We may assure a young child who upon wakening from a bad dream that it’s not real. But in some sense the dream is exactly that, real, and in the moment to the child more real than the world to which she has awakened. Is the frequent vividness of our private dream world and our effort to understand what draws us so deeply into the created fantasies of art and literature and sets us on a quest for what is hidden behind the spaces and places of our ordinary acquaintance? Is it, as Delmore Schwartz says, that “In dreams begin responsibilities”? 1
Sometimes what we experience inwardly or privately, in our imagination or in a dream, strikes us with greater force and vivacity than incidents that are publicly verifiable in the realm of mundane reality. Such occurrences are frequently characterized as a break with reality, and are medicalized as an indication of mental pathology. Alternatively, to the individual who hears voices or sees apparitions the experience, if not morbid or frightening might be thought of as mystical or perhaps merely a flight of fancy. Whatever they are, though, they should not from this point of view be seen on the same plain as the real world.
How should we understand this interior geography? Surely it should not simply be dismissed. Can it be distinguished from what we regard as normal experience? When we do, do we risk closing ourselves off from a dimension of reality that bestows insight? Let’s begin by considering the viewpoint of David Hume. According to him actual sense impressions are stronger and more vivid than acts of the imagination. He says,
“Thus it appears that belief or assent always attends the memory and senses, is nothing but the vivacity of those perceptions they present; and that this alone distinguishes them from the imagination. To believe is in this case to feel an immediate impression of the senses,
or a repetition of that impression in the memory. 'Tis merely the force and liveliness of the perception, which constitutes the first act of the judgment, and lays
the foundation of that reasoning, which we build upon it, when we trace the relation of cause and effect.” 2
This is the standard, how vivid something is in our experience, and not just that it does, but how it stands out in our conscious experience. The interior space is a field of consciousness and it is from this place that we infer whether the event is interior, somehow within us, or outside of what we think of as our private or individual self. What is striking is that it is not unusual for an experience believed to be entirely within our mind, that is originates in our consciousness without an apparent immediate proximate cause from without, is more intense, forceful and vivid, than most mundane and familiar experience in our daily affairs. Why is this?
Descartes had earlier argued that only the innate ideas, that were by his reckoning clear and distinct, that is the purely rational and abstract concepts of space and thought that were best expressed mathematically, were reliable and the standard for true knowledge about the world. Hume on the other hand asserted that reason was (and properly so) the slave of the passions. Why does Hume favor the passions in their forceful and vivid apparitions? Do these visitations to our innermost places connect us with each other?
William James quotes a friend of his having this experience:
“It was about September, 1884, when I had the first experience. On the previous night I had had, after getting into bed at my rooms in College, a vivid tactile hallucination of being grasped by the arm, which made me get up and search the room for an intruder; but the sense of presence properly so called came on the next night. After I had got into bed and blown out the candle, I lay awake awhile thinking on the previous night's experience, when suddenly I felt something come into the room and stay close to my bed. It remained only a minute or two. I did not recognize it by any ordinary sense, and yet there was a horribly unpleasant ‘sensation’ connected with it. It stirred something more at the roots of my being than any ordinary perception. The feeling had something of the quality of a very large tearing vital pain spreading chiefly over the chest, but within the organism—and yet the feeling was not pain so much as abhorrence. At all events, something was present with me, and I knew its presence far more surely than I have ever known the presence of any fleshly living creature. I was conscious of its departure as of its coming: an almost instantaneously swift going through the door, and the ‘horrible sensation’ disappeared.” 3
In this case the individual understood the experiences as interior hallucinations of which he was both inside and outside at once. The main feature of the experiences was the encounter, the place being ambiguous and the space amorphous. Yet a particular place was registered and proximity to the his body was felt. This was no Platonic idea situated outside of time and space, nor a Cartesian clear and distinct idea, firmly and innately in the mind. On these two counts, thus, typical epistemic expectations about what is real are challenged. Yet due to its force and vivacity these likely hallucinations cannot be easily dismissed, all the more so because of the normally calm and rational demeanor of the visited individual.
Our inner space, our private consciousness, the turbulent activity of our minds, stretches out before us, a place mapped as a field. 4 This phenomenon raises questions. Philosophers in early modern Europe wondered how it was possible for us, in our mind’s eye, to possess images of a greater spatial extent than could fit within the head. When I see the buildings before me they are indeed in my experience of then larger than myself. It was argued that the content of consciousness, the ideas beheld in our mind, were either impressions from without, or the innate and clear and distinct ideas of the rational mind. Either way, it was argued, they possessed a representative function; that is, they represented the world as in a mirror. Still our belief in the reality of our inward experience, as something more than simply representation, is bolstered by their appearance of dimensions that correspond to those in the next circle out, the physical world we inhabit with others. If they are not mere representations of external mundanity, perhaps rearranged, where is the origin of such vivid experience to be found?
It seems natural to want to reconcile these two adjacent worlds, and to reveal the content of the inner dimension to the participants in the outer; and perhaps vice-versa, to bring into the inward hallucination the normality and regularity of our contrasting normal experience. The process of reconciliation can take varied forms. For some individuals, whose sensitivity to inward experience is strong, it can become a way of life, their raison d 'être . For the artist this way of life becomes a quest, spiritual in a way, a kind of ascending and descending of Jacob’s ladder. The work of art emerges, as Kandinsky suggested, from an inner need that is fundamentally spiritual.
"The spiritual life, to which art belongs and of which she is one of the mightiest elements, is a complicated but definite and easily definable movement forwards and upwards. This movement is the movement of experience. It may take different forms, but it holds at bottom to the same inner thought and purpose." 5
Art works reveal truths that are both from within the artist —consciously or not— but also reside in something like Jung’s collective unconscious and thereby reveal a community’s shared understanding. In The Origin of the Work of Art Heidegger argues that the artist is not fully in control of the work of art, but exists in a dialogue with it in a way that engages us with reality in dimensions that go beyond appearance and utility.6 The relationship of the artist to the work of art, in Heidegger’s view, presents a dynamic exchange where each seems to contribute to the other, neither is without the other, as he says. The This includes the dual relationship artists have with both the immediately external world and the inner world of mysterious visits in private places. The encounter with the work of art opens the possibility of going beyond what Heidegger calls world, which is what I have been referring to as the domain of ordinary or normal experience, to point to (in Heidegger’s terminology) earth, which is the background or possibly the source for everything that appears in the world. Heidegger’s very well-known meditation upon Van Gogh’s 1855 painting A Pair of Shoes exemplifies the evocative nature of the work of art. In fact some of the worldly features of the painting, the indications of the peasants work such as the showing of the residue of soil, their representation of a culture and way of life and other features mean that when we look at those shoes we do not encounter them as equipment, something that can be objectively measured, but indeed as something that draws us beyond the space of the normative world into the place of inward experience.