflect
about things. Instead, they create concepts to save themselves from
slavishly repeating those litanies, that wisdom that ‘everybody knows.’
They invite us or inspire us to create concepts ourselves. Creativity in
thought, on this way of thinking about it, is synonymous with philoso-
phy. Creative philosophy inspires what Deleuze would like most of all
to call ‘thinking.’
What are we to make, then, of what Deleuze creatively tells us he
thinks and inspires us to think about Hume, Kant, Spinoza, Bergson,
Nietzsche, Foucault, Proust, Kafka, Carroll, and Francis Bacon (the
subjects of book length studies), or about Samuel Beckett, Herman
Melville, D. H. Lawrence, Pierre Klossowski, John Cage, Jean Luc
Godard, and others (the subjects of ‘minor’ studies)? An obvious con-
clusion is that Deleuze finds the work of all these ‘thinkers’ to be
creative. We can say that Deleuze finds in their work a power he
describes as at once a vitalism and an opening, what he calls a ‘line of
flight.’ This line of flight operates as a principle of selection guided
by no unabashed ‘yes saying’ but by a discriminating subtraction and
‘no saying’ to everything that threatens the creative life of thought.
The principle of selection subtracts everything that threatens the
flight of thought into the Whole developing alongside it without which
there would only be partial samples of thinking but which—because
this whole is the Open—never supersedes or supplants these partial
effects.6 Deleuze insists that this openness keeps thinking (in philosophy
and art) from becoming generalized, reified, or elevated (though he
often speaks of philosophy and art conceptually as if they were intrin-
sic forces or powers realized or waiting to be realized by one or another
‘conceptual persona’).7
But what—apart from the colorful account of Deleuze’s taking them
from behind8—is especially subtractive or creative about his thinking
6
For this use of the concept of the Open see Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory,
trans. N. M. Paul and W. S. Palmer (New York: Zone Books, 1988), chap. 4; Gilles
Deleuze, Cinema 1: The Movement-Image, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), chap. 1; Gilles Deleuze, Bergsonism,
trans. High Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam (New York: Zone Books, 1988).
7
For the concept conceptual persona, see Deleuze and Guattari, What is Philosophy?
61–84.
8
For the concept of philosophical buggery see Gilles Deleuze, Negotiations 1972–1990,
trans. Martin Joughin (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), 6.
about the writers and artists he has singled out for exception in his own
work? Well, following that naughty ‘image of thought,’9 we might say
that he invents concepts for these writers and artists that draw out of
them images or ideas we might not see or conceive otherwise. This is
significant because the thinkers and artists he singles out for close
scrutiny and appreciation are all especially difficult. They are difficult,
on the one hand, because they cannot be easily explicated or under-
stood. One cannot easily see or conceive what Nietzsche, Beckett,
Bacon, or Godard are up to in their work. We might be tempted to
think that this is just because the concept that would explicate their
philosophy or art is lacking or has yet to be created. Just as soon as the
concept is grasped, we suppose, their work and the creativity in it will
become clear. On the other hand, these thinkers and artists are difficult
in the way a child can be difficult: unruly, temperamental, with a mind
of its own. Viewed this way, the philosophy or art in question defies
any final conceptualization, poses problems for which there are no final
solutions, and demands a full appreciation of what has been created.
It also demands the creation of ever-new concepts by those who would
dare to explore its implications. It dares us to ‘complicate the thing’ (as
Marcel Duchamp said about his strategy for naming readymades)
precisely to prolong and promote the life of the thought (or the thing),
the art, and the creativity in it. The philosophers and artists Deleuze
appreciated most all share this quality of creativity: they cannot be
solved. Instead, creativity in their work poses problems that, for a phi-
losopher like Deleuze, are just so many invitations to create concepts
that preserve the life of the problems posed.
The principle of selection is one such concept created at one time
to respond to the problems posed by Nietzsche’s concept of the will to
power. The main problem posed by the will to power is, roughly, this:
how do we make sense of what Nietzsche says recurs eternally in all
forms of life without making it a discreet entity of the sort that would
demand a distinct ontology and without giving it a status generalizable
across (if not universally present in) all the forms of life in which it
eternally recurs? In Nietzsche and Philosophy,10 Deleuze proposes that the
9
For the concept of the image of thought see Gilles Deleuze, Proust and Signs: The
Complete Text, trans. Richard Howard (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,
2000), 94–102; Gilles Deleuze, Difference and Repetition, trans. Paul Patton (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1994), 129–167.
10
Gilles Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy, trans. Hugh Tomlinson (New York: Colum-
bia University Press, 1983).
will to power is the one force among the many disparate forces popu-
lating and competing to drive the destiny of an individual that com-
mands those forces. The will to power commands not because it is
different from those forces. The will to power commands because it
selectively shapes or plasticizes itself to the multiple, particular condensations
and displacements of energies presently cathected in consciousness. It,
thereby, gives the individual direction, a selective disposition, a ‘will’ if
you will. For the thousand and one goals of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra,11
the will to power is a yoke, not because it is an external force imposed
on the otherwise unruly drives, but because it is the force that has
selected a form for itself that gives consistency to the forces condensed
and displaced around it. This will has attracted a quantum of force to
itself that results in a qualitative shift in power.
This concept, the principle of selection—created to prolong the
problems posed by Nietzsche with the will to power—already anticipates
the concept of creativity as subtractive filtering or analogical reduction
created by Deleuze to prolong and vitalize the problems posed by art.
The will to power is not something new added to the life of an organ-
ism. The will to power results from a selective filtering out, a subtrac-
tion of those forces that at any moment do not contribute to the creative
potential, the destiny realizable by a constellation of other forces. The
concept of a principle of selection is Deleuze’s creative contribution to
the will to power as conceived by Nietzsche. From all of what might
be made of the will to power, the principle of selection subtracts every-
thing that might foreclose on the problems posed by it.
To account for creativity in art, Deleuze adapts and remodels this
same subtractive concept. Here, the default state called stupidity in his
concept of thinking is identified as cliché in his concept of the arts.
Cliché in art can be described most generally as the compulsive itera-
tion of narratives, images, sounds, and scenes we have been told,
subject to, or shown repeatedly to keep us from reading, hearing, see-
ing, feeling, or thinking anything other than what we already read, hear,
see, feel and think. Creativity in the arts gives value to painting, pho-
tography, filmmaking, composition, writing, and design by giving
us something else to see, feel and think. Creativity in the arts, in this
way, makes our lives worth living, while the eternal return of cliché in
art threatens to take our lives away. When Nietzsche exhorted us to
11
See Friedrich Nietzsche, “On the Thousand and One Goals,” in Thus Spoke Zara-
thustra, trans. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Vintage, 1966), pt. 1, sec. 15.
love our fate, amor fati, presumably he did not also exhort us to love
stupidity and cliché Perhaps we should consider that more carefully at
another time.
At this time, I want to focus on painting to elaborate the significance
of cliché in art, taking advantage of some things Bacon inspired Deleuze
to say about creativity in the art of painting.12 Deleuze argues that
when a painter stands before a canvas for the first time, it is not empty
but full, full of all the images and things that have ever been applied
to canvas by the variety of institutionalized practices and techniques
artists have employed and, predictably, resisted in the history of paint-
ing. Rosalind Krauss says something similar when she claims that the
structural features of the canvas invariably re-inscribe the history of
art in every however avant-garde painting.13 But Deleuze’s point is dif-
ferent. For Deleuze, the challenge the artist faces is not how to add
something new and of interest and value to the canvas, the compulsion
that plagued the avant-garde, but how to subtract from the canvas what
does not fit its creative impulse, openness to the Whole, line of flight.
The question is how the artist is to leave behind on the canvas some-
thing that is at once recognizable but not reducible to what has already
gone before it—a cliché.
We see this nearly literalized in an example from Paul Cézanne, a
painter Deleuze holds in high regard and to whom he favorably com-
pares Bacon. It concerns Cézanne’s Large Bathers, three different paint-
ings with the same title on which he worked simultaneously from 1900
until his death in 1906. One is in London (1900–1906) and two are in
Philadelphia (at the Philadelphia Museum of Art [1904–1906] and
at the Barnes Foundation [1900–1906]). When Cézanne set out to
paint these bathers in 1900, how many bathers were there already
standing and sitting and wading and stretching and striding on those
large canvases?14 Every other painting of bathers—and the very idea
of bathing—from those clothed in Georges Serat’s Bathing at Asnières
12
Gilles Deleuze, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, trans. Daniel W. Smith (Min-
neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003).
13
Rosalind Krauss, “The Originality of the Avant-Garde,” in The Originality of the
Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1985), 151–170.
Krauss argues there that the weave of the canvas and the crossed stretcher bars that
support it sign the perspective system that sustains the whole history of painting so that
painting only ever repeats its history however far it tries to deviate from it.
14
The dimensions of these paintings vary from 52” × 81” in the Barnes painting
to 68” × 77”, and in the London bathers, to 82” × 99” in the large bathers in the
Philadelphia Museum of Art.
(1883–1884, retouched in 1887), to those half-dressed and ethereal in

Claude Monet’s Dejeuner sur l’herbe (1863), to those isolated or grouped
disconsolately or distracted in Cézanne’s Bather with Outstretched Arms
(1880–1885), Bathers at Rest (1875–1877), Bathers (1890–1894), and The
Bather (1885–1887) were all set out before him competing for his atten-
tion. What could not be taken out of this plenum if it were to remain
a painting of bathers? What must be taken out to avoid repeating
or trivializing what he or others had already done? How to battle
the figurative and probabilistic givens that occupied and preoccupied
those canvases?
In the three Bathers from this period, painted in relative spatial and
temporal proximity to one another, constituting a definite experiment,
Cézanne arrives at what Deleuze would call an analogical reduction
and subtractive filtering of the bathing scene, endowing each of these
three canvases with a motif and material sensibility that gives each
different painting a unique clarity and duration. This process of sub-
traction and reduction is most visible in the Barnes Foundation Bathers.
We see it already in the economic rendering of the physical forms,
the abstraction in the limbs, the torsos, the gestures and the facial
features—there are no articulated fingers or toes, eyes or mouths, the
arrangement of the figures is a piece of artifice and not the rendering
of their natural physical disposition—but we especially see what Deleuze
calls subtraction in the distinctive outlining of the different figures in
this painting. A photograph of Cézanne seated in front of the painting
in 1904, so at some time before it was completed, shows how the dark
lines separating the figures from one another became more pronounced
in the final version, paring the figures down, removing from them
everything not specific to the vision of bathers Cézanne is seeking to
leave on the canvas.15 This is taken to such an extreme in the striding
figure at the far left that she is barely distinguishable as a human form.
Her head is reduced to a suggestively phallic phase, and her feet are
truncated by or planted in the landscape that she would otherwise be
represented as traversing.
Following Deleuze, we would see in this figure (and in this painting
generally) Cézanne extending himself to the point of preserving his
painting from collapsing into the compulsive figuration and narrative
15
The photograph is reproduced by T. J. Clark in Farewell to an Idea: Episodes from a
History of Modernism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 148.
predictability that had caught up every other representation of bathers

in a cycle of cliché. This is, perhaps, not so satisfactorily realized in
the London Bathers, though it is still there in the abstracted and artifi-
cially arranged figures. In the Large Bathers in the Philadelphia Museum,
however, the same effect is present in the relative absence of pigment,
the unfinished effect on the surface of the bodies where the ground of
the canvas shows through the flesh giving a material sensibility to those
bodies whose motif is figured singly on this large canvas and generally
across the three paintings taken together. Deleuze would presumably
count as creativity here exactly the preservation and clarification of
sensation on the canvas achieved by a subtractive technique that, at
the same time, analogically extends a unity to the array of bodies fill-
ing out the scene. In his analysis of Bacon, Deleuze will call this
arrangement the ‘diagram.’ In the language of What is Philosophy? this
arrangement or motif is called the ‘plane of consistency,’ which inter-
sects the plane of composition of a work of art to lend the work value
and a sense, a meaning characterized as a line of flight toward the
Open which makes the work a whole without subordinating the parts
to that whole. On this view, creativity shows up in the motif Cézanne
lends to the bodies in these Bathers, in these scenes of haute bourgeois
indulgence they occupy, and in the ambiguities of painting and modern
life they represent.
Bacon’s paintings, it is well known, are exercised mightily by the human
form. Their canvases are densely populated with bodies either isolated
or working in tandem with other, otherwise isolated, bodies. Others depict
bodies working together to struggle against, or hold their shape against,
the competing demands of gravity, on the one hand, or what Deleuze
calls a framing element on the other. Still others have a field that com-
poses the ground against which these shapes figure without ever becom-
ing narrative or figural. In his book on Bacon, Deleuze analyzes the
specifically subtractive procedures Bacon deploys to battle the compulsive
figurations that constitute the occupying force and unavoidable preoc-
cupation of the bodies in these paintings. The specific procedures are
the ‘round form’ corresponding to the framing element, ‘meat’ or what
I will call ‘boned flesh’ corresponding to gravity and ‘color’ correspond-
ing to the field. Taken together, these devices constitute a strategy that
allows an image to figure on the canvas in spite of the figural demands
of cliché. They sign Bacon’s special creativity, a creativity Deleuze will
describe as ‘Egyptian’ and which Deleuze will say Bacon shares with
J. M. W. Turner, Monet, Vincent van Gogh and Cézanne.
The round area is the concept Deleuze creates to draw our attention
to, and extend the problem addressed by, a particular framing device
in Bacon’s paintings. It shows up most dramatically in Figure at a Wash-
basin (1976). In this painting, the round area is defined by a parallel-
piped outline that surrounds the figure as an echo of the oval of the
washbasin and the circular drain into which the figure in the painting
appears to be emptying his viscera. In this image, the figure becomes
Figure, not a figure of anyone or anything but Figure itself, a stand-in
for the figure in every image, but without becoming figural, the subject
of a clichéd narrative iterated to make sense of this image. Who is this
figure? Is he sick? Is she bulimic? The contortions of the body make
it appear as if something more is going on here than some simple
ritual of oral hygiene. But what can it be? It is precisely the isolating
function of the round area that it subtracts the context in relation to
which this figure might become compulsively figural, might make nar-
rative sense. So isolated, the figure becomes a fact, an image that does
not and cannot illustrate or explain his sickness or distress, her exag-
gerated hygienic techniques or even his isolation from any other detail
either inside or outside the painting that might explain him. An exten-
sion of the modernist impulse, this figure simply is.
Boned flesh is my way of rendering the concept of meat that Deleuze
deploys to account for themes literalized in Bacon’s art, as in Painting
(1946) or Figure with Meat (1955), and extended to the bodies of the
figures that populated Bacon’s canvases, as in Painting (1978) or the
central panel of the triptych Crucifixion (1965). Bacon’s figures have no
spine, no supporting armature or structure. Instead, in Bacon’s figures,
Deleuze tells us “flesh and bone confront each other locally.”16 The
incidental weight of the one is not dependent on the overall structure
of the other. Instead, flesh hangs on bones, and the spirit that might
animate the body or give it meaning has taken a bodily form, become
“a corporeal and vital breath, an animal spirit.”17 This is especially
evident in Bacon’s portraits—of M. Leiris (1978), for example, or of
Bacon himself in Self-Portrait (1976)—which image heads but not faces,
meat on a bone and not fleshed out visages. Faces tell a story, illustrate
an internal world constituted by the anonymous, floating narratives
that penetrate everyone of us, reducing what can be reflected in that
16
Deleuze, Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation, 21.
17
Ibid., 19.
face to “one cliché among others in a world that surrounds us.”18 Bacon’s
portraits “dismantle the face to discover the head,”19 the local form on
which the flesh hangs.
Here, Bacon subtracts, as a butcher might, the skeleton of what
would make the image an illustration of the kind of life we have heard
about time and again. Bacon gives us a modulation of the human form
that is, Deleuze says, decidedly analogous: a human being becomes an
animal to suffer, to scream, as in Bacon’s series of portraits after Diego
Velázquez’s Portrait of Innocent X (1650) such as Head VI (1949) and Study
after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X (1953). In these portraits, and
in his series of Studies from the Human Body, Bacon images a body with-
out organs, a deterritorialization of the body (a pope becomes a man,
becomes an animal, to feel) that is the condition for its reterritorializ-
tion in a form (a scream) that cannot be narratively trivialized, a form
that is, again and again, condemned to break down. This is, Deleuze
thinks, an unqualified and uniquely creative achievement of Bacon’s
art, one that Deleuze highlights and complicates for us with a concept,
meat or, as I would have it, ‘boned flesh.’
There is, however, a third subtractive gesture that Deleuze will say
signals the distinct triumph of Bacon’s art: the logic of sensation con-
stituted by Bacon’s use of color. According to Deleuze, Bacon achieves
an immediate subtractive effect in the specific tonal quality of his col-
ors. Flat, saturated, making up a distinctly artificial palette, these are
not colors that appear in nature. The yellows (Study from the Human Body
[1986]), oranges and teal greens (Study from the Human Body [1970], and
the reds (Blood on the Floor [1986]), when used to define the field for one
or more figure, have a patently plastic appearance and sensibility. There
is nothing to connect them to one another or to the figure apart from
the equally artificial relations that can be established between them by
what Deleuze calls (borrowing the term from Charles Sanders Peirce)
the diagram; Bacon himself called it an armature or a graph. As
Deleuze applies this concept, the diagram operates on and in the act
of painting to connect and trouble the random marks, lines and traits,
scrubbed and wiped local zones of color, thrown paint and framing
devices that fill these canvases. The diagram is at once the operative
set of these marks, zones of color and thrown paint and the frame that
18
Dan Smith, “Translators Introduction,” ibid., xxiii.
19
Ibid., 19.
sets them into operation with one another. In setting these features of
the act of painting together, the diagram tends toward chaos and
catastrophe, but in this operation it also sustains, Deleuze says, the germ
of an order or a of rhythm beat out between the diagram and its col-
lapse. “Of all the arts,” Deleuze declares, “painting is undoubtedly the
only one that necessarily, ‘hysterically,’ integrates its own catastrophe
and consequently is constituted as flight in advance.” It would no doubt
be more careful and correct to say (I see no way of saving Deleuze’s
point here) that Bacon’s paintings share this tendency to integrate
catastrophe with certain accomplishments in music (by John Coltrane,
for example), dance (by Merce Cunningham), photography (by Mike
and Doug Starn), and theater (by Beckett).
Continuing with the concept of the diagram, Deleuze says it can fail
to be creative in two crucial ways, failures Bacon’s art ostensibly avoids.
It can fail when it becomes an optical preoccupation in the act of
painting—an obsession with setting up catastrophes that consistently
dissolve in satisfying, abstract rhythms (the example he gives is Piet
Mondrian). It can also fail when it so overloads the surface manually
as to botch the diagram and make it inoperative (the example he gives
is Jackson Pollock). In the first case, Deleuze objects to the over-coding
of the field of the painting, to the digital opticality of the rules govern-
ing works of this sort. Besides Mondrian, Deleuze mentions Auguste
Herbin. Presumably Sol Lewitt would also fit in this category, along
with others. In the second case, Deleuze objects to the subordination
of the eye to the hand as in ‘action painting’ (retaining this quaint
nomenclature) where there is a reduction to all-over sensation unde-
terred by any code (including the code of the easel). “Michaux” Deleuze
writes, referring to the Belgian artist, journalist and poet Henri Mich-
aux, “went further than Pollock because he remained a master of the
diagram.”20 Presumably he means by this that recognizable figuration
in Michaux’s canvases keep them from devolving fatally into an all-over
effect. We are finally, perhaps, at a point where we can discern somewhat
more precisely what Deleuze counts as creativity in art.
For Deleuze, Bacon exemplifies creativity in art by refusing the lure
of cliché without repressing or rejecting it. Mondrian, Wassily Kan-
dinski, or Mark Rothko, as Deleuze would have it, repress cliché and
substitute for it a hyperbolic visual or spiritual code that deprives their
20
Ibid., 89.
canvases from opening onto a Whole by way of an involuntary diagram.

Pollock, on the other hand, rejects cliché by painting all over it a dia-
gram so proliferated that it misses the reserved, unifying impulse of
consistency operating on the plane of composition of the work. The
creativity in Bacon’s art can be found most precisely, Deleuze says, in
a haptic sensibility, a coincidence of the visual and the tactile that Alois
Riegel attributed to Egyptian bas-relief sculpture where figure and
ground occupy the same space or plane. According to Deleuze, Bacon
accomplishes this by deploying the diagram analogically, drawing line
and color into the kinds of relations, scrutable only on close inspection,
which bring into relief the expressive movement and paralinguistic signs
of sighs or screams. Deleuze gives the name ‘aesthetic analogy’ to
relations established in the absence of a code that nonetheless
create resemblances through non-resembling means. “A sensible resem-
blance is produced,” Deleuze says, “but instead of being produced
symbolically, through the detour of the code, it is produced ‘sensually’
through sensation.”21
To return to where we started, then, if creativity in art adds some-
thing of interest to our world, it cannot, on Deleuze’s account, accom-
plish this by merely repeating or modifying what is already a part of
that world or by introducing something new that is recognizably valu-
able and of interest. As Deleuze would have it, we find creativity when
we fabricate the conditions for a law (a diagram) to involuntarily take
over a subject or a medium to such an extent that something of lasting
value and meaning appears in it precisely because the impulse in that
subject or medium to figuration and narrative or figural simplicity has
been subtracted from it. We accomplish this without either imposing
on a subject an alternative code or by stripping codes from it altogether.
Creativity, on this model, sets in motion a law that takes flight invol-
untarily toward an openness whose horizon is a plane of consistency.
In what Deleuze calls the plane of composition of the work, namely,
the space and collection of materials brought together to make a work
of art possible, a plane of consistency, an impulse for unity, is drawn
in it and out of it by the operation of a diagram that takes over the
composition and makes it whole because it opens the composition to
unknown possibilities already present in it.
21
Ibid., 94.
This may sound, finally and ironically, like a very modernist view of
creativity in art, an echo of the romanticism, about which we warned
at the start, achieved by very different means. From out of the raw
materials of canvas and paint, and by an involuntary process, what
Deleuze calls the diagram, art is made to appear. However, neither a
valorization of the kind of novelty that modernity or romanticism
prizes, nor talk of a genius, exists in this account. Moreover, nothing
redeeming exists in a god who would populate the planet with creatures
from the world of Bacon’s paintings or Cézanne’s baths. Neither can
we easily imagine ourselves aspiring to emulate such divinity. The ten-
sion present in such figures does not capture the presence and absence
of God but the decidedly human potential to create and to think not
ex nihilo but from out of the materials produced and left behind by
artistic, technological and ecological acts that were not themselves
divinely inspired.
On this description, creativity in the arts does not add anything
obviously new or interesting to the world. Instead, it strips away all the
distracting, reductive, mundane, and compulsively iterated elements
populating the Whole to draw the flow of art, involuntarily, toward a
creation, which stands out in its singularity, in its irregularity, in its dif-
ference. While this singularity may appear new and original in our
experience, it was always there but overlooked until everything that
distracted us from noticing it could be subtracted from its field. We
might expect that fields and flows like this exist for all the arts. More
likely, though, Deleuze would have said that a flow for art exists in
general and techniques specific to the different arts for extracting cre-
atively what we call painting, literature, film and so on, are always
contextualized by precisely the social, historical, and cultural circum-
stances of their production to which Alperson would alert us.
Having followed this Deleuzean concept of creativity this far, perhaps
we can start to point in the direction of a response to some of Alper-
son’s cautions and concerns on this score. The question of how to
account for the social, historical, and cultural context of creativity
would be restated or repositioned as the problem of how to subtract
or filter out enough of that context to find an exception, something
irregular in it that does not collapse into the everyday, into cliché. What
needs to be explained is not a distinctively human power to make
something meaningful and new from the available raw materials, but
how and where this or that otherwise undistinguished individual con-
nects with these and not those materials in ways that draw out something
unnoticed but not unfamiliar. What we prize so highly about creativity

is not the more or less divine capacity to add (whether ex nihilo or ex
non nihil) something meaningful to our world but the not all-too-human
connection to things that singles out of the world something rarified
but not unique, something we recognize because it was already there.
To the question why, if this view is correct, some creativity goes unrec-
ognized by so many for so long, the answer would be that the things
singled out in these creative acts are not yet part of what so many
recognize as the world.
The same conclusions would guide an account of creativity in phi-
losophy. For Deleuze, there is what he calls, somewhat obscurely, a
‘universal thought flow,’ a field or plane that carries in it everything
that is being or has been philosophically or mundanely thought.22 The
idea is that, like the canvas filled with images, the space of what there
is to think is already replete with everything that is being and has been
thought. So long as it remains undifferentiated, so long as it lacks a
direction or a sense, this flow of thought, whether “philosophical” or
not, Deleuze says, is the domain of stupidity. This rather unforgiving
evaluation sounds less harsh if one considers that Deleuze is attempt-
ing to specify a quality that distinguishes those figures in the history of
philosophy we esteem from those we hardly notice. What is truly
philosophical, what Deleuze calls thinking in philosophy, is the creation
of concepts. The thinker who deserves the title ‘philosopher’ is the one
who extracts a concept from this universal thought flow by subtracting
from it everything distracting, idle, doxic, and common. The philosopher
subtracts the noise, the babble, the ordinary nonsense that occupies
and preoccupies this flow and draws it, toward a concept that opens
onto what is locally singular, irregular and different in that flow. Witt-
genstein might call such a concept patent nonsense. Deleuze would say
it gives the flow a direction, a sense, a line of flight into the Open of
thought. The concept so described is to philosophy what the diagram
is to art.
Finally, we might ask whether creativity in philosophy so described
is bound to suffer the same fate as art, condemned to create, if it wants
to be thoughtful, concepts that are monsters involuntarily directed to
a unifying motif that will never capture them so long as they continue
22
Gilles Deleuze, “Sur Leibniz: Cours Vincennes 15/04/1980,” in Les Cours de Gilles
Deleuze, retrieved 22 May 2008 from http://www.webdeleuze.com.
to create. Certainly not. In the first place, the creatures in the paintings
discussed above, that might be described as sired from behind, suffer
only in those narratives that keep them from being born. On the can-
vases of Bacon and Cézanne, they thrive and exude life, as the progeny
Deleuze ‘fathers’ enliven the thought of the figures he subjects to
‘philosophical buggery.’ Still, if philosophy exists only where we find
creativity, and we do not force creativity on thought the way Deleuze
says Mondrian and Pollock forced the diagram on art, then we will not
find creative philosophy in the hermeneutic or analytic re-codification
of philosophy’s perennial themes. Neither will we find it in an absolute
rejection or deconstruction of philosophy’s abiding ideas and codes.
We will find it, instead, in the playful abandon and irreverent transgres-
sions that leave philosophy’s limits intact as a measure of the creative
modulations they have made in the code. The aim of creative philoso-
phy would be to introduce not the rare but the irregular, not the unique
but the singular. The lasting value of this philosophical creativity will
be to become fruit forever more creative thought. “Whether you like
them, these fruits of ours?” Nietzsche once asked. “But what is that to
the trees! What is that to us, to us philosophers!”23
23 .
Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals, trans. Walter Kaufmann (New
York: Random House, 1967), Preface.
INDEX
Achaeans, 259 cliché in, 319, 320

adaptiveness, 66 computer, 244
Advaita Vedantic Hindu tradition, 195 conceptual, 108, 202
AE. See empiricism: aesthetic (AE) creativity in, 313–315, 319, 320, 325,
aesthetic(ian)(s), 110, 120, 293, 297, 326, 327
299, 310 Dewey’s definition of, 295n6
commitments, 135 diagram, from or forced on, 327, 328
evolution, theories of, 67 Egyptian, 13
pleasing structure, 286 flow for, 327
response, 135 histor(ians)(y), 213, 308
sensibility, xix, 134, 135, 138 intellectualized, 256
“Against Critical Pluralism” (Novitz), -making/production, 192, 193, 221
297n11, 306 modern, 56, 70, 195
Ah Reaction, 256, 257, 260, 261, 264 object(s), 222
Aha Reaction, 159, 254, 256, 257, 260, ontology of, 87, 105
264 product, xvii, 25, 28, 32–34, 145,
algorithms, 68, 69, 245 197, 198, 215, 216, 225, 228,
Alperson, Philip, 313–315, 327 232, 295, 295n6
Altamira Caves, 259 visual, 231
ambition, 45, 100, 141, 143 -world, 118, 123, 124, 202, 217
“An Unwritten Novel” (Woolf ), 142 artistic relevance, 213, 215–230,
analogue, 122, 139, 269 232, 233
analogy, 65, 80, 112, 240, 261, 267, associations, 72, 73, 76, 246, 248
275, 292 Asylums (Goffman), 274
aesthetic, 326 aterial substrate, 120, 121
evolutinary, 292 attention (attending), xviii, xix, 3, 5, 9,
angularity, 6 55, 71, 73, 74, 110, 120, 132, 134,
Animal Farm (Orwell), 296 135, 150, 156, 169, 170, 173, 175,
anti-teleological model of creativity, 196, 207, 321
xviii, 86, 88, 100 experiential, 225–228
appearances, 131, 134 Autobiography (Collingwood), 171
appropriation, xx, 207, 209–212 awareness, xviii, xix, 106, 133, 135, 144,
Aristotle, 55, 166, 169, 180, 307, 315 150, 253, 259, 314
Arnolfini Wedding (van Eyck), 223 conscious, 208
art, xxii, 8, 9, 11, 17, 23n17, 25, 29, depersonalization of, 258
32–34, 44–46, 48, 55, 56, 56n17, focal, 156
60, 70, 87n6, 99, 105, 106, 110, levels of, 261
114–118, 120–123, 136, 137, 141, Jamesian fringe of, 150
146, 166, 169, 170, 172, 180n12, preconscious, 150
181, 182, 184–189, 191, 206, 207, subsidiary, xix, 150, 156
209, 214, 215, 225, 229, 237, 251, axiomatization, 268
257, 259, 260, 262–264, 293, 295,
296, 308, 310, 317, 318, 322, 328 Babylonian priest-astronomers, 259
African, 79 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 11, 54
Bach’s, 54n15 fugues, 244
Bacon’s, 323–326 toccata, 258
332 index
Bacharach, Sondra, 308 Borges, Jorge Luis, 219

Bacon, Francis, 23n17, 47n5, 48, 317, Borodino Theory, 287, 288
318, 320, 322–327, 329 Bottlerack (Duchamp), 124
Blood on the Floor, 324 brain power, 250
Figure at a Washbasin, 323 Braque, Georges, 103, 265
Figure with Meat, 323 breakthrough idea, 142
Head VI, 324 Brecht, Bertolt, 50
M. Leiris, 323 Briskman, Larry, xvii, 17, 196–202, 216,
Painting (1946/1978), 323 217
Self-Portrait, 323 BVSR (blind variation and selective
Study from the Human Body, 324 retention) Model, 65–68, 70–76,
Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of 78–81
Pope Innocent X, 324 Buddhis(m)(ts), 300–304, 310, 311
Bain, Alexander, 66 Buzan, Tony, 96
Baker, Lynne Rudder, 119, 120n28
Barnes, Annette, 306, 307 Cage, John, 317
Barnes Foundation, 320, 321 camera obscura, 213, 220, 223–226
Basshō, Matsuo, 176 Campbell, Donald, 38n36, 65–67, 79
The Bather (Cézanne), 321 Carroll, Noël, 216, 217, 317
Bathers (Cézanne), 320–322 Carvalho, John, xxii, 313
Bather with Outstretched Arms (Cézanne), 321 catharsis (cathected), 257, 258, 260, 264,
Bathers at Rest (Cézanne), 321 265, 319
Bathing at Asnières (Serat), 320 certainty, 130, 132, 307
Beardsley, Monroe C., 87, 89, 188 Cézanne, Paul, 262, 265, 320–322, 327,
beauty, 47, 134, 136, 160, 186, 257, 329
258, 264, 265 The Bather, 321
Becket, Thomas, 317, 318, 325 Bathers, 320–322
Beethoven, Ludwig van, 4, 9, 27, 106, Bather with Outstretched Arms, 321
113, 202 Bathers at Rest, 321
“Fifth Symphony,” 106, 113 Large Bathers, 320, 322
Ninth Symphony, 202 Chandler, Raymond, 50
Seventh Symphony, 122 Chang, Chung-yuan, 195
being-for-itself, 22 Chaplin, Charlie, 49n8, 50
being-in-itself, 22 children, creative, 44, 84, 97, 98, 238
belief, 46, 51, 52, 102, 124, 132, 306 choice, 116, 135, 137, 139, 140, 145,
opposite, 302 171, 223, 253, 300, 301
self-, 247 rational, 138, 144, 146n37
suspension of dis-, 260 Chopin nocturnes, 244
Bergman, Ingmar, 49 Christo, 202
Berkeley, George, 48, 55 clarity, 181, 315, 321
Bernstein, Leonard, 202 Clark, Kenneth, 213, 228
Binsted, Kim, 246 classicism, 265
bisociation, 30n24, 52, 53, 55, 252–254 coagitation, 262
act, xxi, 253, 264 cognitive structures, 264
comic, 255 coherence, xix, 8–10, 47, 60, 107,
patterns, 262 151–155, 157, 158, 160, 161, 253,
process, 259 276, 280
structures in art, 260 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 30n24, 213,
theory, 35n31 214, 224, 227
A Black Girl in Search of God (Shaw), 300 “Kubla Khan,” 213, 224, 227
blindness, 14, 38, 66, 68, 70, 77, 78 Collingwood, R. G., 27n21, 87, 87n6,
Blood on the Floor (Bacon), 324 108, 121, 124, 146, 171, 181, 183
Boden, Margaret, xxi, 84, 237 Autobiography, 171
index 333
combination (combining), xix, xxi, 50, symbiotic, 259

65, 101, 110, 113, 129, 134–136, constant proportions, law of, 33n28
138, 155, 262, 264, 267 constructivi(sm)(ts), 293n1, 293–295, 309
creativity, xxi, 240, 241, 244, 246– content, 48, 89, 122, 284, 306, 316
249, 251, 254 artistic, 218, 219, 223, 225–227,
genetic re-, 67, 69 233, 238
symbolic, 132 creative, 272
unconscious, 133 of experience, 225, 268
use(ful)(less), 132 expressive, 215
comedians, 49, 50, 55 indeterminate, 149, 162
commitments, 119, 161, 162, 247 logic, -free principles of formal, 270
aesthetic, 135, 137, 137 parameters, -related, 138
artist’s, to a scheme, 137, 138, 141 of philosophy, 316
pre-, 139–141, 144, 145 picture, and form of, 205, 206, 209
to truth, 102 form-content unity, xx, 206, 207
communication, 181, 301 of theory, 271, 273
completion, xxii, 5, 105, 107, 121, 173, of thought, 201
180n12, 183, 309 work-focus, aspect of, 220
composition(s), 9, 18, 71, 105, 174, 176, contextualist assumptions, 137
226, 319, 326 contradiction, 147, 175, 290, 302,
artistic, 322 305, 306
compositional activity, 17 non-, 301
compositional qualities, 136 constraint(s), 4, 12, 13, 78, 85, 107,
compositional tradition, 199 129, 135, 137–140, 144, 146,
dream, 178 222, 227, 242–244, 248, 249,
musical, 11, 106, 109, 243, 245 268, 281, 282
of philosophical writing, 174 Cope, David, 244
unconscious dynamic of, 177 Copernicus, 55, 148, 149, 153, 158, 160
computer simulations, 68, 69 system, 148, 149, 158
computers, 85, 200 Coulomb’s law, 281
creativity in, 244–246 courage, 3, 83, 98, 100, 102, 103
simulations, 68, 69 The Courage to Create (May), 3, 12
conceivability, 282 Creation (Haydn), 41
concept-construction, 279 creat(or)(ion)(s), xix, xx, xxii, 4–6, 8–12,
concepts, 116, 241, 248, 276, 291, 292, 14, 16, 19, 25, 26n20, 29, 30, 32,
310, 316 37–40, 44, 46, 48, 49, 52, 54–57, 59,
conceptual skeleton, 4 60, 65, 66, 69, 70, 73, 74, 76, 77,
conceptual art(ist), 108, 202 86, 87n6, 88, 107, 108, 112n10, 116,
creation of new, 268, 315–318, 328 125, 144, 165, 169, 180, 182, 183,
explanatory, 286 187–189, 196, 200, 205, 207, 209,
societal, 285, 288 238, 269, 270, 277, 291, 294, 295,
theoretical, 288 309, 327
verbal, invention of, 268 artistic, 58, 87, 88, 129, 135, 137,
The Concept of Law (H. L. A. Hart), 160 140, 145
concretion, 120, 121 of concepts, 316, 318, 328
conjunction, 296 conflating, and bringing into
consciousness, 58, 113, 122, 150, 195, existence, 107
211, 246, 263, 319 deautonomization of act of, 230
acts, 129 divine, 188
protoplasmic, 258 H-, 247
self-, 50 of human life, 210
stream of, 265 of ideas, 81
sub-, 58 intellectual, 186
334 index
logic of, 59n21 178–189, 197–201, 203, 205, 211,

mathematical, 282 216, 217, 244, 263, 309
miraculous, 199 products, xvii, xix, xx, 17–41, 77,
of novel, 142 167, 196–201, 203
of poetry, 230 rationality of, 43–61, 263, 270
scientific, 269 scientific, 246, 268–270, 289
transformational, 250 skill, relationship with, xvii, 83–103
creativity (passim) synchronic, 291
artistic relevance of, 213, 215–230, theory, xviii, 14, 19, 20, 24, 44, 45,
232, 233 53, 268, 270, 307
criteria of, xvii, 3–5, 10, 12–16, Darwinian, 64, 67, 77, 80
31n26 psychological, 49
as Darwinian phenomenon, 38, traits, 7, 24, 26–28, 63, 72, 74–76,
38n36, 40, 63, 64, 67–69, 75, 77, 100, 216, 314, 324
79, 80, 81 Creativity in Science (Simonton), 74
description of, 4, 19, 20, 40, 109, The Critique of Judgment (Kant), 11
185–187, 314, 327 Croce, Benedetto, 208
devaluation of, 17 Cubism, 103
diachrony of, 289 Currie, Gregory, 218, 222
evolutionary, 289
domains of (three, trivalence), da Vinci, Leonardo, 96
xx, 73, 74, 95, 202, 248, 251, Dante Alighieri, 307
256, 262 Inferno, 307
false theories of, 268 Danto, Arthur, 194, 308
ineliminable interaction between Darwin, Charles, 63, 65, 81, 95, 188,
person and product and, 30 271, 273
logical/pscyhological issues re, xvii, Darwinism, xviii, 38, 63, 64, 67, 77,
xviii, xxi, 22–30, 43, 47, 49, 51, 52, 79, 80
54–57, 61, 64, 65, 74, 84, 92, 93, Darwin-Wallace theory, 272, 273, 289
99, 131, 133, 135, 143, 145, 176, data (archival) (donnée), 169, 182
179, 180, 184, 185, 187, 188, 192, Davies, David, xx, 108n5, 110, 213
196–198, 200, 201, 205, 216, 217, Da Vinci, Leonardo, 96
221, 237, 238, 240, 244, 253–257, de Bono, Edward, 96
259, 268–274, 276, 284, 289, 291 Dejeuner sur l’herbe (Monet), 321
mysteriousness and miraculousness of, Deleuze, Gilles, xxii, 315–329
18, 20, 40 “On the Creative Act,” 315
necessity of, 19 Nietzsche and Philosophy, 318
Oxford Handbook of Aesthetics What is Philosophy? (with Guattari),
definition of, 313 315, 316, 322
person(ality), xvii, xix, 24–28, 44, 67, Delicate Sieve, 129
72, 73, 80, 86, 92–94, 100–102, delineation, 273, 279
131, 185, 194, 197–200, 203, 211, DeMille, C. B., 49
212, 216, 238 Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (Picasso), 226, 243
H-creative, 247 Descartes, René, 23n17, 158, 277
possibility of, 19, 35 description, 298
explaining, 15 of creativity, 4, 19, 20, 40, 109, 185–
potential released at moment of 187, 314, 327
discovery, 266 interpretation vs., 298, 299, 306
power, 99, 214, 276 mathematical, 281
problem theories of, attempt to solve, transcription vs., 299
44, 45, 47, 54, 60, 68–70, 78 Deutsch, Harry, 107
process, xvii–xxii, 3, 17–41, 48, 52, Dewey, John, 84, 202, 295, 295n6
60, 64, 65, 67, 68, 70, 77, 80, 81, di Buoninsegna, Duccio, 136
83, 86, 87, 89, 92, 94, 99, 101, diachrony, 289, 292
129, 132, 138, 165–170, 174, 175, diagram, 262, 286, 322, 324–329
index 335
Dickie, George, 124 emotions, 28, 29n22, 47, 59n21, 121

differents, 212 catharsis, 265
Dirac, Paul Adrien Maurice (P. A. M.), 265 disturbances that figure in
Disciples at Emmaus (van Meergeren, orig. writing, 178
attributed to Vermeer), 213 laughter, dynamics of, 255, 256–258
discovery, xix, xxi, 13, 54, 56, 58, 67, self-assertive, 257, 258, 260
80, 85, 105, 106, 113, 132, 138, 262, traumatized patient, 266
269, 294 encounter, 3, 5, 15, 91, 210, 218,
analogies, of hidden, 256 219, 230
comic, 255 dialogical, 296
creative potential released at moment end(s), 11, 87n6, 86–92, 112, 159, 176,
of, 266 192. See also means
extraconscious factors in, 262 absolute, 180n12
humor continuum with, 256 beginning vs., 180–183
Kepler’s, of Mars orbit, 272 creativity of, 91
mathematical, 135 Enlightenment, Age of, 263
scientific, 147–151, 154, 155, Enteignung (expropriation), 211
157–162, 185, 187, 251, 255, 261, epistemology, 27n21, 51, 276
263–265 evolutionary, 67, 288–290
Woolf ’s, of scheme, 143 Ereignis, 207, 210. See also ownness
discreteness, 8 Ereignung (appropriation), 211
discriminable item(s), 5 essence(s), 22, 79, 118, 122, 208, 210,
disintegration, 8 275, 295, 310
Dix, Otto, 136 ethnomethodolog(ists)(y), 286, 288
Dogma 95 films, 214, 227 evaluation, xvii, xx, 17, 25–28, 30, 34,
Donne, John, 257 197, 215, 216, 220–222, 230, 231,
Holy Sonnets, 257 298, 299, 304, 328
donnée (data). See data self-, 138
dreams, 173, 174, 177, 178, 184, 185, evidential criterion. See relevance:
189, 259, 261 evidential criterion of
day-, 253, 264 evolution(ists), xviii, 63, 81, 187, 272,
Duchamp, Marcel, 124, 202, 231, 318 273, 280
Bottlerack, 124 analogy, 292
Fountain, 118, 202, 231 of artworld, 217
Readymades, 231 biological, 67, 69, 79, 251
Dürer, Albrecht, 265 creativity, 289
Duhem, Pierre, 148 epistemology, 67, 288–290
Dunn, Douglas, 93 of interpretations, 304
Dutton, Denis, 222 mental, 251
Popper’s version of, 290
l’effet de neige, 228 process, 9, 133, 280
ego, 208–211, 258, 259, 264, 316 programs (of creativity), 245
conscious, 134 psychology, 80
egotism, 247 scale, lower levels of, 266
Egyptian art, 13 social-cultural, 64, 67, 266
Einstein, Albert, 4, 27, 31, 33, 34, 37, theory, 40
44, 47, 48, 53, 56, 57, 101, 151–155, existence, 56, 63, 80, 195, 210
157, 161, 252, 263 bringing a work into, xviii, 86, 105–
post-Einstein age, 23n17 125, 194, 217
El Dorado, 50 human, 313
El Greco, 11 precedes essence, 22
Eliot, T. S., 59, 60, 141, 179 reality, of external, 162
The Waste Land, 59 expectations, 3, 22n13, 46, 114, 124,
Elster, Jon, 130, 139–141, 144, 145 137, 138, 185, 238, 248, 256
emergent entities, 122 meta-, 20
336 index
experience, xxi, xxii, 3, 6, 147, 153, physical/physiological/scientific, 21,

165, 267, 275, 276, 314–316, 327 33, 56, 63, 67, 99, 253, 256, 271, 285
of artistic/creative works, 15, 221, predictive power of, 99
222, 224, 225, 231, 248, 257, 258, psychological, 93
260, 266, 267, 268, 295, 298 rational, 5
apart from art, 207 standard criteria of, 16
child’s lesser, 84 structure, 29
conducive to creative potential, 76, theory, power of, 274
77, 247 extraneous information, ability to
description of, 273 filter out, 72
explanation in harmony with, 57
human, 186, 303n23 Fairbanks, Douglas, 50
imaginative, 121, 122 fallibilism, 274
inductivists’ claim to move beyond, falsification, 147, 289, 290
270 fantasy, 48, 100, 268, 270, 277, 283,
integrate with other experiences, 202 291
learning from, 96, 146 Faraday, Michael, 278
lived, 294 Faulkner, William, 50
‘lost it’, 185, 195 feeling(s), 129, 132, 143, 154, 182,
nondualistic, xix, 191–197, 203 206, 319
novel, 13 of direction, 157
openness to, 72, 74, 93, 100 elevated, 313
past, 22n13 incohate, 181
poets’, 108, 169 oceanic, 257–259
possible, 268, 276–285 Festen (Vinterberg), 214, 227
whole, 203 “Fifth Symphony” (Beethoven), 106, 113
experiential criteron. See relevance: Figure at a Washbasin (Bacon), 323
experiential criterion Figure with Meat (Bacon), 323
experimentation, 90, 156 films, 105, 109, 283
artistic, 49, 51, 90, 136–138, 140, 142, Dogma 95, movement, 97, 227
143, 146, 156, 213, 220, 249, 250, 265 making, 60, 319
Cézanne’s, 321 scholars, 214
Michelson’s, 152 techniques, 97
Monet’s, 214n6, 228 Fine, Kit, 117, 120
Turner’s, 214, 227, 228 Fischer, Bobby, 48
laboratory, 68 fitness function, 245
scientific, 151 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 50
explanations (explanatory forms) focus
(explaining), xviii, 15, 46, 140 of appreciation, 217, 219–221,
of actions, 288 225–228
of behavior patterns, 280 of attention, xix, 74, 196, 216
concepts, 286 big picture, on little things while
‘core idea,’ 29 missing, 297
of creativity, xvii, 15, 20, 25, 29, 43, Buddists’, 304
46–48, 57, 95, 99, 100, 166, 226, of creation, 8
227, 250, 313 discriminable (coherence), 9
necessity of, 19 -determining properties, 220–224,
of emotions, 257 226, 227
forms, 285 on interpretation of entire text, 306
grounds of, 180 on micro-level of individual
historical, 289 sentences, 307
icon, power of designating, xxi, 275 truth, exclusive on one side of, 295
literature, devices in, 143 universe on itself, 258
of metaphor, 186 Ford, John, 49
index 337
foregrounding, 230–232 Fry, Roger, 141

form, 5, 13, 14, 29, 50, 176, 209, 258, Fuller, Buckminster, 265
288, 316, 319
abstract, 273 Galileo Galilei, 33, 148, 149, 158, 252
arbitrary, 59n21 games, 242, 261
of argument, 284 chess, 46n4
art, 110, 137, 146, 186, 205, 256, combining of two (bisociation), 253
257, 260 formalized, 101
African, 79 underground, 264
authentic, 3 war, 45
bodily, 323 Gauss, Carl Friedrich, 18
classical, 73 Gaut, Berys, xviii, 83
concept(ion)(s), Geach, Peter, 276
commonly taken by, 273 Gehry, Frank, 91
idealized taken by, 279 genetic recombinations, 67
-content, 207, 209 genius, 11, 23, 27, 46–48, 48n6, 50n10,
of creativity, 240, 249, 251, 267 52, 58, 84, 85, 99, 187, 208, 217,
envisaged, 11 287, 327
of explanatory, 285, 289 creative, 55
external to material reality, 316 mad, 73
final, 71, 226, 285 poetic, 313
fundamental, 284, 285 scientific, 286
geographical/meteorological, 273 unconscious, 133
geometrical/analytical, 269 genotype, 275
of the good, 316 Gestalt, 8, 272, 308
of harmonious proportion, 269 psychologists, 254
human, 321, 322, 324 Gibsonian invariants, 276
of humor, 256 Gilbert, Norman, 277, 278
Japanese poetic, 176 Giotto di Bondone, 6, 9
life, 79, 318 goals, 68, 93, 94
literature, 142, 143 artistic/creative, 144, 228, 308
logical, 270–272, 276 Godard, Jean Luc, 317, 318
of messages, garbled, 287 Goehr, Alexander, 195
object, 116 Goffman, Irving, 269, 274, 286
observed, 286 Asylums, 274
orchestral, 9 Golovin, N. E., 23, 23n15
new/novel, xxi, 64, 206, 209, 289 Goodman, Nelson, 114, 115
physical, 321 “When Is Art?” 115n12
of plagiarism, 188 Goodyear, Charles, 85, 90
Platonic, 306 grace, 18, 20, 30n24, 40, 313
quadratic, 71, 130 grammar, 253, 586
romantic, 75 Graves, Robert, 179
variations in, 280 “Great Men, Great Thoughts, and the
formalists, 223, 230, 231 Environment” ( James), 64
Foucault, Michel, 106, 317 Greek tragedy, 265
Fountain (Duchamp), 118, 202, 231 Griffith, D. W., 49, 50
frame(s), xxi, 188, 252–255, Grosz, George, 136
260–262, 264 Grünbaum, Adolf, 152
freedom, 21, 22, 49, 51, 53, 83, Guattari, Félix, 315, 316
100–103, 133, 176, 177, 211, 249 What is Philosophy? (with Deleuze),
French New Wave, 49 315, 316, 322
Freud, Sigmund, 47, 55, 258, 263 Guernica (Picasso), 70, 71, 80
imagery, 174 Guilford, J. P., 22, 24, 44
Freudianism, 310
338 index
Hadamard, Jacques, 263 authors’ draw upon, 109

Haha Reaction, 254, 255, 257, combinatory play with, 101, 102, 246,
260, 261 248, 254, 262
Hals, Franz, 229, 233 conjoined, 241
haptic sensibility, 326 context of artistic, 111
hardness, 6 creative, 79, 188, 318
Hardwicke, Sir Cedric, 50 dreams as source of, 173, 184, 185
harmony (harmonious), xix, 57, 134, H-creative, 238
154, 265, 269 from impressions to, 121
Harré, Rom, xxi, 267 incompatible, 264
Hart, H. L. A., 160 infinite regress of, 88
The Concept of Law, 160 inspiration, that stem from, 93, 133,
Harvey, William, 261, 277, 281 139
Hausman, Carl R., xvii, 3 intentional working at creating, 170
Haydn, Joseph, 41 musical, 18, 20
Creation (Haydn), 41 new/novel/original, xxi, 44, 72, 94,
H-creativity, xxi, 84, 97, 98, 237, 238, 98, 99, 144, 147, 237, 239–242,
247 244, 246, 250, 289
Head VI (Bacon), 324 old, 33n28
Hecht, Ben, 50 philosophical, 329
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm, 205, 207, 316 Poincaré’s, 130, 134
Phenomenology of Spirit, 205 political, 291
Heidegger, Martin, xx, 207, 211 possible, about what is, 268, 307
heliocentrism, 55 rejected, 289
Helmholtz, Hermann von, 18, 70 spontaneous, 131, 132
Henri, Robert, 195 sudden/unexpected, 30n24, 159, 240,
“Henry Purcell” (Hopkins), 213 247
Herbin, Auguste, 325 unconscious recombination of, 133,
hierarchy, 259, 264 137
counter-, 286 identit(ies)(y), 6, 14, 80, 116
Hockney, David, 213, 223 apprehending for the first time, 13
Hofstadter, Albert, xx, 205 in artistic, 124, 209
Hogarth, William, 256 constancy of, 15
Hollywood, 49, 50 crisis, 209
Holy Sonnets (Donne), 257 differentiation, 212
Homer, 86 of higher entity, 258
Hopkins, Gerald Manley, 213, 214 irreducible, 8
“Henry Purcell,” 213 narrative, 193, 194
Houseman, John, 50 of outcome, 7
Housman, Alfred Edward, 175, 176 of pictures, 122
Howard, Leslie, 50 rejection of, 120
human experience, 303n23, 186 theorist, 118
Hume, David, 18, 48, 316, 317 thesis, 120n28
Humean tradition, 274 work, 108, 108n5, 121
humor, 55, 255, 256, 262 idleness, 132, 135, 137, 139, 170
Husserl, Edmund, 155 illumination, 30n24, 92, 131, 254, 264,
Huxley, Aldous, 50 265
hypothes(es)(is), 19, 72, 78, 99, 102, 118, illusion, 259, 268
139, 175, 282, 284, 286, 290 of reality, 28
imagination, creative, xviii, xix, xxi,
icon(s), xxi, 270, 273–280, 282, 283, 23n17, 102, 122, 124, 147–163,
285, 286, 288 267–270, 276–279, 284, 288,
ideas, 48, 55, 56, 64, 65, 76, 80, 81, 305, 316
84n2, 252, 267, 291 auditory, 121
index 339
reproductive, 277, 279–282 incohate, 315

transcendental, 278, 279, 281–283 paradoxical, 268
visiual, 96 pretheoretical, 215, 238, 259
imitation, 6, 253 spontaneous, 263
incubation, xix, 68, 92, 131, 132, 137, invention(s), 44, 59n21, 80, 96, 132,
139, 144, 174, 175 155, 185, 268, 294, 294n4
unconscious, 179, 185, 187, 187n23 comic, 255
Indiscernibility of Identicals (Leibniz’s scientific, 269, 270
Law), 116 “L’Invention mathématique” (Poincaré), 130
inductivist-positivist views, 268, 270, 272 inverted spectacles, 150–152, 154, 157
Inferno (Dante), 307 Ion (Plato), 86, 98
Ingarden, Roman, 116, 120, 121, 125 irrationality. See rationality
innovation (innovative), 11, 51, 67, 84, Isherwood, Christopher, 50
230, 291. See also novelty insight, xviii, 4, 52, 71, 85, 131, 133,
conceptual, 152, 157 154, 179, 185, 193, 314
mathematical, 132 creative, 69
insight, xviii, 4, 52, 71, 85, 131, 133, psychological, 143
138, 154, 179, 185, 193, 314
creative, 69 Jacob’s Room (Woolf ), 130, 141, 143, 144
psychological, 143 James, William, 6, 64, 65, 156, 295
inspiration(alists), xix, 18, 20, 30n24, 40, “Great Men, Great Thoughts, and
53, 55, 58, 93, 139, 140, 255 the Environment,” 64
artistic/creative, xxi, 89, 91, 92, Jarvie, I. C., xviii, 43
97, 129, 131–135, 137, 138, Jeanne-Claude ( Jeanne-Claude Denat
144, 169, 175, 194, 197, 259, de Guillebon), 202
264, 314 Joyce, James, 141, 142
afflatus, 176 judgment(s), 11, 12, 56, 60, 89, 106,
comic, xxi, 251 145, 316
divine, 238 aesthetic, 107, 215
false, 134 a priori, 316
invention, resulting in, 185 critical, 12, 145
sudden, 178 artist’s, 89
intelligence, 63, 73, 134, 228, 237 personal, 162
intelligibility, 5, 7–12, 14, 15, 281, spontaneous, 140
284–289 value, 106, 107, 253
of creative outcome, xvii Jung, Carl Gustav, 266
of novelty, 217, 267 Night Journey, 266
of theory, xxi, 267
intentionalism, 308, 309 Kafka, Franz, 317
interpret(ation)(ers), xxii, 7, 10, 121, 185 Kandinski, Wassily, 325
of art/creative works, 218, 226, 241, Kant, Immanuel, 11, 84, 93, 99, 276,
242, 264, 291 316, 317
conjectural, 174 The Critique of Judgment (Kant), 11
of contradiction, 290 neo-Kantian realism, 272
creative, of literary texts, 293–311, Katusov, Mikhail Larionovich
315 Golenishchev-, 287
of empirical happenings, 275 Keaton, Buster, 49
false, 151 Kekulé (Friedrich August Kekulé von
romantic, 12 Stradonitz [aka August Kekulé]), 249,
theories, colored by, 170 277
introspective reports, 68–70 Kepler, Johannes, 33, 148, 149, 155,
intuition, xviii, xix, 135, 137, 147, 149, 157, 158, 269, 272, 277
152–155, 158–161, 187, 314, 316 Kivy, Peter, 92
fallible, 265 Klossowski, Pierre, 317
340 index
Koestler, Arthur, xxi, 35n31, 55, 157, Margolis, Joseph, 117, 124
179, 187, 251 master-slave relationship, 207–209, 211
The Sleepwalkers, 269 mathematics, 45, 55, 73, 130, 268
Korsgaard, Christine, 101 Matisse, Henri, 136, 137
Krausz, Michael, xvii, xix, xx, 191, Woman with a Hat, 136, 137
300n19, 305 Matravers, Derek, 224
“Kubla Khan” (Coleridge), 213, 224, Maxwell, James Clerk, 282
227 electrodynamics, 33
Kvium, Michael, 136 May, Rollo, 3, 12
The Courage to Create, 3, 12
Lamarque, Peter, xviii, 105 means, 19, 25n20, 29n22, 32, 56,
Large Bathers (Cézanne), 320, 322 68, 86, 145, 156, 168, 207, 252,
Lascaux (Cave of ), 259 326 to end, 87n6, 87–92, 94,
laughter, 255–258 270, 327
Lawrence, D. H., 317 mechanical, 206
Le Corbusier, 265 medium, artistic, xvii, xviii, xx, 11, 12,
Leddy, Thomas, xxii, 293 14, 49, 50, 59n21, 109–113, 123,
Leibniz, Gottfried, 155 124, 136–138, 146, 211, 214, 217,
Leibniz’s Law (Indiscernibility of 218, 220, 228–232, 262, 326
Identicals), 116–118, 120n28 vehicular, compared with, xviii, 110,
Leigh, Vivien, 50 113, 123, 218, 220
Levinson, Jerrold, 110, 117, 124, 144, Melville, Herman, 317
145, 219, 221, 222 Meno (Plato), 153, 154
Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 275 mentation, 263, 264. See also thinking
LeWitt, Sol, 108, 108n5, 325 metaphor, 4, 16, 89, 103, 142, 187, 194,
life-work, xx, 202, 242 283, 305, 311
To the Lighthouse (Woolf ), 144 in Plato’s Symposium, 186
Livingston, Paisley, xix, 129 meter, 169, 261
Locke, John, 276 metaphysics, 55, 205, 269, 280
lodestones, 252, 254 Michaux, Henri, 325
logic, 73, 120, 253, 254, 265 Michelangelo, 119
creation, objective of, 59n21 Pieta, 111, 112, 119
creativity, objective of, 51 Michelson, Albert Abraham, 152
deductive, 270 microsociology, 269
of division of labor, 254 Milton, John, 306
formal, 270, 289 mind, 12, 53, 54, 58, 124, 180, 248,
Freud, devoid of, 263, 264 261, 262
of humor, 255 acts of the, 161
of scientific discovery, 147 of the artist, 122, 129, 131, 145
of sensation, 324 author’s, 294
logicism, 291 creative, 262
logicist assumptions, 290 creator’s, 238, 269
Louis, Morris, 214n6, 228 of the genius, 133
Louis XV, 254, 255 intangible powers of the, 162
Lowes, Livingstone, 213 invention, aroused to, 96
The Road to Xanadu (Lowe), 213 objective, 21, 55
philosophy of, 205
M. Leiris (Bacon), 323 property of the, 56
Mach, Ernst, 66, 73, 161 quiescent state of, 160
la machine inconsciente (the unconscious rational, 264
machine), 131 reasonable frame of, 168
A Man in My Basement (Mosley), 300 spectator’s, 259, 260
Mann, Thomas, 50 (un)conscious, 132, 134, 139, 174, 266
Mansfield, Katherine, 141 under/upper, 143
index 341
mnemonic reproduction of facts, 277 Novitz, David

modeling, 133, 139, 244, 246, 279 “Against Critical Pluralism,” 297n11,
modus tollens, principle of, 289 306
Mondrian, Piet, 325, 329
Monet, Claude, 228, 321, 322 objecthood, 276
Dejeuner sur l’herbe, 321 observer(s), 116, 120, 121, 125, 137.
Monod, Jacques, 20 See also spectator(s)
Morley, Edward, 152 Oersted, Hans Christian, 252
Morris, Desmond, 18, 214n6, 228 Orlando (Woolf ), 144
Mosley, Walter, 300 Olivier, Laurence, 50
The Man in My Basement, 300 “On the Creative Act” (Deleuze), 315
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 11, 18, 20, ontology, 307, 318
48, 58, 59, 249, 257, 313 of art, 87, 105
multiplism. 305. 307 Popper’s, 201, 291
muse, 52, 61, 129, 167 openness, 72, 74, 76, 93, 317,
mutation, 69, 289–291 320, 326
operationalism, 161
Napoleon Bonaparte, 287 opportunistic assimilation, 69
natural selection, 63, 65, 67, 79, 245, opposites, 212, 240, 253, 257
289–292 organisms, 63, 273, 277, 291
naturalism, 265 originality, xxi, 44, 47, 52, 64–66, 84,
necessity, 18, 19, 180, 181, 192 85, 97, 108, 161, 178, 179, 184, 186,
of creativity, 19 188, 189, 221, 222, 229, 230, 250,
existential, 40 251, 314. See also novelty
nervous system, 257, 261 as precondition for foregrounding,
newness, xvii, 3, 5–10, 13, 15, 84, 97, 231, 232
229. See also novelty Orlando (Woolf ), 144
Newton, Isaac, 13, 33, 55–57, 148, 149, output, 27, 44–47, 53, 77, 80, 85, 134,
153, 158 140, 216, 217
doctrine of absolute rest, 161 overpainting, 213, 220
laws of motion, 281 ownness, 207, 209–212
mechanics, 33 Oxford Handbook of Aesthetics, 313
metaphysics, 55
mathematics, 55 Painting (1946/1978) (Bacon), 323
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 106, 107, 313, painting(s), xviii, 70, 87, 88, 95, 97,
317–319, 329 105, 109, 111, 113, 118, 121, 122,
Zarathustra, 319 123, 141, 166, 202, 213, 223, 228,
Nietzsche and Philosophy (Deleuze), 318 237, 241, 295, 319, 324, 325, 329
Night and Day (Woolf ), 141 abstract vs. representational, 85, 215,
Night Journey (Jung), 266 218, 242
ninnyhood, 170 ambiguities of, 322
Ninth Symphony (Beethoven), 202 avant-garde, 320
noumenal realm, 99 Bacon’s, 322, 323, 325, 327
novelty, xvii, xx, 5, 34, 36, 38, 40, cave, 110, 259
52, 64, 78, 181, 184, 186, 198, 209, Cézanne’s, 320–322
214, 240, 245, 246, 289, 327. See also creative and responsive, 29
innovation damaged, 223
absolute, 180 El Greco’s, 11
creativity and, 247, 267, 294 Giotto’s, 6
intelligibility of, 217 Goodyear’s, 85
objective, 19 history of, sustained by the canvas
Novelty Proper, 8, 10, 12–16 and frame, 320n13
relative, 20n8, 32 impressionist, 239
temporal, 33n28 literature, 327
342 index
Louis’s, 228 Form, 306

mental idea of completed work before Ion, 86, 98
starting, 29, 91, 191 Meno, 153, 154
by numbers, 107, 108 paradox, 31n26
overpainting, 213, 220 Symposium, 186
Picasso’s, 11, 226 pluralism, 305, 308
Pollock’s, 111, 326 literary, 301
religious, 283 poe(m)(try)(ts), 59, 75, 83, 86–88, 93,
Rembrandt’s, 48n6, 115 95, 98, 105–107, 129, 165–179,
Renaissance, 227 179n9, 181, 187, 213, 226, 227,
scraping off, completed by, 59n21 230, 231, 241, 248, 260, 261,
Serat’s, 320 265, 293n1, 307, 313
space of the, 192 Poe, Edgar Allan, 178
Tao-painting, 195 poetics (process), 165, 166, 172, 173
Turner’s, 213, 228 Poincaré, Henri, xix, 13, 66, 71, 72, 92,
Vermeer’s, 220, 224, 225 130–135, 137–140, 143, 148
path vs. destination, 144 Poincaré’s delicate sieve, 129
patterns, xxi, 11, 51, 75, 109, 172, 173, “L’Invention mathématique,” 130
179n9, 264, 266, 186, 251, 252, 264, Polanyi, Michael, xix, 147
266, 275, 288 Pollock, Jackson, 111, 325, 326, 329
behavior, 279, 280, 285 Popper, Karl, 21, 22, 22n13, 24n19, 31,
bisociative, 262 38n35, 55, 147, 201
rhythmic, of sound, 260, 261 Popperian objectivist World 3
thought, 179 requirement for creativity,
P-creativity, xxi, 84, 238 201, 269, 270, 274, 289–291
Peirce, Charles Sanders, 293n3, 324 poppings, 92, 134
pentimenti, 213, 226 Portrait of Innocent X (Velázquez), 324
perception, 134, 149, 152, 153, 156, potential, creative, 22, 76, 77,
276–278, 283, 316 266, 319
frames of, xxi, 252, 264 Pound, Ezra, 59, 60
hallucination confused with, 264 power(s), 270, 276, 278, 279, 281, 282,
objects of, 122 285, 286, 287, 290, 310, 317
percepts, 283 of association, 246
performance-tokens, 122 brain, 250
perpetuum mobile, 251 constitutional, 117
personal program, xix, 192–194, 197, creative, 99, 214, 276
202, 203 directive, 278
phenomenology, 187 elemental, 284
dialectical, 205–212 passim explanatory, xxi, 274, 275
Phenomenology of Spirit (Hegel), 205 of being God, 313
phenotype, 275, 292 human, 314, 327
Philadelphia Museum of Art, 320 of imagination, 153, 155, 282
photographers, xx, 205 of initiative, 64
creative vs. routine, 206 institutional, 114
physical change, 111, 113, 114 of intuitive, xix, 153–155, 160, 161
physical states, 21, 113, 201 of being known, 316
Piaget, Jean, 258 legislative, 117
Picasso, Pablo, 11, 18, 18n7, 70, 71, 79, magic, 259
80, 95, 102, 226, 243 of the mind, 162
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, 226, 243 of owning, 210
Guernica, 70, 71, 80 poems, special of, 177
Pickford, Mary, 50 political, 209
Pieta (Michelangelo), 111, 112, 119 predictive, 99
Plato, 55, 83, 85–87, 89, 98, 153, 316 over process, 47
index 343
theoretical, xxii, 274 reconciliation, xx, 206, 207, 209–212

will to, 318, 319 regression, xxi, 261, 264–266
Prairie House style, 245 regulative ideal, 306, 307
Principia Mathematica (Russell), 59 rejection, 120, 158, 166, 222, 239, 289,
proposition(s), 51, 270, 284, 285, 289, 290, 329
290, 295 Rembrandt, 48, 48n6, 115
causal, 271 representation, 96, 114, 118, 214, 262,
logical form of, 271 281, 285, 294, 307, 322
ontology, 291 repudiation, 12, 145
structure, 94, 268 research program(me), 24, 24n19, 25
true, 111, 251 retrospective commentary, 287
Proust, Marcel, 141, 317 rhapsode, 86
provenance, 218, 221, 225, 227, 228. rhetoric, 286
See also propert(ies)(y): provenential rhyme, 169, 261
provential properties. See propert(ies)(y): Riegel, Alois, 326
provential Ritchie, Graeme D., 246
psychologism, 270 The Road to Xanadu (Lowe), 213
psychopathology, 48, 73, 74, 76 Romantic poets, 83
psychoticism, 73 romanticism (romantic movement), 207,
Ptolemy, 55, 148 265, 313, 327
system, 158 Rothko, Mark, 325
Pythagoras, 252 routine(s), xviii, 49n8, 65, 90, 91, 94–96,
100–102, 205, 313, 314
qualities, 6, 9, 91, 112, 134, 188 associative, 253
aesthetic, 136, 136n17, 137 Rowlandson, Thomas, 256
artistic, 137, 230, 231 rules, xxi, 11, 12, 49, 90, 94, 101, 181,
of artists’ generative activity, 221, 222 183, 241–243, 245, 247, 253–255,
Bacon’s colors, tonal of, 324 264, 265, 279, 309, 325
of creativity, 318 Russell, Bertrand, 32, 58–60
emotional, 148 Principia Mathematica, 59
sensory, 281, 284 Russell Archives, 58
translucent, of Louis’s paintings, 228
quality, 44, 45, 77, 175, 203 satisficing, 138
of heightened reality, 295 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 22, 122, 124
scheme(s), 108, 137, 138
randomness (random), 36, 37, 38, 39, aesthetic/artistic, 140, 141, 145, 146,
40, 66, 69, 91, 111, 173, 179, 245, 173
248, 249, 324 conceptual, 301
mutations, 289 creativity, not product of great, 146
rationality/irrationality, xxi, 34n30, 140 Poincaré’s, 108, 135, 139
of creativity, 43–61, 263, 270 scientific invention, for analysis of,
Popper’s vein of, 270 269
Razik, T. A., 23, 24 Woolf ’s literary, 142–144
readymades, 124, 318 Schoenberg, Arnold, 243, 249
Readymades (Duchamp), 231 The Schopenhauer Cure (Yalom), 300
real being(s)/things, 117, 151, 279 sculpture, xviii, 87, 88, 105, 109,
reali(sm)(ty), 268 111–114, 112n10, 116, 119, 123,
constructive, 294n4 202, 326
illusion of, 28 seeing-in, 96
neo-Kantian, 272 selection, creative, 129, 131, 132, 138,
relativism vs., 307 144, 146, 178, 317–319. See also
socialist, 265 natural selection
rebound, 265, 266 self-assertion, 257, 258, 260
recognizability, 10 self-confidence, 247, 250
344 index
self-expression, 253 structure(s), xvii, xxi, 8–14, 16, 29,

selfishness, 247 107, 120, 122, 177, 181, 182,
Self-Portrait (Bacon), 323 242, 270, 273–281, 284–289,
self-reference, 57 291, 323
self-transcendence (self-transcending), abstract, 94, 105
40, 257–260 mathematical, 282
self-transformation, xviii, xix, 191–193, artistic, 136n17
196, 201–203 bisociative, 260
sensibility, 137, 144, 146, 155, 278, body, 266
324 cognitive, 264
aesthetic, xix, 134, 135, 138 diachronic, 282
haptic, 326 dialectical, of creative process, 205,
material, 321, 322 207, 211
Serat, Georges, 320 economic, 166
Bathing at Asnières, 320 generated, 241, 242
Seurat, Georges-Pierre, 265 logical, 271
Seventh Symphony (Beethoven), 122 of molecules, 241, 249
Shahn, Ben, 29 movement, dual of deliberate, 156
Shakespeare, William, 4 mutual, of consciousness of self and
Shaw, George Bernard, 300 other, 211
A Black Girl in Search of God (Shaw), 300 novel, 241, 243, 245, 248
Sienese pictures, 136 of potentials, 283
Simonton, Dean Keith, xviii, 63 propostitional, 268, 270
Creativity in Science, 74 of pure power, 282
simpliciter, creative, 84, 85, 97, 303n23 sentence, 109
singularis(m)(ts), 305–307, 309 sound-structure-types, 105, 109, 110,
sketch(es), 59, 70, 71, 220, 226 113, 117, 124, 242, 245
skill’s relationship with creativity, xvii, synchronic, 282
83–103 of thinking, 241
The Sleepwalkers (Koestler), 269 unrelated, 251–253
Smith, Sir C. Aubrey, 50 verbal, 173
Snowstorm (Turner), 213, 214, 218, 227, -as-indicated-by-X-at-t, 124
228 Study from the Human Body (Bacon), 324
society, 14, 64, 166, 209, 211 Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope
as created icon, 285 Innocent X (Bacon), 324
Socrates, 86 subconsciousness, 58
Socratic quest, 310 substance, 282
Solomon, King, 261 concepts, 116
Song of Songs, 261 mental, 280
solution-recognition apparatus, 37 subsumption, 296
Song of Songs (Solomon), 261 supernatural theory, 98
Souriau, Paul, 66 surprise, 19, 20, 64, 159, 238–242, 247
Sparshott, F. E., xix, 165 surrender, 258
spectators, 122, 259, 260. See also symbolism, 114, 265
observer(s) symmetry, 134, 209, 239
speculation, 66, 151, 277 Symposium (Plato), 186
Spinoza, Benedict (Baruch), 155, 317 synchronic internal relations, 275
Steadman, Philip, 213 synonyms, 95, 102, 253
stopping rule, 138 synthesis, 52, 252, 254, 255
Storr, Anthony, 47, 56, 195 creative, 73
Stratton, George Malcolm, 150, 154 Darwinian/evolutionary, 79
Stravinsky, Igor, 50 synthesiser, timbral, 225
Stroheim, Eric von, 49, 50
index 345
Tchaikovsky, Pyotr Ilyich, 18 Tomas, Vincent, 87–89, 91, 182, 187

teleological model of creativity, 37, 38, totalitarianism, 296
40, 91–94, 290 Toulmin, Stephen, 289–291
anti-teleological models, xviii, 83, Toynbee, Arnold J., 266
86–89, 100 Withdrawal and Return, 266
testing, 290 transcendence, 35n31, 40
limits of style, 242 self-, 40, 257, 259, 260
scientific ideas, 147 translations, 299
theories, 21, 22n13, 46, 52, 54, 56, 270, Trier, Lars von, 97
271, 273, 277, 308 truth, 46, 47, 102, 123, 125, 158, 160,
competing, 294 165, 171, 206, 207, 210, 254, 295,
constructivist, 294 315, 316
diachrony of, 292 criteria of, 264, 265
experience colored by, 170 intuitive powers, -bearing, 161
idealist, of works, 108 mathematical, 125, 135
of interpretation, 306, 309 scientific, 161, 162
literary, 300 tracking, 300n19
methodological, 30n34 -value, 290
scientific/pseudo-scientific, 265 Turnbull, Colin, 208
teleological and propulsive, difference Wayward Servants, 208
between, 89n10 Turner, J. M. W., 213, 214, 218, 221,
thermodynamics, 161, 261 223, 227, 228, 322
thingliness, 202 Snowstorm, 213, 214, 218, 227,
thinking, xxi, 45, 206, 241, 261, 264. See 228
also mentation Turner Prize, 84
associative routines of, 253 Tynnichus of Chalcis, 98
cliché, 319 type(s), 5, 9, 87, 88, 91
conscious, 263 abstract, 119
creative, 33, 88, 89, 91, 118, 189, action-, 122, 222
261, 317 muscular, 263
free, 249 psychological, 185, 244
intuitive, 266 sound-structure-, 105, 109, 110, 113,
up new ideas, 94 117, 124, 242, 245
orderly, 253 word-, 109
style, 242, 248, 309
unconscious, 253 ultimacy, 211
verbal, 261, 263 unexperienceable, the, 273
visual, 261 uniqueness, 6, 7, 10, 13, 46–48, 200
thought, xxii, 22, 47, 65, 100, 101, 170, unity, xx, 8, 106, 107, 134, 142, 195,
201, 263, 276, 277, 280, 289 205–210, 322, 326
creative, 29, 66, 70, 179, 317, 329 universals, 87, 88
Einstein’s, 56, 152, 157 unknowning, 257
forbidden, 33 “An Unwritten Novel” (Woolf ), 142
inspired, 132
novel, 32, 53, 99, 142 Valéry, Paul, 107, 129, 178
order to, 253 van Eyck, Jan, 213, 223
rational, 52, 53 van Gogh, Vincent, 129, 135, 322
scientific, 270 Van Helmont, Jan Baptist, 277
universal, flow, xxii, 328 variable(s), dependent, 44
unreconciled, 161 Velázquez, Diego, 324
token doing, 222 Portrait of Innocent X, 324
Tolstoy, Leo, 286, 287 Velikovsky, Immanuel, 277
War and Peace, 286, 287 Vermazen, Bruce, 229–233
346 index
Vermeer, Johannes, 213, 214, 220, 221, whole, xxi, xxii, 134, 171, 176, 180,
224, 225 181, 187, 286, 317, 320, 322, 326,
Woman with a Wine Glass, 213 327
Versöhnung, 207, 210. See also ownness Wilder, Thornton, 50
Victorian fiction, 142 Withdrawal and Return (Toynbee), 266
Vidor, King, 49 Wollheim, Richard, 137
Vinterberg, Thomas, 97, 214, 221 Woman with a Hat (Matisse), 136, 137
Festen, 214, 227 Woman with a Wine Glass (Vermeer), 213
vitalism, 317 Woolf, Virgina, 130, 141–144
volition, 63 Jacob’s Room, 130, 141, 143, 144
To the Lighthouse, 144
Wall Drawing No. 623, 108 Night and Day, 141
Wallace, Alfred Russel, 188, 271 Orlando, 144
Darwin-Wallace Theory, 272, 273, “An Unwritten Novel,” 142
289 The Waves, 144
Wallas, Graham, 92 Wordsworth, William, 163
Walpole, Hugh, 50 workhood, 124
Walton, Kendall L., 137 work product(s) (WP), 224, 225
War and Peace (Tolstoy), 286, 287 worlds, three interacting (World 1,
The Waste Land (Eliot), 59 World 2, World 3), 21, 22, 54–56, 58,
The Waves (Woolf ), 144 59, 201
Wayward Servants (Turnbull), 208 Wright, Frank Lloyd, 245
Welles, Orson, 50
West, Nathanael, 50 Yalom, Irvin, 300
What is Philosophy? (Deleuze and The Schopenhauer Cure, 300
Guattari), 315, 316, 322
“When Is Art?” (Goodman), 115n12 Zarathustra (Nietzsche), 319
Whewell, William, 272 Zemach, Eddy M., 116, 118
Whiteheadian view, 6
Philosophy of History and Culture
ISSN 0922-6001
1. HERTZBERG, L. and J. PIETARINEN (eds.). Perspectives on Human

Conduct. 1988. ISBN 90 04 08937 3
2. DRAY, W.H. On History and Philosophers of History. 1989.
ISBN 90 04 09000 2
3. ROTENSTREICH, N. Alienation. The Concept and its Reception.
1989. ISBN 90 04 09001 0
4. ORUKA, H.O. Sage Philosophy. Indigenous Thinkers and Modern
Debate on African Philosophy. 1990. ISBN 90 04 09283 8
5. MERCER, R. Deep Words. Miura Baien’s System of Natural Philosophy.
1991. ISBN 90 04 09351 6
6. Van der DUSSEN, W. J. and L. RUBINOFF (eds.). Objectivity, Method
and Point of View. 1991. ISBN 90 04 09411 3
7. DASCAL, M. (ed.). Cultural Relativism and Philosophy. North and Latin
American Perspectives. 1991. ISBN 90 04 09433 4
8. WHITE, F.C. On Schopenhauer’s Fourfold Root of the Principle of
SuYcient Reason. 1992. ISBN 90 04 09543 8
9. ZEMACH, E.M. Types. Essays in Metaphysics. 1992.
ISBN 90 04 09500 4
10. FLEISCHACKER, S. Integrity and Moral Relativism. 1992.
ISBN 90 04 09526 8
11. Von WRIGHT, G.H. The Tree of Knowledge and Other Essays. 1993.
ISBN 90 04 09764 3
12. WU, Kuang-ming. On Chinese Body Thinking. A Cultural Hermeneutic.
1997. ISBN 90 04 10150 0
13. ANDERSSON, G. Criticism and the History of Science. Kuhn’s, Lakatos’s
and Feyerabend’s Criticisms of Critical Rationalism. 1994.
ISBN 90 04 10050 4
14. VADEN HOUSE, D. Without God or His Doubles. Realism, Relativism
and Rorty. 1994. ISBN 90 04 10062 8
15. GOLDSTEIN, L.J. The What and the Why of History. Philosophical
Essays. 1996. ISBN 90 04 10308 2
16. BARRY, D.K. Forms of Life and Following Rules. A Wittgensteinian Def-
ence of Relativism. 1996. ISBN 90 04 10540 9
17. Van DAMME, W. Beauty in Context. Towards an Anthropological
Approach to Aesthetics. 1996. ISBN 90 04 10608 1
18. CHATTOPADHYAYA, D.P. Sociology, Ideology and Utopia. Socio-Politi-
cal Philosophy of East and West. 1997. ISBN 90 04 10807 6
19. GUPTA, C. and D.P. CHATTOPADHYAYA (eds.). Cultural Otherness
and Beyond. 1998. ISBN 90 04 10026 1
20. WU, Kuang-ming. On the “Logic” of Togetherness. A Cultural Her-
meneutic. 1998. ISBN 90 04 11000 3
21. DESJARDINS, Rosemary. Plato and the Good. Illuminating the Dark-
ling Vision. 2004. ISBN 90 04 13573 1
22. MOFFITT, John F. “Inspiration”: Bacchus and the Cultural History of a
Creation Myth. 2004. ISBN 90 04 14279 7
23. MOU, B. Davidson’s Philosophy and Chinese Philosophy. Constructive En-
gagement. 2005. ISBN 90 04 15048 X
24. BOULTING, N.E. On Interpretative Activity. A Peircian Approach to the
Interpretation of Science, Technology and the Arts. 2006.
ISBN 978 90 04 15409 4
25. STRAYER, J. Subjects and Objects. Art, Essentialism, and Abstraction.
2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15714 9
26. VANHESTE, J. Guardians of the Humanist Legacy. The Classicism of
T.S. Eliot’s Criterion Network and its Relevance to our Postmodern
World. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 16160 3
27. MOU, B. (ed.). Searle’s Philosophy and Chinese Philosophy. Constructive
Engagement. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16809 1
28. KRAUSZ, M. and D. DUTTON and K. BARDSLEY (eds.). The Idea
of Creativity. 2009. ISBN 978 90 04 17444 3
29. GUPTA, S. Notions of Nationhood in Bengal. Perspectives on Samaj,
c. 1867-1905. 2009. ISBN 978 90 04 17614 0
Brill — P.O. Box 9000 — 2300 PA Leiden — The Netherlands

Idea Creativity

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Idea Creativity

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Idea Creativity

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

The Idea of Creativity

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Copyright 2009 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated,

Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by

printed in the netherlands

Introduction ............................................................................... xvii

Chapter One Criteria of Creativity ......................................... 3

Chapter Two Creative Product and Creative Process in

Chapter Three The Rationality of Creativity ......................... 43

Chapter Four Creativity as a Darwinian Phenomenon:

Chapter Five Creativity and Skill ............................................. 83

Chapter Six On Bringing a Work into Existence ..................... 105

CREATIVITY, IMAGINATION, AND SELF

Chapter Seven Poincaré’s ‘Delicate Sieve’: On Creativity

Chapter Eight The Creative Imagination ................................ 147

Chapter Nine Every Horse has a Mouth:

Chapter Ten Creativity and Self-Transformation ................... 191

Chapter Eleven On the Dialectical Phenomenology of

Chapter Twelve The Artistic Relevance of Creativity ............. 213

FORMS AND DOMAINS OF CREATIVITY

Chapter Thirteen Creativity: How Does it Work? ................... 237

Chapter Fourteen The Three Domains of Creativity ............. 251

Chapter Fifteen Creativity in Science ...................................... 267

Chapter Sixteen Creative Interpretation of Literary Texts ..... 293

Chapter Seventeen Creativity in Philosophy and the Arts ....... 313

Index ........................................................................................... 331

The editors gratefully acknowledge Margaret Boden, John M. Carv-

Karen Bardsley took the PhD in Philosophy from McGill University

Margaret Boden is Research Professor of Cognitive Science in the

Larry Briskman (1947–2002) took the PhD from University of Edin-

John M. Carvalho took the PhD in Philosophy from Duquesne Uni-

and aesthetics. Recent publications include, “Dance of Dionysus: The

David Davies took the PhD in Philosophy from University of Western

Denis Dutton is currently Professor of Philosophy at the University of

Rom Harré taught philosophy of science at Oxford University during

Carl R. Hausman took the PhD in philosophy at Northwestern Uni-

Albert Hofstadter (1910–1989) took the PhD in Philosophy at

I. C. Jarvie took the PhD in Philosophy from the University of London

Arthur Koestler (1905–1983) studied science and psychology at the

Michael Krausz took the PhD in Philosophy from the University of

Peter Lamarque is Professor of Philosophy at the University of York,

losophy and Fiction (1983); Concise Encyclopaedia of Philosophy of Language

Thomas Leddy took the PhD in Philosophy from Boston University in

Paisley Livingston took his PhD at Johns Hopkins University in 1981.

Michael Polanyi (1891–1976) completed a medical degree in 1913

various aspects of genius, creativity, leadership, talent, and aesthetics.

F. E. Sparshott was educated in Britain at King’s School, Rochester,

psychological process involved as being creative because they succeed in

Part Two addresses these questions: Is creativity essentially inspirational

processes, and products are not fundamentally independent. Krausz

Part Three addresses these questions: What forms of creativity are

Margaret Boden distinguishes between historical creativity (H-cre-

evidence, not as premises or as evidence, but as anecdotes illustrative

In The Courage to Create,2 Rollo May defines creativity, in its ‘authentic’

of examples, which are assumed to be instances of creativity. To the

that creativity is not fully amenable to rational explanation. Outcome

The criteria of creativity which I shall consider are telescoped in the

The most widely accepted view of intelligibility requires that what