Figure 5.2
sufficient for us not to understand shading as a graphic sign that stands for the shadows of a three-dimensional object, and the figure would be easily perceivable. But we cannot manage to avoid the hypoiconic effect (see the discussion on «surrogate stimuli» in 6.7). And it is certainly the «interpreted» figure we are referring to.
A persuasive explanation of the cognitive illusion is supplied by Merrell (1981: 181), who offers us a segmented version of the image as shown in figure 5.2.
If we observe in isolation either zone A or zone B of the figure, each one presents itself as a possible three-dimensional object. It is simply that in zone A we see cylinders, while in zone B we see parallelepiped. The zone A∩B can be seen alternatively either as part of A or part of B (if focused on separately, it shows us only parallel lines). The difficulty arises only when we try to conceive the object as a whole. Likewise in Eco (1990, 3.5.6), I showed that even an inconceivable situation like that of an X, who meets himself as a younger man (X2) can be sustained (by cognitive illusion), if the point of view is assigned consistently to the same entity (either always to X, or always to X2). On the other hand, we shall see in 6.10 that we have no problem in imagining that we have a third eye on our index finger, with which we can observe the nape of our neck or see into cavities inaccessible to our normal eyes. The inconceivability arises when we try to imagine what would happen if we were to point the third eye toward our face. Would we see the index finger with the eyes in our head, or the eyes in our head with the index finger? Once more, either we go by zones of focus (we imagine, alternately closing the eyes in our head and the eye in our finger) or we slip into complete imaginative confusion.
Therefore I hold that when we refer to inconceivable entities, we behave as if, on being faced with our «white box,» we were to peep into it by alternately lifting opposite sides of the lid for a few millimeters. Each time we would see something inconceivable, we would have problems in reconciling the various points of view, and we would concede that the box contained something whose properties strike us as obscure or incoherent. But this would not stop us from referring to that something.
The Identity of the Vasa
With regard to pragmatic referring as a phenomenon of negotiating, there is always the venerable example of the ship of Theseus, which brings into play the problem of identity and any possibility of rigid designation. This is a well-known problem that has been treated of in various ways, from Hobbes to our own day, but for the sake of convenience, given that we know very little about Theseus’s ship, let’s talk of another ship, the Vasa.
In 1628, in Stockholm (more specifically in the Skeppengarden shipyard), it was decided to build a formidable warship that was to be the royal flagship of the Swedish fleet: a ship constructed out of thousands of oak trees, fitted out with sixty-four heavy cannons, with masts over thirty meters tall, and several hundred painted and gilded sculptures. One Sunday morning, August 16, the ship was launched before cheering crowds. But, as we know from a letter from the Council of State to the King, «once it was out in the bay off Tegelviken, the ship took a little more wind and began to heel over downwind before righting itself a little; but when it reached Beckholmen, it heeled over completely to one side, the water came in through the gunports, and the ship slowly sank with all its complement of sails and flags.»
A very sad business. We shall not wonder why the Vasa went down, nor shall we follow the numerous attempts made since that day to salvage her. The fact remains that the salvage operation was finally carried out, and today the Vasa is a poignant exhibit in the museum of the same name in Stockholm (from whose catalogues I have taken all the true information given here). Moreover I have seen the ship. She’s not in perfect condition, of course, some parts are missing, but I know that what I saw is indeed the Vasa that sank like a stone on that morning in 1628.
Now let us imagine that the Vasa did not sink on the day of its launching but happily sailed the seas of the world. As happens with ships, especially after facing heavy seas and tempests, various components will have been replaced, on one occasion a part of the planking, on another a part of the masts, on another again some fixtures, often the cannons, until the moment in which our hypothetical Vasa on display in the Vasa Museum of Stockholm no longer had a single part of the original Vasa. Would we say that it was the original Vasa, in other words, would we rigidly designate as Vasa what no longer possessed any material part of the object that had been baptized as such?
One of the criteria for giving a positive answer is that three conditions must be observed: the replacement of the various parts must have taken place gradually and not all at once, so that the chain of perceptual experiences has not been interrupted, and the replaced parts must be morphologically the same as the ones that have been eliminated. Therefore we would say that the modern Vasa is identical to the Vasa of the past, because we would take as decisive parameters (i) gradual continuity, (ii) uninterrupted legal recognition, and (iii) form.21
Gradual continuity and legal recognition are the sole conditions that allow someone to recognize me as the same individual who was born in 1932. If one were to wax subtle about cells, God only knows what has changed between then and now. But the changes were gradual, and moreover the Registry Office has always defined me as the same person (at six, twenty, and sixty years of age).
I would not know what to say about my form (those who have not followed me year by year have trouble recognizing me in a photo from the fifties), but it’s all easier with the Vasa, as it was easier with Bach’s Second Suite for Solo Cello (see 3.7.7), which we recognize as the same even if played on different cellos and even in a transcription for the recorder.
Therefore the modern Vasa would be the same as the old Vasa not only because it has always been nominated that way in the course of four centuries but also because—whatever alteration it may have undergone in terms of materials—it still has the same form as the original Vasa.
But for whom would it be the same? Certainly for a naval historian who wanted to examine it to understand how the vessels of the seventeenth century were constructed. Would it be the same for a conference on the physics of materials, interested in knowing how wood and metal have reacted to the passage of time and the inclemency of the elements? Such scientists would have no use for the modern Vasa, and they would say that it was not the original Vasa.
I shall now list (without any pretensions to establishing a definitive typology) a series of cases in which the attribution of identity (or authenticity) depends on different parameters, negotiable or negotiated from one time to the next.
(i) The abbey of Saint Guinness was built in the twelfth century. Scrupulous abbots had it restored day by day, replacing stones and fixtures as they fell victim to wear and tear, and so from the point of view of materials the abbey we see today no longer has anything to do with the original, but from the point of view of architectonic design it is the same one. If we favor the criterion of the identity of form over that of identity of materials, and if moreover we introduce the criterion of «homolocality» (the modern abbey stands exactly in the same place as the original abbey), from a tourist’s point of view (and to a certain extent from that of an art historian) we are led to say that this is the same abbey.
(ii) All that is left of the abbey of Saint-Pouilly Fouissé, never restored, is a lateral wall and the ruins of the transept. Why do we consider it original? It is not enough to say that we consider original not the abbey but only its ruins. Many
